by Jon Sharpe
“Yeah, but . . .” Fargo’s voice trailed off. He was the Trailsman. He’d find the man—and his horse and gear—if he had to track them all the way to hell itself.
“Tell you what,” Tommy said. “You helped me. Now I’ll help you. It’s the least I can do.”
“What do you mean?” Fargo asked.
“Let’s get over to my father’s place and I’ll tell you,” Tommy said. “I’ll bet you that five dollars we can have your horse and your gear, every last bit of it, back before sundown.”
Fargo looked at the young man and saw he was completely serious. He stuck out a hand and as they shook, he said, “Done. And along the way, you can explain to me just what kind of vipers’ nest I’ve landed myself in. This city smells bad and is more dangerous than Dodge, Wichita and Cheyenne combined.”
Tommy laughed again. “The West may be rough, Mr. Fargo, but I guarantee you that it’s got nothing on the city of New Orleans, least of all this area of town. The locals call it Storyville.”
“Storyville? How come?”
“Because of all the places in the city, the best stories come from here. They aren’t usually appropriate for kiddies, though.”
“I reckon not,” Fargo said, his eyes traveling over the rough buildings and dark alleyways filled with trash.
“The West must be better than this place,” Tommy said. “At least out there, the bad guys eventually get caught and hung. Here in town we have another name for them.”
They started down the street, Fargo’s eyes constantly moving for sign of his horse. “Oh, yeah?” he muttered. “What do you call them?”
“Citizens,” Tommy said. “The fine citizens of Storyville. And most of them would steal your teeth while you were getting a shave if they thought they could do it.”
“What a nice place,” Fargo said.
Tommy pointed. “That way,” he said. “And no, sir. It’s not a nice place at all.”
“Then why stay?” he asked. “You’re old enough to make your own way in the world.”
“True enough,” Tommy said. “But out there, I’d be a nobody. Here, at least, I’m kind of a somebody.”
“How’s that?”
“My father is Tom Anderson, the mayor of Storyville, ” he said, grinning proudly.
The name meant nothing to Fargo and it must have showed. He shrugged noncommittally.
Tommy just laughed. “Lots of people around here would like to run Storyville, Mr. Fargo. Lots of folks think they do—or will—if they play their cards right. But the real power in this part of the city is my father. ” He pointed to a corner building with the words ANDERSON’S ANNEX printed in bold on the sign. “You’ll see in a minute.”
Suddenly, Fargo understood just why Parker and Beares were at odds. Why this whole wretched place felt so tense. Everyone was gearing up for a fight to see who was going to run this part of the city—and get the money and power that came with it.
Parker might have called the game poker, but Fargo knew the stakes were a lot higher than he’d suspected.
Tommy’s father was seated at a corner table, a potted palm providing extra shadows and allowing him to watch the room almost unobserved. The place called ANDERSON’S ANNEX wasn’t luxurious, but it was by far one of the nicer saloons Fargo had ever been in. A mahogany bar ran the length of one entire wall and a massive, gilt-edged mirror backed it.
Bottles of booze—many of which Fargo had never even heard of before—were stacked in tiers, along with numerous types of wine and other spirits. A quick count showed eight different taps for beer, and he detected the smell of steaks and potatoes grilling in the back kitchen.
At the tables, and along the couches lining the walls, women of every size, shape, and color waited to be escorted upstairs. Many of them had coffee-colored skin—some of them were probably mulatto, like Mary, while others were most likely poor Creole girls who didn’t have any other way to make a living. These were no backwater whores dressed in cheap clothes and charging a dollar a time. Their gowns alone must have cost a small fortune, and each of them had her hair and makeup done just right. Out here, they were expected to look and act like ladies.
Upstairs, Fargo knew, they were expected to be something else entirely.
Several of them openly beckoned to him or called out greetings as he and Tommy crossed the room. They reached the table, and it didn’t take a trained eye to tell that Tommy’s father was extremely angry. Not knowing who, precisely, the man was angry with, Fargo decided to keep his peace and see what the man had to say first.
