“It pays the bills.”
“You ever think about taking on a partner?”
“Already have one.”
“Oh yes,” Weeks said. “That would be Hank. I’m referring to the kind of partner who can actually do you some good.”
“Let me guess. Someone like you?”
“Exactly.”
“Not interested,” Caleb said as he started to get up.
“I’m not your enemy,” Weeks said. “In fact, I’m the one that made your little problem with the Deagles clear up like the rash it was.”
Stopping before walking off, Caleb asked, “How so? I read in the paper that they got into a fight and tore each other apart.”
“You haven’t heard from that old miner for awhile, have you?”
“No.”
Weeks held up both hands like a magician after making a coin disappear. “And I can assure you, he won’t be bothering you, either.”
After checking to make sure those other men were still keeping their distance, Caleb lowered himself back into his seat. “I’d say it’s even money that you had something to do with stirring up all that shit in the first place.”
“If I did, I can assure you it was a mistake. I had no way of knowing how far those two cousins were willing to go. Please, accept my apologies.”
“Done. Can I go now?”
“You can leave anytime you wish. Just let me know when you’d like to discuss signing me on as a partner in the Busted Flush.”
Placing both hands upon the table, Caleb leaned forward and said, “Never. Is that a quick enough answer for you?”
“You get a few good weeks of gamblers’ profits, and you think you’re at the top of the heap? Those gamblers come and go, my friend. A good partner is a smart, lifetime investment, unlike your friend, Holliday. He doesn’t have anything to lose.”
“I worked my ass off to get the Flush off the ground, and I’m not about to hand it over because some dandy in a suit asks me to. I appreciate the offer, Mr. Weeks, but I think I’ll pass.”
As Caleb spoke to him, Weeks didn’t move a muscle. It was more than a man sitting still to let another talk. It was akin to the way a snake freezes every muscle in its body just before snapping forward with fangs bared.
“You’re making a mistake,” Weeks said in a way that hardly even moved his lips.
“A mistake would be handing over a cut of my profits when business is better than it’s ever been.”
“Then perhaps you’re not looking at this the right way.” Weeks shifted in his chair until he was perched on the edge of it. “I’ve extended this same courtesy to every saloon owner in Dallas, and it never fails to amaze me how many times the gesture is slapped down. But, when push comes to shove, those same saloon owners take me up on my deal. Of course, some of them took more convincing than others.”
“I was wondering how long it was gonna take for you to threaten me,” Caleb said. “So what happens if I say no to your offer? You send these boys after me? Maybe you have them bushwhack me some night when I’m leaving my place?”
“I’m not promising anything. What I can promise is a certain kind of insurance that would prevent any such unfortunate things from happening to you.”
“Then it’s a protection scheme you’re running? I’ve got to tell you I’m not impressed.”
“Then perhaps you will be impressed when you realize that the hell I can inflict upon you is ten times worse than what you’re thinking. You see, Mr. Wayfinder, I think on a grander scale than just running saloons and selling liquor. I think more along the lines of a battlefield general. The smaller skirmishes have already been fought, and this is what you might call our first peace talks. If these fail, than the battles only grow in size, and more people will be caught in the crossfire.”
At that moment, Caleb spotted a familiar face lurking in one of the nearby shadows. It was a face that seemed to be melting into the darkness while also oozing out of a wall. He thought his eyes were tricking him at first, but then he realized that the man he saw was the same as the one who’d been in the Flush a while ago. The blue bandanna was gone, but that face was as ugly and twisted as ever.
Weeks glanced over his shoulder to see what had captured Caleb’s attention. When he spotted that same face in the shadows, he smiled and settled back into his chair. “Funny you should be drawn to my associate. Mr. Grissom over there has been frequenting your establishment for some time now. My guess is that you’ve only seen him once. You know why that is? Because Mr. Grissom’s orders were to only be seen once.”
“What’s he got to do with this?” Caleb asked.
