“That’s all?” said Wilson.
“That’s it,” the leader said. “For now. Thank you all for coming.”
The men stood up, unlocked the front door, and left. The leader remained where he was until the saloon was empty. Then a door opened in another part of the room, and a second man entered. He was well dressed, holding a thick lighted cigar.
“What do you think?” he asked.
The leader turned his head.
“If you want this to work,” he said, “we’ll need better men.”
“And?”
“And that will take more money.”
The second man stood in thought for a moment, smoking his cigar, then said, “You’ll have it.”
32
Mrs. Varney understood that her boarders worked—most of them—so she laid dinner out at seven. Most of them should have been able to get home from work by then. If they missed a seven o’clock dinner, they were on their own.
Roper got home at six, went to his room, washed in a basin, and changed out of his “work clothes.” Wearing a cotton shirt and Levi’s, he pulled on the same boots, still with the derringer in one and the knife in the other. Then he went downstairs.
The table was set, but there was no food yet. He heard voices coming from the sitting room and went in there. He found five men, standing and sitting, split into two different conversations. This was the first time he’d actually gone into the sitting room to socialize before the evening meal so he didn’t really know anyone except Catlin, the lawyer. He thought he recognized one man’s face from the stockyards but didn’t know his name.
En masse, they turned and looked at him as he entered.
“Ah, Mr. Blake,” Catlin said. “Have a good day?”
“It was okay.”
“I don’t believe you know the other members of our group.”
Catlin made quick introductions of the men in the room. Roper filed away their names, then concentrated on a man named Embry, Charlie Embry.
“Charlie, there, works at the stockyards,” Catlin said. “You two must have seen each other.”
“Sure,” Embry said, approaching Roper with his hand out, “Orton’s man, right? I’ve seen you going in and out of his office.”
They shook hands.
“I’ve seen you outside,” Roper said.
“Yes, well, I don’t have many reasons to go inside,” Embry said.
Roper frowned. He knew what Orton meant about knowing he was educated. He could see it in this man’s eyes, in his speech. Why was he working in the stockyards?
“You work the pens?” Roper asked.
Embry nodded and said, “And I like it. I’d rather work outside than inside.”
“I know what you mean,” Roper said. “It’s only been a week but already…” He just shook his head.
“Yeah,” Embry said, and laughed.
Two more men entered the room, and pretty soon the group had broken into three different conversations. As more arrived, the room got noisy, until Mrs. Varney appeared in the doorway.
“Gents, dinner is served.”
They filed into the dining room in an orderly fashion, sat in the same places they usually sat in every morning and evening. There was more food involved in dinner than breakfast, and Mrs. Varney needed help bringing it all out. When she came out carrying plates, right behind her was the girl who usually stayed in the kitchen. Roper had not even met her yet. Now that he had a longer look, he could see how truly pretty she was. When she came by him and leaned over to set some plates down, he smelled her soap and a faint whiff of her sweat. Up close he could see she was closer to twenty-five than the nineteen or twenty he’d taken her for originally.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
She looked down at him as if surprised he’d spoken to her.
“Uh, Lauren,” she said with a shy smile. “My name’s Lauren.”
He smiled, but before he could say anything else, she turned and hurried back to the kitchen.
Roper turned his attention to the fried chicken—the best he’d had in a long time.
* * *
For dessert Mrs. Varney and Lauren brought out two apple pies, sliced them up, and passed out hunks to the boarders, followed by strong black coffee. Lauren was the one who walked around the table and filled the cups. Several men spoke to her, but she didn’t react. When she reached Roper, he said, “That was the best fried chicken I ever had.”
She paused, looked at him, and said, “Thank you,” then went back to the kitchen.
“She likes you,” Catlin said.
“How can you tell?”
“Because she never talks to any of us,” the lawyer said. “Never.”
“Does she live in the house?” Roper asked.
“No,” Catlin said, “she’s got her own room somewhere else. She comes in early and leaves late.”
“She goes home alone after dark?” Roper asked. “By herself?”
“Apparently,” Catlin said. “She was born around here. Nobody touches her.”
“She’s immune to Hell’s Half Acre?”
“I think she just belongs here,” Catlin said.
* * *
After dinner some of the men went back to the sitting room. Others went to their own rooms. Still others went out.
Roper went to the sitting room, found Embry there with another man, talking.
“Blake,” Embry said, “this is Paul Rickman. Paul also works in the yards.”
Rickman looked at Roper and nodded. He was tall and rangy, probably not yet thirty. He didn’t look like he was built for the tough work.
“Paul’s a wrangler,” Embry said. “He’s got magic hands, can make a horse or a steer do whatever he wants.”
“It’s a gift,” Rickman said.
“How long have you fellas worked in the stockyards?” Roper asked.
“I’ve been there a month,” Embry said.
“Two months for me,” Paul Rickman said. “Guess that’s why we haven’t found a more permanent place to live.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with this place,” Embry said. “Can’t beat the food.”
