Louisiana Laydown (12 page)

Noticing that in her excitement the sheet had dropped away, Fargo eyed her gorgeous body with appreciation. “I don’t reckon I will at that,” he said.

Snatching the sheet to cover herself, she giggled again.

“Get yourself dressed,” Fargo said.

She jumped out of the bed, ready to head down the street stark naked if it meant getting the day started.

“Then we’ll go?” she asked.

Mary was so full of excitement that Fargo couldn’t help but join in. “Yes,” he said. “Then we’ll go.”

It didn’t take long for them to get Mary outfitted in some comfortable riding clothes and it was only two hours later that they picked up the Ovaro and headed out of the city.

She guided him back to the field where they’d first met and from there to a small grotto nearby. A clear pool had formed beneath the cypress trees and the hanging moss. It was as private as any bathhouse he’d ever been in.

He helped her out of the saddle, then grabbed his soap and a towel from his saddlebags.

The water was almost as warm as she was and it took quite some time for her to reach all his spots, but with his guidance, they managed to get them all . . . and all of hers, too.

After, she led him to a moss-covered place beneath the trees and they toweled themselves dry. It had been quite a while since Fargo had been with someone of her considerable appetite, but she sat quietly next to him now and let him think.

There was a lot more going on in New Orleans than a simple high-stakes poker game, and more players, he thought, than had actually agreed to come to the table.

With so much at stake, he knew he’d have to be very careful over the next few days if he was going to get out of the city with the money he’d been promised . . . and his life.

Life was often cheap, he knew. But the kind of money and power that was involved in this game was more than enough for many people to kill for. These two jobs—keeping the game fair and keeping Hattie Hamilton safe during the game—wouldn’t be easy, lay-down jobs.

They’d be the kind of jobs that could get a lot of men killed. One easy distraction and . . .

Fargo sat bolt upright, realizing that there was a huge distraction sitting next to him. One that had already caused him to lose a night and most of a day.

“Mary,” he said, “do you have any family at all around here? Somewhere you could stay for a few days?”

She shook her head. “No. They all been killed or run off during the war. I’m all I got.”

Fargo sighed. He’d have to find somewhere to stash her. One look at her eyes or her body and like any man, he could be distracted at a critical moment that could lead to his death. “Well, you’ve got me,” he said. “At least until we figure out what to do.”

She smiled and Fargo couldn’t help but wonder if he was being played for a fool. He looked into her eyes, but there wasn’t the smallest hint of guile. She was innocent, he thought. There wasn’t any sign that she was anything other than a beautiful prostitute who’d been caught up in the games of her employer.

Knowing they’d have to head back soon, he put an arm around her and she snuggled close.

There are worse forms of payment in the world
, he thought, looking at her.
A lot worse.

H.D. was not happy. In fact, he sounded downright
unhappy
. “Come on, Fargo, I’ve got better things to do than babysit a whore, for God’s sake!”

“Not for the next few days, you don’t,” Fargo said. “Unless I miss my guess, Parker, Beares, and Anderson are going to pull all their men in and wait for the outcome of the game. It should be pretty quiet around here.”

“But why a
whore
, Fargo? My wife will tan my hide and stake it to the front door. Couldn’t you have found some nice girl to rescue?”

Fargo chuckled. “I’m not all that big on nice girls,” he said. “Mary is special, H.D., and she needs help. I can’t watch out for her while dealing with all these other snakes, too.”

Fargo could go sentimental and say that there were whores of the body and whores of the heart. Some “nice” girls harbored attitudes about people that were anything but nice. And some whores harbored thoughts that were downright charitable when it came to helping men in and out of bed. As far as Fargo was concerned, that was one of the problems with this world. The poor had to scramble just to get meals sometimes, and this kind of scrambling made them seem coarse to those more prosperous. But the fancy manners of the rich folks would soon be pitched out the window if they, too, had to scramble to put food on the table. And a whole lot of those “nice” girls wouldn’t seem so nice anymore, either.

H.D.’s shoulders sagged and Fargo knew the man had given in. “Don’t worry on it too much,” he said. “Your wife will understand a woman needing protection, no matter what she does for a living.”

