Authors: Jon Sharpe
Louisiana Laydown (19 page)
“Sounds fine,” Fargo said. “What about her?”
“McKenna, would you mind going down to the sawbones’ office—it’s just down the street—and bringing him back here to patch her up? We need to keep her here.”
“Sure,” he said. He touched a hand gingerly to his scalp and winced. “Maybe he can look at this knot on my head, too. You hit hard, Trailsman.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Fargo said. He followed H.D. into the sheriff’s office and took a seat while H.D. put Hattie in a holding cell.
She screeched like a banshee until H.D. snapped at her to shut up or she could damn well do without the doctor, too. She shut up, which Fargo was grateful for.
H.D. got the coffee brewing and by the time it had started to percolate, McKenna came back, dragging the doctor along, who wasn’t very happy at being rousted from his office. He was an older man, with a stout build and a shock of white hair. His face was wide and heavily jowled, and his skin was so pale he almost looked like a ghost.
“I had to threaten to arrest him,” McKenna said. “Says he doesn’t do house calls anymore.”
“This isn’t a house, Dr. Jennings,” H.D. snarled. “It’s a jail, and when I call for you, I expect you to move your ass on down here.”
“For God’s sake, H.D., it’s not even office hours,” Jennings said. “What’s so . . .” His voice trailed off into silence as he caught sight of Hattie in the cell. “You shot Hattie Hamilton?”
“No, I did,” Fargo said.
“So how come she’s in the cell and you’re not?” Jennings asked.
“That,”
McKenna interrupted, “is none of your damn business.”
McKenna interrupted, “is none of your damn business.”
“Huh,” the doctor said. He turned back to H.D. “Well, if you want her patched up, you’re going to have to let me in there.”
H.D. opened the cell and Jennings got to work. He unwrapped the makeshift bandage and examined the wound. “It’s pretty clean,” he said. “Went right through and doesn’t look like any of the bones are broken.” He began applying alcohol liberally and Hattie hissed in pain. “Could’ve been a lot worse, Miss Hamilton,” he said.
“Yeah,” Fargo said. “I could have shot her in the nethers and put her out of business for good.”
The men chuckled and Hattie just stared hatefully at them. H.D. fished out some mostly clean coffee cups and poured out three cups of black coffee. “I don’t use chicory,” he said. “But this is some kind of bean the French like.”
Fargo took a sip of his and his eyebrows went up in surprise. The flavor was dark and rich, and the coffee was thick enough to almost have a texture. “That’s different,” he said. “But very good.”
The men waited silently until Dr. Jennings was finished and had Hattie’s arm bandaged up. “Change the bandage once a day, and try to keep it still for a few days,” he admonished her as he finished tying the sling. “And don’t get it wet. I’ll come check on you again in a week and see how you’re doing.”
He stepped out of her cell, shutting the door behind him, and stopped at H.D.’s desk. “You want me to bill the county for this, H.D.?”
“Just like any other prisoner,” H.D. replied. “Thanks for coming.”
“Not a problem,” Jennings said. “So long as I get paid.”
“Don’t you always?” H.D. snapped. “It’s all about the payday for you, isn’t it, Doc?”
“You’re no different,” the doctor said, then turned and stamped out of the office.
“It’s going to take me years to repair my reputation, McKenna,” H.D. said. “Years.”
“I think with what you’ll earn from the agency, you might consider an early retirement,” McKenna replied. “Or maybe starting over somewhere new.”
“Maybe,” H.D. said.
Fargo cleared his throat. “Gents, I am plumb exhausted and I’m still waiting for an explanation.”
H.D. nodded. “Sure, Fargo. You’re right. McKenna, why don’t you start?”
“Okay,” McKenna said. He eased back in his chair and turned his gaze on Fargo. “Like I told you last night, I work for the Pinkerton agency. What I couldn’t tell you was that H.D. here was working with us. I was out investigating Horn’s death, so I hadn’t had a chance to talk to H.D. before the poker game. For all I knew, you were in on the whole thing.”
“
What
whole thing?” Fargo asked.
What
whole thing?” Fargo asked.
“I’m getting there,” the agent replied. “Parker and Beares were using Storyville as a way to launder and counterfeit money, Fargo. That’s why they started hassling Anderson. He owns enough of the businesses in this area that it was cramping their ability to get the money through. They wanted him out, but he was too popular to kill outright.”