“That’s true,” Roper said.
“We’re gonna go out for a beer,” Embry said. “Wanna tag along?”
“Why not?” Roper said.
33
Luckily, Embry and Rickman didn’t want to go to the Bullshead. On the other hand, they proposed going to the White Elephant, located at 106 East Exchange Avenue and the 300 block of Main Street, about as far removed—qualitywise—as you could be from Hell’s Half Acre, even though it was only a matter of blocks.
“That’s a pretty expensive place,” Roper said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rickman said. “We’ll get the first two rounds.”
Roper agreed to go. The White Elephant was the glittering jewel of the Fort Worth saloons and gambling halls. Brothers Bill and John Ward were the third owners of the property, and under their ownership the White Elephant offered the very best in whiskey, beer, and gambling. Cigar smoke was hanging from the high ceilings in a dark cloud, a result of the cigar shop that was situated just inside the batwing doors.
The White Elephant was certainly the type of place Talbot Roper would frequent, but for “Andy Blake” it was pricey.
Why, then, he wondered, was it not pricey for his new friends, Embry and Rickman?
They led him to the long bar, where they waved down a bartender who seemed to know who they were. So, clearly patronizing the White Elephant was not something new to them.
After they each had a cold beer in their hands, Rickman said, “I’m gonna look over the tables,” and wandered off.
“Is he much of a gambler?” Roper asked.
“He likes it some,” Embry said. “Me, I like to hold on to my hard-earned money.”
“You know each other long?”
“Only since we met at the rooming house,” Embry said. “We hit the saloons together once in a while, bu
t we ain’t what you’d call close friends.”
A beautiful girl went by, carrying a tray of drinks, and Roper could see that all of the girls were lovely, and fairly young.
“A lot different than the Bullshead, huh?” he asked.
Embry wrinkled his nose and said, “The Bullshead smells bad. Even the cigar smoke here smells better than that place.”
“Lots of difference in price, though.”
“If you manage your money well,” Embry said, “you can pretty much get what you want.”
Roper had been wondering about the finances of these two men, but it was true that if you watched what you spent, and managed your money, you could pretty much do or buy what you wanted. And Embry didn’t sound like a man who was earning extra money outside his job—say, for sabotage—and then spending it freely.
Maybe Embry and Rickman were not such good suspects. If it turned out they were involved in the sabotage, it would be quite a coincidence that he had ended up staying in the same rooming house with them. And Roper—like his friend Clint Adams—hated coincidence.
Rickman had secured himself a space at a roulette table, and Embry drifted over to see how he was doing. Roper remained at the bar, taking in all the White Elephant had to offer.
The place had a kitchen that catered to customers who were interested in light fare. It did not serve full dinners. It also offered separate seating for those who didn’t want to eat, but only drink.
Before long, Embry and Rickman had disappeared. Roper figured they had probably gone upstairs, where there was a full casino. He decided to go up and see if they were there, and buy his round of drinks.
Upstairs was quite different from downstairs. It looked as if it had been designed by a completely different hand. The public area was decorated with fancy rosewood and mahogany fixtures shipped in from the East, thick carpets on the floor, and heavy drapes over the windows.
Every form of gambling was available and he found Embry watching Rickman at one of the roulette tables. He snagged a passing waitress and had her bring them three beers. He sipped his, alternating between looking around and watching the wheel, when he saw a familiar face across the room.
“I’ll be right back,” he told Embry, who simply waved that he had heard him, but kept his eyes on the table.
He walked across the room to the faro table, where a line of men were waiting to test their mettle against an expert, a man Roper had known for some time. He needed to make his presence known so that the man did not approach him, calling him by his real name.
He stood there and waited to catch the eye of famed gambler Luke Short.
34
Roper waited patiently for the dapper little gambler to look up and catch sight of him. When he did, he had to give the man credit. Roper saw only a flicker of recognition on the man’s face, and that was only because he was looking for it.
Short finished what he was doing, collected the money from the players, and then signaled someone to come and replace him. The players complained, but Short calmed them down.
“Take it easy, boys,” Short said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Short came around the table, wearing his trademark black suit, but carrying his silk top hat.
He stopped in front of Roper and said, “Damn.”
“Hello, Luke.”
“Who are you supposed to be?” the gambler murmured so no one else could overhear.
“Andy Blake,” Roper said. “I work at the stockyards.”
“Ah, I get it,” Short said. “Come with me.”
“You go first,” Blake said. “I don’t want it to look like we’re friends.”
“There’s a private room behind a curtain in the back,” Short said. “See you there.”
Roper watched the little gambler disappear into the crowd, heading for the back. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him, saw Rickman and Embry’s attention still riveted to the roulette wheel. Satisfied that no one was paying him any attention, he strolled to the back, slipping between people without spilling his beer.
