The Fall of Rome

by Beth Ciotta

  “You wanted a challenge,” he said to himself as he pushed through the swinging doors. “You got it.”

  CHAPTER 16

  San Fernando

  The half-moon illuminated the desert landscape in eerie lights and shadows. A coyote howled in the distance, a haunting cry that echoed Brady’s own desolate mood. He fidgeted in his saddle, anxious and loaded to the muzzle with rage.

  As soon as the convent came into view, he signaled his men to halt. “Make camp here. I’ll venture closer and keep watch. Sister Maria’s last letter reported the kid’s in the habit of running off. If Frankie makes a break tonight, I’ll snatch her. If not, I’ll ride in at the crack of dawn, claiming Kat sent me to fetch the girl in her stead.”

  Amos reined closer. “You sure you want to go in alone, Bulls-Eye?”

  “No need to terrorize a bunch of nuns and little girls.” Brady wasn’t a religious man, but he didn’t figure he should tempt hell further when he could rely on manipulation to get what he wanted.

  He wanted Frankie Hart.

  He’d ridden night and day to get her and shot an Arizona Ranger along the way. A man he’d once escaped. All Brady and the boys had wanted was a meal. Same with Manning, he supposed. The badgeless lawman had looked up from his plate just as the gang strode into the remote cantina. Brady had had the advantage since he wasn’t holding a pair of utensils, otherwise likely he’d be the one staring up at the sky and seeing nothing. Manning was a quick and sure draw. Or at least he used to be. Now he was dead.

  After gorging on beans, pork, and tequila, the gang had covered their tracks and moved on. Brady had promised them, once they had Frankie, they’d hole up until Kat came calling. He knew they were uneasy since he’d littered the region with dead bodies. But since robbery wasn’t involved, with luck, the law wouldn’t associate the killings with Bulls-Eye Brady and the Ace-in-the-Hole gang. Not that there’d been much to steal from that fly-ridden cantina or the Star Saloon.

  He still couldn’t imagine a pampered, cultured creature like Kat living in an isolated pit like Casa Bend. Couldn’t imagine she’d been happy pouring rotgut for rank cowboys. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to hide from him, so far as abandoning her profession and name. After reading the bundle of letters in his pocket and absorbing the image of Frankie he’d found tucked within, he was pretty sure he’d pegged the reason for her sacrifice.

  Brady tucked his .45 into his waistband at the small of his back and passed Amos his holster for keeping. He traded his black duster and Stetson for his cousin’s worn brown coat and slouch hat, hoping to look less menacing, then he spurred his horse onward to San Fernando.

  If Kat thought she’d won this game, she was sorely wrong.

  CHAPTER 17

  Tucson

  “You in or out, Casanova?”

  Rome held his dog-eared playing cards close to his chest while gauging the bushy-browed, barrel-chested man seated to his left. Tall and broad as a sequoia. Loud as a foghorn in a funeral parlor. Giant Jim, they called him. Rome preferred Big Bastard.

  A foul-smelling miner looking to increase his recent good fortune, Jim’s mood turned black when his luck got to running muddy. Though the rest of Rome’s opponents paid more mind to hygiene and manners, they were a far cry from the perfumed and sensual Kat Simmons.

  The El Dorado Saloon was situated at the far end of Tucson, the designated starting place of their whirlwind poker spree. The place where Kat was supposed to sashay in on the arm of her traveling companion . . . over an hour ago. Rome didn’t know whether to be worried or pissed.

  Because she was notoriously late, and because he preferred to think of her dawdling in her room over a gown, rather than lying in the desert alongside his brother, bleeding to death--he went with pissed.

  On any other night, the surrounding activity--the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the tinkling of the piano--would’ve blurred into seamless cacophony. On any other night, after wiling away several hours in a bawdy, Rome’s senses would’ve been dulled by booze. Tonight, he was stone-cold sober. Tonight, he was acutely aware of every sound and movement. He didn’t feel quite himself. He felt better.

  Big Bastard drummed sausage-sized fingers on the tabletop. Thumpety-thump. Thumpety-thump.

  Contemplating his bet, Rome resisted the urge to pull Kat’s coin from his pocket. Seth had already ribbed him on the ride. “Don’t suppose that coin you ‘re always fingering is the same one Kat gave you for luck? I mean, you wouldn’t treasure a gift from a woman you despise, right?”

