“Fine,” Puncher snapped, spinning on his heels. “I don’t need no doctor. Just pay me and I’ll go.”
“Very well,” Beares said. He picked up a small bell on the bar and rang it. In moments, Charles appeared at the doorway.
“You rang, sir?” he asked. Fargo noted that his voice held the very slightest of accents, as though it had been worn away by years of disuse.
“Yes, Charles,” Beares said. “Please pay Puncher for two weeks’ work, and see to it that he takes his horse and gear out of the stable. He is leaving my employ.”
“This is all
your
fault, Fargo,” Puncher said. “This ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”
Fargo eyed the man and nodded. “Maybe we should settle it right now, Puncher, though I reckon you’re more the type to sneak up on a man from behind than you are to face him straight on.”
“You calling me a coward?” Puncher snarled.
“No,” Fargo said. “You
are
a coward. I’m not making suggestions.”
“That’s it!” Puncher snapped, his hand flashing toward his gun.
Fargo reached for his Colt, but before he could clear leather another shot rang out. He looked to see that Charles was holding a small pistol in his hands. Puncher blinked—once, twice, like he was thinking about something real hard—then fell dead at Fargo’s feet.
“You dumbass, Puncher,” Ratty said. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”
Fargo made eye contact with Charles, who simply nodded. The man was lightning fast, and suddenly Fargo realized why he was so close to Beares. He was his bodyguard and some kind of a shootist to boot.
“A clear case of defense,” Beares said. “Well done, Charles.”
Fargo stepped over the prone body of Puncher and stopped in front of the butler. “You’re more than what you seem,” he said quietly, pitching his voice low. “Who are you?”
“Aren’t we all, Mr. Fargo?” Charles replied. “The senator said you would not be harmed while you were here; I was simply ensuring that his word remained unbroken.”
“Ratty, carry Puncher here outside, then clean up the mess,” Beares said. “Mr. Fargo, can I pour you a whiskey?”
Nodding coolly to the so-called butler, Fargo turned his attention back to the man who’d brought him here. “All right,” he said, realizing that Charles—whoever he really was—wasn’t going to answer his question. “Make mine a double.”
Fargo and Beares sat quietly, sipping their drinks and not saying much of anything, while Ratty and Charles removed Puncher’s dead body and cleaned up the mess. Once they were alone, Beares nodded in satisfaction.
“Nothing is ever easy, is it, Mr. Fargo?” he asked. “I simply wanted to have a few words with the man who’s the talk of Storyville tonight, and instead, things got . . . complicated.”
“They have a way of doing that,” Fargo replied. “What do you want with me, Senator?”
“I hear interesting things about you, Mr. Fargo. You show up, apparently working for Parker, then ride off for a while, come back, break up a fight in which some of my men were teaching that Anderson boy a thing or two about manners, meet with that upstanding beacon of justice Timmons, and finally wind up here—beating up another one of my men before my own butler had to shoot him dead.” Beares sighed heavily. “You’ve had a long day, Fargo.”
“True enough,” he admitted. “But you’re forgetting something, Senator.”
“What’s that?”
“I was having my dinner and not bothering you or anyone else, when your men found me and ‘asked’ me to come along. My original plan had been to try to see you tomorrow.”
Beares laughed. “You shoot straight, don’t you, Fargo? I like that in a man, and it’s how I prefer to behave myself.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. It is,” Beares said. He pointed to the lion’s head above the fireplace. “I killed that creature myself, Fargo. On safari in Africa. And do you know what I learned there?”
“What’s that?”
“That despite all our so-called civilized advances, the law of the jungle still applies. The strong survive. The weak die off or are killed. Man is superior to animals, Fargo, but only because of intellect. And despite your appearance, you seem to me to be a man of intellect.”
“How’s that?” Fargo asked.
“You may not boast a superior education, but you think things through. You like to know about everything going on around you—the people, the land, everything—so that you can judge for yourself what is of value and what is not.” He took a sip of his bourbon. “You are your own man, even if you are working for that conniving bastard, Parker.”
“Is everyone here crooked?” Fargo asked bluntly. “So far, not a single person I’ve met has a decent thing to say about the other, and I reckon you’re about the same in that regard. As you said, Senator, I’ve had a long day. Can we skip the part about how Parker and Anderson are thieves and bad men and all you want to do is help Storyville? Can we just get to what you want from me?”