He found the curtain in the back and passed through it. Luke Short was waiting for him, holding a drink in his left hand, and his right hand out.
The men shook hands and Roper said, “Good to see you, Luke.”
“You, too, Ro—I mean, Blake,” Short said. “Working at the yards, huh? So I guess what brings you to the Fort is the trouble the cattlemen have been havin’, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“And undercover, I assume.”
“I was even more undercover, but when I went for a job at the stockyards, I ended up being hired as a clerk.”
Short started laughing, and in between bouts of laughter he said, “You…a…clerk?”
“Don’t laugh,” Roper said. “It puts me in a good position to learn what I need to find out.”
“Who’s your client?” Short asked.
“I’m working through the Pinkerton Agency,” Roper said.
“You went back to the Pinkertons?”
“Just for this case,” Roper said. “I went to Old Allan’s funeral and his sons approached me.”
“And you said yes?”
Roper shrugged.
“I’m making them pay.”
“So what are you doin’ here?”
“Two of my coworkers wanted to come here,” Roper said. “I didn’t want to make them suspicious by objecting. But I’ve been doing most of my drinking and eating in Hell’s Half Acre.”
“Any problems?”
“A few.” Roper told Short what had happened so far. The gambler listened intently until he was done.
“Sounds like not everybody accepts you as a stockyard worker,” he said. “I always said you had too much class.”
“I guess I’ll have to take some lessons when this is over,” Roper said. “Get myself some rough edges.”
“It’s hard enough shavin’ rough edges off,” Short said. “Just let me know if you need any help.”
“If things go right,” Roper said, “you won’t even be seeing me again.”
“No, no,” Short said, “when you finish your case, you and I are havin’ a good dinner together.”
“How long have you had a game here?”
“A few months,” Short said, “but it’s not only faro. I own the rights to all the gambling here, which makes me a one-third owner of the White Elephant.”
“I’m impressed,” Roper said. “Congratulations. How’s the law feel about having you in business in Fort Worth?”
“We’re workin’ on that,” Short said. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the table. I’m serious, Roper. If you need help, you only have to ask.”
“I know that, Luke,” Roper said, “and I appreciate it.”
“I’ll go out first,” Short said. “Oh, here.” He handed Roper a good cigar. “Handmade on the premises.”
“Thanks. I’ll follow in a few minutes,” Roper said.
They shook hands again and the gambler went back through the curtain. Roper waited a few minutes, then peered out past the curtain to make sure nobody would see him come out.
Once he was back on the casino floor, he went looking for his new friends, and found them right where he’d left them.
35
Roper waited and watched with Embry until Rickman was done with the roulette wheel.
“Ya win some, ya lose some,” Rickman said as he joined them. “You guys ready to go?”
“Ready,” Embry said.
They walked back to Mrs. Varney’s rooming house in the Half Acre.
“You guys go ahead in,” Roper said. “I’m going to smoke this before I turn in.”
He took the cigar out of his pocket.
“Where’d ya get that?” Embry asked.
“The White Elephant,” Roper said. “Seems they’re made on the premises.”
“Well,” Rickman said, “enjoy it. I’m goin’ to bed.”
“Me, too,” Embry said. “Night, Blake. See ya
at work tomorrow.”
Roper bade both men good night and lit up his cigar. It was, indeed, a good one. He had it going to his satisfaction when the front door of the house opened and a figure stepped out. Roper turned to see who it was. As the figure came down the steps, he saw that it was the young cook, Lauren.
“Hello,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, surprised to find him there. “Hello.”
“Are you just leaving now?” he asked, realizing it was an inane question. Obviously, she was leaving.
“Yes,” she said, “I had to clean the kitchen and get it set up for breakfast in the morning.”
“And you intend to walk home alone?” he asked. “At this time of night?”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” he said, “that you can walk through Hell’s Half Acre without fear. Is that true?”
“Yes.” She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
“Why is that?”
She shrugged and said, “This is my home.”
“Lots of people live here,” he said. “Are they all safe?”
“I don’t know about a lot of people,” she said. “They might live here, but it’s my home. There’s a difference.”
“So then you don’t need me to be a gentleman and walk you home?”
“I don’t.”
“And if I asked you to let me, what would you say?” he asked.
“I’d say no.”
“Why?”
“Because if I let you walk me home,” she said, “I won’t be safe anymore.”
Roper drew on his cigar, let a stream of smoke go, and then nodded.
“You know,” he said, “I think I understand that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blake. Good night.”
“See you at breakfast,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and started off down the street.
Roper continued to smoke his cigar, watching Lauren until she faded into the darkness. He wondered what it truly was about her that made her so safe in Hell’s Half Acre. As far as he knew, she was just a young cook, but maybe she was much more than that.
He smoked enough of the cigar to give it the proper respect, then tossed the remainder of it into the dirt and went inside to turn in.
The Reluctant Pinkerton Page 12
