ignore. “Right this way.”
He followed her out of the parlor, through the recessed doorway, and into the kitchen. It was surprisingly large, but Fargo figured that they probably made a lot of meals here—both for the girls and for the men who frequented the place. A massive black woman was standing over a stove, wielding a whisk in one hand. The smells of sizzling ham, scrambled eggs, and fresh-grated cheese issued forth from a cast-iron skillet big enough to feed a small army.
Hattie led him to a small table and set down a mug, which she filled with coffee. “Black?” she asked.
Fargo nodded and picked up the mug. Like the other coffee he’d had in the city, this one was rich and dark and tasted of chicory. It wasn’t something he’d want all the time, but it was a good flavor. He took another sip and said, “That’s good. Thank you.”
Hattie smiled. “My Matilda brews the best chicory coffee in the city, but wait until you eat her cooking. You’ll think you’ve died and woke up in your mama’s kitchen.”
“Then she’s probably damn handy to have around.”
Hattie took a seat at the table, pouring herself a cup of coffee as well. “Matilda says the girls come here for the money but they stay for the food. She may be right,” she admitted, smiling. “Of course, they all work up quite an appetite.”
Hattie laughed, and Fargo realized that her charms—so noticeable on the docks and at Beares’ house— weren’t quite as effective as before. He’d been wondering since he’d met her who she reminded him of and he finally figured it out: she was like one of those snake-oil salesmen that came out to the frontier with bottles of pure grain alcohol flavored with a little molasses or ginger or whatever, selling a supposed cure-all for a dollar a bottle. She was, in other words, a woman who would lie, cheat, or do whatever else came to mind or hand, in order to make a buck.
Matilda set a plate in front of Fargo heaped with scrambled eggs, ham and cheese, and two slices of buttered toast.
Fargo chuckled. “I think that’ll do it—maybe for a couple of days.” He picked up a fork and set to work, his hands busy even as he observed Hattie eating her own breakfast, which consisted of a very small plate of the scrambled eggs and toast.
In between bites, he said, “You don’t eat enough to keep a hummingbird alive.”
She smiled. “I can’t afford to overindulge in food, Mr. Fargo. Most men prefer their women on the slender side.”
Fargo finished his plate, filled to bursting, then refilled his coffee cup from the pot on the table. Hattie was done long before he was, but she watched him with the eyes of a happy cat who’d found a mouse to play with. There was something, he knew, deeply wrong with the woman.
When he’d finished his coffee, she took a small ashtray off the shelf and set it on the table. Fargo rolled himself a smoke, and struck a match with his thumb, sighing in satisfaction. “A damn fine breakfast,” he said. “Thank you.”
Hattie laughed. “I don’t imagine you’ve had much time to eat in the last day or so,” she said. “Fleur is an exuberant young lady.” She rolled a smoke of her own, lit it, and said, “Where is my little chocolate flower, anyway?”
“Oh, I’ve arranged for her to be kept busy for the next couple of days,” Fargo said. “I want to be sure that my distractions during the game are kept to a minimum.”
“I’m sure,” Hattie said, sounding a little annoyed by Fargo’s answer. “You should have her come by, pick up her things.”
“I can bring them to her, but she’s got everything she needs,” he said. “She won’t be coming back.”
Hattie laughed again; this time the sound was cruel. “Excuse me, Fargo,” she said. “I’ve heard that one about a million times. You’ll tire of her, eventually, and she’ll come back. They always do. That’s one of the things that keeps me in business—I never lack for girls willing to work.”
“I don’t suppose,” Fargo said, crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I appreciate the breakfast, but the reason I’m here is business.”
“Fleur isn’t enough to keep you satisfied?” Hattie asked. “I’m amazed.”
Fargo shook his head. If the woman could turn the conversation to sex, she did. “No,” he said. “The business of the poker game. I’d like to see the room where it will be played.”
“Certainly,” Hattie said, rising to her feet. “Matilda, will you see to it that the girls get breakfast and ready for the day? You know they’ll sleep half the day through if we don’t get them going.”
“Yes, ma’am, Miz Hamilton,” Matilda said.
“Follow me, Fargo,” Hattie said, heading back out into the sitting room.
He followed and she led him back to the front entryway. “The upstairs is where the girls’ rooms are,” she said. “The sitting rooms are where gentlemen callers can take their ease with a fine cigar and a drink until the girl of their choice is available.”
“And the downstairs?” Fargo asked.
“That’s where we have . . . other rooms,” Hattie said. “Come along and I’ll show you.”
Fargo followed her down the stairs, moving slowly so that she could light the gas lamps ensconced on the walls. The stairs were steep and they went down two flights before coming to a long hallway that branched in either direction.
“These rooms are where we do special entertainments, ” Hattie said. “To the left, we have rooms for almost any kind of sexual activity you can imagine. And probably a few you wouldn’t want to.”
Curious despite himself, Fargo said, “I’ve got quite an imagination.”
She patted his arm and once again that surge of heat passed over him. “I’m sure you do,” she laughed. “And that’s enough about that.”
“I get the picture,” Fargo said. Some things were better left unexplored. “And the rooms to the right?”
“Mostly private party rooms. We aren’t supposed to allow gambling, but the city looks the other way so long as we keep the officials bribed—and let them play, of course. Every major politician in Louisiana has been down here drinking the best booze found anywhere and playing poker or faro, dealt by a beautiful woman wearing nothing but a smile.” Her voice was proud. “I make almost as much money off those rooms as I do the rest of the property combined.”
“What’s the house take?” he asked.
“Twenty percent,” Hattie said. “It adds up fast.”
“I’m sure,” Fargo said. “Can I see the room where the poker game I’m supposed to be watching is going to be held?”
“This way,” she said, turning down the hall to the right and stopping at the last door. “Here it is. We call this the Midnight Room.”
She opened the door and the name became self-explanatory. The walls were covered in a wood so dark that it was almost black. In one corner, a fully stocked bar and a case of cigars was almost invisible except for the twinkle of light reflecting off the decanters. Heavy chairs, raised up higher and made of black-dyed leather, were spaced around the walls for those who were observing the table in the center of the room.
The poker table itself was crafted of the same dark, polished wood as the walls, the top covered in flawless green felt. Six wooden containers were situated in the middle of the table, each one filled with chips. Around the table, six comfortable chairs were placed evenly apart, with a seventh chair for the dealer. Crystal ash-trays, cleaned and polished, waited to be used. Everything appeared to be in readiness for the big game.
“It’s quite nice, yes?” Hattie said.
“A poker room fit for a king,” Fargo replied. His eyes scanned the room once more. “Is this door the only way in or out?”
“Yes,” Hattie said. She walked over to the bar area and moved aside a small curtain. “There is a dumbwaiter here, so that food can be sent down directly from the kitchen, but as you can see”—she slid open the panel that revealed the space—“this isn’t large enough for anything other than a few plates stacked on a tray.”
Fargo nodded. “I want one of the viewing chairs moved,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Whatever you feel will assist you in your jobs,” Hattie said.
“Where will you be during the game?” he asked.
“Behind the bar,” she said. “For the most part, anyway. I will have to go upstairs from time to time to check
