Deadly Fortune

by J. R. Roberts

  “Are you another fortune-teller?” Clint asked.

  Looking toward Madame Giselle’s tent, the man chuckled and replied, “No! I meant about what you’re eating there. I heard a thing or two about it.”

  Clint pulled off one of two remaining hunks of meat and popped it into his mouth. “What’ve you heard?”

  “It ain’t beef.”

  “I could’ve told you as much.”

  “Could be rabbit,” the man said.

  “No. It’s not rabbit.”

  “I heard it could also be dog.”

  Clint ate the last bit and tossed the skewer away. “Whatever the hell it was, it was damn tasty. Now what can you tell me about that piece of meat over there?”

  Following Clint’s line of sight, the man asked, “You mean the one with the blue scarf?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Never seen him before.”

  “Are you new in town?” Clint asked.

  “I been here since before most of these here stores were built. How new is that?”

  “Any idea why he’d be staring this way?”

  “Maybe he caught a glimpse of Madame Giselle walking by one of her windows,” the man offered. “Sometimes when the light catches the glass just right, you can see her splashing water on her neck. May sound like a simple thing, but I’m tellin’ you it’s inspirational.”

  “I have no doubt about that,” Clint replied. “Is there law around here?”

  “Sheriff doesn’t bother coming here unless he’s asked.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Clint looked over at the man and said, “Would you mind going over and finding out what the hell he wants and why he’s staring at me?”

  Apparently, the man had run fresh out of things to say because he shrugged and walked off.

  Now that he’d finished his meal, Clint was ready to do something other than stand downwind of the fish vendor and watch Gigi’s tent flap in the breeze. The first thing he did was look around for another vendor that had caught his eye some time ago. Clint found the vendor, made his way over to him, and then tripped over something or other that had been left on the ground by any one of a number of careless souls nearby.

  EIGHT

  The man wearing the blue scarf hadn’t been standing in the same spot all afternoon. He’d picked three spots and rotated through them at irregular intervals. When he’d made his last shift, he glanced back to the last place he’d seen Clint and quickly realized he could no longer find him. The man straightened up and looked around in a hurry. Once he came up empty in that regard, his eyes settled back on the cart where he’d seen Clint trip and momentarily leave his sight.

  Two seconds later, Clint separated himself from the milling crowd to approach him. He stopped about two paces away from the man and smiled. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?” Clint asked.

  “What?”

  “When you lose something and can’t find it, you always go back and search at least one more time in the place it should be. And the harder you look,” Clint added as he tapped his finger against the brim of the hat he’d bought from the vendor he’d so theatrically tripped in front of not too long ago, “the less you see.”

  There was no need for Clint to point out the simple hat switch he’d performed. The angry look on the face of the man with the scarf told him that the switch had been noticed all too well if only a little late.

  “You’re Mason, right?” Clint asked.

  Now that did come as a surprise to the man in the scarf. His eyes narrowed into suspicious slits as he gave Clint a single nod.

  “The fellow who sold me the hat told me your name,” Clint continued. “He didn’t have much else to say about you, apart from the possibility that you might work for a man by the name of Torquelan. But then again, I think we both know that’s more than a possibility, don’t we?”

  “You wanna stay alive and healthy?” Mason asked. “You’d best leave town and do it quick.”

  “Is that so?”

  Once again, Mason nodded.

  “And I suppose that order comes from Mr. Torquelan, whoever the hell he is?”

  “Mr. Torquelan don’t give orders. He makes requests and it’s a wise policy to give him what he wants.”

  “All right. So what’s he requesting of me?”

  “I don’t believe he’s met you yet,” Mason said.

  Clint had yet to draw his modified Colt from its holster, but placing his hand upon its grip was more than enough to send the message he wanted. “You’re following me for a reason. What is it?”

  “I heard your name mentioned. Thought I’d come around to see if it was really you.”

  “Do I even need to ask who mentioned me?” Clint asked.

  Mason grinned. “I believe you already made his acquaintance—at Madame Giselle’s.”

  “That’s what I thought. So now we’ve met. What have I done to deserve being told to get out of town?”

  “Just offering friendly advice, is all,” Mason replied. “You mind answering a question for me?”

  “We’re just having a friendly conversation. No harm in that.”

  “You don’t strike me as the superstitious sort. Why would you pay a visit to that fortune-teller?”

  “I’m a man of many parts.” Raising his eyebrow, Clint added, “Madame Giselle has some interesting parts as well.”

  “Yes. Indeed she does. She’s no whore, though.”

  “I know.”

  “So that still leaves me wondering why you were there.”

  “Why’s it so important to you?” Clint asked.

  “It ain’t.”

  Even before those words had left Mason’s mouth, Clint knew they weren’t true. He also had a real good suspicion that it wouldn’t do him much good if he confronted Mason with that fact. So for the time being, he let the other man continue as if he wasn’t playing with at least some of his cards showing.

