by Jon Sharpe
“Interesting,” he said. “It’s fifty to me, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the dealer said.
Fargo leaned forward, watching the old man intently. People who were flush didn’t usually cheat. People who were desperate did. “Let’s make it,” he said, reaching into his vest, “five hundred dollars.” He put the cash on the table.
The old man stared at him, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “That’s a lot of money, mister,” he said.
Fargo nodded. “It is,” he agreed. “Call, raise, or fold.”
“You’re bluffing,” he said. “I’ll allow you to retract the bet. You can’t afford to lose that much money.”
Fargo grinned. “Maybe,” he said. “But I haven’t looked at my draw cards yet. And I don’t bet unless I’m sure of winning.”
His hands trembling, the old man counted his chips. “I can call to . . . one hundred seventy-five,” he said. “It’s all I’ve got left.”
“Fine,” Fargo said. “Make the call.”
The old man slid the last of his chips forward, and, once again, took a card from his sleeve. He must have half a deck up there, Fargo thought. He’s loaded now.
The man called Parker sat up a little straighter and glanced at Fargo. “You aren’t what you appear to be,” he said. “That’s a very large bet for a man who hasn’t seen his draw cards. Are you trying to force a laydown, sir?”
“No,” Fargo said. “But I’m going to make an example of our friend here in just a moment.” He gestured at the pile of chips. “Your bet, Mr. Parker,” he said.
Parker looked at him intently, then shrugged. “Poker is as much about the players as the cards,” he said. “I have a feeling about you.” He laid his cards down. “Fold.”
“Smart,” Fargo said.
“Gentlemen, your cards please,” the dealer said.
Fargo showed his pair of eights and his ace.
The cheat grinned and laid down his three jacks and two queens. “Full house, Mr. Fargo,” he said. “Let’s see your other cards.”
Fargo shook his head. “I’d rather see the rest of yours first,” he said, lowering his hand down to his Colt.
“I’ve shown all of mine,” the old man said.
“Not those,” Fargo replied. “I mean the ones in your sleeve.”
“You’re accusing me of cheating!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “How dare you!”
“Easy,” Fargo said, pointing with his left hand. “Mr. Parker, take a look at the tip of his left sleeve. I believe that this gentleman’s luck has just run out.”
Parker leaned forward, then suddenly seized the man’s arm, yanking out several cards in a flurry. “You are a cheat!” he said.
The old man whipped his right arm forward, a small derringer appearing as if by magic. The room went silent. “Back off, Parker,” he said. “At this range, even a derringer can kill you.”
Fargo slipped the Colt free of its holster, keeping it pointed beneath the table at the old man. “Put down the peashooter, mister,” he said. “Put it down and walk away, or they’re going to carry you out of here on a slab.”
The old man lunged forward, pointing the little gun at Parker’s head. “Shut up, Fargo. I’m getting out of here.” He shoved at his hostage. “Get going.”
“Hold it, mister,” Fargo snapped. “Don’t make it worse than it already is.”
He noted that for a man in a life-threatening situation, Parker seemed calm. Time for another gamble, he thought.
The old man turned back to snarl something more and Fargo shouted, “Move, Parker!”
Parker lunged out of the way, and Fargo cut loose with the Colt. The slugs took the old man in the knees, and he screamed as he fell.
Fargo jumped to his feet and aimed the Colt at the prone man, who was moaning and clutching at his legs. He put a boot down on the derringer. “See there,” Fargo said, after the shouting had died down. “I guess the kid was right. Sooner or later, everyone lays down. Guess it was your turn.”
Parker got to his feet and nodded at Fargo. “You saved my life, sir,” he said. “The least I can do is buy you a drink.”
“Why not?” Fargo asked, picking up his draw cards, then tossing them down in disgust. “That hand was terrible anyway.”
2
As Fargo and Parker gathered up their scattered chips, two stewards came and physically hauled the wailing card cheat up on deck to await the sheriff, who had already been summoned.