Beares laughed long and loud. “As I said, you shoot straight.” He stood and poured himself another drink. “All right, Fargo, I’ll do the same. There are three of us vying for control of Storyville—the parishes of Winn and Catahoula, to be precise. We all think we’re entitled, and none of us is really better than the robber barons of England or the pirates that ply the Caribbean. I know you’re working for Parker, and I wanted to see what I could do about that.”
“Not much,” Fargo said. “I’ve taken the man’s money and given him my word.”
“To do what, precisely?” Beares asked.
“To keep the game fair,” Fargo said. “He suspects that one or more of the players may cheat, and he wants me to keep an eye on it, catch the person if I can.”
Beares brought the bottle from the bar and offered Fargo a refill, but he shook his head. “I’ve had enough, thanks.”
“And will you do it, then?” Beares asked. “Keep the game fair?”
“As much as I can,” Fargo replied. “The game will be fair so long as everyone plays by the same rules.”
“And since when,” a familiar voice said from the doorway, “is a lady required to play by the rules?”
Fargo looked up, more than a little surprised to see Hattie Hamilton framed in the doorway.
Beares rose to his feet, and Fargo followed suit. “Ah, good evening, my dear,” he said. “Can I pour you a drink?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Hattie said, striding into the room. “I’ve been dealing with David all day.”
“Understood,” Beares said, moving to the bar and pouring her a stiff jolt. “This should help settle your nerves.” He handed her the glass and she took a long swallow, then sighed in pleasure. “Better?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s a start,” she said, then turned to Fargo. “You’ve had a busy day yourself, Mr. Fargo,” she said. “The parish talk is all about you—fighting in the streets, running into old friends, even giving my young Fleur a ride back from her little outing to the countryside.”
Fargo winced inwardly, knowing that the young lady had not wanted to be seen. For a town with so many secrets, it seemed like very little went on that the people in power didn’t know about. “I’ve been busy,” he admitted. “Now I’m curious.”
“And what are you curious about, Mr. Fargo?” Hattie asked, settling herself on the long leather couch and leaning back in a provocative pose. Once again, her eyes screamed seduction, but he reminded himself of H.D.’s warning.
“Based on what I saw down at the docks, you and Senator Parker are an item,” Fargo said. “I’d go so far as to say he seemed very possessive of you. And now you’re here—with a man he would say was an enemy.”
Hattie laughed, and the sound reminded Fargo of some wind chimes he’d once heard—light and melodic—and warning of the coming storm as the winds rose. “Well, Mr. Fargo, a lady does need more than one patron if she’s going to make her way in the world.” She batted her long eyelashes at him, then said, “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Quite right, Hattie,” Beares said. He seated himself next to her and put a hand on her thigh. “But I think that Mr. Fargo is a smart enough man to realize that there’s quite a bit more going on here than meets the eye.”
“He looks like a dirty cowboy to me,” she said. “But with a bath and some proper clothing, I suspect he’d clean up rather well.”
“I’m not a city man,” Fargo said. “I wear what’s functional out on the trail and not much else.”
“After this week, you’ll be a wealthy man, Mr. Fargo,” Hattie said. “I imagine that you’ll soon get used to the things money can buy: comfortable clothing, good whiskey, beautiful women.”
Trying to turn the tables on her a bit, Fargo grinned lecherously. “The beautiful women part I’ve got licked.”
She smiled in return. “I bet you do. I wonder . . .”
“That’s quite enough of that, Hattie,” Beares interjected. “She’s almost insatiable, Fargo. You’ll have to excuse her more predatory appetites.” He growled at her almost playfully. “We have business to discuss with Mr. Fargo, my dear. We should try to keep to the matter at hand.”
“Of course, Beary,” she said. “Whatever you wish.”
She made the words sound like a promise of other things—things best done in a darkened bedroom—and Beares laughed. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said.
“What business?” Fargo asked. “I’d like to get back to my hotel and get some sleep.”
“Simple,” Beares said. “We want you to work for us, Mr. Fargo. The poker game is far too important to allow Senator Parker
or
that petty criminal Anderson to win. The future of New Orleans is at stake.”
