The Reluctant Pinkerton (14 page)

On day eight, Orton was out in the yard when the door opened and a woman walked in. She was dressed simply, but expensively, in a brown fringe skirt, tan blouse, and black boots. Her auburn hair was worn long and she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

She turned her head to look at him, stared a bit too long, appraising him.

“You look interesting,” she said. “When did you start working here?”

“A week ago.”

“I guess I should come around more often,” she said, her tone overly flirtatious.

“Are you lookin’ for Mr. Orton?”

“I am,” she said. “Is he around?”

“He’s out in the pens,” Roper said.

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said. “I suppose I can look forward to him coming home smelling like manure.”

“Comin’ home?”

She came close enough to Roper’s desk to bump it with her hip.

“I’m Louise Orton,” she said.

“His…daughter?” Roper asked.

“Why, how sweet,” she said. “No, actually, I’m his wife.”

“Oh,” Roper said, standing quickly, “Mrs. Orton. I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

“Relax, Mr.—”

“Blake, ma’am,” he said. “My name’s Andy Blake.”

“Well, Andy,” she said, “from here, you don’t smell like manure.”

“Ma’am—” he said, but stopped short when she came around the desk to stand next to him. She leaned in close enough for her nose to touch his neck as she sniffed him.

“Nope,” she said, “no manure.”

Her perfume tickled his nose and he thought, under other circumstances, this little dance would have been enjoyable.

At that moment the front door opened and Pete Orton stepped in. Louise Orton turned her head to look at him, but made no move to back away from Roper, so he took the liberty of taking a couple of steps away from her.

“Louise,” Orton said. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t seem at all happy to see her, and also didn’t seem to mind how close she had been standing to Roper.

“Why, looking for you, darling,” she said, moving back
around to the outside of Roper’s desk. “Your new clerk has been entertaining me while I wait.”

Orton walked to his desk. He did, indeed, reek of manure. Roper could smell it from across the room. Orton dropped the papers he was carrying on top of his desk.

“What do you want, Louise?” he asked again.

“What do I usually want, my dear?” she asked. “I need some money.” She looked at Roper. “He keeps me on such a short leash.”

Orton scowled, took some money from his pocket, and held it out to her. She had to walk across the room to take it from him.

“I assume that will be enough?” he said.

“That should do it,” she said. “I only need a few things.”

“I’m busy,” he said. “I’ll see you at home.”

She walked to the door, opened it, and said to her husband, “Don’t overwork your handsome new clerk.” Then she looked at Roper. “Good-bye, Andy. Thanks for keeping me company.”

She left, pulling the door closed behind her, not quite hard enough to break the glass.

Orton sat down behind his desk, still scowling. He took a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer, along with two glasses.

“Join me for a drink, Andy,” he said.

Roper walked over and accepted a glass from his boss.

“Mr. Orton,” he said, “I, uh, I wasn’t—”

“I know you weren’t,” Orton said. “The woman is a shark, Andy. You’d do well to steer clear of her—and not only because she’s my wife.”

“Yes, sir.”

Orton downed his whiskey and poured two more fingers.

“And like I told you, don’t call me sir, or Mr. Orton,” he said. “Just call me Pete. Got it?”

“I got it, Pete.” Roper drank his whiskey and set the empty glass down.

“No more for you,” Orton said. “Back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roper went back to his desk. Orton finished his second drink, then replaced the bottle and closed the drawer. He went into the water closet for a short time and came out smelling only slightly less of manure.

*   *   *

Roper waited half an hour before bringing up the subject of Jerry Tucker. He brought some paperwork over to the desk for Orton to peruse and sign. In just a week Roper had come to understand how mind numbing office work could be.

“Good,” Orton said, looking the paper over. “Good.” He signed it and handed it back.

“Pete, what can you tell me about Jerry Tucker?” Roper asked.

“Tucker,” Orton repeated. “Tucker.”

“Wears a gun when he’s not workin’,” Roper said. “Thinks he’s pretty good with it.”

“Oh, him,” Orton said. “He’s an idiot. He’s going to get himself killed one day.”

“Or somebody else.”

