My ever-drunker neighbor half raised his glass of bourbon to me. I took a sip and nearly choked. It took all my concentration not to gasp at the burning, searing sensation. I’d have to get better at that. Any man in possession of his faculties could easily see I wasn’t used to strong drink. Tonight, this one’s faculties were thoroughly drowned, but that was luck on my part, not skill. If I made it through this night, I’d put it on my list of things to learn.
Finally, one of Heck’s men eased out of the booth. As I’d hoped, he came toward the bar, into the larger-than-usual space on my far side. He flagged down the bartender and rattled off a complicated order. As soon as he was done and his elbow was resting on the bar next to me, I ignored my marinated neighbor, as I’d planned, and leaned over toward him, my décolletage almost spilling out onto his arm.
“Evening,” I said.
He nodded back silently. He was a striking man, with blue eyes like ice under his thick black brows, but there was something cruel about his face. Something cold. Locked away.
I’d have to generate enough warmth for both of us. “Say,” I nearly purred, inclining my head toward the booth, “would you mind introducing me to your friends there?”
“Yes, I’d mind very much,” he said, turned square toward the bar, and then ignored me as if someone were paying him a goodly sum to do so.
Damn it. The wrong target, I supposed, but what was I to do? I was beginning to panic in earnest. Heck was only ten feet away from me, but he might as well be ten miles if I couldn’t get myself into his orbit. I had it all planned out. Delicate fingers laid on his arm. Breathless, admiring questions. He was known as a boaster with an eye, and other parts, for the ladies. If I was in the right place at the right time—which I was so, so close to being—I could get him to boast to me. Then I’d have what Pinkerton wanted, and in turn, he’d give me what I wanted: a position as the first female operative of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, at full salary.
But it all depended on Heck, and to get to him, I had to get through this man-shaped woodcut first. And all he was doing was staring at the barkeep, waiting.
We stayed like that a few minutes. My brain worked madly, thoughts zooming and swooping around my skull, but I had no good ideas. It could all fall apart this easily. Damn it. Damn it. The drunk on my other side finally laid his head down on the bar; he’d be no help.
At last, another man rose from the booth and joined Blue Eyes, standing close to both of us. His hair was drenched with brilliantine, and his small, sad mustache was little more than a pencil line above his lip. “Boss wants to know what’s taking so long.”
“See for yourself,” said the taller one, inclining his head in the direction of the culprit, who was hard at work pouring coppery brown liquid out of a silver shaker into six matching coupes. “Ragman’s taking his sweet time.”
The new arrival inclined his head toward me. “Looks to me like you’re caught up in conversation.”
“Heavens no,” I said, pivoting my body toward his. “This clod couldn’t make conversation if I spotted him both ends of the sentence. Are you more of a…talker?”
“I could be,” he said with a wolf’s leer.
“Then perhaps I might join your party?” I smiled, but not too wide. Softly, sweetly. Let him think me a sheep.
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“No,” said the first man.
“You’re no fun,” said the second.
“That may be,” said Blue Eyes. “But no need for the boss to get distracted. There’s business to be done.”
“Aw, plenty of time for business when the sun rises,” Mustache replied. “Tonight, I think he’s more in the mood to celebrate, if you catch my drift.”
“I like to celebrate,” I said.
“I bet you do,” both men said in unison, with very different inflections.
With much clattering and fanfare, the bartender finally poured the sixth drink and pushed the glasses across the bar. Mustache immediately grabbed one in each hand. The elegant stems looked especially fragile in his fists. He carried them over to the table, where his arrival was greeted with appreciative hoots.
I assumed Blue Eyes would follow, but instead, he grabbed my elbow sharply and growled in my ear, “What are you playing at?”
“What?”
“Walk away,” he said. “Right now. Walk away.”
“No,” I hissed, but my heart pounded.
“All right, then. Come with me.”
“I’ll scream,” I said.
“You do that,” he said, cool as the far side of the pillow.
He was right. A scream would call attention my way, but what for? What man among these would rush to my side? I scanned their faces. Heck Venable and his crew were hardly the only wrongdoers here, and some were doubtless worse than mere robbers. First Eagle had been knocked over with no fatalities. There were things far worse than money to steal. I was likely better off taking my chances with Blue Eyes, as poor a prospect as that seemed.
Mustache returned for the rest of the drinks. “You helping?” he asked, clearly confused.
“Naw, you take ’em. I’ll be back in two shakes,” said the taller man, shifting his grip on my elbow around to the inside, so it looked less overtly threatening. His long, rough fingers moved over the delicate skin on my inner arm, and I couldn’t suppress a shiver.
“Oh, I see,” leered Mustache.
Annoyance crossed his face, but Blue Eyes said, “Don’t drink mine. I won’t be long.”
“Sure.”
I wished I could think of something to say to Mustache that would result in him getting me away from Blue Eyes, but my mind was a blank. I never should have taken such a risk. Never should have come here. I didn’t even protest as the taller man hauled me to my feet.