The train whistle blew and he opened his eyes, suddenly awake. A group of men, with their coats off, gathered in a corner to play a gamble at a card game he could see from his position was rigged. Snorting to himself to hide an audible laugh, he settled back on the window to fall asleep.
A moment later his eyes opened again and he walked over to the group. "Care to deal me in gentlemen?"
They all eyed him a moment. He watched how their eyes went to his watch chain, his nice suit, and the bills he had peeking purposefully out of his pocket. The man closest to him, with a cigar held to one side of his mouth, blew a stream of smoke in one direction before scooting to the side to leave room.
"We're already a couple dozen deep each if you're feeling lucky."
"I don't believe in luck." He sat down, counting out his buy in, and laid it on top of the pile before taking his cards. "I believe in skill and fate. Everything else is overrated."
"What must you think of love then?"
"Never had it, don't intend to spend my life chasing it." He plucked two cards loose. "I'll take two."
They played a few rounds, the others at the table trying to bite back their remarks when he took hand after hand from them. He watched their movements, keeping his eyes on the move for their telegraphed tells. And when they were cleaned out he pulled the pile of cash toward him.
"Seems that fate was on my side today gentlemen."
"We're still playing," The man with a cigar tapped it, now barely a stub, in the dish. "Sit down and we'll play with IOUs."
"No sir," He shook his head, "If I learned anything from what I do then I know the moment to cash out and get out."
"What is it that you do?" Another man, now tucking his empty billfold back in his pocket with the face of a man not only embarrassed but also thoroughly broke.
"Salesman."
"We're all that here." The last man, stuffing his arms through the sleeves of a jacket a size too small for him but matching the rest of the too-tight suit with straining buttons, put forward. "What do you sell?"
"Whatever's needed."
"How far around do you go?" Cigar finished his final puffs and stubbed it out, a swirl of smoke escaping like the last breath.
"I was covering the East Coast region, mostly New York and Connecticut, but I recently got transferred to the Mississippi River states. Iowa, Illinois, Missouri."
"Sounds dreadful." The broke man took his seat back. "I'd hate to be out here permanently."
"Why?"
"Because you can't sell anything to Iowans. They're stubborn, hawk-eyed, and bow-legged. These are 'people of the earth' and they're naturally suspicious of two things." The man with a straining suit ticked up his fingers. "Salesmen and outsiders."
"Then I guess I'll have to charm my way into their good graces." He took back his own coat, holding onto the seat as the train pulled to a stop at the station. "I go where the people are as green as the money and wherever they'll buy what I'm selling. I'm not picky."
"Been around a lot then?" He shrugged in answer to Cigar. "Then maybe you've heard of this guy giving us all a black eye."
"What guy?"
Broke scoffed, "If you haven't met him then lucky you. He ruins every town for anyone following him and sometimes whole counties."
"Because he out sold you?"
"Because he sells something that doesn't exist." Straining Suit sat down gingerly, as if afraid his pressured seams might split if he moved too quickly.
"What's he selling?"
"Boys' Bands." Cigar dug in his pockets for something and found another cigar he lit with a few determinedly forceful efforts from the first cigar. "A few people before him would sell guitars, mandolins, some harps maybe to the interested or overly religious, but this man sells entire bands."
"Except he doesn't. They're just concepts, ideas." Broke shook his head, "He's driven me out of no less than three counties in Ohio and five in Illinois. No one trusts us after he sweeps in, collects his money, and blows back out. Ruins the whole area."
"Does he sell them the instruments?"
"Yeah, uniforms too." Straining Suit gave a labored sigh, "I'd be worried of being anywhere east of the Mississippi if he's still on track this side of the line."
"Do they receive what they paid for?" All the men stared at him, confused. "Do the people who invest money in him get what they paid for?"
"It's all cash on delivery."
"Then," He shrugged his case in his hands, "He's as honest as anyone else and he didn't sell anything that doesn't exist."
"The point is he promises them a band, with himself as the leader, but he can't read one note from another."
He laughed, "That's not a lie then. That's good marketing."
"You seem awfully confident." Cigar called after him as he made his way to the carriage door, pulling his case behind him. "What makes you so sure this man's not a dirty crook? What puts you on John Bates's side?"
"Because," He winked at them, "I'm John Bates."
He jumped off the train as it pulled out of the station, the men pressing their faces to the window. One of them lowered his, Cigar, shouting back, "You're a shyster Bates!"
John saluted him, smiling as he turned toward the town where he landed. When he fully glimpsed it the air left him a bit. Nothing but dusty roads, green fields, and a few concentrated streets of shops greeted him with the same dour expression as the people at the station.
Picking up his bag and cracking his neck, he strode toward town.