“That’s why you should stay away from him when he’s drinking,” Orton said.

“I intend to,” Roper said, “but he seems to have it in for me because of what happened the other night in the Bullshead.”

“How did he find out about that?”

“The Fixx brothers,” Roper said, “they like to, uh, brag.”

“Those two,” Orton said, shaking his head. “Why would you make friends with them?”

“Well,” Roper said, “for one thing they introduced me to you.”

“You seem much too smart to be friends with them, Andy,” Orton said.

“Everybody thinks I’m so smart,” Roper said. “Why is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Orton said. “Maybe we’re just wrong.”

“Yeah, that may be,” Roper said, and went back to his desk.

“No, we’re not,” Orton said, standing up. “I can see that you’re an educated man, Andy. Why don’t you tell me where you got that education?”

“I got it by the seat of my pants,” Roper said. “Travelin’, lookin’, and listenin’.”

Orton eyed him for a moment, then said, “That might make sense.”

Before he could decide whether it did or not, the door opened and a man came in. He was wet with sweat and looked as if he was covered with dirt—or manure—from the waist down.

“Problem, boss.”

“What is it?” Orton demanded.

“You better come and look.”

Orton hesitated, then turned and pointed a finger at Roper.

“Another month and I’m going to let you handle things like this.”

As Orton followed the man out, Roper was thinking that in a month’s time he hoped to be gone and done with this case.

When the last man entered the saloon, the leader yelled out to him, “Lock that door!”

“Yessir.”

The last man locked the door, then walked to a chair and sat down. He was the sixth man in the room.

“I’ve called you all here,” the leader said, “because we need to escalate our efforts.”

“Huh?” one of the men, Cal Edwards, said.

“He wants us to try harder,” another man, Nick Brady, said.

“We been doin’ a lot of damage,” still another man, Steve Wilson, said. “And that detective gettin’ killed—”

“That was unfortunate,” the leader said, “not necessary. But it still hasn’t persuaded the Eastern interests to forget about Fort Worth as a place for them to invest. That means we need to redouble our efforts to make them see.”

“Redouble?” said Edwards, who still didn’t seem to quite understand.

“He means we need to try harder,” Brady explained.

“Why don’t he just say that?”

Edwards shrugged.

“So whatta you want us to do?” Wilson asked.

“Just be ready,” the leader said. “We’re coming up with a plan, and when we have it in place, we want you all to be ready to act.”

“That’s all?” said Wilson.

“That’s it,” the leader said. “For now. Thank you all for coming.”

The men stood up, unlocked the front door, and left. The leader remained where he was until the saloon was empty. Then a door opened in another part of the room, and a second man entered. He was well dressed, holding a thick lighted cigar.

“What do you think?” he asked.

The leader turned his head.

“If you want this to work,” he said, “we’ll need better men.”

“And?”

“And that will take more money.”

The second man stood in thought for a moment, smoking his cigar, then said, “You’ll have it.”

Mrs. Varney understood that her boarders worked—most of them—so she laid dinner out at seven. Most of them should have been able to get home from work by then. If they missed a seven o’clock dinner, they were on their own.

Roper got home at six, went to his room, washed in a basin, and changed out of his “work clothes.” Wearing a cotton shirt and Levi’s, he pulled on the same boots, still with the derringer in one and the knife in the other. Then he went downstairs.

The table was set, but there was no food yet. He heard voices coming from the sitting room and went in there. He found five men, standing and sitting, split into two different conversations. This was the first time he’d actually gone into the sitting room to socialize before the evening meal so he didn’t really know anyone except Catlin, the lawyer. He thought he recognized one man’s face from the stockyards but didn’t know his name.

En masse, they turned and looked at him as he entered.

“Ah, Mr. Blake,” Catlin said. “Have a good day?”

“It was okay.”

“I don’t believe you know the other members of our group.”

Catlin made quick introductions of the men in the room. Roper filed away their names, then concentrated on a man named Embry, Charlie Embry.

“Charlie, there, works at the stockyards,” Catlin said. “You two must have seen each other.”

“Sure,” Embry said, approaching Roper with his hand out, “Orton’s man, right? I’ve seen you going in and out of his office.”

