The Reluctant Pinkerton (12 page)

Roper found the Fixx brothers waiting for him outside the hotel the next morning.

“Hey, you’re nice and early,” Larry said. “We got us an hour before we gotta start work.”

“Did you check out?” Stan asked.

“I did.”

“Where’s yer things?”

“All I got’s in here,” Roper said, indicating the saddlebags over his shoulder.

“Well,” Larry said, “you’ll have to buy some work clothes after you get yer first pay.”

“I figured that.”

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Stan said. “We can talk more over eggs.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The café the two brothers took him to was slightly better than the other places he had eaten while in Fort Worth. It was located about halfway between the hotel and the stockyards.

“After work we can take you to a rooming house run by a widow lady,” Stan said. “She rents rooms out cheap to fellas who work the stockyards.”

“Her husband worked there until he died,” Larry said. “She likes to take care of the boys.”

“That sounds right nice.”

They all had bacon and eggs, a little greasy, but edible. Around them it looked like most of the diners were also stockyard workers. The Fixx boys seemed to know everyone, and they made a few introductions.

When breakfast was over, they left the café and walked to the stockyards.

“We have to get to work,” Larry said, “but you better report to Orton.”

“Hey,” Roper asked, “what is it you guys do?”

“We’re wranglers,” Stan said.

“Somebody’s gotta push those big beasts around,” Larry said.

Well, they certainly seemed big enough to do that job adequately.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Roper said. He went up the stairs to the office door, remembered to knock before entering.

*   *   *

“Blake,” Orton said from behind his desk, “have a seat.”

Roper sat down.

“I have a favor to ask,” Orton said.

“A favor?”

“You strike me as being a lot smarter than these others.”

“What others, sir?”

“The rest of the men who work for me,” Orton said. “Like the Fixx boys.”

Roper started to speak, but Orton cut him off.

“Don’t get defensive,” Orton said. “I know you and the boys have a friendship. They’re good workers, but they’re not very smart. You are.”

Roper was starting to think he was going to have to work on his undercover skills.

“Sir,” Roper said, “I’ll do whatever job you assign me.”

“I’d like you to work with me,” Orton said.

“Sir?”

“I need somebody right in here,” Orton said, “and somebody who can work auctions with me.”

“I’m not an auctioneer, Mr. Orton.”

“Stop calling me sir and Mr. Orton,” Orton said. “Just call me Pete. Or boss, if you want.”

“Okay, boss.”

“I don’t need an auctioneer, I need somebody to work behind the scenes,” Orton said. “Somebody who can read and write. You can read and write, can’t you?”

“I can.”

“And can you do math? Sums?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Then I’d like you to take a clerk job,” Orton said. “It’ll keep you from having to work with the cows, keep you out of the manure. Whataya say?”

Roper hesitated, then said, “I say okay.”

“Good.” Orton opened his top drawer, took out a brown envelope, and handed it across the desk.

“What’s this?” Roper asked.

“Expense money. I need you to get cleaned up, get a haircut and a shave, and buy some new clothes.”

“Is this an advance on my salary?”

“No, that’s company money,” Orton said. “If you’re gonna work with me, you need to be presentable. Get it done and come back after lunch, ready to work.”

Slightly bemused, Roper stood and said, “Okay. You’re the boss.”

Outside it occurred to Roper that a haircut and a shave would divest him of a good portion of his disguise. But since he had a good week’s growth on his face, he decided to keep the mustache.

So far during his time in Fort Worth, two people had judged him to be something other than what he was striving to appear to be. Nancy thought he was more, and Orton thought he was smarter. But at least Orton was not sending men after him to hurt or kill him.

He went in search of a barber.

*   *   *

After getting his shave and haircut, he checked his reflection in the mirror. The haircut had managed to get rid of most of the gray in his hair. The same could be said for the shave, but at least the mustache had some gray in it.

From there he went to a nearby mercantile to look at clothes. He knew Fort Worth had some actual men’s clothing stores, but he didn’t want anything too fancy. He assumed his boss simply wanted him to wear clean clothes. Besides, he didn’t want to go to the higher-class parts of town. He had to maintain his cover, even though two people were acting as if they’d already seen through it.