“I’ve already agreed to work for Senator Parker,” Fargo said evenly. “I told you that.”
“We’re well aware of your arrangement with Senator Parker,” Beares said. “We simply ask that you work for us, too.”
“How so?” Fargo asked. “I’ve already said I’ll keep the game fair.”
“Oh, no,” Hattie said. “This has nothing to do with keeping the game fair. We have something else entirely in mind.”
Fargo suspected as much. They wanted him to double-cross Parker so they could win somehow. “I’m not the kind of man who believes in going back on his word.”
“We expect nothing of the sort,” Beares said. “Your friend H.D. made your reputation in this town since long before your arrival: a man of justice and all that. We want you to do nothing that will violate your word to Senator Parker.”
“Then what do you want?” Fargo asked again, his patience wearing thin. “Just spit it out.”
“We want to hire you to protect us,” Hattie said, leaning forward. “Between Anderson and . . . and David . . . we are constantly under threat of attack. How can the game be fair if my lovely Beary is killed before it even happens?”
“Seems like you’ve got plenty of men to do that,” Fargo said. “And your ‘butler’ Charles—whoever he really is—is a pretty fair hand with a gun himself.”
“Ahh, it’s not for me,” Beares said. “Despite Hattie’s good intentions, I’m perfectly safe. My concern is for her. Should Parker find out about us . . . or if things go badly for him at the game . . . I fear he may do something rash where Hattie is concerned. ” He looked at Fargo earnestly. “I simply want you to look out for her, Fargo. Even a man such as yourself might understand why she is my most prized trophy.”
“She’s something,” Fargo admitted, trying to work his mind around the situation. Something wasn’t right about all of this, but he wasn’t sure what it was. “Again,” he said, “why me? You’ve got plenty of help. Just assign one of them to do it.”
“Parker knows most of my men by sight, Fargo,” Beares explained. “Should he or one of his men try to harm Hattie, he would never suspect that I’ve employed you to keep her safe.”
“Besides,” Hattie added, “you wouldn’t want to see me get hurt, would you, Mr. Fargo?”
“I don’t hold with harming women in general,” Fargo said, thinking again of H.D.’s words and wondering if Hattie was more snake than human. “And what will you pay me for this?” he asked, playing for time.
“We’ve considered that,” Beares said, “and I believe we have just the compensation in mind that would interest you.” He gestured, and said, “Go on, Hattie. Tell him.”
“When you leave New Orleans, Mr. Fargo, you’ll be wealthy,” Hattie said. “Between what David is paying you, and a reasonable cash incentive from us, you’ll be able to make your way comfortably anywhere in the world. But your true reward from us you’ve already seen.” She paused dramatically, then whispered, “I’ll let you take Fleur when you go.”
“Mary?” Fargo asked.
“I suppose that’s her real name,” Hattie said. “She is quite beautiful, isn’t she, Mr. Fargo?”
Damn woman,
Fargo thought.
How could he refuse if it meant getting Mary out of the horrible situation she was in?
“Ah,” Beares said. “I believe we’ve caught Mr. Fargo’s interest.”
“Oh, Beary,” she said. “There’s not a man alive who doesn’t think with his pecker most of the time. It’s why my business is so successful.”
“Well, Fargo, what do you think of our little proposition? You keep Hattie here safe, and when the game is over, I’ll give you two thousand in cash, plus Hattie will give you the beautiful Fleur for your very own. With what Parker is paying you, that’s quite a haul for little more than a night’s work.”
“She’s not a slave,” Fargo said. “Someone you can just give away or sell whenever you want.”
Hattie laughed. “Oh, Mr. Fargo, you are indeed naive about the ways of our city. Fleur is a slave in all but name. When she came to work for me, she signed a contract. A lifetime contract, Mr. Fargo. She is mine to do with as I please—and if giving her to you is what pleases me, then so be it.” She waved a hand covered with a lace glove. “She’ll go along quietly, Fargo. And from what the girls tell me, she was quite taken with you.”
Damn woman,
Fargo thought again. She’d maneuvered him into a corner. Somehow, she had a hold on something that Mary valued—maybe a hold of some kind over all the girls at the Blue Emporium. But in order to find out what it was, he’d have to play along. At least for a while.