They shook hands.

“I’ve seen you outside,” Roper said.

“Yes, well, I don’t have many reasons to go inside,” Embry said.

Roper frowned. He knew what Orton meant about knowing he was educated. He could see it in this man’s eyes, in his speech. Why was he working in the stockyards?

“You work the pens?” Roper asked.

Embry nodded and said, “And I like it. I’d rather work outside than inside.”

“I know what you mean,” Roper said. “It’s only been a week but already…” He just shook his head.

“Yeah,” Embry said, and laughed.

Two more men entered the room, and pretty soon the group had broken into three different conversations. As more arrived, the room got noisy, until Mrs. Varney appeared in the doorway.

“Gents, dinner is served.”

They filed into the dining room in an orderly fashion, sat in the same places they usually sat in every morning and evening. There was more food involved in dinner than breakfast, and Mrs. Varney needed help bringing it all out. When she came out carrying plates, right behind her was the girl who usually stayed in the kitchen. Roper had not even met her yet. Now that he had a longer look, he could see how truly pretty she was. When she came by him and leaned over to set some plates down, he smelled her soap and a faint whiff of her sweat. Up close he could see she
was closer to twenty-five than the nineteen or twenty he’d taken her for originally.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

She looked down at him as if surprised he’d spoken to her.

“Uh, Lauren,” she said with a shy smile. “My name’s Lauren.”

He smiled, but before he could say anything else, she turned and hurried back to the kitchen.

Roper turned his attention to the fried chicken—the best he’d had in a long time.

*   *   *

For dessert Mrs. Varney and Lauren brought out two apple pies, sliced them up, and passed out hunks to the boarders, followed by strong black coffee. Lauren was the one who walked around the table and filled the cups. Several men spoke to her, but she didn’t react. When she reached Roper, he said, “That was the best fried chicken I ever had.”

She paused, looked at him, and said, “Thank you,” then went back to the kitchen.

“She likes you,” Catlin said.

“How can you tell?”

“Because she never talks to any of us,” the lawyer said. “Never.”

“Does she live in the house?” Roper asked.

“No,” Catlin said, “she’s got her own room somewhere else. She comes in early and leaves late.”

“She goes home alone after dark?” Roper asked. “By herself?”

“Apparently,” Catlin said. “She was born around here. Nobody touches her.”

“She’s immune to Hell’s Half Acre?”

“I think she just belongs here,” Catlin said.

*   *   *

After dinner some of the men went back to the sitting room. Others went to their own rooms. Still others went out.

Roper went to the sitting room, found Embry there with another man, talking.

“Blake,” Embry said, “this is Paul Rickman. Paul also works in the yards.”

Rickman looked at Roper and nodded. He was tall and rangy, probably not yet thirty. He didn’t look like he was built for the tough work.

“Paul’s a wrangler,” Embry said. “He’s got magic hands, can make a horse or a steer do whatever he wants.”

“It’s a gift,” Rickman said.

“How long have you fellas worked in the stockyards?” Roper asked.

“I’ve been there a month,” Embry said.

“Two months for me,” Paul Rickman said. “Guess that’s why we haven’t found a more permanent place to live.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with this place,” Embry said. “Can’t beat the food.”

“That’s true,” Roper said.

“We’re gonna go out for a beer,” Embry said. “Wanna tag along?”

“Why not?” Roper said.

Luckily, Embry and Rickman didn’t want to go to the Bullshead. On the other hand, they proposed going to the White Elephant, located at 106 East Exchange Avenue and the 300 block of Main Street, about as far removed—qualitywise—as you could be from Hell’s Half Acre, even though it was only a matter of blocks.

“That’s a pretty expensive place,” Roper said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rickman said. “We’ll get the first two rounds.”

Roper agreed to go. The White Elephant was the glittering jewel of the Fort Worth saloons and gambling halls. Brothers Bill and John Ward were the third owners of the property, and under their ownership the White Elephant offered the very best in whiskey, beer, and gambling. Cigar smoke was hanging from the high ceilings in a dark cloud, a result of the cigar shop that was situated just inside the batwing doors.