Regulator, chapter 8
Charlie and Thorn arrive in Valle Verde and meet Maggie
Information had a way of traveling in the Old West that might seem similar to us these days.
by Frank A. Spring
Charlie’s first thought on entering the Old Farmhouse was ‘now this is more like it.’ Thorn had led them there avoiding Valle Verde’s main street and they had hitched their horses behind the building and entered through a back door, so Charlie missed the full effect of an entrance through the front double doors, but there was no denying that the Old Farmhouse was more elegant than it had any right to be. It might have actually been a homestead originally, or it might just have been built in that style; the massive front room could easily have been a grand dining room fit for entertaining the numerous family and friends of a prosperous mining engineer, or it might always have sported its long, smooth bar and handful of gaming tables.
To Charlie’s satisfaction, Thorn led them directly to the bar, where a barwoman poured two glasses of whiskey and gave a subtle nod to a young woman who’d been leaning against the stairway’s bannister in an attitude - and outfit - that suggested the Old Farmhouse’s primary income stream wasn’t liquor and gambling. The girl stretched languidly and slipped upstairs with a nonchalance that would have fooled most of the men who’d ever set foot in the place.
If Thorn saw the signal and response, he gave no sign as he approached the bar and gently placed a coin on it.
“And for yourself.”
The woman behind the bar nodded appreciatively and poured a third; they all drank.
“How are ye, Mags?” Thorn asked.
“The better for seeing you,” she said. “And yourself?”
“Right as rain, thank you. This is my associate, Mr. Charles Antrim.”
“Margaret Malone. Maggie. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Antrim.”
“Your servant, ma’am.” Charlie removed his hat.
“How’s business?” said Thorn.
“Never a dull moment,” said Maggie, smirking at a bar that was empty but for themselves and a small handful of men drinking whiskey together at a table.
“It’s early yet.” Thorn said; the barwoman nodded casually. “And how’s Herself?”
“Well enough these days,” Maggie answered, casting her eyes to the top of the stairs where, as if by clockwork, the young woman appeared and nodded down to her. “You can go on up.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, Charlie drew Thorn aside.
“When did we agree on you spraying my name to strangers?” he whispered.
That ghost of a smile again. “Mr. Antrim, these here strangers are just friends you haven’t met.”
**
The inner sanctum of the Old Farmhouse looked as if it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be the elegant sitting room of a gracious lady’s home or the office of the president of a small bank, and so had ended up as a surprisingly credible version of both. The wooden pieces were particularly fine, quality material and expert make, well-polished and dusted; less care and expense had gone into the upholstered furnishings, however, while the rug that lay under the sofa and chairs that clustered around a tea table was indistinguishable from a horse blanket.
A handsome desk presided over the whole affair, from behind which a woman rose and advanced, greeting them in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat as if they were all old friends.
“Angus. Welcome back,” she said, extending a hand. Angus returned her greeting warmly and turned to Charlie.
“Ms. Clara Laurent, my associate, Charlie Antrim. Mr. Antrim, Ms. Clara Laurent, proprietress of the Old Farmhouse.”
Charlie took her hand and gave a slight bow. “Charlie Antrim, at your service.”
“A pleasure. Please sit down, gentlemen. Will you take tea?”
Thorn moved toward a chair. “We will, ma’am.”
As Laurent went to a sideboard, Charlie stole a glance at the desk; the well, where the desk’s occupant put their legs, was shielded by a modesty panel that, on closer inspection, was obviously a cheap, flimsy addition, not part of the original desk. Sitting as he was on the cheap upholstery and with his feet on the cheap rug, Charlie would have bet anything up to his life that, suspended from the underside of the desk, a sawed-off shotgun hung in position to offer the last word on any of the differences of opinion that sometimes came up in the business world.
The clink of glass on metal brought his attention back. The tray Laurent had placed on the table held three small glasses and a decanter.
“I assume you take yours without cream and sugar,” she said as she distributed the glasses and poured the whiskey.
