Sathow's Sinners by Marcus Galloway Page B

allowing his gaze to wander down the front of her dress, “speaking of good things coming in twos . . .”
    â€œWhy don’t I find you your lady?” she said. “It seems you’re fit to be tied.”
    â€œYou’re not the first to point that out, my dear.”
    She went to the table, picked up the pen and started writing in her ledger. “The girl you’re after is named Kaylee.”
    â€œI do hope she’s available.”
    â€œWhy don’t you first let me know if I’ve got the name right after your colorful description.” After setting down her pen, she pulled aside another flap behind her which led to a narrow walkway formed by curtains sewn to the roof that went all the way down to the tent’s canvas floor. “Kaylee!” she called out. “You have a visitor.”
    Along the walkway on either side were doors consisting of narrow wooden frames used to support thick velvet curtains. One of those curtains, about halfway down the walkway on the left side, parted so a young woman could step out. She fit Deaugrey’s description to the letter, right down to the ribbon in her dark curls.
    â€œHave we met, sir?” she asked while extending her hand to him.
    Deaugrey took it, stooped in a cordial bow and kissed her gently between her first two knuckles. “Oh, I’d say we’re about to get real acquainted.”
    *   *   *
    The tent next to the camp’s patched-together cathouse was slightly wider in front and just a bit taller. Its structure was maintained by a wooden frame that was meant to be as close to permanent as something with canvas walls could be. Those walls did nothing to keep sound from escaping, however, and Nate’s ears were soon flooded with the cacophony of rattling glasses and impatient fists slamming down onto tables. A banner stitched to the wall next to the front entrance bore nothing but a crudely drawn poker hand: a straight to the eight.
    There was no door for him to open. Judging by the ravaged state of the frame, there had been a door attached to it at one time or another that had probably been used for kindling after being smashed down by drunkards one too many times. Nate ducked his head slightly to step inside.
    The bar was to his right and was built from spare lumber laid flat over stacks of old crates. One of those pieces of lumber could very well have been the door that had once hung in the frame at the front of the place. Nate stepped up to the bar and knocked on it.
    â€œHelp yerself to a beer,” shouted a muscular fellow standing behind the bar at the opposite end.
    Nate leaned over, found a mug and filled it from a tap. The brew was cloudy and smelled vaguely of orange peels. His first sip wasn’t easy to get down, but the beer was potent enough to make him want to come back for seconds. After a few more gulps, the bitter citrus taste started to grow on him.
    â€œWhat brings you to the Straight, friend?” the bartender asked as he made his way over to stand in front of Nate. “Hopefully it ain’t a lack of funds because you owe me for that beer you’re drinking.”
    â€œThe fellow at the corral sent me,” Nate told him.
    â€œWho? Fatty?”
    â€œSounds about right.”
    â€œThen your beer’s on the house. At least,” the barkeep added, “the first one. The second one’s double the price.”
    â€œI’m here looking for a man named Stan Jessowitz. You know him?”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œAnd perhaps,” Nate said as he shifted aside his coat to reveal the Remington holstered over his midsection, “I’m getting awfully tired of arguing what should be some pretty damn simple points.”
    The barkeep smiled nervously. “I was only joking about charging you double for the second beer.”
    â€œAll right. Now what about this Jessowitz fellow?”
    â€œThat’d be him right over