Reloading the Colt, Fargo said, “Let’s take a seat over there.” He gestured toward a small table near the bar.
“Agreed,” Parker said, then turned and led the way.
They arrived at the table and Parker told the waitress to bring a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. The man seemed comfortable to wait in silence, so Fargo kept his peace. After the liquor arrived, they both poured a healthy shot, and Parker raised his glass. “My sincere thanks, Mr. Fargo,” he said. “That man was clearly desperate enough to do almost anything.”
Fargo nodded and knocked back the bourbon. It was a good label and burned only a little on the way down, leaving his tongue with a charcoal-honey taste he liked. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Call me Skye or Fargo. I’m not much of a ‘mister.’ ”
Parker laughed, sipping on his own drink. “Fargo, then,” he said.
On deck, a loud whistle announced that the boat was leaving and beginning its journey downriver. Both men sat quietly until the hubbub of last-minute noise died down a bit. “So, Fargo,” Parker said, “what takes you to New Orleans?”
“A break from the trail, mostly,” he replied. “I haven’t been there before, so I thought while I was flush, I’d wander down and see what there is to see.”
“A great deal, actually,” Parker said. “New Orleans is a growing city, and if you’ve a mind for entertainment—gambling, horse racing, women—all of those and more can be found in the various districts.”
Fargo chuckled. “It must be bursting at the seams. I’m not much of a city man—I prefer the open country—but I imagine it’s a sight.”
“Indeed it is,” Parker replied. He took another long sip of his whiskey, then said, “What do you do for a living, Fargo?”
“I’ve done a lot of things,” he replied. “Worked cattle, played lawman in a few small towns when the need was there—whatever needed doing when and where I could make an honest living.” Fargo nodded toward the poker table. “I can’t stand a dishonest man or a cheat.”
“Then perhaps I can interest you in some work while you’re seeing the sights,” Parker said. “Based on what I saw earlier, you’re just the man for the job.”
Fargo pondered this a moment. He didn’t really need work or money, but if he could earn some extra funds, it couldn’t hurt to hear the man out. “I’m not really looking for anything right now,” he said. “But what do you have in mind?”
Parker reached into his coat and removed a tattered book, holding it up for Fargo’s inspection. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Fargo looked at it and shook his head. “Not offhand, ” he said.
“They call it a ‘blue book,’ ” Parker said. “Ever heard of one?”
“No,” he said. “What’s a blue book?”
Parker handed it to him. “It’s a directory of sorts. A handful of the major cities in the eastern half of the country have them. It tells people where the more worldly entertainments are located.”
“Worldly entertainments?” Fargo asked. “You mean whores?”
Parker chuckled. “Yes, though the blue book mostly advertises for the more upscale bordellos.”
Fargo shrugged. City people were strange. “What’s this got to do with me?” he asked.
“One of the better-known establishments in the city is run by a madam, Hattie Hamilton, who is an acquaintance of mine,” Parker said. “I visit her establishment from time to time—it’s a fine place—but my main interest is in the poker games held in the private salon.”
“And?” Fargo said.
“And,” Parker continued, “there is a very high-stakes game this next week. The pot will be worth in excess of fifty thousand dollars.”
Fargo whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Indeed,” Parker said. “And that’s where you come in, Fargo. I want you to attend the game, watch for any shenanigans like those you noted earlier, and keep the peace. Tempers can flare with that much money on the line.”
“I imagine so,” he said, considering. “Who all is playing in this game? Not a lot of people—even in a city as large as New Orleans—can have that much money to throw around.”
Parker chuckled. “You might be surprised, Fargo, but to answer your question, myself, a couple of very wealthy plantation owners, a saloon owner named Tom Anderson and a man named Richard Beares, who is—like myself—in politics.”
“You’re a politician?”
“A state senator,” Parker said. “So is Beares.”
Fargo looked at the man shrewdly. “You didn’t make your money in politics,” he said. “How’d you get so well-heeled?”
