The Cassidy Posse (9 page)

“Then we wouldn’t be friends for long or in business. Men are arrogant bastards.”

“Tough to live without them though,” she said with a wink. “Whose our new waiter here? A face like a Greek god and well-built too.”

“Good evening lad-ies,” he said with what sounded close to a French accent, “I yam Henri and I weel be serving you tonight. ‘ave you yet had a chance to look ovair the menu?”

“No, not really,” said Nell, picking it up and giving it a cursory glance.

“Would you lad-ies care to ord-air a cocktail first?”

“Sure, Henri, you talked us into it,” said Edith. “Bring us a bottle of wine.”

“And what kind of wine would that be?” Henri asked sarcastically. “red or white?”

“A bottle of Imperial ‘78,” said Nell curtly, wiping the smug look off his face.

“Geez, kid, that stuff’s expensive,” said Edith after Henri had left the table.

“Edith, expensive is Dom Perrion,” said Nell condescendingly. “Besides, tonight is a special night for me… for both of us.”

“Why?”

“Tonight, my friend, I’m going to make you the deal of a lifetime,” said Nell, looking at Edith and smiling confidently.

“I always get nervous when other people say they are going to do me a favor.”

The offer was interrupted when a waiter brought their champagne. He poured it carefully as to not produce too many bubbles. He then placed it in a silver server and left.

“It’s time for me to get out of the business,” said Nell. “I have other options right now that could take me all the way to the… could significantly better my position, shall we say.”

“Geez, that sounds great,” said Edith with a gracious smile. “I’m happy for you.”

Nell was surprised. She had expected more surprise. More protest. Maybe, she thought, Edith had sensed it coming. It was going so well Nell decided to make a last second adjustment on her offer. No need to be foolishly generous.

“I’ll sell you my half of the business for $60,000,” said Nell with an air of self-confidence. “The buildings, the grounds and all the action.”

Edith thought for a moment. “Make it $50,000 and you have a deal.”

“Deal,” said Nell, concealing a smirk. That was going to be her starting offer originally. “I’ll even throw in the Hanson carriage.”

“Are you throwing in the bill for tonight?” joked Edith.

“Sure. Why not.”

Henri, their waiter, worked his way though the crowded room to their secluded table.

“Are you lad-ies going to or-dair Hors d’oeuvres?”

“No, we will go right to the entrees,” said Nell. “I will have the
filets de sole au vin blanc
.” She had concluded her business and Nell saw no reason to draw out the evening.

“Run a match over a New York strip for me, would you, honey,” said Edith.

“Does that mean ma-dam wishes it rare?”

“That’s right, cupcake.”

Nell knew that Edith was annoyed by the fact that she was not able to order off the menu and fit in. This was beyond Edith’s ability so she chose to make a mockery of fine dining. It didn’t matter now. Soon she and Edith would be moving in quite different circles. Edith would soon be one of those shadowy figures from her past that she would have to worry about surfacing as she ascended socially. If Edith chose to cause trouble, she would be dealt with.

Henri brought the entrees and they dined in relative silence. It would be their last supper together. Edith looked up at her occasionally and smiled.

“Is tomorrow alright to meet with the lawyer?” Nell asked.

“Lawyer. What lawyer?”

“To transfer the deed to the property and take care of the legal matters.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Edith. “That would be fine.”

“You seem nervous tonight, dear,” said Nell soothingly. “Did I spring all this on you too suddenly?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Sure. I’m gonna have to be doing it all now. That’s gonna be a big change.”

Nell sat back in her chair and surveyed the room holding her glass of champagne loosely in her hand. “You did it all before I came along. Just not on such a grand scale.”

She motioned for Henri to bring the check and told him to have their carriage sent around. She always paid in cash. They never had a question about that.

As they walked out, she could feel the eyes of the self-righteous upon her. She always turned their way and smiled. It drove them crazy.

