Longarm spotted an empty seat and plunged for it, managing to beat out another entrant. He paid his dollar and a half to a lady who set a fresh plate in front of him, and within twenty minutes he was convinced that it was the best dollar and a half that he had ever spent on food. He ate his fill of crisp, tender, chicken-fried veal cutlets, along with fresh okra and corn and mashed potatoes and sliced tomatoes, and some of the best coffee that he had had. Finally, he had to grudgingly choose between chocolate cake and apple or coconut pie. He chose the coconut pie and was glad he did, although he figured he’d have all three before he finally left town. In gratitude for the difference between Mrs. Browning’s and the hotel’s fare, he left a dollar tip for whichever one of the women who’d served him cared to take it. His only regret was that Mrs. Browning’s didn’t serve breakfast except to those who roomed with her. Outsiders were restricted to lunch, which was served from eleven to one, and supper, which was from five until seven. He guessed that he could survive the arrangement since he had never been much of a breakfast eater anyway.
After supper, he went back to his room and sat drinking, smoking, and thinking until about nine o’clock. He fortified himself with several slugs of the good Maryland whiskey so that his mouth wouldn’t be so terribly insulted by the vile stuff they peddled as whiskey in the saloons. He checked his .38 derringer to make sure that it was securely in place in his concave belt buckle, and then headed out the door to the Elite Saloon. As he left the hotel, he saw a steady stream of men heading up the stairs, and he figured that they were heading up to see Miss Mabelle Russell. He didn’t figure to go see her until later in the evening when the ribbon clerks and the forty-dollar-a-month men had spent all their allowances and were out of the way.
At the Elite, he had a couple of drinks at the bar and finally sat down at a small-stakes poker game. He hated to play at such games because you couldn’t use your money as a weapon. It was just a question of who drew the best cards, and that wasn’t poker. Poker wasn’t just a game of luck. It was a game of skill and science understood by damn few and appreciated by even fewer.
He noticed that he got quite a few looks from the other patrons of the bar. Nobody at the table that he was playing at said anything directly to him, but behind his back he heard whispered remarks like, “That’s him,” “That’s the one over there, that broad-shouldered fella sitting in that game.”
It pleased him. It meant that his plan of getting noticed was working, but whether that would lead to anything, he couldn’t yet say. All he wanted to do was appear to be a man willing to engage in just about any sort of high jinks for fun or for profit.
By eleven-thirty the Castle brothers had disappointed him by not showing up, and he quit the game and made his way out of the saloon. He reckoned to have won around twenty dollars—hardly fair wages for his time considering his skill at poker.
The streets were starting to get deserted as he turned in to the hotel lobby. Also, the stairs were cleared. Apparently, most of the young bucks who’d had the bite had already spent their money and gone home. He started up the stairs.
There was a door blocking the way on the landing at the third floor. He knocked, and was admitted by a colored woman who escorted him into what she called “de pawlaw.”
Inside the parlor, which was a big room created by knocking out a number of walls between bedrooms, several bored-looking young women in fairly skimpy clothes were sitting around. The decor of the place was what Shirley Dunn would have probably called garish, including the clothes of the young ladies, who glanced at him with studied indifference.
There was a bar at the end of the room, and he sauntered over and ordered a drink of the best whiskey they had. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it was good Tennessee corn mash. He said to the bartender, a Negro in a white jacket, “I’d like to see Miss Mabelle Russell.”
“Yes, sir. She be comin’ out jus’ any minute. You’s got to wait on her ‘fore you selects yore companion for the evening.”
Longarm didn’t bother to answer the man, but he hadn’t quite finished his drink before Miss Mabelle Russell came out from a side door. She was a striking-looking woman in her mid-thirties. She had luxurious black hair that curled to her shoulders and creamy white skin that offset it nicely. She was wearing an ornate red velvet gown trimmed with white lace. Longarm thought that she had on a touch too much makeup, but he figured if she wanted to get confused with her hired help that was her business.
She came toward him, her eyes narrowing for a second and then recognition flooding her face. She said, “It’s Mr. Long, isn’t it?”
He gave her a slight bow. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Mabelle. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been here.”
She said, “As I recollect, you don’t need to frequent my type of establishment. The last time you were here, if I remember correctly, you were a participant in a high-stakes poker game. Are you still in the gambling business?”
“Mat’s correct, Miss Mabelle. I’m still just a drifting gambler.”
She looked him over with a critical eye. “I reckon that you’re still doing pretty good. As I recall, there were some rather sad gentlemen that left my business that night. Perhaps you even took money away that might have fallen into my hands.”
He said, “I’m right sorry about that, Miss Mabelle, but that’s the luck of the cards.”
She laughed slightly. “What can I do for you?”
He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and leafed off two twenties and a ten. He said, “I’d like to buy about fifty dollars of your time.”
Chapter 5
Mabelle Russell looked at the money and then at him. She said, “You must be a little confused, Mr. Long. I run this game, I don’t play in it.”
He laughed. “I understand that, Miss Mabelle. Of course, I must add as a gentleman that if I thought that this money would buy me more than just talk, I certainly would be glad to raise the ante as high as the pot could stand.”
She nodded and gave him a curtsy. “Why, thank you, sir, but I don’t think that you have quite that much money.”
Longarm said, “I’d like to buy about fifty dollars worth of talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yes, ma’am. You got someplace quiet that we can sit down? Shouldn’t take me more than fifteen minutes. I figured that if anybody knows everything that goes on around here, you’d be the one. Will fifty dollars buy me some good eyes and ears?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment and then shrugged. She reached out and took his money and said, “Come with me.”
She led him into a small room, tastefully furnished, just off the main parlor. She said, “This is my sitting room. I don’t let anyone else in here except, of course, special guests like you, Mr. Long. Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’ve got some fine whiskey out there. Apparently, you’ve cornered the market in this town.”
She laughed. “I’ve heard that.”
She served him herself and then sat back down on a settee. Longarm was positioned across from her in a big, overstuffed wing-backed chair.
She said, “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Long?”
Longarm said, “I’ll get right to the nub of the matter, Miss Mabelle. I’m going to surprise you. I’m thinking of getting out of the gambling business and getting into something maybe a little safer. There are three things that I know about—women, cards, and horses. There ain’t no money in women, except your way, and I think I would be out of place trying to handle your job. Cards have given me a fair living for a number of years, but it is getting to where there are more and more hotheads that sit down at your table and think that the six of a kind that they have in their revolver is always gonna be the best hand.”