His face in his hands, H.D. said, “She’ll kill me, Fargo, the second she finds out. She’ll think I’ve been seeing a sporting lady and now I’ve brought her into our home.”

“No, she won’t,” Fargo said. “What kind of an idiot does she take you for? No sane man would bring his mistress—even a paid one—into the same house as his wife. One woman is trouble enough, let alone two.”

“You’d probably know, Fargo,” H.D. said. He held up his hands. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out. When are you coming back for her?”

“Thursday, depending on how fast the game runs. Maybe Friday. Just keep her out of sight until I return.”

Throughout this conversation, Mary had remained silent, but Fargo could see she was all but busting at the seams to say something. “What is it, Mary?”

“I don’t want to stay with him, Skye. I want to . . . stay with you,” she said. “Miz Hamilton told me that’s what I was supposed to do.”

Fargo shook his head. “Mary, you can’t. This poker game is liable to get downright dangerous. I can’t do what I have to do if I’m worried about you. You’ll be safe with H.D. He’s a good man.”

“But what if something happens to you?”

H.D. laughed. “Girl, that man you’re talking to is the Trailsman. There’s no one in New Orleans more dangerous than he is.”

Mary looked confused. “He does not seem dangerous to me.”

“That’s because you haven’t tried to kill him,” H.D. said. “Yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘yet’?” Fargo asked.

H.D. grinned evilly. “You just haven’t had a chance to piss her off yet, Fargo. Sooner or later, you will, and she’ll come at you with a pigsticker and try to gut you like a winter hog. You aren’t the kind of man to settle down, my friend. Too many trails yet to ride. Women, in my experience, just hate that.”

“You . . . you will be leaving?” Mary asked.

Ignoring his urge to strangle H.D., Fargo said, “Not anytime real soon.”

She sagged in relief. “I don’t want you to leave, Skye. Not ever.”

Another one that wants me to settle down,
Fargo thought.
Why can’t women just enjoy the time and move on?
“I guess we’ll see what happens,” he said, then turned his attention back to his meddlesome friend, who was grinning openly. “Thanks,” Fargo said drily. “You sure know how to help a man out.”

“Least I could do, Fargo,” H.D. said. “Given the ‘favor’ you’re doing me.”

Unable to help himself, Fargo chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said. “Just keep an eye on her. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“All right,” H.D. said. He stood up from behind his desk and buckled on his gun belt. “Come on, Mary. I’ll show you to where you’ll be staying. You’ll like my wife. She’s a fine woman, a good cook, and she’ll fill your head clean full of ideas on how to hog-tie this fella you’ve set your cap for.”

“Great,” Fargo said. “Maybe I should have left her in the swamp.”

“Naw,” H.D. said, “then she’d have ended up taking lessons from the alligators. They know even more evil tricks than my wife.”

Fargo clasped Mary in his arms and planted a kiss on her lips. “I’ll be back for you in a day or two. In the meantime, listen to what H.D. tells you and stay out of sight.”

“You . . . Skye, you promise you’ll come back for me?”

Fargo nodded. “I promise. Now get going.” He gave her a playful swat on the backside and nodded to H.D. in thanks, then turned and left the office.

He had some scouting to do before the game started. Even in the city, there were trails to follow for a man with the eyes to see them.

If there was such a thing as the crown jewel of a place as seedy as Basin Street, the Blue Emporium was it. No matter what trail he could find, all of them would lead, he suspected, to this one building.

From the outside, it didn’t look like much. The building itself was wedged between two others, and was four stories tall. Made of a dark red brick stained with soot, a quick glance would tell a passerby that it was nothing more than a hotel or perhaps a boarding-house. But there were clues that it was something more.

The concrete steps led up to a set of double doors, which were carved of mahogany. On either side of the doors, a sculpture of a scantily clad nymph in a sea-shell welcomed those who approached. Leaded-glass panes decorated each door, and farther up, the observant man would notice that the windows themselves were not cheap glass, but well made, and with nice curtains offering privacy to each room. Small balconies, large enough for a single person and made of wrought iron that was bolted directly into the brick, stuck out from each window.

