by Bill Brooks
“Leo Loop,” Cole said. “You know of a man named Leo Loop?”
He cocked his head, looked at Cole with tired eyes. “You gotta be joking.”
“Why’s that?”
“Everyone in Deadwood knows Leo Loop.”
“I’m new.”
He grunted. “You and a hunnerd others that pour in every day. That’s Leo in the corner . . . he owns the place.”
“Which one?”
“This one,” he said.
“No, I mean, which one is he?”
“Oh, the fat one with the fancy vest and the cookie duster.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mind, I’ll be gettin’ back to work now. Red gets peeved if he thinks I’m slacking.”
“A couple of more questions, if you don’t mind?”
He showed a look of impatience. “Mister, Red won’t like me standing around yakking. It’s delivery day, or didn’t you notice?”
Cole laid a pair of silver dollars on the bar. “That’s for you if you’ll answer a couple of my questions.”
He picked them up and slipped them into his pocket, making sure the other guy hauling the beer barrels didn’t see him do it.
“Say, Harve, what’s up, ya helpin’ out here or not?” the other barman asked.
“Can’t you see I got a customer, Red?”
The guy grunted, settled the barrel behind the bar, and went back outside, muttering something to himself.
“Hurry up, ask your questions,” Harve said.
“I hear Leo is the boss dog around Deadwood. If you want to do any business in this town, you need to get Leo’s blessing first.”
“Depends on what you mean,” Harve said.
“Don’t be coy,” Cole warned. “That’s good money in your pocket.”
“Yeah, maybe you heard it right,” Harve said, leaning over the bar and speaking softly. “Leo’s sorta the man in town, you want to put it that way.”
“He runs things?”
“You could say that.”
“I’m asking.”
“Yeah, I’d say he pretty much run things.”
“Gambling, whores, things like that?”
Harve nodded.
“Somebody want to set up a game, maybe run a few of his own girls, they’d have to see Leo first? Suppose a man skipped seeing Leo and just set up his operation? What then?”
“Look,” he said, keeping his voice low, “I could lose more than just my job here for being out of line about things . . . you understand?” He swallowed, looked over at Leo Loop and the other men with him. “Maybe you ought to go talk to him.” Harve nodded in the direction of the fat man at the rear table.
Then Red, the other bartender, brought in another barrel of beer, set it down, and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “This going to take all day?” he asked Harve. “You serving this fellow a cup of coffee or planning an evening out at the opera?”
“I gotta get back to work here,” Harve said.
Cole took his cup and walked over to the table of the men wearing the plug hats.
“Mister Loop,” he said.
Four unhappy faces looked up at him, Leo’s being one of them. They were all well dressed, clean white shirts, cravats, claw-hammer coats. Their hands were soft, the nails neatly trimmed, hands that didn’t know work, other than the work it takes to count money or cut into an expensive steak. The fat man with the cookie-duster mustache said: “We’re having a business meeting here, sir.”
“Your bartender makes a good cup of coffee,” Cole said.
Leo Loop didn’t try to hide his displeasure with the interruption. His soft gray eyes shifted toward the two men carrying in the barrels. “Yes, well, I’ll bring that to his attention the next opportunity I get,” he said sarcastically.
“I’m new in town,” Cole said, before he could turn his attention to the three others with him.
The soft gray eyes shifted, grew agitated. “That’s all very interesting,” he said. “I applaud your enterprise!” Then he returned his attention to the others, grinning like he’d made some sort of joke. They chuckled, two of them. The third man looked like he’d never know a moment’s worth of pleasure in his whole life. He was a lean, cadaverous man with drooping bloodhound eyes and a sagging face, long and folded in lines. Probably on a full moon, he bayed.
“I’m thinking of going into business,” Cole said.
That got Leo’s interest just a little. “What sort of business would that be?” he asked, without bothering to look up.
“A gambling operation, maybe some joy girls. I heard I ought to see you first. So now I’ve seen you, now you know.”
Leo Loop turned his head, the thick flesh under his chin bulging over his tight paper collar. His skin was an ash gray, smooth yet from a morning shave, no doubt from the local barber, not his own hand. He smelled of bay rum and sweat. “Who told you that you needed to see me?” he asked, his manner nonchalant, but still curious.
“Let’s just say that’s the word on the street, that if I want to do business in Deadwood, I should see you first.”
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, scraping his chair back away from the table. “It seems this gentleman and I have a matter that needs discussing.”
They all muttered their assent like the fine businessmen they were.
“My office is back there,” Leo said as he stood up, his bulk pressing against the wool jacket he wore.
Cole followed him back to a small but well-appointed room. A large desk took up most of it. He took up residence in a brass-tack leather chair and indicated for Cole to sit in the one across from him. The chair was made of elk horns, the seat covered in hide.
“I didn’t catch your name, sir,” he said.
“John Henry Cole.” There was no point in lying to him about it when he could find out if he wanted to.
He rubbed a place behind his left ear with his forefinger. “So you’ve come here to Deadwood to get rich, have you?”
“Something like that.”
