had been anyway. Fargo sensed that something had gone wrong in Anderson’s fiefdom. He sensed not only a slight confusion in the man—Anderson wasn’t used to being challenged—he also saw in the gray eyes a real anger. Somebody had crossed him indeed. And whether they knew it or not, they were living at his mercy.
Fargo waited the man out, and after a long minute of silence, Tom said, “If you’re half of what old H.D. says, maybe you can help me. Hell, maybe you can save us all.”
5
For nearly an hour, Fargo sat and listened while Tom Anderson told the story of his rise to power as the mayor of Storyville. He’d started off with the very saloon they were sitting in, and not long after, he’d added the “lady companions,” which seemed like an awful fancy way of saying whores, until Anderson explained that there were many wealthy men and tourists who came to New Orleans every day.
“Some come for business, or the horse races, or even to invest in the riverboat business,” Anderson said. “But all of them like to have sex and they’ll pay top dollar for the kind of girls I employ.”
“So what’s gone wrong?” Fargo asked.
Anderson sighed. “Everything,” he said. “First, Senator David Parker from Winn Parish—which borders this one—came in here, talking on the one hand about cleaning up the city, making it respectable, while on the other, he was financing places like Hattie Hamilton’s Blue Emporium and lining his own pockets at the same time. Then Senator Richard Beares followed suit, bringing our own Catahoula Parish into the fight.”
“And the newspapers,” Fargo guessed. “Attention you didn’t want, but the politicians crave.”
Anderson nodded. “Exactly so,” he said. “So now there’re three of us vying for control of Basin Street, but I don’t hang my head in shame when I talk about what I do. I’ve built most of this area up from nothing. When I first got here, what fire hadn’t gutted, the swamp was trying to take back. Now, there are businesses, jobs, trade—it’s a real community.”
“A real dangerous one,” Fargo said. “It’s not a pretty place, at least as far as I’ve seen.”
“No, it’s not pretty. But it’s more than what it was. If those two get their way, all of the brothels will go underground, and the blue book trade will be legally banned. These girls won’t be working in a decent place like mine. They’ll be on their backs in the alleys, taking whoever will service them for two bits and a bite to eat.”
“You don’t paint a pretty picture,” Fargo said. “But what about the poker game?”
Anderson started in surprise. “How’d you know about . . .” His voice trailed off. “Are you working for one of those bastards?”
“I met Parker on the riverboat, coming down from St. Louis,” Fargo said. “He told me about the game, offered me a job.”
“What kind of a job?” Anderson asked, his voice filled with suspicion.
“Told me he wanted me to keep an eye on things, keep things fair, watch out for cheating, that sort of thing,” he said. “He offered a pretty damn good wage, too.”
“I just bet he did,” Anderson said. “But you can be damn sure that there’s something in it for him, if he asked you. David Parker would skin a starving cat for a new pair of gloves if he liked the color of its mangy fur.”
“He sort of strikes me that way, too,” Fargo said. “But a man in my position can’t afford to turn down money like he was offering.”
“If you do what he says—keep the game fair—then you’ll have earned your wage and then some,” Anderson said. “I think the whole thing is some kind of setup. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, David Parker is one smart fella. He likes to gamble—loves it, in fact—but he also likes to win. Out at the racetrack, the odds change when he takes a seat in the clubhouse. This game was his idea. We’d all sit down, play a
Fargo waited the man out, and after a long minute of silence, Tom said, “If you’re half of what old H.D. says, maybe you can help me. Hell, maybe you can save us all.”
5
For nearly an hour, Fargo sat and listened while Tom Anderson told the story of his rise to power as the mayor of Storyville. He’d started off with the very saloon they were sitting in, and not long after, he’d added the “lady companions,” which seemed like an awful fancy way of saying whores, until Anderson explained that there were many wealthy men and tourists who came to New Orleans every day.
“Some come for business, or the horse races, or even to invest in the riverboat business,” Anderson said. “But all of them like to have sex and they’ll pay top dollar for the kind of girls I employ.”
“So what’s gone wrong?” Fargo asked.
Anderson sighed. “Everything,” he said. “First, Senator David Parker from Winn Parish—which borders this one—came in here, talking on the one hand about cleaning up the city, making it respectable, while on the other, he was financing places like Hattie Hamilton’s Blue Emporium and lining his own pockets at the same time. Then Senator Richard Beares followed suit, bringing our own Catahoula Parish into the fight.”
“And the newspapers,” Fargo guessed. “Attention you didn’t want, but the politicians crave.”
Anderson nodded. “Exactly so,” he said. “So now there’re three of us vying for control of Basin Street, but I don’t hang my head in shame when I talk about what I do. I’ve built most of this area up from nothing. When I first got here, what fire hadn’t gutted, the swamp was trying to take back. Now, there are businesses, jobs, trade—it’s a real community.”
“A real dangerous one,” Fargo said. “It’s not a pretty place, at least as far as I’ve seen.”
“No, it’s not pretty. But it’s more than what it was. If those two get their way, all of the brothels will go underground, and the blue book trade will be legally banned. These girls won’t be working in a decent place like mine. They’ll be on their backs in the alleys, taking whoever will service them for two bits and a bite to eat.”
“You don’t paint a pretty picture,” Fargo said. “But what about the poker game?”
Anderson started in surprise. “How’d you know about . . .” His voice trailed off. “Are you working for one of those bastards?”
“I met Parker on the riverboat, coming down from St. Louis,” Fargo said. “He told me about the game, offered me a job.”
“What kind of a job?” Anderson asked, his voice filled with suspicion.
“Told me he wanted me to keep an eye on things, keep things fair, watch out for cheating, that sort of thing,” he said. “He offered a pretty damn good wage, too.”
“I just bet he did,” Anderson said. “But you can be damn sure that there’s something in it for him, if he asked you. David Parker would skin a starving cat for a new pair of gloves if he liked the color of its mangy fur.”
“He sort of strikes me that way, too,” Fargo said. “But a man in my position can’t afford to turn down money like he was offering.”
“If you do what he says—keep the game fair—then you’ll have earned your wage and then some,” Anderson said. “I think the whole thing is some kind of setup. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, David Parker is one smart fella. He likes to gamble—loves it, in fact—but he also likes to win. Out at the racetrack, the odds change when he takes a seat in the clubhouse. This game was his idea. We’d all sit down, play a
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