Ironhorse

45

The saloon was small and cozy compared to the main room of the hotel. It was nicer, too, with velvet-covered chairs and paintings of ships and naked women. A big painting of Noah’s Ark covered at least six feet of the wall behind the bar. A bartender with a twenty-past-eight mustache and wearing black satin armbands was standing in front of the painting with his head down, reading a newspaper. The piano player and a heavyset chanteuse were set up in the center of the room, working the song louder than it needed to be worked, and somewhere, something smelled good.

“Food,” I said.

Virgil nodded as he looked around the room.

“Fancy place,” I said.

“It is.”

We could tell right away this place catered to a more exclusive clientele. There were two separate couples at the bar: one couple at one end, and another couple at the other. The whores were good-looking and acting like they were interested in what the men were saying. Sitting at a corner booth were two young men wearing expensive suits with bowlers and two older yet well-put-together whores.

“Members, I reckon.”

“Guests, maybe,” Virgil said.

For the moment, nobody in the place even paid us any attention.

“In respect to what we’ve seen of this town so far,” I said. “Seems kind of civilized.”

“Does,” Virgil said. “For a whoring facility, it most assuredly does.”

In the back, behind a set of half-closed curtains, we could see three women throwing darts, and behind them in the corner sat a few men at a card table, playing poker. One of the dart-throwing gals came from the back room and out to the bar. She was real pretty, and though she was a whore with a flower in her hair she could pass for someone proper, a teacher or a college student. She was young, straight-backed, with high cheekbones and pointed shoulders. She stopped when she saw Virgil and me.

“Oh!”

She walked over to us.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said.

Only then did the bartender look up from his newspaper.

“Evening,” we said.

“Have you two been helped?”

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Just walked in the door,” I said.

“Well, nice of you to join us.”

She smiled. Her teeth were straight and white. She pointed.

“Handsome pouch you got there, handsome,” she said. “You’re no Indian with that blond hair.”

I followed her point to Bloody Bob’s pouch I forgot was hanging from my shoulder and resting on my hip.

“Allow me to get you gentlemen something,” she said.

She turned to the bar. Virgil interrupted her.

“We are looking for Burton,” Virgil said. “Burton Berkeley.”

She smiled sweetly.

“Um, okay, may I tell him who’s calling.”

“Sure. I’m Marshal Virgil Cole; this fellow here is my deputy, Everett Hitch.”

“Oh, well, okay. Just one moment, Marshal, Deputy.”