“Sit down, boy,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine, sir,” Tommy said. “Thanks to—”
“Mr. Skye Fargo,” the man said, standing up. “I’ve heard.” He stuck out one large, meaty hand the size of a grizzly’s paw and Fargo shook hands with him. The man wasn’t much taller than he was, but he was built like a keg of ten-penny nails. On top of that, he was clearly intelligent, with sharp eyes that took him in and assessed him in a glance.
“News must travel fast in these parts, Mr. Anderson, ” Fargo said. “We came straight here after that little . . . ruckus up the street.”
The man laughed and shook his head. “Call me Tom,” he said. “Or Mayor, if you like. Everyone around here does. Thanks for helping out my son.”
“Then I’m Fargo,” he said. “And you’re welcome. It wasn’t a fair fight.”
“They never are around here, Fargo,” Tom said. “That’s the sorry truth of it. I’m still waiting on word for who those two worked for—Beares or Parker. Maybe both.” He tossed his hands up in the air in a futile gesture, then signaled to one of the girls.
She came over and he ordered a pitcher of beer. “I’ll be honest with you, Fargo. I’m at my wit’s end. Storyville is coming apart at the seams and if something isn’t done soon, the whole damn thing is going to come crashing down around us.”
Fargo looked at the man sitting across from him, then said, “It doesn’t seem like a great place to live. Hell, I haven’t been in town six hours and I’ve already lost everything I own.”
“What?”
“Someone stole his horse and his gear, sir,” Tommy said. “When he jumped off to help me.”
“Bah!” Tom said. He whistled sharply and two men that Fargo, even with his keen eye, hadn’t noticed before, came stepping forward out of the shadows beneath the stairs. “What kind of horse?” he asked.
“An Ovaro,” Fargo said.
Tom nodded, and when the two men reached the table, he stood up and spoke to them in hushed whispers. They both said, “Yes, sir,” then left the bar in a hurry.
“You’ll get your horse back, Fargo,” Tom said. “And all your gear. It’s the least I can do for you lending a hand to the boy.”
“Tommy,” the boy said.
“I’d be much obliged,” Fargo said, “but it’s a big city, and I’m sure it’s all long gone by now.” Mentally, he was damn thankful he kept his money in his belt where it was safe.
The elder Anderson laughed again. “Fargo, there isn’t a penny stolen in this parish that I don’t know about, nor a secret whispered that I can’t ferret out. That’s why I’m the mayor of Storyville.” He slugged back a long pull on his glass of beer, then added, “But I’ll be damned if I know how long it’s going to last.”
There was a man like Anderson in every hamlet, town, and city in the country. The man who ran things. Sometimes he worked behind the scenes; sometimes he worked right out in front as a politician. It didn’t matter. He was the man you went to when you needed to navigate the politics of a place. He was the man you went to when you wanted to get rid of an enemy. He was the man you went to when events made you plead for your life. And you crossed him at your peril.
Anderson here didn’t try to impress Fargo with his importance. His importance was in the air. Every molecule in Storyville was in his control. Or had been anyway. Fargo sensed that something had gone wrong in Anderson’s fiefdom. He sen
sed not only a slight confusion in the man—Anderson wasn’t used to being challenged—he also saw in the gray eyes a real anger. Somebody had crossed him indeed. And whether they knew it or not, they were living at his mercy.
Fargo waited the man out, and after a long minute of silence, Tom said, “If you’re half of what old H.D. says, maybe you can help me. Hell, maybe you can save us all.”
5
For nearly an hour, Fargo sat and listened while Tom Anderson told the story of his rise to power as the mayor of Storyville. He’d started off with the very saloon they were sitting in, and not long after, he’d added the “lady companions,” which seemed like an awful fancy way of saying whores, until Anderson explained that there were many wealthy men and tourists who came to New Orleans every day.
“Some come for business, or the horse races, or even to invest in the riverboat business,” Anderson said. “But all of them like to have sex and they’ll pay top dollar for the kind of girls I employ.”
“So what’s gone wrong?” Fargo asked.
