Whatever It Takes
Chapter 9
Matt Dillon pushed the big Morgan hard, knowing the horse would get a rest on the ferry across Lake Ponchartrain. The marshal wanted to catch the last ferry into New Orleans, but also needed to feel the cool wind on his face; the sting of Kitty's slap still too painfully real. He got to the ferry dock with time to spare. Unfortunately, it was also extra time to replay his last few moments he had just spent with the woman that made his body and soul soar as well as, ache for the last twenty years. In his mind, Dillon searched her thin waif-like face. The mistress of the poker face still read like a blank page in a book, but over the years her shy lawman was able to discern the way her eyes betrayed her. Matt knew those midnight blue eyes all too well; like smoky mirrors, he could see himself, as well as everything she was feeling. There was a kind of fear in her eyes earlier he hadn't recalled ever seeing, but thought maybe that is what anger looks like in the eyes of a blind person.
This trip across the lake wasn't as restful as the first time. He had given himself a very small time frame to get things accomplished, he thought. If Doc talked Kitty into seeing him when he got back, the lawman didn't want to ruin it by not returning to Covington when he said he would. The first stop was the Queen of Hearts, hopefully to talk to Butch Steedle. Matt recalled Jacob saying that Butch was spending his days at the hospital, but working the saloon in the evenings. When the ferry docked, the steadfast marshal asked the ferry master for the simplest, most direct route to the Queen of Hearts.
Dusk was transforming into evening, and the New Orleans night life was just getting started as Matt Dillon arrived at his first destination. The Queen of Hearts was opulent in comparison to the Long Branch, and Matt could easily imagine Kitty fitting right in The saloon was just about empty, noted the tall westerner as he advanced to the bar. A skinny tired looking man with loose sandy colored hair was drying glasses, and did not spare the marshal a glance.
Matt pushed his hat back on his head commenting casually, "Evenin', is the owner around?"
The wearied barkeep continued his work; not looking at the marshal. "Which one ya lookin' for?"
"Butch Steedle," Matt replied as he took his Stetson off; placing on the bar. "I'm a friend of Kitty Russell's, from Dodge City. I'd really like to talk with him, if he's around"
The busy work stopped abruptly and the thin man behind the bar finally looked at the questioning visitor. He studied Matt's face; his eyes then shifted to the Stetson on the bar. "You must be Dillon." His chin jutted out; the edges of his mouth curled into a smile of relief, "Unfortunately, you been the center of a number o' discussions 'tween m'wife, Maisey and Kit over the past year." He put his hand out to shake Matt's. "What Kit hasn't tol' me, Maisey has. She likes ta talk, so I kinda get over informed."
Matt seemed less than enthused at the information Butch just relayed, but shook the man's hand solidly. Steedle offered the marshal a drink and Matt gladly accepted a beer, thinking it was easier to nurse through a long conversation. As he placed the mug on the bar in front of the lawman, Butch leaned forward. There was a rueful look in the barkeep's eye.
"How is she, Kit that is? I haven't seen her since she ben moved an' well... I'm not even sure she knew I was there when I did visit her." He sighed; scratching the back of his head. "Between Maisey in the hospital an' nis place, I've had m' hands full. Business has been kinda down. I 'spect our lovely ladies are more of an asset than I knew!"
Matt sensed that Steedle was going to continue chattering, but he needed to get down to business. He asked if there was somewhere the two of them could talk in private; not offering any information about Kitty. Butch said they could talk in the back room as soon as the other bartender returned from the storeroom. The tall man nodded, sipping his beer and then asked if he could talk to Maisey in the morning.
The response was less than friendly. "No, I'm sorry but absolutely not," Butch snapped tersely. "She has ben through enough an' it seems like she's just comin' around now. Lawman 'r not, just stay away from her, please. I'll tell you everything I know; everything that Maisey tol' me." The haggard man's eyes seemed defeated as he continued quietly. "I cain't lose her the way Kit has been lost! I just cain't."
That last sentence caused Matt to feel like he just had the wind knocked out of him. He didn't know how to respond, but luckily a door towards the back of the room flew open; a stocky young man entered the room with a crate of liquor. Butch didn't bother with any introductions. He told the young man he would be in the back office for a while and didn't want to be disturbed. Steedle poured himself a beer and refreshed Dillon's before escorting Matt into the quiet space.
