“I’ll keep it in mind,” Fargo said. “One thing I can tell you: there’s only one set of rules I play by, Anderson. Mine. They’re harsh but fair. If I catch anyone cheating, you can be sure I’ll say something.”
“Good enough,” he said, offering his hand.
Fargo shook and took his leave, finding his horse tied up outside and all his gear exactly as he’d left it. He pulled his gun belt out of the saddlebag and put it back on.
So far, what he knew was that Parker wasn’t telling the whole truth, and Anderson was telling his version of it. And there was still the matter of figuring out what Richard Beares was all about, too.
A lot of people, all of them telling lies of one kind or another.
“It’s no wonder they call it Storyville,” he said to the Ovaro, who nickered at him in reply. He climbed into the saddle, and turned the horse toward the livery.
The humid air was still and heavy as the early evening sun went down on the water. All the way to the livery, Fargo felt eyes on him and he knew that word had spread.
And that he was being watched by everyone.
John H. D. Timmons had spent most of his forty-two years of life living in bad circumstances and working in worse. His father had been a Baptist minister in New Hampshire who took the sentiment “spare the rod, spoil the child” to heart and regularly beat the young, defenseless John H. D. Timmons within an inch of his life. Believing that women were much like children, the man had treated his wife the same.
The year he was sixteen, H.D.’s father had beaten his mother to death. H.D. returned the favor, burned down the small home and attached church he’d grown up in, and left, heading west and not stopping until he’d reached Oklahoma.
Punching cows was tough, but compared to growing up with the Reverend (as he often thought of his father) it was easy. He learned to ride, shoot, drink, fight, and generally take care of himself. When a group of cattle rustlers began stealing from the Double Bar T ranch, it was H.D. who’d helped the marshal track them down and bring them to justice. From that point on, his future in law enforcement was assured.
He’d worked in a lot of prairie towns, from Oklahoma to Nebraska and then back down to Kansas, which is where Fargo had first met him. The work was hard and dangerous, but H.D. brought perspective to it, wasn’t on the take, and treated the citizens who were law-abiding as they deserved to be treated. The years had aged him—he’d gone a little softer around the middle, and there was more gray in his hair than black, but his hands were still rock steady as he poured two shots of sour mash and raised his glass in a toast.
“Here’s to still being alive,” he said. “And to still being a bit faster than the fella trying to kill you.”
Fargo raised his own glass, and added, “Or to just being a bit luckier.”
H.D. laughed and both men tossed back the bourbon. “It’s good to see you again, Fargo. Last I heard, you were headed to the Dakotas.”
Fargo nodded. “I went up there for a spell, but didn’t stay. There’s too many bad men up that way, stealing land, cattle, and grubbing for gold. Seems like that’s all anyone was interested in, so I moved on.”
“You run into trouble?” H.D. asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said. “But it does seem to find me wherever I go.”
“I’ll say,” H.D. said. “But it’s not trouble that finds you. Not really. It’s folks who need help. Trouble of one kind or another usually follows right along with that.”
“It does,” Fargo agreed. “So tell me straight, H.D., who’s really running this town?”
H.D. laughed. “Everyone thinks they are,” he said. “But no one really is. The whole city is a mess, always will be, I suspect.”
“Why’s that?”
“The structure of it, for one thing,” H.D. said. “This isn’t a town like you and I would think of it. It’s a bunch of little towns, all close together, each with a different set of rules and regulations. They call them ‘parishes,’ but really they’re just little towns.”
“That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Fargo said. “Why don’t they have a city council or something?”
“They do,” he replied. “But as a rule, they’re ignored or laughed at. The real power here is in who runs the parishes that produce the most money.”
“Like Storyville,” Fargo said.
“Exactly. There’s Winn Parish and Catahoula Parish, which are really run by State Senators Parker and Beares. Storyville is part of both, and it’s where the most money gets made. So the fighting has been fierce.”
“Have you had any trouble?” Fargo asked.
H.D. chuckled and poured another set of shots. “No,” he said. “And I don’t intend to. I get paid by the city, have full retirement benefits, and do my best to keep peace in the streets. Which means that Anderson, Parker, and Beares have taken their battles to the alleys, the swamps, and the backrooms of the whorehouses. It suits me just fine to let them fight it out amongst themselves.”
Fargo’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t like the H.D. he’d known at all. “I thought you believed in the law,” he said quietly.
“Fargo, I do,” H.D. said. “But I’m not a young man anymore, and there’s only one of me and three of them, plus more hired guns than you’ve ever seen. When they aren’t shooting each other, they’re knifing each other. And when they aren’t doing that, they use their hands to choke, steal, or beat the hell out of anyone they can.” He drank his shot and then added, “And now you’re here.”
“Just here for work,” Fargo said. “Parker hired me up in St. Louis.”
“To do what?” H.D. asked. “You’ve never been on the wrong side of the law before.”
“And I’m not now,” he said. “I guess they’ve decided to settle all of this with a poker game.”
“A poker game?” H.D. asked. “Seriously?”
“That’s what Parker said, and Anderson confirmed it.”
“I’ll be damned,” H.D. said. “Things might settle down, then. What’s your job in all this?”
“I’m supposed to keep the game fair,” he said. He sipped his own shot, savoring the charcoal flavor on his tongue. “So I’m told.”
“Fair, huh?” his old friend said. “You do know that all of them will cheat like there’s no tomorrow.”
“I suspected as much,” Fargo said. “But then it will be fair.”
“What do you mean?”
“If one man cheats, it’s not fair,” Fargo replied. “He’s taking advantage of the others. But if all of them cheat, then it is fair. No one is playing by a different set of rules than anyone else.”
H.D. laughed so hard he went into a coughing fit, and finished by mumbling, “Goddamn humidity,” under his breath. He looked up, wiped his mouth, and said, “Don’t stay down here too long. It’s like breathing a swamp.”
“I don’t plan to,” Fargo said. “Just long enough to do what I was hired to do, collect my pay, and move on.”
“So where’s this poker game being held?” H.D. asked. “That way, maybe I can keep an eye on things outside at least.”
“The Blue Emporium,” Fargo said. “Hattie Hamilton’s place.”
H.D. hissed like a scalded cat. “Damn. That maybe changes everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“She plays at belonging to Parker, but Hattie Hamilton belongs to nobody,” H.D. said. “She’s as cold-blooded a woman as I’ve ever met.”