The Omaha Palace

by J. R. Roberts

  * * *

  Clint was finishing up his coffee when Ashley came down. The bartender had finished his breakfast, cleared his place, and was behind the bar, where he knew his boss liked to see him when she came down.

  “Coffee?” Clint asked her.

  “Please.”

  He poured her a cup, and as he did so, an older man wearing a white apron came out from the kitchen with a plate of eggs for her.

  “Thank you, Mike,” she said. “Clint, Mike’s my cook. Mike Brennan, this is Clint Adams. He’ll be dealin’ faro for us for a while.”

  “I heard,” Brennan said. “Glad to have ya, sir.”

  “That was a fine breakfast, Mike,” Clint said. “I don’t see any reason to go anywhere else while I’m here.”

  “If you let me know what you want each night, sir, I’ll have it waitin’ for you in the mornin’.”

  “Steak and eggs are fine with me every morning, Mike.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He went back to the kitchen.

  “How’d you find him?”

  “Same way I found Ed,” she said. “He came in and applied for the job. I had him cook me breakfast, and then I hired him.”

  “Is that the way you hired everybody?” he asked. “The girls, the dealers . . .”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Are you sure none of them were sent over by Big Jack?”

  “To spy, you mean? I’m fairly sure, but I can’t be certain.”

  “Who’s in charge of your security men?” Clint asked.

  “I am,” she said. “It’s just two men with rifles to keep me from being robbed.”

  “You need somebody in charge, Ashley,” he said, “and you need more than two men. You also need men you can trust.”

  “How do I know I can trust them?”

  “Whoever you put in charge should hire them, only after he knows he can trust them.”

  “Would you do that for me, then?” she asked. “Who would know better than you?”

  “I tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll hire five men I like, and then I’ll put one of them in charge. That way when I leave, you won’t have an opening.”

  “All right,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to take a walk over to Big Jack’s when it opens.”

  “What for?”

  “Just to take a look at the competition,” he said. “Maybe meet the boss.”

  “You can meet him the night of the opening,” she said.

  “You invited him?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “That was a good move.”

  “I thought so,” she said. “I’m not as dumb as some people think.”

  “I don’t think you’re dumb.”

  “No, no, I know that,” she said, “and I’ll be very happy to take advantage of your experience while you’re here.”

  He raised his cup to her and she responded in kind.

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” he said, “to supply it to you.”

  THIRTEEN

  Clint waited until about twelve thirty to walk down to Big Jack’s Saloon, having obtained the location from Ed Wright.

  When he entered, the place was almost empty, except for a couple of men who looked like regulars with their tables staked out.

  There was a lot of oak and gold leaf, some chandeliers. The place was impressive looking, but Clint thought Ashley had managed to get the upper hand as far as appearance was concerned.

  He walked to the bar, where a bartender wearing a vest and a white shirt stared at him.

  “Sir?”

  “Beer, unless it’s too early.”

  “If it’s not too early for you, sir,” the man said, “it’s not too early for me.”

  He drew Clint a frothy beer and set it on the bar in front of him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Haven’t seen you in here before, sir.”

  “Haven’t been in before,” Clint said. “Been doing my drinking at the Palace.”

  “The new place,” the bartender said. “Nice, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “The lady running it really has no idea what she’s doin’,” the man said. “Now my boss, he’s been in this business a long time.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Jack Mackey,” the bartender said. “Everybody just calls him Big Jack.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “that must explain the name of the place.”

  The bartender frowned, like he was trying to decide if he was being made fun of.

  * * *

  Big Jack Mackey started every day the same way. He came down the back stairway from his rooms, entered his saloon by the back door, then opened the front door and stood in the doorway, looking his place over. His employees knew the place had better be spotless by then.

  Now as he opened the door, he saw the man standing at the bar, talking to the bartender. When you ran saloons as long as he had, you tended to know on sight men who could handle themselves. Knowing that Clint Adams was in town, Big Jack thought he was putting two and two together and coming up with the right answer.

  He decided to find out.

  * * *

  “Ah, here comes the boss now,” the bartender said.

  Clint turned, saw a tall, well-dressed gent with broad shoulders and graying hair. He looked to be in his mid-forties.

  “Mornin’, John,” he said to the bartender.

  “Mornin’, boss,” the bartender said. “New fella in town, checkin’ the place out.”

  “That a fact?” Big Jack put his hand out. “Welcome to Omaha, Mr. . . .”

  “Adams,” Clint said, “Clint Adams.”

  “Ah, happy to meet you, Mr. Adams,” Big Jack said while shaking hands. “I heard you were in town. Was hopin’ you’d come and look at my place.”

