“Well, Alberto,” Cal Hotchkiss said to the balding off-duty ranger, shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, “that’s your opinion.”
The four men around the table were not looking at each other. They watched the cards in their hands as though nude women were painted on the fronts of the cards, instead of the backs. They were not wreathed in smoke—the riverboat casinos did not allow smoking in private suites—but three of them chewed on unlit cigars. Cal Hotchkiss preferred his toothpick.
“It’s not an opinion,” the tall black man in the black hat chimed in. “There’s no hippos in California. No rivers. No marshes. Means no hippos.”
The men accepted cards from the dealer, who kept his eyes downcast as he slid them across the felted top of the table. They slid the cards into their hands, muttering to each other about the Sacramento River and whether it featured marshes; none of them knew, and Cal declined to educate them. Alberto sniffed. He leaned toward the window, holding onto his grey felt hat, and spat a thick stream of tobacco into the water. A moment later, a soft splash sounded.
“You know what they do have in California?” The man in the black hat took a sip from the mint julep that rested on the felt in front of him. “Adelia Reyes.”
For a moment, none of the men seemed to breathe. The only sound was the creaking of the giant wheel that propelled the riverboat slowly forward.
The moment passed.
“Never heard of her,” Alberto said. “Edvard, you heard of her?”
The fourth man at the table—a squat Swede in a bolo tie—shook his head. “If I had heard of her, I sure as shit wouldn’t want to hear of her again.”
Cal Hotchkiss didn’t say anything at all. He laid out his cards. The rest of the men at the table seemed to exhale as one as they each acknowledged defeat. Cal reached out one long arm and hooked it around the pile of chips in the center of the felt, reeling in his winnings. He lifted his bowler with one hand and ran his fingers through his damp, white-blond hair. The breeze coming in from the open window just behind his chair ruffled the fine wisps of his moustache. “Well, gentlemen. I win again.” He lifted his hat high in the air, and a dark, doe-eyed waitress wearing a breathtakingly low-cut corset slid over. She leaned close to him, her perfume wafting around the table.
“Yes, Mr. Hotchkiss?”
“I’d like a drink, Cordelia. And then I’d like for you to come and sit in my lap.”
“Right away, Mr. Hotchkiss.”
She walked out of the small room to fetch a drink from the main floor of the casino, and the other men at the table watched her go—all of them except for the man in the black hat.
“Going to take her to bed with you, Cal?”
“Nah.” Cal shrugged, slipping his winnings into the pockets of his jacket. He looked sharply at the man in the black hat. “Mr. Travers wouldn’t like it.”
The man in the black hat smiled. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Cal Hotchkiss. Name’s Gran Carter, U.S. marshal.” He flipped up his jacket to reveal the silver star that hung from his belt buckle.
“I know who you are.”
“Then maybe you know why I’m here.”
“Maybe I don’t give a shit.”
The pit boss walked past the doorway and the dealer made eye contact with him. A moment later, the dealer had melted away from the table, leaving the four men alone with the dregs of their drinks. Alberto turned to Gran Carter. He was more than a little drunk. “Look here, Mister Marshal, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong here no how, an’ I’ve got a badge too, see, I’m a ranger for the Bureau of Lan’ Management, an’ I fancy I’ve got even more pull here than the likes of—”
Gran Carter clapped Alberto on the back hard enough that he choked midsentence. “You’re alright by me, friend. I’m not here for you, and I’m not here for the casino, and I’m not here to stop Mr. Travers from throwing cheats into the river. Hell, I’m not even here to make Mr. Hotchkiss shave that embarrassment of a moustache.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. All of the men around the table reacted instantly, drawing pistols and pointing them at the U.S. marshal in the broad black hat.
“Woah there,” he said, holding up his hands. In one of them, he held a photograph. The men around the table put their guns away—all except Cal, who merely lowered his to the table. He kept one hand on the gun. The other hand reached up unconsciously to stroke his patchy blond moustache. At that moment, Cordelia arrived with a tray and handed a glass of honey-brown liquor to Cal. She perched in his lap like a cat sitting on a fence post, her eyes fixed upon his unholstered revolver.
Carter set the photograph on the table and slid it toward the center of the felt. “That there’s Miss Adelia Reyes, gentlemen. I happen to know that she was on the Harriet eight or nine months ago, and I’m guessing she talked to some people here. She owes me a conversation. I’d be much obliged if y’all’d look over that photograph and tell me if you’ve seen her.”
None of the men took the photograph, but their eyes all locked onto it the same way they’d been watching their cards before the game had ended. The sepia photograph showed a woman with burnished bronze skin and the cool, steady gaze of a contract killer. She stared out of the photo with hawkish, predatory eyes; a tattoo of a thorny vine coiled its way up the side of her neck and into her hair.
“Well,” said Edvard. “I think I’d remember it if I ever saw a lady like that. What’d she do that a marshal’s looking for her?”
Alberto rubbed a thick rope of scar tissue on the back of his left arm. “I’d imagine she killed a man.”
Carter looked at Alberto with that unwavering smile. “You’d imagine right.”
Cordelia leaned over the table to look at the picture, then opened her mouth as if to speak. Cal Hotchkiss rested his hand on her hip, his grip tight. She closed her mouth without speaking.
“Well,” Carter said, pushing back from the table and standing without taking the photograph. “I’ll be around if you need me.”
Edvard and Alberto stood together and walked over to the bar, shooting glances at Carter as he sauntered toward the exit. Cal watched him walk away, then stood. Cordelia toppled from his lap. He grabbed a wad of cash from the center of the table and thrust it at her. “For the drink. And the company. Go on and tell ’em downstairs that I’ll be along shortly to pick up my Betsy.”
“No need,” a cheerful voice rang out from just behind them. “I’ve already moved her into a paddock for some quality time with my Ruby.”