Matt began to speak as he took a seat. "Look Steedle, I'm just trying to fill in some of the blanks. I talked to Officer McNultey yesterday and got certain information. I'm just lookin' for some proper explanations." Once the two men were settled in, Matt continued. "I know about the crime family wanting a payoff for protection, but were there actual threats to you or either of the women?"
"Ya see Matt," the uneasy man began to clarify, "there didn't need ta be a direct threat. Ummm...mind if I call ya Matt?" The lawman didn't care as long as he received some answers, so Butch proceeded. "It was common knowledge. If ya got a visit an' didn't pay up; you were in for a pack o' trouble. Kit had been friends with Hennessy, our late Police Chief, years ago; before Maisey an' I knew her, an' long before he'd gotten himself married. We jus' never imagined that the police chief would have ben gunned down in such a horrible way."
Agreeing with Steedle, marshal acknowledged he had already gained this information from his chat with McNultey. Not knowing about Kitty's supposed friendship with the now dead Chief of police seemed immaterial, even in Matt's wounded heart.
"We never expected anythin' to get so out of control." Steedle's voice was full of regret. "With Hennessey out of the picture, the Queen of Hearts became fair game, but Kit stood fast. Ya know, she can be just as head strong as she is persuasive!"
Matt returned Butch's poignant smile, with a melancholy smile of his own. After a heartbeat, the tall man mentally regrouped; beginning to ask about what exactly happened to Maisey and Kitty. Masiey's husband swallowed hard and looked away before starting this painful leg of his story.
"As usual, Kit was in one of the storerooms doin' inventory. We had one hell of a good New Years night an' ya gotta know, she's great with the books." Matt tried to keep Butch focused on the events; encouraging him on, without any excess embellishment. The man apologized and took to concentrating on recovering the facts in his weary mind.
"Honestly Matt, I don't know how or when that drifter even got into the place, but he found Kit in the storeroom, beat her up some an' then tied her to a chair. My Maisey was bringin' her a cup o' coffee. That's when he grabbed Maisey; holdin' a knife to her throat shoutin somethin' about makin' it better than a robbery. Maisey tol' me that even as he had her at knife point an' was on top o' her..." Butch shook his head trying to shed the images from his mind as he continued. "That crazy half-breed yelled threats at Kit while cutting up my wife!" The knot of nausea in the pit of Dillon's stomach formed the base for anger that began to then build. Steedle noted reluctantly, "From what I understood, he seemed to know Kit or know 'bout her."
A myriad of questions started to flood Matt's mind. He took a big swig of beer before trying to solicit answers from Steedle. "Who said he was a half-breed? How did you know, I mean did Kitty know him?"
"The police should'a known that," Butch maintained, "b'cause Kit tol' them. She was near out of her mind sayin' he was a Dog Soldier. M'be they didn't believe her, but Maisey said she heard that Leotie fella brag," the man grunted, reluctant to even speak the offender's name saying, "he didn't care if Tony paid him for the robbery, 'cause revenge and a women's flesh'll last longer 'an money. Tony Matranga's name was brought up by both Kitty and m' Maisey, as the one that hired the drifter for the job. The Matranga brothers started using vagrants lookin' for quick money to harass businesses. They're jus minor tools; easily eliminated."
"Yeah, he's dead." Matt mumbled to himself. "Look Butch, is anything known about this Leotie?" Steedle's quick negative response brought more rapid questions from the marshal. "Where are these so called vagrants recruited? I'm guessing it is a saloon. Is it walking distance from here and do you know any one that works there?" The brief rapid fire interrogation caught the lean man by surprise.
"There are a few and they aren't walkin' distance." Butch's brow furrowed; squinting his eyes. "What are ya plannin' ta do? This isn't a gunfight, this is more like a war. One man isn't gonna be able to take 'em down."
Matt clenched his jaw before speaking. "I know that Steedle. Is there a telegraph office anywhere close?" As the lawman stood, he continued talking. "I need to send a telegram." The tall man fortified himself with another big swig of beer. "And then I need the names of those saloons."
Butch shook his head; conceding to the marshal's wishes. He offered to get him a carriage after Matt said he was using Kitty's horse; warning there were people that most likely would recognize the Morgan. Matt agreed knowing that surprise needed to be on his side. Nearly drained, the haggard saloon owner gathered up some energy to locate Jacob and secure the marshal a ride. Matt propped himself at the bar, finished his drink and waited. Upon returning, Butch handed the resolute lawman a piece of paper.