The sharp, sweet burn of the whiskey was familiar, and carried something with it; from the recesses of Charlie’s mind, the sound of logs crackling in an horno, and the smell of baking bread mixing with the distant scent of simmering red chile in cool mountain air.
“Taos Lightning,” he said, almost to himself.
Clara Laurent looked at him with renewed interest. “Yessir.”
“Can’t be much of this left,” Charlie said; Laurent nodded slightly.
Charlie let the taste of the whiskey and the memory linger while Laurent and Thorn exchanged news of acquaintances in a manner that was as amiable as it was impenetrable (“Tucson?” “Ended up in Leadville. Married.” “Right one?” “This time.” “He ever meet-“ “Nope. Took sick with the flux, died six months ago.”).
Red chile and something else, what was it? He smelled the smoke, felt the warmth of the fire and the chill on the wind. What else? Somewhere, spirited voices rose high in unison, drums beat a new dance. Posole, that was it. Christmas. He was twelve?, thirteen?, his family guests at the Buffalo Dance. They had taken their leave of their host, stepped out into the cooling twilight. His uncle surreptitiously handed him a flask. “Para el frio.” For the cold.
For a moment Charlie held the memory, but the rhythm of the drums receded in his ears and was replaced by a different one; Clara Laurent and Angus Thorn’s conversation had changed pace, sharpening, rising. They were about to get down to business.
“Before we get to Mr. Antrim’s business,” said Thorn, his voice softening, “is Waller here? Expected?”
Their hostess shook her head with a look of tenderness, almost pity. “I’m sorry, no; we don’t look for him for another fortnight.”
Thorn deflated slightly.
“Will I give him a message for you?” Laurent asked gently. “Would you rather write it out?”
He straightened and his dark eyes flashed. “No, ma’am,” Thorn said, “I’m happy to just tell it you. Please give him my dear love and wishes to see him soon.”
“Yessir,” Clara smiled, and turned to Charlie. “Mr. Antrim, thank you for your patience. Old friends can be tiresome company to new ones.”
Charlie politely waved this off, and considered his hostess. Strong features, sharp eyes - a model of genteel courtesy, but this probably wasn’t the first set of cheap upholstery and rugs this office had seen. Paler than seemed quite right, as well, but she didn’t move or breathe like a lunger. Thorn clearly trusted her and expected Charlie to do the same, but good first impressions only went so far, even with a charitable soul such as himself.
“Forgive my ignorance, Madam Laurent, but what exactly is it that you do here?” He cut off her growing smile. “I don’t mean downstairs or in the rooms down the hall. A lot of folks do that. Mr. Thorn brought me here for a purpose. You do something else. I’d like to know what it is.”
Clara Laurent cocked an eye at Thorn, who shrugged amiably. She turned her gaze back to Charlie.
“People say things in saloons. They say even more in whorehouses, sometimes to impress a girl, sometimes just in passing.”
Charlie had once watched in something near awe as a striking miner told his small crew (which, to the miner’s later chagrin and deep regret, included Charlie) the details of a plan to raid and fire a company supply warehouse while a barmaid was standing next him and pouring them all whiskey. The saloon wasn’t their saloon. The barmaid wasn’t sister or wife or even friend to any of them. The fool just hadn’t paid her any mind at all; she might as well have been part of the furniture. The idiot turned out to have bigger problems than eavesdropping barstaff - namely, the Pinkerton agent sitting across the table from him drinking whiskey he’d paid for - but the point stood.
“Sometimes it’s more transactional,” Laurent continued, “when people have valuable things to say and they’re smart enough to know it.”
“There’s that much to say about what happens around Valle Verde?”
“You ever been to Wichita, Mr. Antrim?”
“Not for some time.”
“Then you might not have seen a little place, lot like this one, called The Jewel?”
“I must have missed it.”
“The proprietor - proprietress, if you want to be precise - was here with me for a long stretch. Taught her how to do this work and do it right; helped her get started in Wichita. A few of my girls have their own places like that, here and there. They have people who tell them things, and they tell me.”
