Louisiana Laydown by Jon Sharpe

time. Their gowns alone must have cost a small fortune, and each of them had her hair and makeup done just right. Out here, they were expected to look and act like ladies.
    Upstairs, Fargo knew, they were expected to be something else entirely.
    Several of them openly beckoned to him or called out greetings as he and Tommy crossed the room. They reached the table, and it didn’t take a trained eye to tell that Tommy’s father was extremely angry. Not knowing who, precisely, the man was angry with, Fargo decided to keep his peace and see what the man had to say first.
    “Sit down, boy,” he said. “Are you all right?”
    “I’ll be fine, sir,” Tommy said. “Thanks to—”
    “Mr. Skye Fargo,” the man said, standing up. “I’ve heard.” He stuck out one large, meaty hand the size of a grizzly’s paw and Fargo shook hands with him. The man wasn’t much taller than he was, but he was built like a keg of ten-penny nails. On top of that, he was clearly intelligent, with sharp eyes that took him in and assessed him in a glance.
    “News must travel fast in these parts, Mr. Anderson, ” Fargo said. “We came straight here after that little . . . ruckus up the street.”
    The man laughed and shook his head. “Call me Tom,” he said. “Or Mayor, if you like. Everyone around here does. Thanks for helping out my son.”
    “Then I’m Fargo,” he said. “And you’re welcome. It wasn’t a fair fight.”
    “They never are around here, Fargo,” Tom said. “That’s the sorry truth of it. I’m still waiting on word for who those two worked for—Beares or Parker. Maybe both.” He tossed his hands up in the air in a futile gesture, then signaled to one of the girls.
    She came over and he ordered a pitcher of beer. “I’ll be honest with you, Fargo. I’m at my wit’s end. Storyville is coming apart at the seams and if something isn’t done soon, the whole damn thing is going to come crashing down around us.”
    Fargo looked at the man sitting across from him, then said, “It doesn’t seem like a great place to live. Hell, I haven’t been in town six hours and I’ve already lost everything I own.”
    “What?”
    “Someone stole his horse and his gear, sir,” Tommy said. “When he jumped off to help me.”
    “Bah!” Tom said. He whistled sharply and two men that Fargo, even with his keen eye, hadn’t noticed before, came stepping forward out of the shadows beneath the stairs. “What kind of horse?” he asked.
    “An Ovaro,” Fargo said.
    Tom nodded, and when the two men reached the table, he stood up and spoke to them in hushed whispers. They both said, “Yes, sir,” then left the bar in a hurry.
    “You’ll get your horse back, Fargo,” Tom said. “And all your gear. It’s the least I can do for you lending a hand to the boy.”
    “Tommy,” the boy said.
    “I’d be much obliged,” Fargo said, “but it’s a big city, and I’m sure it’s all long gone by now.” Mentally, he was damn thankful he kept his money in his belt where it was safe.
    The elder Anderson laughed again. “Fargo, there isn’t a penny stolen in this parish that I don’t know about, nor a secret whispered that I can’t ferret out. That’s why I’m the mayor of Storyville.” He slugged back a long pull on his glass of beer, then added, “But I’ll be damned if I know how long it’s going to last.”
    There was a man like Anderson in every hamlet, town, and city in the country. The man who ran things. Sometimes he worked behind the scenes; sometimes he worked right out in front as a politician. It didn’t matter. He was the man you went to when you needed to navigate the politics of a place. He was the man you went to when you wanted to get rid of an enemy. He was the man you went to when events made you plead for your life. And you crossed him at your peril.
    Anderson here didn’t try to impress Fargo with his importance. His importance was in the air. Every molecule in Storyville was in his control. Or