“Harking back to my battlefield analogy, Mr. Grissom might be my artillery squadron. If you’ve been in Dallas for very long, you might already be familiar with his work. You remember the big fire back in October?”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. On the morning of October 8 the previous year, a fire had started in one of the stores at the corner of Main and Market. The cheaply crafted buildings went up like kindling, and the fire quickly engulfed an entire block.
“That fire wasn’t an act of God,” Weeks said as if he could hear the very thoughts running through Caleb’s head. “And it wasn’t an accident that it spread all the way to the Alhambra and Thompson’s Varieties.”
“But those places were on the same block as this one,” Caleb pointed out. “If you had that fire set, you took an awful risk. Who’s to say this whole town didn’t go up?”
“It was a risk, but those places burned to the ground, and this place survived. That was no accident, my friend. It just so happens that Charlie over there had already signed on to my insurance plan, which seemed to have worked out for him very nicely. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Grissom?”
Grissom stepped forward. His eyes flared up within the gnarled layers of skin that permanently drooped over his brow. When he spoke, his voice sounded like a wet croak rising up from the bottom of a rotting stump. “It worked out real nice that this place didn’t get doused in kerosene while them other shit holes were soaked in it.”
Caleb jumped to his feet. “Folks died in that fire. I don’t even think there was a proper count of how many.”
“I stayed in the Alhambra for as long as I could to try and count properly,” Grissom replied. Leaning forward with a gnarled smile on his face, he added, “Maybe a bit too long.”
Caleb had seen the horrors that fire could do to human flesh, but he’d never seen anyone wear those scars with such pride. “You’re a sick son of a bitch.”
Grissom didn’t reply to that. Instead, he just widened his smirk a bit and let his hand drift toward the holster strapped across his belly.
“There’s no need for another fire,” Weeks said. “You’re correct in saying it puts everyone in Dallas in jeopardy. That’s why I’m hoping you reconsider my offer, Mr. Wayfinder. After all, that is the quickest way to avoid such unpleasantness.”
As much as Caleb wanted to charge across the table and clamp his hands around Weeks’s throat, he wasn’t stupid enough to play into the killer’s hands. It had been a while since he’d worn a gun as a general practice, but he never felt the absence of that iron at his side any more than he did at that moment.
“So, what then?” Caleb asked as he forced himself to calm down a bit. “If I don’t pay, you burn my place to the ground?”
Weeks shrugged. “Maybe. Or, to keep the Flush up and running, there might just be a tragedy befall someone of your acquaintance. Someone like that Dr. Holliday who has become such a fixture at your faro table. Perhaps someone else you fancy winds up in the middle of an inferno. Or perhaps even you or your partner wind up choking on all that smoke?”
Smiling even wider, Grissom said, “You won’t be so tough once them flames start cooking yer ass. You’ll scream just like them others. They all scream, even when their throats crack open.”
“Grissom,” Weeks said in a sharp, commanding tone, “you made your point.” Turning to face Caleb once more, he said, “Sit back down before things get out of hand.”
“You’ve got some burned-up killer working for you, and I’m the one that’s out of control?”
“Sit down.”
“You don’t tell me what to do,” Caleb said as the embers inside of him started to burn even brighter. “I didn’t get where I am by caving in whenever someone tried to roll over me. If you think you’re the first one to try and carve off a piece of what I got, then you’re dead wrong!”
“And if you think you can dismiss me so easily, then you’ll simply be dead.”
Weeks’s words hung in the air like gun smoke. Looking around, Caleb was surprised to see that nobody else in the St. Charles seemed to give a damn about what was happening. The more he looked, however, the more Caleb found that the others in the saloon weren’t as oblivious as they seemed.
“You got this place filled with hired guns?” Caleb asked.
Weeks shrugged. “Let’s just say we won’t be bothered. And if something does happen to you, nobody will need to know. You can disappear just as easily as that miner and his idiot nephews. They decided to take matters into their own hands as well and it didn’t work out so well.”
Caleb nodded grimly and took his seat.
“That’s better,” Weeks said with a smile. “I’m not unreasonable. I realize there are plenty of shades between black and white. We can negotiate a deal that will be mutually beneficial. Just ask your friend Charlie.”