“And you aim to do it by setting up your own operation . . . gambling, prostitution, that it?”
He had a smooth voice, oiled, like a man that sells curatives off the back of a wagon, elixirs that he mixes up out of coal oil and alcohol and snake heads, promising the customer that it will cure lumbago, dropsy, and waning sexual desire. Cole thought a man like Leo Loop with that smooth voice could sell a lot of snake oil. “Something like that.”
“And you were told you needed to check with me first?”
“That’s why I’m here, to let you know.”
“Because I sort of control things, is that what you heard?”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”
“Indeed.” He smiled, the fatness of his face becoming a gray moon.
“So, if it’s not true,” Cole said, “then why the private meeting?”
Loop removed a cigar from a hand-carved box atop his desk. He bit off the end of the stogie and held a match an inch under the tip until it caught fire, then he drew in a long, deep lungful of smoke before slowly blowing it out in a blue stream. He held the cigar between his fingers and rolled it back and forth as he took stock of Cole. Finally he gave a smug smile. “I have to plead innocent,” he said, his gray eyes expressive. “What can I tell you? The things you’ve heard about me are false. I have only this modest club, a small, simple operation out of which I do a meager business. I am, like everyone else who has come here to Deadwood, merely a man looking for the golden promise.”
“So, then, I guess it doesn’t matter to you that I start up my own operation, go into competition with you?”
His left hand slowly came up, the fingers touching the ends of the cookie duster as though testing to see if the barber had waxed them well enough that morning. “I have no concerns about your wanting to become a businessman in our booming little town, Mister Cole. What you do is strictly your business.”
“Then I was misinformed,” Cole said
, not buying it for a minute. “Sorry to disturb your meeting.” He stood, ready to leave.
“Ah, there is just one little matter, however,” Loop said, clearing a throat that didn’t need to be cleared.
“Go on,” Cole said, waiting to hear the rest of it.
“You see, I am the head of the business council here in Deadwood, elected by the Deadwood Business Commission, some of whom you met out there at the table. And as such, I am responsible for making sure that any new business that goes up here in town has a proper business license. And of course there is the matter of monthly association fees that must be paid as a member of the council. It helps to regulate the town’s growth, and also to police our own, you see.”
“How much?”
He beamed. “A man who gets right down to it . . . I like that,” he said, clearly pleased that Cole had not challenged the obvious shakedown.
“How much?” Cole repeated.
“The license will cost you a thousand dollars. The monthly fee will be twenty-five percent of your gross take, as audited by me personally. It’s what I do best . . . count money.”
“And if I fail to buy a license and pay the monthly dues?”
“Then, sir,” he said with feigned disappointment, “you sha’n’t be doing your business here in Deadwood, or anywhere else in the gulch, for that matter.”
“How long do I have to think about it?”
“Take all the time you want, Mister Cole. Only don’t attempt to open up your operation until you’ve paid your fees.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, do that. And best of luck to you, sir.”
Harve and Red were going at it outside near the beer wagon. A smashed barrel lay in a pool of foam near the back of the wagon. Both men had their fists raised like prize fighters, dancing around each other in a small circle, cussing each other, and making lots of hard threats. Cole side-stepped them and headed for Liddy’s, now that he had something solid to go on. He needed to put the next piece of the puzzle into place. At least, that’s the reason he gave himself for going to see her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jazzy Sue opened the door to Cole’s knock.
“Mistah John Henry,” she said, her smile telling him she was happy to see him.
“Miss Lydia home?”
“She’s taking her bath.”
“I can come back.”
“Oh, no, suh. She say that, if you come, to send you to see her.”
“You’re sure?”
She grinned. “Yas, suh, I’m sure.”
Jazzy Sue took his hat. Cole’s head was nearly back to normal, so he didn’t mind taking the hat off.
“My, your clothes sho could use a cleaning,” Jazzy Sue said. “Looks like you been rolling around in the mud, or somethin’. An’ look at that face! Mistah John Henry, you’ve been in trouble again, ain’t ya?”
“Accident this time,” he said, choosing not to go into it again. He took off the duster and handed it to her. She held it out away from her and wrinkled her nose.
“Well, at least you wearing a nice clean shirt,” she said. “That’s the gentleman in you. A gentleman always makes sure he’s got on a clean shirt, if nothin’ else.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ve never thought of myself in quite that way, as a gentleman.”
She giggled. “Miss Lydia is back there. Just knock on the door.”
“Maybe I should wait.”
“No, suh, I don’t think so. She say that, if you come, to send you back.”
He knocked lightly.
“Come in.”
Lydia Winslow was reclined in a tub of water and soap bubbles that reached the notch just below her throat and hid her beauty. A bare knee protruded from the water, wet and shiny. Her hair was pinned up, drawn away from her oval face, the milk-white skin. Her arms rested along the top of the tub, the hands dangling over the sides.
“I wondered when you’d be coming,” she said.
“I don’t like having to stand in line.”
Those beautiful green eyes narrowed at the remark, darkened just a shade. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Last evening. I came by last evening, but you already had company.”