  Another question came to Clint’s mind. Instead of asking it straightaway, he fished for an answer of a different sort. Tightening his grip on the Colt’s handle, Clint tensed the muscles in his arm and narrowed his eyes a bit.

  “You don’t wanna do that,” Mason warned.

  “I don’t like being followed,” Clint told him.

  “I didn’t lift a finger against you, Adams. There’s no harm in keeping my distance and watching to see who walks down my streets.”

  Clint looked at his immediate surroundings to find that folks were still going about their business. Even the people who were close enough to hear what was being said between the two men weren’t interested enough to slow their pace to hear any more. What interested Clint the most was that he couldn’t see anyone else who was standing still, watching him, or responding to the aggressive stance he’d taken.

  Relaxing his grip on the Colt, Clint allowed the pistol to settle back into his holster before saying, “I’d like a chance to meet this Torquelan fellow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because his name keeps cropping up, which means he must be important around here.”

  “Are you planning on staying in Las Primas for long?” Mason asked.

  “At least a few days. Besides, I’ve already been recognized, attacked, and watched from a distance since I’ve gotten here. It’s been my experience to not treat that sort of thing very lightly.”

  Sighing as if he were arguing with a stubborn bill collector instead of an armed man, Mason said, “For Christ’s sake, I can’t believe your nose is bent so far out of shape just because you caught me staring at you for too damn long.”

  “It’s not about that,” Clint assured him. “Not entirely anyway. I’ve made it through many a year by recognizing good opportunities when I see them. Mr. Torquelan sounds like a man who might be good to know.”

  When Mason stared at C
lint, it was plain to see that he was sizing him up in much the same way that Clint had sized him up earlier. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “Nothing specific. If someone looking to impress Torquelan takes it upon themselves to come at me the way those two idiots did in the saloon, then perhaps it might be good for me to have a word with him myself.”

  “I doubt he had anything to do with them two trying to do you harm. At least, in any direct capacity.”

  “Just let him know I’m interested in introducing myself to him and let me know what he says.” Stepping away from Mason, Clint stopped and added, “I’m sure you’ll be able to find me again.”

  Mason didn’t have much to say to that apart from a few grunts. He turned away from Clint and headed down the street in the direction that would take him back toward the saloon district. Clint put his back to the closest wall and watched Mason disappear into the constant flow of noisy people.

  If there was anyone else in the area who was acting as Mason’s partner, he was doing a damn good job of keeping his head down because Clint didn’t spot anyone who fit that description. Nobody took much notice of him, and those who did simply studied him like any other prospective customer or mark for a small theft. Clint wasn’t worried about either of those so he moseyed down the street in the opposite direction Mason had chosen. There was an old woman selling cakes nearby and Clint was still a little hungry.

  NINE

  Clint took a long, winding path that allowed him to get a good feel for the busy merchant district as well as the area around it. There wasn’t much to the town, but he felt more comfortable having a general feel for the place. After that walk, he made his way back to the fishing vendor’s cart from a different angle. The man working there didn’t have any trouble spotting him.

  “You gonna buy something this time?” he asked in a thick European accent.

  “You sell anything other than fish?” Clint asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I probably won’t be buying anything.”

  “Then get away from my cart! You’re frightening people with money to spend.”

  Clint looked around. Although there were always plenty of people to be found in that part of town, none of them were coming within spitting distance of the cart. “Yeah, I’d best clear out so the stampede can start.”

  “You know who enjoys the company of a smart-ass? Nobody! That’s who.”

  Since Clint couldn’t argue with that point, he walked past the fish vendor and went directly to Madame Giselle’s tent. Before he got there, he stood back and examined the place from a distance. The house wasn’t being hidden behind the tent, but was positioned in such a way that made it tough for him to see that it and the tent were connected.

  When he stepped into the tent, Clint was greeted by a familiar face as well as an equally familiar shotgun. “Hello, Patrick,” Clint said. “Is the lady of the house in?”

  “She is, but you’ll wait here,” Patrick replied.

  “We already made our introductions and seem to be on friendly terms. I can see myself in.”

  Although he lowered the shotgun, Patrick stepped in front of Clint to stop him like a brick wall. “Folks don’t generally walk in that way.”

  “Is that why you keep pointing that shotgun at me?”

  “Well . . . yes. People tend to stand outside and call for someone to come out for them.”

  Clint nodded. “This is your place and I didn’t intend on strutting around like I own it. Let me know what the proper procedure is and I’ll abide by it.”

  Now that he’d been given some measure of respect, Patrick didn’t seem nearly as prickly. “It’d do just fine if you announced yourself before walking in. That way I won’t be so jumpy.”

  “Should I walk out and come back in the right way?” Clint asked.

  Patrick chuckled a bit and used the barrel of the shotgun to scratch the side of his leg. “No need for that. Madame Giselle is in there with a customer right now,” he said while nodding back to the flap leading to the next room.

