“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.