Anderson sighed. “Everything,” he said. “First, Senator David Parker from Winn Parish—which borders this one—came in here, talking on the one hand about cleaning up the city, making it respectable, while on the other, he was financing places like Hattie Hamilton’s Blue Emporium and lining his own pockets at the same time. Then Senator Richard Beares followed suit, bringing our own Catahoula Parish into the fight.”
“And the newspapers,” Fargo guessed. “Attention you didn’t want, but the politicians crave.”
Anderson nodded. “Exactly so,” he said. “So now there’re three of us vying for control of Basin Street, but I don’t hang my head in shame when I talk about what I do. I’ve built most of this area up from nothing. When I first got here, what fire hadn’t gutted, the swamp was trying to take back. Now, there are businesses, jobs, trade—it’s a real community.”
“A real dangerous one,” Fargo said. “It’s not a pretty place, at least as far as I’ve seen.”
“No, it’s not pretty. But it’s more than what it was. If those two get their way, all of the brothels will go underground, and the blue book trade will be legally banned. These girls won’t be working in a decent place like mine. They’ll be on their backs in the alleys, taking whoever will service them for two bits and a bite to eat.”
“You don’t paint a pretty picture,” Fargo said. “But what about the poker game?”
Anderson started in surprise. “How’d you know about . . .” His voice trailed off. “Are you working for one of those bastards?”
“I met Parker on the riverboat, coming down from St. Louis,” Fargo said. “He told me about the game, offered me a job.”
“What kind of a job?” Anderson asked, his voice filled with suspicion.
“Told me he wanted me to keep an eye on things, keep things fair, watch out for cheating, that sort of thing,” he said. “He offered a pretty damn good wage, too.”
“I just bet he did,” Anderson said. “But you can be damn sure that there’s something in it for him, if he asked you. David Parker would skin a starving cat for a new pair of gloves if he liked the color of its mangy fur.”
“He sort of strikes me that way, too,” Fargo said. “But a man in my position can’t afford to turn down money like he was offering.”
“If you do what he says—keep the game fair—then you’ll have earned your wage and then some,” Anderson said. “I think the whole thing is some kind of setup. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, David Parker is one smart fella. He likes to gamble—loves it, in fact—but he also likes to win. Out at the racetrack, the odds change when he takes a seat in the clubhouse. This game was his idea. We’d all sit down, play a high-stakes game of poker. The money is part of it, but the real stakes are unspoken. The winner gets Basin Street and Storyville. The losers can find somewhere else to play.”
“I figured it was something like that,” Fargo said. “The problem is that the whole game has to be rigged. Somehow. Otherwise, Parker wouldn’t have suggested it.”
“You think he’ll cheat?”
Fargo shook his head. “I don’t reckon he’ll be that obvious about it. There must be something else involved. He likes the odds to favor him.”
“Fargo, H.D.’s told me the story about what happened out in Kansas. He says you’re the hardest man he’s ever met—but you’re also fair. Will you help keep the game fair at least?”
“If I spot anyone doing anything out of line,” Fargo said, “you can be sure I’ll say something. There’s more than money or a business on the line here, I think. There’s all the folks who live and work in this area. Seems to me like you’ve tried to do right by them, much as you can. I’m not sure Parker and Beares are so high-minded.”
“They aren’t,” Anderson said. “Ask around and you’ll learn the truth.”
“I intend to,” Fargo said.
He was about to add something more, when Anderson stood. Coming through the door were the two men who’d left earlier, dragging another man between them.
It was the man who’d stolen Fargo’s horse.
“Ahhh, if it isn’t Slick Willie Smith,” Anderson said. “How are you, Willie?”
Willie’s eyes were wide and frightened. It didn’t look like the men had roughed him up too much, but his coat was torn and his lip was bleeding. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. I didn’t know he was a friend of yours! I swear it! I just thought he was passing through!”
“Willie, we’ve talked about this before, haven’t we? You aren’t supposed to be stealing at all. What happened to that job I got you over at the stables?”
“I got drunk,” the man said. “Ol’ man Simms, he fired me on the spot.”
“I would’ve, too,” Anderson said. He looked up at his men. “Did you retrieve Mr. Fargo’s belongings?”