Parker nodded. “You call it as you see it, don’t you, Fargo?”
“It’s the only way I know how,” he said.
“I made most of my money in shipping,” he said. “Mostly cotton and other agricultural commodities. Does the job interest you?”
Fargo took another sip of the whiskey. “How long will this game last?” he asked.
“One night,” Parker said. “Perhaps two at the most. We only have five other players and myself.”
“And how much are you going to pay me?”
“That depends,” Parker said. “If I lose, I’ll pay you one thousand dollars in cash per night. That’s a lot of money, I suspect, for someone who has mostly made his living punching cows and chasing down wanted criminals.”
“And if you win?” Fargo asked.
“Five thousand dollars,” Parker said evenly. “A quite substantial sum of money for someone of your station.”
Despite the man’s tone, Fargo considered the offer. There was more here than Parker was saying—a lot more, in fact. But the only way he could find out what was really going on was to be there. The other man at their poker game earlier may have been a cheat, but Fargo suspected that the real professional was Parker. He felt like a politician, a man who made deals for other people’s lives. He wondered if Parker was the sort of man who played by the house rules or played by his own rules. He suspected the latter.
Fargo shook his head. “It’s a tempting offer,” he said. “But there’s more going on here than a simple poker game. What aren’t you telling me, Parker?”
Draining his glass, Parker grinned. “You’re an observant man, Fargo. I’ll grant you that. Of course there’s more to this than a simple poker game. No one plays for these kinds of stakes unless there are more significant issues on the table than money.” He refilled his glass, considered the amber liquid. “Senator Beares has been moving into territory that doesn’t belong to him. He’s built himself a little niche empire and I plan to take it from him—starting with this poker game.”
“What if he beats you?” Fargo asked.
Parker laughed. “He won’t beat me, Fargo. Unless he cheats. And that’s why I want you there. The man is a notorious crook.”
“And what are you notorious for?”
“Oh, I’m a notorious crook, too,” Parker admitted, waving his hand in dismissal. “But the difference, Fargo, is that I treat my people well and play by the rules of our society—even if that society happens to be one that lives beneath the surface of the rest of the country. Do you want the job or not?”
“I’ll do the job,” Fargo said, “for twenty-five hundred if you lose, up to three nights. If you win, I want ten thousand.”
“You’re greedy, Fargo. That’s an enormous sum of money!”
“For someone like me, yes it is. Enough to start my own ranch or live out my days on a Mexican hacienda if I want to.” Fargo shrugged. “But for someone like you—someone willing to risk that much just to put another man in his place—that’s not very much money at all, is it?”
Parker looked Fargo over and nodded. “My final offer,” he said. “I’ll agree to the twenty-five hundred amount, but if I win, you get seventy-five hundred, and not a penny more.”
Fargo knew that by negotiating, he’d shown Parker that he wouldn’t just do as he was told—though Parker appeared shrewd enough to know that anyway. “Done,” Fargo said. “Half of the twenty-five hundred in advance, the balance due when the game is over.”
“Agreed,” Parker said, reaching into his coat and removing his wallet. He took out a large stack of bills and counted out the sum discreetly, then passed the money to Fargo. “One last thing,” he added. “Remember to keep that Colt of yours handy and try not to be distracted by the women of the house. During the game, I’d rather have you thinking with the gun on your belt, and not the one in your pants.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Fargo said.
Parker laughed again. “If the look in the eye of that woman who brought us our drinks was any indication, I suspect that despite your appearance, you are something of a ladies’ man.”
Fargo grinned like a wolf. “I don’t object to their company in general, but I like to work one job at a time.”
“Good,” Parker said. He gestured toward the poker tables. “Should we resume our pursuit of the game?”
Glancing around, Fargo noted that the waitress who’d served him dinner earlier was now standing in the entryway with an all-too-familiar gleam in her eye. “You go ahead,” he said. “I have another bit of work today before I can call it a night.”