  “It’s impressive,” Clint said.

  “Thank you. I like it.”

  “All yours?” Clint asked. “Or do you have some partners?”

  “No partners, no investors,” Big Jack said. “It’s all mine.”

  “Even more impressive.”

  “What brings you to town?”

  “Came in to visit a friend of mine,” Clint said.

  “Oh? Anybody I’d know?”

  “Maybe,” Clint said. “Her name’s Ashley Burgoyne.”

  “Oh, the lovely lady who owns Ashley’s Palace,” Big Jack said. “Have you known her a long time?”

  “About ten years.” He didn’t bother to tell Big Jack that he’d seen her only one other time during those previous ten years.

  “I understand this is her first saloon.”

  “That’s true, but it seems to me she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Well, for her sake, I hope so.”

  “And for your sake?”

  Mackey smiled.

  “I don’t think I have to worry too much about her cutting into my business. Oh, maybe some in the beginning, but once the novelty wears off, the customers will come back here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “So you’d have no reason to try to . . . sabotage her place?”

  “Why would I do that?” Big Jack asked. “I just told you I wasn’t worried. Is that why you came over here? To find out if I was threatened?”

  “I’m new in town,” Clint said. “I like to try out all the places in town before I pick my watering hole.”

  “You mean you won’t automatically drink there?”

  “I’ll go where the best beer is,” Clint said.

  “Well then,” Big Jack said, “get the man another beer, John . . . on the house.”

  F
OURTEEN

  Clint was still in Big Jack’s when Sheriff Ian Thorpe came walking in and approached the bar.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “Beer?”

  “What else?” Thorpe asked sourly.

  “Good morning, Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “Mr. Adams,” Thorpe said. “Takin’ a look at the competition?”

  “Taking a look at the whole city, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Quite a growth spurt since I was last here.”

  “Yeah,” Thorpe said, accepting his beer from the bartender, “a growth spurt that includes squeezin’ me out.”

  “That what they’re trying to do?”

  “Whether they’re tryin’ or not, they’re doin’ it,” Thorpe said.

  “Still got a year before elections, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “Maybe things will change.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Thorpe said. “Enjoy the city, Mr. Adams.”

  He took his beer and walked to a table.

  “Does he spend much time in here?” Clint asked.

  “Every day, pretty much,” John said. “He’s right, ya know. They’re squeezin’ him out, especially with the new police department.”

  At the mention of the new department, the batwings swung in and a young man in an Omaha Police Department uniform entered. He had a gun in a cavalry holster, and was carrying a nightstick. He headed directly for the bar, and Clint.

  “Mr. Adams?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Officer Brennan, sir,” he said. “The chief would like to talk to you. He sent me to find you and ask you to come and see him.”

  “Ask, or tell, Officer?”

  “He told me to ask you, sir . . . politely.”

  “I see.”

  “What can I tell him?”

  “Why don’t you just lead the way, Officer?” Clint said. “We can go see him right now.”

  “That would be very satisfactory, sir,” the young officer said.

  “Thanks for the beer,” Clint said to John.

  “Sure thing.”

  Clint looked over at Sheriff Thorpe, who silently raised his beer mug in a mock salute.

  He followed Officer Brennan outside.

  * * *

  As they reached the new two-story brick police station—which looked like many of the others that had been popping up in the West—Clint said, “Brennan? Would you be related to a man who works at Ashley’s Place?”

  “He’s my father, sir.”

  “Your father’s a very good cook.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “How do you feel about him working in a saloon?” Clint asked. “Is that a problem for you?”

  “No, sir,” Brennan said. “It beats what his previous job was.”

  “And what was that?” Clint asked.

  Brennan looked at him, opened the front door for him to enter, and said, “He was the town drunk, sir.”

  * * *

  Officer Brennan nodded to the sergeant manning the front desk and led Clint farther into the building. He was amazed that even the hallways seemed the same as police stations he’d seen in Denver, Salt Lake City, Cheyenne, Kansas City, and other places.

  They reached an office that just said CHIEF OF POLICE on the door.

  “Sir, Mr. Adams is here,” Brennan said.

  Clint was in the hall, didn’t see the man who said, “Well, fine, bring him in,” in a deep, bass voice.

  “Mr. Adams?” Brennan said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Adams?” the chief said as Clint entered. He was tall and reed thin, an appearance that did not jibe with his deep voice.

  He extended his hand and Clint shook it.

  “Have a seat.”

  Clint sat down. The chief seated himself behind his desk.

