Chapter 14
The saloon—it was the biggest and most popular of the several that were available at this unofficial end of Cargyle—was so cheap and basic that they didn’t stock any form of rye whiskey, much less the excellent Maryland distilled rye that was Longarm’s preference. They had bar whiskey—Lord only knows what might be found in it in addition to bulk alcohol; tobacco, red peppers, and gunpowder were common ingredients—at twelve and a half cents or bottled bourbon at fifteen cents. Longarm took a look at the stained and faded labels on the bourbon bottles and suspected the only difference between the bourbon and the bar whiskey here would turn out to be the price. He settled for beer, and strolled to the side of the room where, Buddy’s cautions apart, there was some gaming in progress.
It took Longarm little more than a glance to decide that these were not friendly games among gents who were whiling the hours away. These were serious attempts by poor workingmen to wrest gaudy sums of cash from the house.
Wherever one can find a deck of cards, a pair of dice, or a wheel of fortune one can also find hope. Longarm understood that. What he also understood, and these soot-stained miners obviously did not, was that generally speaking a gambling house doesn’t take any gambles when it opens a game for play. In all games the edge belongs to the house. Hell, that’s what all the rules are for, to ensure that basic truth.
Some houses are greedier than others, but there really isn’t any need for any of them to rig their wheels or load their dice. An edge belonging to the house is built right into the play. The house will just naturally win, even at poker, where a genuinely honest game can be played whenever the house is willing to take a rake off the ante of each hand and leave everything else to the relative skills of the players. That, Longarm knew, was the fairest and most honest play available in any casino or gaming hall.
Still, some folks can’t be content with winning a constant percentage. They want to take it all. And judging from what he could see here, whoever ran this place wanted it all.
Within ten minutes of standing there sipping at his beer Longarm could spot three shills who were working for the place. They were easy to locate. They were the ones that were winning. And of course every time one of them won, there was a loud hurrah as onlookers cheered and hangers-on crowded close so they too could play at the “hot” tables where all this winning was taking place.
The whole thing was damn near funny because the shills were so blatant they didn’t even pretend to be workingmen themselves. They dressed in rough clothes and clodhopper brogans, but their fingernails were clean and the backs of their necks had seen neither coal dust nor bright sun in many a year. And these boys won no matter what games they played. Roulette, the wheel of fortune, craps, faro, or poker, it didn’t matter. They’d lose a little, then win a lot. And every time one of them won it spurred the suckers—the real players—on to fresh enthusiasm.
Longarm was tempted to sit in on one of the games just so he could have the pleasure of exposing the sham. It wouldn’t be hard to do. Find the wire, the magnet, the birdshot, the marks … whatever. Lay it out for all to see and raise some hell. But dammit, cheating at cards wasn’t exactly a federal offense, and personal satisfaction wasn’t what Longarm had come here to find.
The sensible thing for him to do, he knew, was to go quietly away. Get a good night’s sleep and maybe talk about this place when he saw Harry Bolt in the morning.
After all, this was Harry’s town, not his. And Longarm had good reason to know how touchy Harry Bolt could get. Passing Harry off before he ever said howdy probably wasn’t a tactic Billy Vail would approve.
So Longarm kept his mouth shut and his cash in his pocket. He reckoned he’d finish this beer and go back to the Fulton house. If nothing else, maybe they’d have something there that he could read until he got sleepy enough to head for the blankets. He manufactured a yawn in an attempt to encourage a drowsy state of mind, and took another look around the crowded barroom.
He looked. And then looked hard yet again. There was something about one of the bar girls that … aw, shit, he told himself.
The woman caught his eye as he was staring at her. Beneath the white powder and bright red rouge she paled and gasped for breath. After a moment’s hesitation she started across the floor to where Longarm stood gaping at her.
Chapter 15
“Evenin’, Miz Fulton.” Longarm tipped his Stetson to the, um, lady. He wasn’t sure, but underneath all the powder and gunk on her face he thought he could detect a flush of crimson embarrassment.
“Good evening, Mr. Long. Would you mind not calling me by my name, though? Not here. My working name is Dovie.”
“Dovie?” He smiled. And again thought he could see that hint of blush beneath all the war paint.
“You don’t have to make fun of me, Mr. Long. I don’t particularly want everyone to know who I am, those that don’t already. And anyway, the gents like names like Dovie and Frenchie and Lily LaTour. Those are really good names for whores.”
He sobered. “I’m sorry, Miz … I mean, Dovie. I’m not making fun. Truly, I ain’t.” He looked around. And smiled just a little. “Though I can’t see much in the way of gents in here for anybody to impress.” The room was crowded. But definitely not with gentlemen.
Angela Fulton, though, was not thinking in terms of light banter. Not at this moment. She touched his sleeve and there was something in her eyes—a sadness, a loneliness—that also touched his heart. “When you go back tonight
…”
“I won’t say nothing to Buddy.” His smile was gentle and sincere. “After all, there’s nothing to tell, is there?”
“No. Of course not.” She looked like she was on the brink of tears, and when she turned away from him her gait was slow and unhappy.
“Dovie.” He called her back before the thought was consciously formed in his mind.
“Yes?”
“I was thinkin’ … how much would it be for you to come with me?”
She lifted her chin and her expression firmed. The look in her eyes now was harder, colder. She was, he was sure, steeling herself against the hand fate had dealt. “A dollar, Mr. Long. Fifty cents for a stand-up in the alley or the dollar if you want the use of a bed. But don’t worry. I won’t insist that you take your boots off.”
He refused to let her subtle needling reach him. “That’d be for a quickie. What I had in mind was all night.”
“Normally I would charge five dollars for the full night, Mr. Long. But for you, considering that I already provided a bed we can use, I think ten dollars would be appropriate.”
Obviously she was thinking he wanted to take her back to her house and go at it with her son right there close enough to hear their bellies bump.
“Ten dollars would be fine,” Longarm said and, sweeping his hat off, bowed her toward the door.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Ten dollars you asked and ten dollars it shall be, ma’am.” He pulled his money out and handed her a gold eagle, the same approximate size of a silver dime but worth ten dollars. “That should cover it, right?”
She gave him a hateful look. But took the money.
Silently she led the way out into the cool night air. Longarm waited until they were outside where none of the saloon patrons could overhear, then said, “Shouldn’t you wash your face an’ get your own dress back before we go to the house, Miz Fulton?”
She glared at him. But considered. And finally nodded.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he suggested. “Join me on the corner when you’re ready, an’ I’ll walk you home.”