Place has turned into a fucking sanctuary,” Wolfson said.
I shrugged.
“It’s not just whores now,” he said. “Anybody got trouble comes running into my saloon and waits for you to protect them.”
Wolfson was leaning on the bar near my chair, sipping whiskey. He usually drank whiskey through the evening, but it didn’t appear to make him drunk. Maybe it was how slow he sipped it.
“For crissake, some guy made a pass at Harley Porter’s wife on the street the other day and she hustles right in here to tell you.”
“I know,” I said. “Maybe if there was a sheriff or something. ”
“You’re turning into the fucking sheriff,” Wolfson said.
“Except I ain’t,” I said.
“No, you ain’t,” Wolfson said. “You work for me.”
“I do,” I said.
“Keep that clear in your mind,” Wolfson said.
I nodded, watching the room. It was full and lively, the card tables were busy, the bar was crowded. Everything was in good working order. Wolfson sipped his whiskey and looked at the room, too.
“Nice and busy,” he said.
He snorted or laughed or something like that. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“Thing makes me laugh,” he said, “is my saloon, a sanctuary, like a fucking church or something. People come to my saloon because they feel safe.”
“That’s not bad for business,” I said.
“No,” Wolfson said, and made the laugh sound again. “That’s what’s so funny. I’m busier than I ever been.”
At a card table in the middle of the room somebody lost a hand he thought he had won, and got mad and slammed his open hand down on the table. The impact knocked over a bottle of whiskey that rolled off the table and shattered on the floor. The card player whirled toward me and put both hands, palms out, in front of his chest.
“No trouble, Everett. An accident. I’ll buy a new bottle.”
“That’ll be good,” I said.
The card player walked to the bar to buy a new bottle. A Chinese man with a broom came from someplace and cleaned up the broken glass.
“Ain’t it grand how they love you, Everett,” Wolfson said.
“Ever hear of a man named Machiavelli?” I said.
“No.”
“When I was at West Point,” I said, “they made us read some things he wrote.”
“I’m not much for reading,” Wolfson said.
“One thing he said sort of stayed with me,” I said. “It’s better to be feared than loved. Because you can’t make them love you. But you can make them fear you.”
“Pretty smart fella,” Wolfson said. “So what?”
I grinned at him.
“Koy Wickman,” I said, “did not die in vain.”