  Rome had responded with silence, chafing at the amusement in Seth’s tone. The man was a damned pain in the ass.

  Though not as irritating as Big Bastard. Thumpety- thump. Thumpety-thump.

  “Any day now, Lover Boy.”

  If he’d been drinking whiskey, he would’ve bloodied the man’s big mouth by now.

  When a barmaid had recognized Rome as one of the famous Garretts, the bastard had slammed Rome with the Smith scandal, citing him a fool for diddling the wife of a powerful politician, an even bigger fool for getting caught.

  Hard to argue the truth, plus, somehow, bar-brawling without Boston around lacked appeal. They’d always fought their battles side by side. He wondered how his little brother was faring with Frankie. A terror, Kat had said. Rome’s lip twitched. No doubt Boston had his hands full. At least he and Frankie were safe.

  Though the other players silently waited for Rome to make his play, Giant Jim muttered under his breath, using double-barreled syllables seasoned with cuss words.

  Fed up, Rome pushed his remaining chips into the pot, even though he held a weak pair. “All in.” A good bluff takes guts and consistency, he could hear Kat say, her voice as smooth and intoxicating as aged brandy.

  Where the hell was she?

  Focus, she would say.

  He didn’t smile, didn’t fidget. No tell. No tilt. True to his behavior for the past few hours, he drank coffee and mentally rolled his pocketed coin over his knuckles. He didn’t need to throw a punch to hit the bastard where it hurt.

  Seth, under the guise of Dwight Dupree, a professional gambler who moonlighted as a hired gun, studied his hand through oval, blue-tinted glasses. “Fold.”

  Charlie, a gap-toothed geezer with a long, red beard, sighed. “Too rich for my blood.”

  The fifth player, Silent Pete, dropped out with a shake of his bald head.

  Giant Jim gnashed his teeth while gauging the situation. Thinking he held the winning hand, he’d contributed the bulk of his chips. Rome had rattled his confidence. He’d also raised the bet beyond the man’s immediate means. To call, he’d have to rustle up some silver ore or hidden cash. “You’re bluffin’, Casanova.”

  Rome didn’t answer, didn’t react. He envisioned manipulating the coin--fluid motion, consistent pace--and sipped coffee.

  Dupree lit a cheroot, calm as an early morning pond even though the stale, smoky air rippled with tension. If he sensed an altercation, he didn’t let on. Still, Rome knew he was steeled for trouble.

  Giant Jim studied Rome through squinty eyes, then slammed his greasy, dog-eared cards facedown. “Out.” Feeling cantankerous, Rome splayed his hand.

  “Hell’s bells,” Charlie said in awe. “Pair a fives. You were right, Giant Jim. He was bluffin’. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you was a professional gambler, Mr. Garrett.”

  Silent Pete nodded in agreement.

  “Figure I’m good enough to compete in the upcoming poker tournament. Thanks to Jimmy-boy here,” he winked at the man, “I’m only a hundred shy of the buy-in.”

  The burly loser bared rotten teeth and growled like a pissed-off bear.

  Rome braced himself for a fight when Big Bastard pushed out of his chair. But instead of swinging his fist, he swung his body away and stalked across the saloon, muttering about pulp heroes who believe their own press.

  Except I. M. Wilde, the dime novelist responsible for their legendary status, no longer c
hronicled the Garrett Brothers’ adventures. Not that their adventures of late were worth penning. The triple-W vices of the frontier--whiskey-drinking, whoring, and wagering--weren’t exactly heroic feats. Of course, they’d be celebrated in plenty of headlines when they brought down Bulls-Eye Brady and the Ace-in- the-Hole gang. Thing was, they needed Kat for that.

  The bat wings swung in Giant Jim’s wake. The man disappeared into the night just as Sherman Shakespeare, Book Peddler Extraordinaire, made his grand entrance-- sans Kat. “I say, good chaps, someone point me to the bar. I am in dire need of a cocktail.”

  Rome collected his winnings and stood. “Need to stretch my legs. Deal me out of this hand, boys.”

  Dupree shuffled the deck, his voice accented with a lazy Southern drawl. “Whatever you say, Huckleberry.” Translation: Don’t do anything stupid, Golden Boy.