  Now that he’d let a few seconds pass without speaking, Clint could hear the muted voices coming from the other side of the flap. He couldn’t make out exact words, but whoever was in there with her was worked up about something or other. “It really was rude of me to storm in here this way. My apologies.”

  “Never mind. I’d appreciate an announcement next time, is all.”

  “Not a problem. Tell me something,” Clint said. “Why do you keep the shotgun in hand? I can see why you might have one around in case it’s needed, but I have yet to see you without it.”

  “Some of the men that come here don’t want their palms read. They’ve gotten a look at Miss Giselle and . . . well . . . I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I can. There has to be something other than that, though.”

  Patrick’s face twisted into the expression of a man who’d been pondering something and was just about to part with whatever it was that he’d concluded. Before he could follow all the way through on that, however, the voices from the next room rose to the tone of a normal conversation.

  “If you’re not happy with what I’ve given you,” Gigi said, “all I can say is I am only a channel through which the spirits flow.”

  “And I say I didn’t get what I came for,” the customer replied. Judging by the sound of his voice, Clint pictured him to be a gnarled old-timer with sunbaked leather for skin.

  “But I did provide a reading,” Gigi continued. “That’s what you asked of me. Just because you didn’t like what the spirits had to say . . .”

  “It ain’t that! Dammit, all I wanted was to know where that old bitch hid my money!”

  Patrick sneered quietly in a way that caused his upper lip to peel back like a dog baring its teeth.

  “I didn’t get my money,” the customer grunted from the next room. “So you sure as hell ain’t getting—”

  When the customer fell silent so quickly, Patrick brought his shotgun up.

  After another second passed, Clint reached for his Colt.

  A split second after that, Patrick had pulled the flap aside and was charging into the next room. Clint was right behind him, amazed at how fast the big fellow could move when the need arose.

  In the next room, they found Gigi and a slender man somewhere in his late forties. He had matted red hair, a scarred complexion, and stubble on his chin that looked rough enough to sand a plank of old driftwood down to a silky smoothness. One of his hands had taken hold of the scarves wrapped around Gigi’s waist. The other was extending to one side, frozen along with the rest of him due to the little blade being held at his throat.

  “Hello, Patrick,” she said. Smirking, Gigi added, “And Clint. It’s nice to see you, even if it is a little late.”

  “What’s he done to you?” Patrick asked.

  Gigi’s arm was bent casually as if she were bringing a glass of wine to her customer’s lips. Instead, she kept the small dagger, which had a curved, wicked-looking blade, pressed against the redheaded man’s neck. “He hasn’t done anything to me, not for lack of trying. In fact, Mr. Eastman was about to leave. Isn’t that right?”

  The redhead, who Clint presumed was Eastman, nodded very carefully. “Y-yeah. I was.”

  “Good,” Gigi said. “Show him out, Patrick.”

  When Patrick grabbed Eastman by the scruff of his neck and pulled him away, the redhead looked to be more than a little grateful. Once he no longer felt the blade against his neck, however, some of the fire came back into his eyes.

  “I’ll have my money back,” Eastman demanded.

  Gigi stepped up to him, holding her knife in an easy grip. The blade was less than three inches long and curved as if specially crafted to fit around a throat or in a man’s more intimate crevices. “I think I deserve a bonus for putting up with your foul mouth
without cutting it out of your head.”

  “I’d have to agree with the lady,” Clint said as he approached the trio. “What’s Madame Giselle’s fee?”

  “One dollar for a glimpse into the mists of the future,” she said.

  Clint stuck his hand into Eastman’s jacket pockets one at a time. Within the interior pocket, he found a small wad of bills. Peeling off two dollars, Clint held them up for Eastman to see and stuffed the small remaining amount of money back into the other man’s jacket.

  “I’d say this seems like a fair payment,” Clint said.

  “Whoever you are,” Eastman grunted, “you’d best keep yer nose out of this.”

  Leaning in a bit closer, Clint fixed Eastman with a stare and said, “This is cheaper than paying a doctor to stitch your empty head back onto your shoulders.”

  Tougher men than Eastman had buckled under the pressure of that stare. To his credit, he lasted a full second before averting his eyes.

  Gigi smiled at Clint as she said, “Patrick, please show Mr. Eastman the door.”

  “My pleasure,” Patrick said. He then shoved Eastman toward the tent flap and didn’t stop until the sound of their boots scraping against the ground was swallowed up by the commotion of the street.

  “Well now,” she said as she walked past Clint to seal the tent flap using a few hooks that fit into rings on the edge of the opening. “It is very good to see you.”

  TEN

  “Can I convince you to stay for a little while?” Gigi asked.

  Clint watched her glide away from the door. “I make it a rule not to argue with an armed woman.”

  She pulled aside one of the scarves around her waist to reveal a little scabbard secreted there. When Gigi brushed the blade against her midsection and slipped it into its leather sheath, she looked as if she could feel the blade like a part of her own body. “What brings you back so early?”

  “Thought you might like to know that someone’s been keeping their eye on you.”