He stood up from the table and headed toward the woman. Behind him, Parker laughed, and said, “Just as I suspected, Fargo. You carry two guns, but it’s not the one on your hip that gets the ladies’ attention.”
Fargo shrugged and kept walking. She hadn’t made him wait for his service earlier, so he figured the least he could do was the same.
Her name was Louisa Cantrell, and her voice had a soft Southern lilt that was almost as fetching as her figure. Fargo took her by the arm and they strolled around the deck, admiring the view of the passing shoreline in the moonlight as the riverboat chugged its way downriver. A warm breeze kept the mosquitoes away, and the water smelled of spring greens and copper, like the first minerals in a mountain stream.
“Is it true what the crew is saying?” she asked, when they paused at one point to take in the view.
“I don’t know,” Fargo said. “What is the crew saying?”
“That you caught a man cheating at cards and shot him twice—once in each knee—beneath the table.” She looked him in the eye as she said it, and Fargo admired her grit. There weren’t a great many women who could talk about violence and look the man who’d done it in the face. Her eyes were a deep brown, like the heavy stones at the foothills of the Rockies.
He nodded. “Yes, it’s true. I hate a cheat.”
"You must not have hated him all that much,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“Otherwise, I think a man like you would have killed him.”
“I did worse than kill him,” Fargo said. “He won’t be walking again anytime soon, and I exposed him as a cheat. He’ll have trouble the rest of his days because of it.”
“So you think it would have been a mercy to kill him?”
“Sometimes death is a mercy,” Fargo admitted.
“You are a hard man,” she said. She turned to the river, leaning back into him. Her dress exposed the curve of her neck, and the line of her shoulder, white and beautiful in the moonlight. “Do you know what I like about you?” she asked.
“Tell me,” he said.
“I like a man with good aim,” she said. “With his mind as well as his guns. You don’t bandy words and play about like most of the fools I meet on this boat.” She turned into his arms, and he met her halfw
ay, wrapping himself around her.
He caught up her hair in his hands, pulling out the pins and letting it fall free. It was longer than he’d thought it would be, full and luxurious. “Do you know what I like about you?” he asked, pulling her closer still, burying his face in her neck and smelling her sweet scent. He felt her jaw muscles clench as he trailed a slow kiss up her neck.
“Tell me,” she moaned, under her breath.
“That you know what you want,” he said. “And go after it.”
He raised his head up and crushed her mouth with a bruising kiss and she moaned again, the sound reverberating off his lips and tongue in a pleasant buzz.
“Do you think your aim is still good, Fargo?” she whispered. “Can you show me?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
They turned away from the rail and began making their way to his small berth. Every few steps or so, they’d stop and kiss once more, their hands seeking frantic purchase to hold themselves upright. She tasted like a fine wine, and she had a nice, mature figure. This wasn’t a girl, Fargo knew, but a full-grown woman with an appetite to match his own.
They finally reached his bunk and he shut the door and locked it behind them. She didn’t waste any time with more talking, but got right down to business, shoving him down onto the bed as soon as he’d loosened his gun belt and hung it over the hook on the wall.
The berth he’d chosen wasn’t fancy—a single bed, a dresser, and a basin to wash up in. She lit the small oil lamp on the dresser top and turned down the wick so the room was bathed in a warm glow that made it appear nicer than it was. Not that it needed much improvement with her in it, Fargo thought.
He watched as she slowly undid the buttons down the front of her dress. She returned his gaze as she went about undressing, moving her fingers without breaking the spell of her eyes. Each wooden button undone came closer to revealing her fine body and as the top half of her dress came free, he felt himself exhale in pleasure at the sight of her full, deep breasts.
She undid several more buttons, then gave a shrug and allowed the dress to drop to the floor where it pooled at her feet. As he’d suspected, she was a mature woman, with a form to match: broad hips, with a slight swell to her belly, and beneath, a dark thatch of curly hair that she kept trimmed and neat. Her legs were long and smooth, and tapered down to her feet, helping accentuate her hourglass shape.