  Rome passed several gaming tables--faro, monte, chuck-luck--on his way to the bar. He saw the curious looks, heard the hushed musings.

  “Looked taller in those dime-novel renderings!’

  “Now he’s hustlin’cards instead of wranglin’ outlaws.”

  “Best keep our wives under lock and key. “

  “Heard he shot a man in cold blood up in Gila Gulch. “

  That last one took him by surprise. Wasn’t the way of it, he wanted to say, but kept walking. He reached the ornate bar and caught sight of his reflection in the huge back-bar mirror. His rough-around-the-edges image belied his inner sharpness. Unshaven jaw, unruly hair. No tie, no jacket, just a loose-collared shirt and a black vest--unbuttoned. In keeping with his new fallen status, he’d dressed down. In some ways, he felt naked.

  He’d always been meticulous about his looks, his wardrobe. Some called him arrogant. Some, shallow. Truth of it was, the facade bolstered his confidence. He’d needed a passel of grit to face down the heartless marauders he’d dealt with as a Wells Fargo detective.

  The illusion.

  He leaned against the bar as a notion took form. Could it be? Was Kat’s previous preoccupation with her appearance a shield? If he’d stripped her bare all those years ago, seen her as he’d seen her this morning, what would he have found? An insecure girl? A frightened girl?

  The illusion was vital.

  To what?

  Survival.

  Backtracking, he could see the signs, the vulnerability. He’d been blind to them then because he’d been seduced by the illusion. Consumed with the pressures of work, he’d considered her the perfect distraction. Carefree and independent. A good time. He’d fallen in love with the idea of her.

  Kat was right. He never really knew her.

  And he’d accused her of being self-involved.

  “I say, haven’t we met?”

  Jaw clenched, Rome eyed the dandy standing next to him. He had to admit he was impressed with his brother’s dedication to this case. Instead of sitting behind the desk, spouting orders like most men in charge, he was in the trenches. Rome even detected a firearm under that outlandish frock coat. Definitely a side of Athens he’d never seen. “I’d remember,” Rome said, eyeing the fancy getup.

  “Sherman Shakespeare,” he announced, sticking out his hand. “Book peddler.”

  “Rome Garrett.” He grasped his brother’s palm, no longer certain of his own label.

  “Thirsty.” On demand, the barkeep served up a glass and a quart bottle. “Buy you a drink, Shakespeare?”

  “Most generous of you, good chap.” He stroked the long, wheat-colored whiskers of his newly acquired beard, deep in thought. “I say, I believe I’ll have a brandy sour.”

  “Figures.” Smirking, the barkeep turned to the shelf of liquor.

  “Rome Garrett,” Shakespeare mused loudly. He snapped his fingers. “The legendary Garrett Brothers. Of course! No wonder you look familiar. I’ve seen your face on dozens of dime novels.” He glanced around. “Where’s your sidekick, Boston?”

  “Otherwise engaged.”

  “Pity. Dual autographs would have fetched a pretty penny.”

  Rome rolled his eyes as Shakespeare sipped his cocktail. “It may surprise you to learn that we have a mutual friend, Mr. Garrett.”

  “You don’t say.” This scene wasn’t going as planned, but coming from a theatrical family, Rome knew the value of improvisation.

  “Miss Katrina Simmons.”

  “Kat Simmons?” he asked, feigning surprise.

  “Best poker player this side of the Mississippi.”

  “That’s a pretty tall compliment, mister.” This from the ruffle-shirted cardsharp standing to Shakespeare’s left.

  “You talking about Charles F. Simmons’s daughter?” asked the barkeep.

  “I am,” said Shakespeare.

  “I’ve heard of her. Long time ago. Thought she took to the riverboats.”

  “Indeed, she did, sir. But now she’s bound for San Francisco. As am I.”

  “Charles F. Simmons,” said the cardsharp. “Now him I’ve heard of. Broke several faro banks in New Orleans about ten years back. Heard he walked away with $50,000.”

  “$55,000,” Rome corrected.

  “Yes, well,” Shakespeare said, “Miss Kat is her father’s daughter.”

  “If that’s so,” said the cardsharp, “I’d like to see her in action.”

  “Likely you will, Mr. . . .”

  “Lewis. Tom Lewis.”