One of the men nodded. “Yes, sir. Willie was trying to sell the tack when we caught up with him.”
Fargo breathed a sigh of relief. He and the Ovaro had been through a lot together. Losing his tack and gear would be one thing—those were replaceable—but a great horse like the Ovaro would be all but impossible to find again.
“Well, Fargo,” Anderson said, “what do you want done with him?”
Willie was all but gibbering now, and Fargo shook his head. “Let him go,” he said to the men. They released him and as Willie started to backpedal, Fargo snatched his coat lapels and yanked him forward, lifting him off his feet.
“Don’t hurt me, please, mister!” Willie screeched.
“Stealing is a sorry-assed way to make your way in the world, Willie,” Fargo said. “Mr. Anderson here gave you a shot at the straight life—got you a job—and you ruined it. Now I’m going to give you one: get sober and get a job. If I find out you’ve been stealing again, from anyone, there won’t be a second chance. I’ll hang you from the nearest post I can find and spare the world a lot of grief.” Fargo shook him until his bones rattled. “You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Willie said. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fargo. I understand. ”
Fargo shoved him away. “Now get out of here,” he said.
Willie ran for the door and Anderson chuckled. “I thought he was going to wet himself for a minute there.”
“So did I,” Fargo said. “I’d best get going. I still need to see to my horse and meet up with H.D., and I still haven’t gotten a room yet.”
“Where did Parker tell you to stay?” Anderson asked.
“The Bayou,” he said. “Across from the Blue Emporium. ”
“I know it,” Anderson said. “He owns it, but it’s a decent enough place.” He looked at Fargo seriously. “This is a dangerous bit of business you’re in, Fargo. A lot of money and lives are on the table. Watch your back, and if you run into trouble, come find me. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the game and pray that you’re as straight an arrow as you seem.”
“I’ll kee
p it in mind,” Fargo said. “One thing I can tell you: there’s only one set of rules I play by, Anderson. Mine. They’re harsh but fair. If I catch anyone cheating, you can be sure I’ll say something.”
“Good enough,” he said, offering his hand.
Fargo shook and took his leave, finding his horse tied up outside and all his gear exactly as he’d left it. He pulled his gun belt out of the saddlebag and put it back on.
So far, what he knew was that Parker wasn’t telling the whole truth, and Anderson was telling his version of it. And there was still the matter of figuring out what Richard Beares was all about, too.
A lot of people, all of them telling lies of one kind or another.
“It’s no wonder they call it Storyville,” he said to the Ovaro, who nickered at him in reply. He climbed into the saddle, and turned the horse toward the livery.
The humid air was still and heavy as the early evening sun went down on the water. All the way to the livery, Fargo felt eyes on him and he knew that word had spread.
And that he was being watched by everyone.
John H. D. Timmons had spent most of his forty-two years of life living in bad circumstances and working in worse. His father had been a Baptist minister in New Hampshire who took the sentiment “spare the rod, spoil the child” to heart and regularly beat the young, defenseless John H. D. Timmons within an inch of his life. Believing that women were much like children, the man had treated his wife the same.
The year he was sixteen, H.D.’s father had beaten his mother to death. H.D. returned the favor, burned down the small home and attached church he’d grown up in, and left, heading west and not stopping until he’d reached Oklahoma.
Punching cows was tough, but compared to growing up with the Reverend (as he often thought of his father) it was easy. He learned to ride, shoot, drink, fight, and generally take care of himself. When a group of cattle rustlers began stealing from the Double Bar T ranch, it was H.D. who’d helped the marshal track them down and bring them to justice. From that point on, his future in law enforcement was assured.
He’d worked in a lot of prairie towns, from Oklahoma to Nebraska and then back down to Kansas, which is where Fargo had first met him. The work was hard and dangerous, but H.D. brought perspective to it, wasn’t on the take, and treated the citizens who were law-abiding as they deserved to be treated. The years had aged him—he’d gone a little softer around the middle, and there was more gray in his hair than black, but his hands were still rock steady as he poured two shots of sour mash and raised his glass in a toast.