“And you tell other people,” said Charlie. “For a fee.”
“I offer a subscription service,” said Laurent.
“Your own little newspaper,” Charlie said.
“It ain’t all the news that fit to print, not hardly, but useful things come our way from time to time. And if you’ve got a thing you’re looking to find, specifically…not to brag, but that’s where we tend to shine.”
Charlie considered. Whorehouses came in different sizes, from single tents in mining camps to the near-palatial establishments, grander even than the Old Farmhouse, that graced boom towns. Even the modest-sized ones had more staff and traffic than a casual observer might expect; women, obviously, of all sorts, men, too, sometimes for customers and always for security and muscle work, children to sweep up and send out on the street to hawk the services of their “sister” or “cousin”. Add liquor and gambling, among other attractions, and the cast and crew of such an establishment grew even more - dealers and barmen and musicians and dancers and suppliers and god knows who else, and virtually any one of them capable of moving through the world unnoticed and almost undetected, no-account people up to no-account business. Eyes and ears. It was worth a shot.
“Is this subscription service available to the Pinkerton Detective Agency?” Charlie asked.
“It is not,” Laurent said flatly, leaving Charlie briefly out of countenance. “But Mr. Thorn is a subscriber. He’s free to do what he likes with whatever information we can provide.”
Charlie shrugged and nodded in answer to Thorn’s questioning glance, and Thorn rendered a concise version of what they already knew about the Plainview robbery.
“I’m afraid I can’t offer you any staggering insights,” Laurent said when Thorn finished. “You’ve got most of them. The O’Connell Brothers were seen keeping company with Barker Falk a couple of months back; wouldn’t surprise me if he were part of this.” Thorn grunted in affirmation. “And those boys typically run with Arkansas Bill Clements.” Thorn whistled softly.
“Arkansas Bill is a hard man to kill,” said Thorn.
“And a lot have tried,” said Laurent.
“I shot himself at one point,” Thorn agreed. “Didn’t take.”
Charlie turned to Laurent. “Can you make inquiries? Subtle inquiries.”
Laurent smiled. “Mr. Antrim, subtle is all we do.”
“And how long will it take to hear back?”
“The ones in towns with telegraph offices, I’ll hear back from before you finish the nap you so desperately need,” Laurent said. “Longer for the others. Few days, in most cases.”
“Alright. Send to know if anyone’s seen this gang,” said Charlie. “And the girls. I want to know about the girls. Send their descriptions. See if any of your friends know anything about them.”
Laurent gave Thorn a bemused, questioning look. Thorn spread his hands. “It’s his nickel.”
Sleep bore down on Charlie like a waterfall. “And since I’ve done such a poor job of concealing my fatigue, ma’am,” he said, rising, “I believe I’ll impose on you for a place to stretch out.”
“Of course.” Laurent directed him to a room. “Would you like some company?” There was a pause, then she smiled broadly at Charlie’s glazed expression. “I wasn’t offering personally.”
Charlie covered his awkwardness - there might have been a time when he could have gotten off a witty rejoinder but this sure as hell wasn’t it - with a grunt and bowed. “Your servant, ma’am,” he said.
Laurent gave a small incline of her head, then turned to Thorn. “Any idea when he’ll get here?”
“Not so long that we’ll be delayed, I expect,” said Thorn.
Charlie was halfway out the door and his mind was already all the way in bed, his aches fading, his muscles relaxing; it wasn’t until his body achieved that exact state that his mind allowed itself one final question before sleep engulfed him - “who exactly is ‘He’?”
Subscribe to The Experiment to keep up with future chapters of Regulator. Check out Frank Spring’s previous contributions to The Experiment which include “Neither Gone Nor Forgotten,” “Oh, DaveBro,” and “In Praise of Gold Leaf.” For legal reasons, I want to make clear that Frank Spring owns the rights to Regulator, free and clear. Follow him on Twitter at @frankspring.
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