“But they’re senators,” Fargo said. “Why not just take bribes or something?”
McKenna laughed. “Oh, there was plenty of that, too, and we don’t mind that so much. But when people start laundering illegal money and printing their own, we—or should I say our client, the United States government—takes exception to that.”
“So why involve H.D.?”
“I can answer that one,” his old friend said. “I wanted to help. McKenna here came to me about six months after I got here, just trying to get the lay of the land. When he told me what he was up to, I asked if I could help.”
“And the only way you could do that,” Fargo guessed, “was to get inside their organizations.”
“Exactly,” H.D. said. “What I wasn’t expecting was you to show up, working for Parker. I wasn’t sure what to do then, except keep going and see how things played out.”
“I didn’t know what Parker was doing,” Fargo said. “He just hired me for the poker game after I caught someone trying to cheat him.”
“That’s the part,” McKenna said, “that still doesn’t make sense to me. Why hire someone to catch cheaters, when he planned on cheating himself? And why kill Beares?”
From her cell, Hattie laughed contemptuously. “Because Beares wanted out, you idiots,” she said. “He grew himself a conscience and felt like they were making plenty of money.”
“So you shot him?” H.D. asked.
“Hell, no,” she said. “Parker did. Then he handed me the gun before any of you got there. I just played along.”
“So why’d you shoot Parker, then?” Fargo asked. “If you were in cahoots with him, and he was using the Blue Emporium for so many of his deals, why kill him?”
Hattie laughed again, and Fargo felt a chill run down his spine. This was a woman with no compassion at all. “Because I’ve made enough money, too,” she said, her voice like a block of ice. “He was starting to want more from me than I was willing to give and his demands were unreasonable. I got what I wanted from him.”
“You are one cold bitch,” McKenna said.
“Yes, I am,” she replied. “But I’m now a
rich
cold bitch.”
rich
cold bitch.”
“You’re also in jail,” he reminded her.
“But she’s not staying,” Fargo said. “Is she, H.D.?”
“No,” he said, his voice filled with sadness. “I’m going to cut her loose.”
“What?” McKenna asked. “Why? She
killed
a man, H.D.”
killed
a man, H.D.”
“It was part of the deal,” he said. “Without Hattie’s help, I would never have gained access to Parker and Beares.”
“There’s more,” Fargo said. “I can hear it in your voice.”
He nodded. “You don’t have to make me say it, Fargo,” he said. “What’s the point?”
“There isn’t one, but McKenna needs to hear it.”
“Fine,” his old friend snapped. “She’s going free because I . . . I love her,” he admitted. “She’s cold and ruthless and a user, but . . . when I’m with her, she makes me feel alive again.”
McKenna shook his head. “It’s your choice, of course. We don’t need her for Parker and Beares. Between the evidence at their mansions and what we’ve gotten the last few weeks, they’ll be found guilty after death and their possessions auctioned off to pay restitution.”
Political corruption, Fargo realized, wasn’t all that different from the other kinds of moneygrubbing he’d seen in the West. Even the rich wanted to be richer. “Why’d you tell me that the Pinkertons were going to burn down New Orleans?” he asked McKenna. “Why not just tell me the truth?”
McKenna chuckled. “I still hadn’t spoken to H.D. and you were working for Parker. I figured that the worst case would be that you’d run to Parker with the story and maybe he’d back down. I didn’t count on you hitting me in the head and dragging me off to jail.”
“Well, if we cross paths again, you’ll know for next time,” Fargo said. He stood up, stretched, and put his empty coffee cup on the desk. “I guess that’s about it for me. I’m going to get some food and some sleep.”
H.D. nodded. “I’m sorry about what happened here, Fargo. If I could’ve told you the truth sooner, I would have.”
“I’m just glad you hadn’t really crossed the line,” he replied. “I would’ve killed you, H.D. Bad men are bad enough, but good men who’ve gone bad . . . they’re worse than rabid dogs.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll get Hattie back over to her place and then I’ll send Mary over to the Bayou. She should be there before long.”
“Fine,” Fargo said. “Just make sure she steers clear of Hattie. You may love her, but I know a black widow when I see one.”
“There’s no accounting for love, is there, Fargo?” H.D. asked. “It just shows up when it wants to.”
Fargo was silent for a long minute; then he said, “I wouldn’t know. I can talk about death and fighting and horses and a lot of other things, but love and I don’t cross trails too often.”