She didn’t say anything. One of the hands reached over and took a glass of red wine that had been sitting on a small marble-top stand next to the tub. She brought the glass to her mouth, the wine deep red against the light in the room. She touched the glass to her mouth, to the curved lips that Cole remembered so well for their sweetness and delicacy.
She held the glass of wine to her lips, her eyes watching Cole. He waited for her to say whatever it was she wanted to say. But instead she just stared, the lips pursed to drink, the long, slender fingers wrapped around the glass’s stem. “Winston came to visit.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Her gaze refused to look away, almost as if it were challenging him. “That bothers you, that Winston was here?”
“Hell, yes, it bothers me.”
“It shouldn’t, John Henry.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be as casual about it as you.”
This time she flinched just a little. “You make it difficult between us,” she said softly.
“What am I supposed to feel?”
“I don’t know, Cole. I’ve never lied to you about who I am. You’re free to believe whatever you choose. But I thought I made it clear the other night how I felt about you.”
“I won’t apologize for how I feel about you seeing him,” Cole said.
“No, I didn’t think you would. But you’re making something of this that doesn’t need to be.”
Cole was tired of talking about Winston Stevens. “Tell me what you know about Leo Loop,” he said.
She shrugged, her bare wet shoulders lifting slightly out of the bath water. “I don’t know that much about him. Leo and I are somewhat in competition, I suppose you could say. But not really. As I explained in our first conversation, I’m not a madam and my girls aren’t what Leo’s girls are. There’s a big difference between us.”
“How come you didn’t mention his name the first time we talked?”
One long fingertip trailed itself around the rim of the wineglass, a light, delicate movement. “There was no reason to mention his name. He does what he does, and I do what I do.”
“He does more than just that. The way I hear it, he controls the pleasure trade in Deadwood.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, too. But it has nothing to do with me.”
“It seems to me it has everything to do with you, Liddy. If it’s true, then you would’ve had to pay him off in order to run your business. That seems to me like an important piece of information you left out of our conversation that first night.”
Her gaze settled on the glass again, watching the tip of her finger rub the lip. Cole remembered just how delicate those fingers felt, the way they traveled over his bare skin, pressed into his back. He remembered at one point kissing her hands.
“Mister Loop paid me a visit when I first arrived in Deadwood,” she said, the tip of her finger touching her upper lip to remove a bead of wine. “He stated that his position was as head of Deadwood’s business commission, I believe he called it. He said that I would need to pay a licensing fee to him and his group. He also said that, in addition, I would be obligated to pay a percent of my gross income as a monthly fee. I told him I wouldn’t be much of a businesswoman if I were to pay such exorbitant fees.”
“And?”
“I declined his . . . offer.”
“Just like that? He didn’t do anything about it when you started your escort service?”
She set the empty wineglass down, the fingers reluctant to let go, always reluctant to let go of whatever they might be in contact with. Cole could feel his skin tingle.
“Oh, he came a time or two after that and restated his position on the matter. Each time, he was a little more insistent that I buy a license. But I simply r
efused.”
“Wait a minute. You mean he let you operate your escorts without a problem?”
Her eyes widened just a bit. “I’m not as naïve as you may think, John Henry. I hired Doc to protect my interests and my business. I’m sure without someone like Doc to represent me, Leo Loop might have been less amicable about my doing business in his town.”
“So he left you alone because Doc was working for you?”
“Yes.”
“No, he didn’t. Three of your young women have been murdered. Doc didn’t stop that.” He saw the wounded look invade her eyes.
“You think Leo killed them? Dottie and Eva and Flora . . . ?”
“You said it yourself the first time we talked, that it could’ve been a joy-house operator, someone warning you to take your business elsewhere. Leo seems the logical choice, don’t you think?”
“But as you stated,” she intoned, “why not just kill me if that was the purpose . . . to put me out of business, why the others? They were just working for me.”
“I don’t know. But I’d say Leo Loop is the man who’s behind it. Now, it’s just a matter of proving it. And in this town, that’s going to be a little difficult. Everyone seems to be in everyone else’s pocket, and there is no law here except for Johnny Logan. And unless I’m wrong about him, he’s in Leo’s pocket as well.”
Suddenly she stood up, the soap and water sliding off her except for the dark triangular patch of her womanhood. She stood there unashamedly allowing him to look at her, wanting him to look at her, it seemed.
“Would you hand me the towel, John Henry?”
He handed it to her. She waited to see if he would do anything else as she hesitated in taking it. When he didn’t do anything else, she took the towel and wrapped it around herself, strands of her russet hair clinging to her neck and in places around her face where it’d come loose from the combs. Still she stood there, looking at him, small puddles of water collecting around her feet.
“How will you prove that Leo Loop was responsible for the murders?” she asked.
Cole pulled his makings and started putting together a shuck, something to occupy his hands, his mind, his thoughts from what he really wanted to be doing. He put the smoke together, spilling just a little of the tobacco, and fired it with a match, snapping out the flame, then taking in a deep breath of the blue smoke before answering her question. “The way I see it,” he told her, “Leo’s not the type to do his own killing. He hires it done.”