Nell and Edith stepped out onto Monroe Street into a blustery Chicago evening. A chilled wind forced Nell and Edith to wrap their shawls around themselves tighter as they waited for their carriage. A yellow-wheeled Kimball Drag rounded the corner being pulled by four matched Chestnuts. They realized they were standing under the canopy with the very fashionable and eligible Mr. Chatfield-Taylor. They gossiped like schoolgirls as they inspected his escort for the evening. Their elegant black lacquered carriage was not far behind. Drawn by four black horses, it looked beautiful as it shimmered on the wet street in the glow of the gaslights. Just as Edith was about to board, her nephew, a young man of loose morals, approached her. They had used him and his small comical crony on occasion for distasteful assignments.

“Nell, do you mind going on home without me?” asked Edith. “Clarence got caught stealin’ and I have to go make his bail.”

“We can swing by the police station and get him out,” said Nell.

“Don’t bother,” she shouted as her nephew pulled her away. “You know how it goes. Once those cops see it’s us, they’ll drag it out all night just to mess with us.”

“Okay,” Nell waved as she got inside the carriage and closed the door shutting out the elements.
Walter
, she thought,
yes, that was the taller one’s name
. Her nephew was named Walter. And Clarence was known by a nickname. Binky. Edith’s nephew was Walter and his friend was Binky. One was more disreputable than the other. When they were just starting out and desperate, she would run to the window after a rich client had left and signal Binky as to where the unsuspecting mark kept his wallet. She had actually stood in the window and grabbed her tit if he kept it in his coat pocket or her ass if he kept it in his pants pocket. Walter and Binky would always set the mark up a few blocks away from the Palace so he did not suspect. The impressive-looking Walter, always suitably dressed, would stop the gentleman for directions and the dexterous Binky, always playing the fool, would run into him and relieve the mark of his wallet.

God, she was crazy back then. It had been a lot of fun. The excesses of youth filled the days with excitement. It was like she exploded from her strict Catholic upbringing. She did not like to think what those two characters had on her.

The carriage made a right turn and the glow of the street lights disappeared. She pulled back the curtain of the carriage window and saw garbage cans and litter. They were in an alley.

“Driver,” she yelled angrily, “Where in the hell are you going?”

“Just pulling over a second to adjust the rigging,” he answered but he did not stop.

She did not recognize the voice as one of the regular driver’s. It was very deep and low. She had heard that voice before. That afternoon. Fear rushed through her body like a prairie grass fire. She threw open the door and was looking for a soft spot to land when the carriage came to an abrupt stop. She launched herself out the door and was free for a brief moment before a huge hand came over the top of the carriage and caught her in midair. The huge hand closed around her throat and pulled her back towards the carriage. Nell clawed at the thick fingers with both hands as the life was crushed out of her. Her new satin shoes kicked helplessly against the polished lacquer side of the carriage. In a few minutes, the thrashing stopped and the huge hand released Nell’s lifeless body. It fell to the pavement and rolled into the garbage of the backstreets of Chicago.

Mike and Patrick moved as old men down the muddy main street of Rock Springs. Their bodies did not easily forgive the torture of several days extended rail travel in standard coach.

“I feel like somebody hit me in the back with a two-by-four,” said Patrick.

“Quit yer belly aching and help me tuh find the Marshal’s office,” said Mike, grimacing with each step.

“How hard can it be? This looks like the only street with any businesses on it.”

They walked the plank sidewalk along an unimpressive line of wooden facade buildings until they stood in front of one that boasted of a lady barber. A freshly-shaven man exited looking quite content with a shave and haircut that was enhanced by the temporary feminine company.

“Hey, buddy, where can I find Marshal Parker?” asked Mike.

He gave them a cursory glance and pointed to a solitary two-story building. “You’ll find the Marshal’s office just past the hotel.”

“Thank you,” said Patrick.

