Louisiana Laydown (6 page)

“Damn,” he muttered. “I’m already dog tired.”

“No time to be tired,” Fargo said. He took several steps away from Tommy, making sure he had room to move freely. Two of the men moved toward him, while the third started toward Tommy.

“You shoulda minded your own business, mister,” one of them said. “Guess you need a lesson in how this town works.”

“I suspect you’re about to get an education yourself, ” Fargo replied.

Just then a shotgun boomed and everyone stopped in their tracks. “That’s enough!” a voice shouted.

“Ah, hell, Deputy, we were only—” one of the men began.

“Fixing to get your ass kicked,” the deputy replied before stepping out of the crowd. “Buck, the man you were about to tangle with is Skye Fargo, unless my memory has completely gone to hell.” He spat into the dirt of the street. “We’d have been picking your sorry carcass up with a shovel.”

Fargo grinned, recognizing the man. John H. D. Timmons had been a deputy sheriff in a two-horse Kansas town the Trailsman had passed through some years ago. A local cattleman was causing no end of misery to the town folk and with Fargo’s help, things had been set to rights. “Hello, H.D.,” he said. “Been a while.”

The deputy crossed the space between them, shifting his scattergun to his left hand and holding out his right. “Fargo,” he said, grinning. “You’ve probably been in town less than a day and already you’ve found trouble.”

“It usually finds me,” Fargo said. “I don’t have to look for it too hard.” Both men laughed, then Fargo added, “No, just saw the ruckus and what looked to be a pretty unfair fight under way.” He nodded at Tommy. “The boy was on the losing end of a bad situation.”

H.D. leaned close and said, “You don’t know the half of it.” His voice was too quiet to be heard by anyone but Fargo himself. “This city is worse than anything I ever saw or heard tell of out west. Meet me over at the sheriff’s office at five and I’ll fill you in.”

Before Fargo could reply, H.D. turned and looked over the crowd of roughs. “Show’s over, folks,” he barked. “Move on before I move you along the hard way.” He raised his shotgun for emphasis.

The crowd began to disperse, but even still, Fargo saw money changing hands, though whether it was from some new wager on his presence or the outcome of the previous fight, he didn’t know. Glancing back at him, H.D. said, “Can you see Tommy home, Fargo? I’d just as soon not have to break up any more of these today.”

Fargo nodded. “Yeah, I’ll get him there.” He turned his attention to the sandy-haired young man in front of him. “How far are we going, boy?”

“The name’s Tommy,” he said. “Tommy Anderson. I prefer that over ‘boy,’ though you sure wouldn’t know it from what my dad calls me.”

Fargo smiled. It seemed to him that almost every young man went through a period where everyone called him “boy,” and all that boy wanted to be was a man. “All right,” he said. “Tommy it is, until you prove otherwise. I’m Skye Fargo.”

Tommy nodded. “Mr. Fargo, thanks again for your help. I bit off more than I could chew, and then some.”

“Best thing to do in a case like that is spit ’er back out,” Fargo said. “Otherwise, you end up choking on the gristle. How far are we going to get you home?”

“Not far,” Tommy said. “My father’s saloon is over on Basin Street, just down a couple of blocks. He’ll be there.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me just get my horse stabled . . .” He turned to look where he’d asked the man to hold his horse and felt his heart sink. The man—and his Ovaro—were gone.

“God
damn
,” Fargo cursed. “That sonofabitch stole my horse!”

“You asked a stranger to hold your horse?” Tommy asked, his voice incredulous. “In New Orleans?”

“I offered him five dollars,” Fargo said.

Tommy laughed, then spat into the dirt. There was still a little blood in his spit. “Mr. Fargo, your horse and gear would be worth far more than five dollars to even the meanest horse trader in town.”

“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 sensed 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.”

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.”