“You’re a hard man, Fargo,” he said. “But sooner or later, it will catch up to you, too.”
Fargo grinned. “Not if I ride fast enough, it won’t.”
He started to step out the door, but McKenna’s voice stopped him short. “There’s just one more thing before you go,” he said.
Fargo turned back to the Pinkerton man. “What’s that?”
“The money,” McKenna said. “What did you do with it?”
“I gave it to a politician,” he said. “The mayor of Storyville.”
“That’s . . . that’s evidence, Fargo,” McKenna said. “We need to get that back.”
“Sounds like a real problem,” he said. “He’ll probably make some kind of deal for it. Perhaps a promise of no Pinkerton involvement in Storyville for a long, long time. Or maybe cash.”
“Anderson’s barely more than a common criminal!” McKenna objected. “Why should we deal with him?”
Hattie’s voice, tired out now from crying, said, “Because he cares, the dumb sonofabitch. He keeps this place running, and he practically built Basin Street. Without him, the real criminals will run the place.” She cackled softly. “You need him if you don’t want this place to really come apart at the seams.”
“Makes sense to me,” Fargo said. He tipped his hat to them, then stepped out into the morning sunshine, grateful to be away.
He didn’t think he’d ever really trust H.D. again, but he didn’t have to. It was a big country and this piece of it was one that he didn’t want to visit ever again.
Let the schemers have it,
he thought.
I’d rather be in the West.
Out there he understood the people and the land, and more importantly, he felt at ease with himself. The trail that had led him here had taught him one thing: the trails in the city are just as bloody and dangerous as those on the frontier.
he thought.
I’d rather be in the West.
Out there he understood the people and the land, and more importantly, he felt at ease with himself. The trail that had led him here had taught him one thing: the trails in the city are just as bloody and dangerous as those on the frontier.
The only difference, he noted as he patted the wad of cash in his vest, was that the paychecks were sometimes bigger. But money wasn’t everything, and he had all he really needed with his Colt, his Henry, his Ovaro . . . and his burning desire to live free.
By the time he’d stabled the Ovaro and made his way back to the diner next door to the Bayou, Fargo was all but asleep on his feet. Still, he needed food first. He hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and the rich coffee H.D. had given him was sitting in his stomach like a lead weight.
He pushed open the door of the diner and found a seat at the counter, nodding at the man who came over to take his order.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, you look done in,” he said.
“I just about am,” Fargo admitted. “But I could use a bite to eat before I get some sleep. What’ve you got?”
The man smiled, his teeth so white against his black skin that they were almost blinding. “I’ve got just the thing, sir. Scrambled eggs, spicy French sausage, and fried potatoes with peppers and onions wrapped up together in a nice soft tortilla.” He paused, then said, “It’s a little bit . . .”
“Spicy,” Fargo finished for him. “The last time I was told that here, my tongue almost fell out.” He took off his hat and set it on the counter. “Sounds perfect.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, jotting a note on his pad and heading back to the kitchen.
Fargo helped himself to the pot of coffee on the counter, and waited patiently for the man to return with his meal. It only took a few minutes for the man to appear with a platter heaped with three of the tortilla concoctions and a jar of salsa. “Some folks like to put this on theirs,” he said.
“They make something similar in Mexico,” Fargo said. “Huevos rancheros.”
“Eat,” the man said. “Then we’ll see how our food stacks up against the Mexicans’.”
Fargo slathered the salsa inside one of the tortillas, closed it back up, and took a big bite. There was some kind of cheese in addition to all the other ingredients, and the taste was phenomenal. “Mmm . . .” he said, chewing and swallowing the bite. “That’s good.”
Then the spices hit, and Fargo felt the blood drain from his face. A wave of heat, and then the blood all came rushing back. “Wahhh . . .” he managed, reaching for the glass of water the man was holding out in his hand. He took several large swallows, then tore off a piece of the tortilla and ate that, too. “Good God,” he said. “That’s . . . it sort of sneaks up on a man, doesn’t it?”
The server smiled his big white grin and said, “It sure does, sir. You enjoy your breakfast.” Then he moved off down the counter to serve other customers. Fargo assumed the man stayed close by for the first bite for the entertainment value . . . or maybe to save someone’s life if the heat was too much and they collapsed. His tongue was still burning.
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