  “Can I get you anything? Some coffee?”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “I’d like to thank you for coming in,” the chief said.

  “No problem. I wasn’t really doing anything else. What’s on your mind, Chief?”

  “Well,” the chief said, sitting back in his chair, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave Omaha.”

  Clint stared at him and said, “Excuse me?”

  FIFTEEN

  “Don’t get me wrong,” the chief went on. “We like having new people come into Omaha.”

  “Except for me.”

  “Well, you must admit,” the chief said, “you have a reputation for attracting trouble.”

  “I’m not here looking for trouble,” Clint said.

  “I didn’t say you were,” the chief said. “But it’s going to find you, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Well . . . there are other reasons I can ask you to leave.”

  “Like what?”

  “We have a vagrancy rule,” the chief said. “If you don’t have a job, you can’t stay in town. And since you’re just passing through—”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who said I was just passing through?”

  “Well, I thought—”

  “I have a job.”

  “Where, if I may ask?”

  “Ashley’s Palace.”

  “The new place,” the chief said, nodding. “What will you be doing?”

  “Dealing faro.”

  “And when did that start?”

  “This morning,” Clint said. “I was hired last night.”

  “Do you know Miss Burgoyne well?”

  “I’ve known her for about ten years,” Clint said.

  “Well,” the chief said, “it seems you’ve put me in an uncomfortable situation.”

  “You can’t tell me to leave,” Clint said.

  “You did neglect to tell me you were in town,” the chief said. “Don’t you usually check in with the local law?”

  “I did,” Clint said. “I stopped in to see the sheriff when I got here.”

  “Sheriff Thorpe.”

  “That’s right.”

  The chief frowned.

  “You can check my story with both Miss Burgoyne, and the sheriff.”

  “I’m sure they’ll back your story,” the man said.

  “It’s not a story,” Clint said. “It’s what happened.”

  The chief was obviously at a loss.

  “You mind if I go now, Chief?” Clint asked. “It is my first day of work. I’d hate to be fired for being late. That would make me a vagrant.”

  “Let me just warn you, Mr. Adams,” the chief said. “At the first sign of trouble, I’ll have you tossed into a cell.”

  Clint stood up and said, “I’ll remember that.”

  He walked out of the office, unexpectedly ran into Officer Brennan, who was apparently waiting to walk him out. He followed the young policeman to the front door, neither of them saying a word.

  Outside Brennan said to him, “The chief’s kind of a hardnose.”

  “I guess so.”

  “He means what he says, though.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll tell your dad that you’re a respectful young man, and a good lawman.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Clint nodded and went down the steps.

  * * *

  He found a cab down the street and sat back after giving the driver the address of Ashley’s Palace. The chief of police had managed to rub him the wrong way. He’d been warned by lawmen before, but one had never tried to drive him out of town on a whim, before anything had even gone wrong. The chief—obviously an Eas
terner—needed to develop some Western manners.

  * * *

  Brennan watched Clint Adams walk away, then went back into the building to the chief’s office.

  “Adams works in the same saloon your father works in, right?” the chief asked as Brennan entered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to want you to keep an eye on him, Brennan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The chief stood up, came around from behind the desk.

  “I’m going out for some dinner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brennan watched the chief go this time, was positive that the man was going to see Big Jack Mackey.

  SIXTEEN

  When Clint entered the Palace, he stopped first at the bar for a beer.

  “You look mad,” Wright said.

  “I am.” He told the bartender how the chief of police had tried to run him out of town.

  “You ain’t goin’, are ya?” Wright asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “If I hadn’t already decided to work for Ashley, he would have pushed me into it.”

  “Well, I’d keep an eye out for him and his men, if I was you,” Wright said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s supposed to have some kind of connection to Big Jack.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Thanks.” Clint picked up his beer and carried it to his faro table. He pulled the cover off and began to set his table up.

  So the chief had tried to drive him out of town for Big Jack Mackey? Looked like the law was in Big Jack’s pocket. That would not make things easy. But then, when were they ever?

  * * *

  Big Jack entered the small, dark restaurant, saw the chief of police seated at a back table.

  “It’s about time,” the chief said.

  “Relax, Chief,” Big Jack said, sitting down. “Don’t flex your muscles at me. Save that for the Gunsmith.”

  “Yes, well, I tried that,” the chief said. “It didn’t work.”

  “Tell me.”

  The chief told Big Jack about his conversation with Clint Adams.

  “And you let him talk to you like that?” he asked when the chief was done.

  “What was I supposed to do?” the man said. “He hasn’t broken any law, and he has a job.”