Nancy Ransom left her room at the Bullshead and used a side door to leave the building. She didn’t want to be seen leaving by anyone whether it was inside or out.

When she got to the main street, she walked quickly, keeping close to the buildings. She went three blocks and then turned right. She stopped at the first building she came to, went up the stairway that ran up the side of the building, and knocked on the door. When it opened, she stepped inside quickly.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” Eddie Parker said, closing the door.

“Things have been happenin’,” she said.

“I thought maybe you didn’t want your cut.”

“Oh, I want it.”

He laughed, walked to a chest of drawers, and opened the top one. He took out a small pouch and handed it to her. She hefted it, then tucked it into the purse she was carrying. As always, she tried not to stare at his huge ears.

“You better go over to the sheriff’s office today,” she told him.

“What for?”

“Manko’s there,” she said. “In a cell with Riggs and Dolan.”

“What happened?”

“They tried for that stranger again.”

“The one who killed Giles?”

“That’s right.”

“What happened?”

“He got in a fight with the three of them. A couple of stockyard workers stepped in and helped him. Then he shot Dolan.”

“Dead?”

“No, he shot him in the shoulder. But the sheriff kept the three of them in jail—overnight, I guess. Maybe they need to be bailed out.”

“Why should I bail ’em out?” he asked. “I ain’t spendin’ my money on your mistake. Why’d you send them after him?”

“There’s something off about him.”

“Then leave ’im alone,” Parker said. “The way you described him, he don’t sound like he’s got enough money to make it worth our while.”

“Maybe not,” she said, “but…I don’t know. He’s just…wrong.”

“Well, take my advice, Nancy,” he said. “Leave ’im be. We got a good thing goin’ here with you pointin’ out our marks and me pickin’ out the boys to send after ’em. Let’s just both keep doin’ our jobs.”

“I suppose.”

“And if you want them three bailed out, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

She studied Parker for a moment. He was in his late forties, had been walking on the wrong side of the law for years, but never anything big. He’d never been to jail. He knew when to act and when to wait. Maybe she should take her clue from him and leave that fellow alone.

“All right,” she said. “Thanks for my cut.”

He opened the door for her and said, “You sure you don’t wanna stay and have a drink?”

“It’s a little early for me, Eddie.”

“We could skip the drink,” he said hopefully.

She had never gone to bed with him, and never would. That would be mixing business with pleasure.

“Some other time, Eddie,” she said, like always.

“Yeah,” he said, and closed the door.

Roper came out of the mercantile with a package of new shirts under his arm. There was also a new pair of trousers in there. He started to cross the street when he saw Nancy coming around the corner. He ducked back, but she hadn’t spotted him.

He watched her walk by, thought about following her, but if she was going back to the Bullshead—and she was heading in that direction—it wouldn’t do him any good. He stepped out and walked after her, increasing his speed as he went. When he grabbed her arm and turned her around, she looked annoyed, but not frightened.

“You!” she said.

“Me.”

“What do you want?”

“I wanna talk to you,” he said.

“If you don’t let go of my arm, I’ll scream.”

“We’re in Hell’s Half Acre,” he said. “What’s anybody gonna do?”

She glared at him.

“All right,” she said, “but not on the street.”

He looked around, saw a sad-looking café across the street.

“There,” he said.

“That dump?”

“We don’t have to eat there,” he said. “I just wanna talk.”

“Let’s go to the Bullshead.”

“No,” he said, “I’m not havin’ you sic any more of your friends on me.”

She frowned, then said, “Okay, just let go.” He did, ready to grab her again if she ran, but she didn’t. They walked across the street and stepped into the café. The sixtyish owner looked shocked that anyone would walk in.

“We just want coffee,” Roper said to him.

“Fine, fine,” the squat little man said, just happy he had some customers.

The place was completely empty, so Roper grabbed a table for two against the back wall.