Caleb glanced toward the bar and found Champagne Charlie to be standing with his back to a wall of bottles. Although he was clearly upset with the conversation taking place, he also wasn’t moving a muscle to stop it or join in. Then again, there was also plenty of those hired guns sitting within arm’s reach of poor Charlie.
“So we work out a deal now or I don’t leave this place alive,” Caleb said. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“I’ll give you time to think it over. But don’t take too long, or I’ll just have to assume your answer is no.”
“Yeah, that would be a crying shame.”
“It certainly would,” Weeks said gravely. “For you and plenty of others. Let’s say . . . two weeks. How would that be?”
Caleb wanted nothing more than to tell Weeks what he could do with his deal as well as his deadline. He wanted to say those words so badly that he could already taste them in the back of his throat. But he knew better than to do that.
It wasn’t a matter of courage or even a matter of pride. It was the plain and simple knowledge that Caleb would be killed and buried somewhere if he stepped too far out of line. Something in the pit of Caleb’s stomach told him that much was an absolute certainty.
“All right then,” Caleb said. “Two weeks it is.”
Weeks smiled and extended his hand. “You’re a smart man. I had my doubts, which is why I wanted to approach your partner first, but this should work out nicely. Definitely more beneficial than having you both locked up so I could take the Busted Flush for myself.”
Those words hit Caleb like a cold fist. They weren’t spoken out of anger or even as a boast. They were stated as pure and simple fact.
“Come up with a deal and bring it to me,” Weeks continued. “And I’m certain you’re smart enough to avoid crying to the law about our little conversation. Not only would that be pointless, but it would make things very painful for you.” Shrugging, Weeks added, “I just want to be your partner, like I’m a partner with every other Dallas saloon that’s worth mentioning. Take it as a compliment. We can make a hell of a lot more money than if we were all fighting like a bunch of savages.” With an unconvincing wince, he added, “No offense.”
Choking back the angry bile that rose up into his throat, Caleb shook Weeks’s hand. Ignoring every bit of common sense in his skull, he turned his back on Grissom and the rest of those gunmen and headed for the door.
It was the longest walk he’d ever taken, but he managed to step back onto Main Street without getting a bullet in his back.
[21]
Millie’s was a little restaurant on the corner of Jefferson and Pacific. It was close enough to the rest of downtown that Caleb could get back to the Flush if he needed to in a hurry, but was far enough away for him to feel like he could actually get some peace and quiet for a change.
He wasn’t alone in his exile, however, since there was also a certain faro dealer who’d decided to come along for the ride. Doc’s face had gotten back some of its color, and his eyes were as clear as they always were after only draining half the whiskey from his flask. Another little change that Caleb immediately noticed was the bulge of a holster under Doc’s jacket.
“You always go to dinner heeled, Doc?” Caleb asked.
“Haven’t you heard? It’s all the rage in Paris.”
“Actually, I was thinking about buying into that fashion myself.”
“Does that have anything to do with your conversation at the St. Charles earlier today?”
“Yeah. It does.”
“Since I seem to be fresh out of interesting stories, how about you let me know what took place in there?”
Caleb looked at Doc and smirked. “Maybe it’d be better if you stayed out of this, Doc. It’s not your business, and getting tangled up in this mess isn’t even something I’d wish upon my worst enemy.”
“I’ve known Champagne Charlie for a little while,” Doc said as he lifted his tea and took a sip. Wincing as some of the hot liquid slid over the rough patches in his throat, he reached into his pocket and removed his flask so he could pour a bit of whiskey into the cup. “And I’ve also come to know you. Neither of you two deserves to be as miserable as you’ve seemed lately.”
“It’ll pass.”
Doc let out a frustrated breath and said, “I pull teeth for a living, Caleb, don’t make me do the same just to get something out of you.”
“All right, then. You ever hear of a man by the name of Bret Weeks?”
“Sure I have. He’s part owner of most every saloon in Dallas. Every saloon but yours, that is.”
“I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised with how much you know about this. Especially since you’ve been spending more time in the Flush than I have.”