Relieved, Fargo helped them gather Hattie Hamilton off the floor, then they escorted her out the door and headed back into New Orleans and the Storyville district.
There were still answers he wanted, but as far as Fargo was concerned, this game was almost played out.
14
The morning sun was bright and quickly burning off the mist that drifted in from the swamps and the shore during the long hours of the night. New Orleans was waking up, a slumbering two-bit whore rising from her filthy mattress to greet another day.
Fargo’s eyes scanned the buildings and the people as he and the others rode by, heading into Storyville to bring an end to things. The Ovaro nickered and huffed several times, obviously not pleased to be riding back into the city. He was an animal that, like his owner, much preferred the open trail.
Looking around, Fargo realized that they were in a section of the city he hadn’t seen before. The buildings seemed to symbolize the things he didn’t like about the city itself. They were either mausoleumlike tombs or crowded together and dirty. It was little wonder that fires had ravaged them so often. From what he could see, many of the buildings were still stained with grime and soot. There was little in this place that appealed to him.
With H.D. in front of him, holding Hattie on his saddle, and McKenna behind him, Fargo figured not too many people would bother to stop them and he was right. Most of the people they passed simply glanced and looked away. A few stared, but they were the stares of the terminally curious—the people who would watch a hanging for entertainment simply because it was there.
They rode down the center of Basin Street and went past Anderson’s Café, which was still closed. Fargo reckoned that the man had decided to hunker down until the situation settled. It proved that he was a lot smarter than your average street criminal. He’d built himself a little empire and he sensed that a great burning was about to come. He wanted to hold on to his dream a while longer and Fargo couldn’t blame him.
If what McKenna had told him was true, New Orleans would burn again—a fiery death to serve as an example for the rest of the country. It seemed pointless to Fargo, but how could he stop it? Killing McKenna would only get the Pinkerton Agency on his trail and they’d send other agents down here to do their hideous deed, anyway.
He sighed heavily, and felt the first waves of genuine exhaustion wash over him. He wanted a meal, a drink, and a long bit of sleep. Then he wanted out of this place as fast as his Ovaro could take him. He’d collected a good bit of money—though not as much as he’d hoped—but still more than enough to keep him in steak and good sour mash for a long while to come.
They pulled up their horses outside H.D.’s office and tied them to the rail. H.D. climbed out of the saddle, then assisted Hattie down as well. McKenna tied his own horse while Fargo eased out of his own saddle. He was bone-tired.
“Come on inside,” H.D. said. “I’ll brew us up a pot of coffee.”
“Sounds fine,” Fargo said. “What about her?”
“McKenna, would you mind going down to the sawbones’ office—it’s just down the street—and bringing him back here to patch her up? We need to keep her here.”
“Sure,” he said. He touched a hand gingerly to his scalp and winced. “Maybe he can look at this knot on my head, too. You hit hard, Trailsman.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Fargo said. He followed H.D. into the sheriff’s office and took a seat while H.D. put Hattie in a holding cell.
She screeched like a banshee until H.D. snapped at her to shut up or she could damn well do without the doctor, too. She shut up, which Fargo was grateful for.
H.D. got the coffee brewing and by the time it had started to percolate, McKenna came back, dragging the doctor along, who wasn’t very happy at being rousted from his office. He was an older man, with a stout build and a shock of white hair. His face was wide and heavily jowled, and his skin was so pale he almost looked like a ghost.
“I had to threaten to arrest him,” McKenna said. “Says he doesn’t do house calls anymore.”
“This isn’t a house, Dr. Jennings,” H.D. snarled. “It’s a jail, and when I call for you, I expect you to move your ass on down here.”
“For God’s sake, H.D., it’s not even office hours,” Jennings said. “What’s so . . .” His voice trailed off into silence as he caught sight of Hattie in the cell. “You shot Hattie Hamilton?”
“No, I did,” Fargo said.
“So how come she’s in the cell and you’re not?” Jennings asked.
“That,” McKenna interrupted, “is none of your damn business.”
“Huh,” the doctor said. He turned back to H.D. “Well, if you want her patched up, you’re going to have to let me in there.”
H.D. opened the cell and Jennings got to work. He unwrapped the makeshift bandage and examined the wound. “It’s pretty clean,” he said. “Went right through and doesn’t look like any of the bones are broken.” He began applying alcohol liberally and Hattie hissed in pain. “Could’ve been a lot worse, Miss Hamilton,” he said.
“Yeah,” Fargo said. “I could have shot her in the nethers and put her out of business for good.”
The men chuckled and Hattie just stared hatefully at them. H.D. fished out some mostly clean coffee cups and poured out three cups of black coffee. “I don’t use chicory,” he said. “But this is some kind of bean the French like.”
Fargo took a sip of his and his eyebrows went up in surprise. The flavor was dark and rich, and the coffee was thick enough to almost have a texture. “That’s different,” he said. “But very good.”
The men waited silently until Dr. Jennings was finished and had Hattie’s arm bandaged up. “Change the bandage once a day, and try to keep it still for a few days,” he admonished her as he finished tying the sling. “And don’t get it wet. I’ll come check on you again in a week and see how you’re doing.”
He stepped out of her cell, shutting the door behind him, and stopped at H.D.’s desk. “You want me to bill the county for this, H.D.?”
“Just like any other prisoner,” H.D. replied. “Thanks for coming.”
“Not a problem,” Jennings said. “So long as I get paid.”
“Don’t you always?” H.D. snapped. “It’s all about the payday for you, isn’t it, Doc?”
“You’re no different,” the doctor said, then turned and stamped out of the office.
“It’s going to take me years to repair my reputation, McKenna,” H.D. said. “Years.”
“I think with what you’ll earn from the agency, you might consider an early retirement,” McKenna replied. “Or maybe starting over somewhere new.”
“Maybe,” H.D. said.
Fargo cleared his throat. “Gents, I am plumb exhausted and I’m still waiting for an explanation.”
H.D. nodded. “Sure, Fargo. You’re right. McKenna, why don’t you start?”
“Okay,” McKenna said. He eased back in his chair and turned his gaze on Fargo. “Like I told you last night, I work for the Pinkerton agency. What I couldn’t tell you was that H.D. here was working with us. I was out investigating Horn’s death, so I hadn’t had a chance to talk to H.D. before the poker game. For all I knew, you were in on the whole thing.”
“What whole thing?” Fargo asked.
“I’m getting there,” the agent replied. “Parker and Beares were using Storyville as a way to launder and counterfeit money, Fargo. That’s why they started hassling Anderson. He owns enough of the businesses in this area that it was cramping their ability to get the money through. They wanted him out, but he was too popular to kill outright.”