“Sit,” he said.

For a moment he thought she’d bolt, but she relented and sat.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I wanna know why you sent Manko and his friends to start a fight with me last night,” he said. “I almost had to kill one of them.”

“It was a mistake,” she said.

“I’ll say,” he replied, “but why?”

“Look,” she said, “it’s just all been a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re not answerin’ my question,” he said.

The owner came with a pot of coffee and two cups. He poured for them, then stood with his hands clasped and asked, “Anything else?”

“No, that’s fine,” Roper said.

The man withdrew.

“What is it about me that sent you after me?” he asked.

Nancy studied him for a moment, then said, “You’re wrong, mister. I been in the Half Acre, and places like it, for a lot of years. You don’t belong here.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” he said, “but I ain’t got the money to go anywhere else.”

“Well,” she said, “I guess that makes two of us.”

Now it was his turn to study her.

“You know,” he said finally, “I don’t think it’s the money that keeps you here. For you, it’s somethin’ else.”

“There!” she said, pointing at him, her eyes flashing with something—not anger, but something else.

“What?” he asked.

“That comment right there,” she said. “That’s what I mean about you not belonging here.”

She stood and started to leave, but he caught her arm.

“Do us both a favor,” she said, yanking her arm from his grasp. “Stay away from the Bullshead. Stay away from me. Do whatever it is you came here to do, and get out of Fort Worth.”

“Nancy—”

He stood up, but she rushed to the door and ran out.

He sat back down, thought about the exchange, and decided she was probably right. He should get on with his business and forget about her. Providing, of course, that she did the same thing and didn’t send any more men after him.

The owner came over and said, “Pretty girl.”

“Yes, she is.”

“She didn’t drink her coffee.”

“No,” Roper said. He picked up his cup and took a sip, then another one. He looked up at the man in surprise. “This is damned good.”

“Hmph,” the man said, tapping his chest with his hand, “you think I don’t know that?”

Roper finished the surprisingly good coffee and vowed to go back there to try the food. He stepped outside and glanced in the direction Nancy had come from. He walked that way and looked around the corner. Buildings on either side. She could have come out of any of them, or none of them.

The purse she’d been carrying had been swinging heavily. A gun? he wondered. Or a poke? Maybe she had just come from seeing her partner, getting her cut of the bushwhack money?

She’d headed back in the direction of the Bullshead. He had to figure she was going back there. He had no more time to spend on her, though. He had to get back to work so he wouldn’t get fired on his first day.

He tucked his package under his left arm, keeping his right arm—his gun hand—free. Maybe she intended to leave him alone from now on, but there was no point in taking any chances.

*   *   *

When he went back to work, Orton told him to go into the storeroom and change into his new clothes. After he came
back out, the man started to educate him about the paperwork that needed to be done. He had even brought in a desk for Roper to sit at.

During the course of the day, Roper realized that Orton was constantly on call. Men would come running in with something demanding his attention, and at times his actual presence. At one point he ran out with a man, and when he came back, his boots were coated with manure.

Before going into the water closet to wash them off, he told Roper, “This is the kind of job I’m gonna want to delegate to you eventually.”

“You expect to have a lot of confidence in me,” Roper observed.

“I hope to,” Orton said. “I’m hoping that I’m right about you and you’re as smart as I think you are.”

“I hope so, too,” Roper said.

Orton went to clean his boots. Roper took the opportunity to go to the man’s desk and riffle it, in a controlled manner so that nothing would seem amiss. By the time Orton came back out, wiping his hands on a towel, Roper was back at his own desk, no wiser. He’d found nothing revealing on Orton’s desk.

If somebody was sabotaging the operations in the stockyards, no one was in a better position to do that than Orton himself. He was Roper’s first suspect.

But given the number of men who worked in the stockyards, who inhabited Hell’s Half Acre, and Fort Worth in general, he was the first of many.

*   *   *

At the end of the day, the Fixx brothers came by the office to meet him. As he came down the steps, and saw them standing there, grinning happily, he knew he had to look at them as suspects, too.