  “Sherman Shakespeare. Book peddler.” He gripped the man’s hand and pumped. “You a reader, Mr. Lewis?”

  “Not unless it’s the newspaper or a treatise on gambling.”

  “Ah. So I wouldn’t be able to interest you in a first edition of Charles Dickens--”

  “About Miss Simmons,” Rome prodded. Damn, Athens. Where is she?

  “Yes, yes. As I was saying, we were on our way to San Francisco when we heard about the upcoming poker tournament here in Tucson.”

  The barkeep nodded. “Next week at the other end of town. Foster s Gambling Emporium. Professional sporting men have been trickling in for days.”

  “I’m one of them,” Lewis said. He fingered his watch fob. “Buy-in’s steep.”

  “We’ll possess the necessary funds in due time,” Shakespeare said.

  “We,” Rome said, holding tight to his patience. Athens was feeding necessary information, hopefully inciting gossip, but where the hell was Kat? Feed me a clue, dammit. “You and Miss Simmons cozy?”

  “Gracious, no. Traveling companions. Strictly platonic. We’re staying at the Cosmopolitan.”

  “So am I.”

  “You don’t say? You wouldn’t be heading there now, would you?”

  Here we go. Rome shifted. “As a matter of fact--”

  “Splendid.” He rapped Rome on the shoulder. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to show Miss Kat about town. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see an old friend such as yourself. I told her I’d be back within the hour, however, I see a game of monte--”

  “My pleasure.” He pushed off the bar, whiskey untouched. A barmaid distracted Lewis, and Shakespeare leaned into Rome, voice hushed. “Maybe you can talk her out of her room.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Except for the usual stares he received as a dime-novel legend (now fallen), no one paid Rome any mind when he crossed the lobby of the Cosmopolitan Hotel. He was a guest, after all. He took the stairs two at a time. He knocked lightly on the door marked 10. Two doors down from his own room.

  No answer.

  He knocked again. “Miss Simmons?” he called, for appearance’s sake. “Rome Garrett. Heard you were in town. Hoping you’ll take a late supper with me.”

  No answer.

  He leaned into the woodwork, spoke low but firm. “Kat, dammit, I know you’re in there.”

  “Go away.”

  The voice was hushed and shaky and directly on the other side of the door, though closer to the floor. “Kat.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  Can’t do it? She’d been the one to contact Athens. She’d been the one who’d bee
n on an all-fired crusade to protect Frankie from the--quote--heartless miscreants in this world. Starting with Brady--end damned quote.

  He tried the door.

  Locked.

  Clearly, she wouldn’t open it.

  Clearly, he couldn’t break it down.

  Chest tight, he moved on to his own room and walked to the window. This side of the building faced away from the main street. Pedestrian traffic was minimal. It was pitch-black, and the ledge was just wide enough for him to edge along. If he fell, well, hell, he was only two stories up. A dime-novel legend, he thought with a self-deprecating grunt, wouldn’t think twice.

  Five seconds later, he eased through another window and into Kat’s room. A kerosene lantern burned, so he saw her right off. Clad in only pantaloons and chemise, she sat on the floor with her back against the door, knees pulled up to her chest, head lowered, face hidden.

  “Hard for me to keep up,” he taunted gently so as not to scare her, “with you hiding out.”

  Instead of starting at the sound of his voice, she slowly raised her head, her dark curls in wild disarray. “How did you get in here?”

  Reaction time sluggish. Voice slurred. Hell. “Never mind that.” Hands on hips, he scanned the room. It looked like her steamer trunk had exploded. Gowns, petticoats, corsets, shoes--strewn everywhere. “What’s going on?”

  Hand limp, she gestured to the mess. “None of them are right.”

  Something told him this was more than an I-don’t-like- anything-I-have-to-wear dilemma. He’d witnessed plenty of those in the past. “I’m sure you looked beautiful in any one of those dresses,” he said, while moving forward.

  “But I didn’t look like her.”

  “Who?”

  “The Kat everyone knows. The young cardsharp who wins the attention of every man in the room with a sly smile and saucy laugh. I abandoned her years ago. The name, the persona, the profession. I thought if I dressed the part, everything would come back.”

  He hunkered down in front of her, noted the face paint smeared from crying. Christ.