The man nodded politely and then put on his hat to protect his close-shaven head from the chilly spring breeze that blew down the open street. They held their overcoats closed at their throats as they walked along. Mike looked up at the dust blowing off the tops of the barren hills that surrounded the town.

“I thought Chicago was duh windy city,” he said, grabbing his Derby hat before a sudden gust blew it away. They pushed open the door to the Marshal’s office and began knocking the dust off before they introduced themselves.

“Wind’s pickin’ up a little this afternoon,” commented the large-framed, middle-aged man leaning back casually in a big wooden chair. He had his feet propped up on a nail barrel to keep them nice and warm against the pot-bellied stove that dominated the small room. There was a mangy-looking dog lying as if dead beneath his outstretched legs. A deputy, who was sitting on a desk next to the two empty cells, eyed them with curiosity. He resembled the broad-faced marshal only he was smaller and several years younger.

“George,” the congenial Marshal said to his deputy, “get these gentlemen some chairs and a cup of coffee so they can warm up by the fire. My guess is they came all the way from Chicago. Let’s show them some hospitality.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” said Patrick, settling into the chair and accepting the cup of coffee.

“I’ll stand,” said Mike. “I been sittin’ fer two days.”

“You must be Detective McGhan,” said the marshal pulling his legs off the barrel and rising to shake hands. “Did yah get my telegram?”

“That I did,” said Mike.

“I got several telegrams myself since then,” the Marshal continued. “One from the Governor of Wyoming himself urging me to give you the utmost support.”

“That is good to hear,” Mike replied.

“Yes it is. When that young feller killed Theodore Carver’s wife, he bought himself a pack of trouble. You don’t do something against the big boys. They are pretty well-connected. Yep, this young Sean, uh…”

“Daugherty,” said Patrick helpfully.

“Yep, Daugherty,” repeated the Marshal, extending his hand to Patrick without finishing his thought. “And who might you be, young man?”

“That’s me nephew, Patrick,” Mike interjected. “He wasn’t supposed tuh be here but he’s got a few connections ov his own.”

“I’ll be damned,” laughed the deputy, “Pat and Mike. We been hearing jokes about you guys for years.”

“We’re nothin’ tuh joke with,” Mike said irritably.

“George,” said the Marshal. “Why don’t you get Butch? I told him to wait over in the barn at the livery stable. Tell him to use the back door.”

“The other George Parker,” the deputy said sarcastically. He pushed himself off the desk again and ambled out the door.

“Please excuse my brother,” apologized the Marshal. “He rubs people the wrong way on occasion.”

“Who’s this other George Parker he went to get?” asked Mike.

“When Butch came to town he was called George Parker, same as my brother. Since both of them have a talent for trouble, folks had a hard time figurin’ who did what. My brother still thinks he did it on purpose as a joke. After a while he became Ed Cassidy. Since he worked for old man Gottsche cutting up beef, people started callin’ him Butch. Course there was talk he brought a lot of experience to the job haven’ been cuttin’ up other peoples’ beef for years.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed as he got the drift of the remark. “So this is the Cassidy yuh was referrin’ to in yer telly-gram. This here’s the fella that can get me in and out ov anyplace. What’s his real name?”

“Don’t really know for sure,” said the Marshal lounging back in his chair. “Out here names are funny things. You might meet the same feller three times and each time there’s a different name attached to the same face.”

“Why would that be?” Patrick inquired.

“Aliases,” Mike said knowingly.

“Yes, that’s it, son,” the Marshal sighed. “The West has got a lot of places for a man on the run to get lost.”

“So what’s this Cassidy runnin’ from?” asked Mike. “Is there any more on him than helping himself tuh cattle that ain’t his?”

“He answers the description on a warrant for a Robert Leroy Parker who was involved in a bank holdup a few years back. But, after he saved my ass in a saloon fight, I stopped wonderin’ about the matter.”

“I dun’t get it,” said Mike. “Why would uh guy whose probably lookin’ at jail time want tuh help us?”