Fargo had heard that during certain times of the year, when there were citywide parties and festivals, the women would stand on the balconies showing off their “wares” and throwing trinkets of beads to the crowds below. If it was true, he wondered what the typical farmer’s wife attending the harvest dance out on the frontier would make of such an activity. He laughed to himself. She’d probably call it the work of the devil.

He walked up the front steps and opened the doors, closing them softly behind him. It was early in the day, and the building was quiet. As he had suspected, the inside was even more luxurious than the outside. The foyer was white and blue marble, with twin pillars setting off the entryway. Beneath his feet, tiny tiles made a picture of yet another nymph, her finger beckoning suggestively.

Beyond the foyer and to both the left and the right were small sitting rooms. The floors were covered in thick carpets dyed crimson, and the furniture—overstuffed couches and chairs with fat pillows—were a rich golden color. The walls were dark wood and both rooms sported small bars, topped with glass decanters filled with presumably the finest liquor available. Behind each bar, a selection of cigars and other tobacco was available. Carpeted stairways led to both upper and lower floors. Fargo could hear a voice coming from somewhere behind the stairs.

The kitchen,
Fargo realized,
must be on this floor, behind the two sitting rooms.
The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when he heard the sound of a familiar voice. He stepped into the sitting room to his right just in time to see Hattie Hamilton enter the room from a recessed doorway in the back.

“Why, if it isn’t Skye Fargo,” she said. “Welcome to the Blue Emporium.” She wore a paisley-print dress that was made of silk and clung to her body as though it had been painted on. Her hair was done up in a neat set of curls that were tied in a bun. As always, her voice and her eyes, even her mannerisms, screamed of a sensual, wanton woman.

“Miss Hamilton,” Fargo said.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t out here to greet you properly, Mr. Fargo,” Hattie said, stepping forward and holding out her hand as though she expected him to shake it or kiss it. “We don’t usually get much business at this hour.”

“I don’t imagine,” Fargo said. “I was hoping I could take a look around, if you don’t mind, before the game starts.”

“Of course, of course,” she said. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Matilda just brewed some up fresh. There’s breakfast, too, if you want it.”

“That would be fine,” Fargo said. “So long as I can have it in the back. I’m not dressed properly for such a fancy place.”

“I had you figured for a backdoor man,” Hattie said, her voice dripping with suggestion, which Fargo chose to ignore. “Right this way.”

He followed her out of the parlor, through the recessed doorway, and into the kitchen. It was surprisingly large, but Fargo figured that they probably made a lot of meals here—both for the girls and for the men who frequented the place. A massive black woman was standing over a stove, wielding a whisk in one hand. The smells of sizzling ham, scrambled eggs, and fresh-grated cheese issued forth from a cast-iron skillet big enough to feed a small army.

Hattie led him to a small table and set down a mug, which she filled with coffee. “Black?” she asked.

Fargo nodded and picked up the mug. Like the other coffee he’d had in the city, this one was rich and dark and tasted of chicory. It wasn’t something he’d want all the time, but it was a good flavor. He took another sip and said, “That’s good. Thank you.”

Hattie smiled. “My Matilda brews the best chicory coffee in the city, but wait until you eat her cooking. You’ll think you’ve died and woke up in your mama’s kitchen.”

“Then she’s probably damn handy to have around.”

Hattie took a seat at the table, pouring herself a cup of coffee as well. “Matilda says the girls come here for the money but they stay for the food. She may be right,” she admitted, smiling. “Of course, they all work up quite an appetite.”

Hattie laughed, and Fargo realized that her charms—so noticeable on the docks and at Beares’ house—weren’t quite as effective as before. He’d been wondering since he’d met her who she reminded him of and he finally figured it out: she was like one of those snake-oil salesmen that came out to the frontier with bottles of pure grain alcohol flavored with a little molasses or ginger or whatever, selling a supposed cure-all for a dollar a bottle. She was, in other words, a woman who would lie, cheat, or do whatever else came to mind or hand, in order to make a buck.