Louisiana Laydown

remember something he’d said while they played cards late one night. “There are only three truths at a card table, Mr. Fargo. The money truth, the card truth, and the people truth. Money, sir, is nothing more than some scribbles of ink on paper. So are cards, for that matter. I play people, Mr. Fargo, which is why I am so very good at this game.”

Fargo fully intended to take John Holliday’s words to heart.

Tonight, he would play the people.

And hold on to the hope that he’d get out alive.

Sunset came and went, and Fargo left his room to grab some dinner, then went out to walk the streets one more time. As though the citizens were animals and could sense impending danger, Basin Street had grown extraordinarily quiet. The saloons and gaming parlors and brothels had very few patrons and most of the people he saw were the same men who had been in the street earlier in the day.

After circling the block, Fargo crossed the street and went up the stone steps into the Blue Emporium. The game was scheduled to start in an hour. Hattie Hamilton was sitting in one of the parlor rooms by herself, while in the other, several of the girls laughed and giggled with men from out of town.

Hattie saw him come in and raised a hand in greeting. Fargo had reached one conclusion about all of the events that had led up to this point: the center of them was Hattie Hamilton.

“Why, Mr. Fargo,” she said, rising to meet him. “I had no idea that beneath the plain clothes of a frontiersman, such a fine gentleman existed.”

Summoning his coldest voice, Fargo said, “In my experience, Miss Hamilton, being a gentleman has damn little to do with your clothing.”

Taken a bit aback, she retreated a step, caught herself, then turned to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Bourbon,” Fargo said. He moved over to the bar, and watched as she poured him a stiff shot from one of the decanters. He took it and tasted a sip. It was warm and smooth and very fine, not unlike a good woman. “This is excellent.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you require anything else before the game begins?”

“One of those cigars, if you wouldn’t mind,” Fargo said, gesturing to the humidor behind the bar. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“I imagine so,” she said. “Do you expect trouble?”

“I always expect trouble, Miss Hamilton,” he replied. “It’s one of the reasons I’m still alive after all these years.”

“One of them?” she asked, handing him a house-rolled Cuban that smelled almost as good as it would smoke. “What are the others?”

Fargo slipped the cigar into his vest pocket, saving it for later. Then he took another sip of the bourbon, savoring its burn. “There are lots of them,” he said, “but beyond expecting trouble, there’s one thing that’s made the difference.”

“Oh?” she asked.

Remembering the cold grin of John Holliday, Fargo did his best to mimic it and he was pleased at the reaction on her face. “I don’t mind killing people,” he said, his voice quiet. “In fact, if it means staying alive, I’ll kill anyone or anything that crosses my path.”

“I . . . I see,” she said, trying to recover. “It’s good, then, that you will be protecting me tonight, should trouble happen.”

Fargo cocked his head in the direction of the doors. “With as many gunmen as I saw outside, I’d be very surprised if a whole bunch of folks didn’t end up dead tonight,” he said. “Let’s hope the right ones make it to the undertakers.”

“I’ll escort you downstairs,” she said, moving from behind the bar and heading for the entryway. “Who would be the right ones?” she asked, leading the way down the steps.

Fargo laughed softly. “There are a lot of players in this game, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “For your sake, the right ones better be the ones you’ve been sleeping with. If they aren’t, you’re going to be out of business—the dead way—before sunrise.”

He was surprised when she laughed, too. “Why, Mr. Fargo, what in the world makes you think I’m not sleeping with all of them?”

11

Hattie left him in the poker room, which he had to himself for the time being. She said little else to him, indicating that he could help himself to anything from the bar, and that she would return when all the players were assembled. Fargo nodded his thanks and took a stroll around the room, looking for anything that might help someone cheat or gain some advantage during the game.

He found nothing, and after checking to ensure that the six wooden crates of chips had been counted out equally, he finished off his bourbon, put the glass down on the bar, and took a seat. Fargo had learned patience the hard way, and he knew that tonight his would be tested to its limits.

The silence stretched on for almost an hour, but then the door to the room opened and Hattie walked in. The players, each of them carrying a leather satchel of some kind, followed behind her: Parker, dressed in a conservative suit of charcoal gray; Beares, in a white cotton suit that made him look younger than he actually was; Anderson, dressed more like a saloon keeper in a cream-colored shirt with a thin string tie and dark slacks; and three men that Fargo didn’t recognize, who he assumed were the plantation owners. And last, his old friend H.D., the dealer.

“Fargo,” Parker called out as they entered the room. “I’m pleased to see you honored our arrangement, though I didn’t imagine you would come dressed in such finery. I expected the frontiersman I met on the riverboat.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Fargo replied, his voice even. Once more, he wanted to adopt the persona of a professional gambler and gunfighter. “I thought I should dress to fit the occasion.”

“You look,” Anderson said, “like a hired killer.”

“Good,” Fargo said.

Before any more words could be exchanged, Hattie said, “Gentlemen, why not take your seats and I’ll pour us each a drink?”

There was a general murmur of agreement and the men got themselves arranged around the table. While they were doing so, H.D. stopped next to Fargo’s chair and leaned in close. “I’m dealing it straight,” he whispered. “And I wanted you to know that I sent my wife and Mary out of town.” His voice dropped even lower and he added, “If something happens, there’s a note beneath my mantle that will tell you where to find them.”

“What do you think will happen?” Fargo whispered back.

H.D. shrugged. “Cards, I hope.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said.

H.D. nodded and took his seat in the dealer’s chair. Hattie poured drinks and passed them around, skipping over Fargo when he shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be slowed tonight.

Hattie raised her own glass and said, “To poker, gentlemen, and the peaceful resolution of problems.”

“Hear, hear,” the men said. Everyone drank, Fargo noticed, except Anderson, who raised his glass to his lips and faked it.

“Gentlemen,” H.D. said. “This is a fifty-thousand-dollar buy-in game. There will be no buying back in. Once you’re out, you’re out. The game is five-card draw, nothing is wild, and there is no limit. Mr. Fargo is here to make sure that everyone plays fair, is that understood?”

There was a chorus of agreement. “Fargo, do you have anything you’d like to say before we start?”

Fargo considered this for a moment, then stood up. “I know three of the men at the table, but I’d like the names of the others.”

The men introduced themselves, and no one bothered to shake hands. One of the men, Armand Delgado, was clearly of Spanish origin. One, who introduced himself as Colonel William Bosswaite, was a retired soldier who looked eager to spend his money very quickly. The third, Fargo thought, was probably the sharpest of the three.