"The address at the top, Urquhart St., is the telegraph office." He asserted, "The saloons are near the river, on Decatur between Dumaine and Bienville. I'm sorry to say I haven't any connections at 'em. The Bull and Mouth Inn probably sees the most action, but Matt, I need ta warn ya; it's a very tough rivah workin' crowd. Guess I don't hafta tell ya ta watch your back." Concern was apparent on the man's face. "I've taken Curly 'round back an' will take care of him for ya. Now listen, Kitty'd box m'ears if I didn't offer ya a place for the night." He smiled weakly. "Jus' so ya know."
Matt offered his hand; thanking Butch for not only the information, but one thing the lawman hadn't thought of; a bed for the night. When the horse and buggy arrived, the focused marshal set his mission. He thanked Butch again; adding he'd see the saloon owner later. What the westerner didn't know, was that he was being closely followed.
The telegraph office wasn't too far, and Matt asked the driver to wait since they would be heading to a second destination. Once inside, Dillon told the telegraph man that he needed to send a message to the War Department. The stout man with massive mutton chops and seemingly one eyebrow seated behind the counter, looked at the marshal quizzically, then replied, "Write it down." This wasn't going to be a simple message, so writing it down was not a problem; trusting the telegraph man was. Once the telegram was read by the burley worker, he stared at the tall lawman in astonishment.
"Ah you ain't from 'round here." Offering a feeble smile, he calculated, "Ummm...ya sure about sendin' this, marshal?"
Pushing his hat back on head, Matt elbowed himself up from the counter to tower over the less than relaxed ensconced man. "Is there a problem...?" The marshal waited for a reply.
"Comunichi, I mean Albert Comunichi, sir an' no there ain't a problem, marshal." The man sat there wide-eyed staring at the telegraph; his hand not even near the key.
Matt smiled; nodding reassuringly. "I'll just wait here for you to send it." The lawman was hoping he learned a thing or two about gambling from Kitty over the years and just enough about Morse Code to grass the portly man The imposing marshal managed to clear his throat, abruptly adjust his position and unobstructed the view of his gun belt from his jacket. His posturing proved effective because the poor fat fool was half way through sending the telegram and nervously apologizing for any mistakes he was making.
Sensing the message was coming to an end, Dillon continued his game. "Oh and yes I do want that reply to be sent, not forwarded, to the Covington office and delivered to Fenwick Sanitarium tomorrow. Is that clear?" He leaned over the counter; giving the seated man a piercing steel eyed look. Matt thought the pitifully startled man looked like a cow in the path of a oncoming train. "Yes sir, Mr. marshal, sir! Ain't a problem. Wuz sent just as ya wanted."
"Thanks!" Matt stated courteously, as he firmly replanted his Stetson on his head. "I appreciate your dispatching that so directly."
Climbing back into the carriage, Matt thought Kitty would be proud of what he just pulled off. In the darkness of the carriage, he sat for a moment; eyes closed imagining the redhead's boisterous laughter at his accomplishment. When the driver asked for the next stop, the image of Kitty's delight faded quickly, like a candle's extinguished flame. His resolve as well as resolution became honed; the big buggy migrated closer to the saloons near the Mississippi River. His initial plan was to pretend to be a drifter himself, but that wasn't his style. Straight forward, with the backing of the War Department was more acceptable. Butch referred to this being a war, so the War Department's involvement seemed appropriate.
Decatur Street was bustling with a cross section of Louisiana low life. Businesses were lively and spilling out into the street. He dismissed the carriage; not knowing how long this mission was going to take and still unaware that he was being watched. Matt decided to cut to the chase; going directly to the Bull and Mouth Inn. If need be, the marshal thought, he'd try the other saloons later. This particular saloon made the Bull's Head back in Dodge look nearly impeccable. The working women looked hard and tired; bearing the term 'painted lady' like nothing the lawman had ever seen in his travels. He ignored the few eager soiled doves that flocked around him, as he strutted to the busy bar; ordering a beer. The tall westerner turned; beer in hand to check out the crowd. Matt's view cut through the chaos; jumping from face to face, yet not knowing what he was looking for. When he turned around a barkeep stood eye to eye with the marshal. One look at the huge swarthy man gave rise to Matt thinking maybe this was the 'Bull' in the Bull and Mouth.
"You lookin' for someone, cowboy?" The immense man's tone was less than friendly, but then he grinned; a part between his two front yellowing teeth was big enough for an extra tooth. He smiled wickedly, "Was there a particular sportin' woman you were lookin' for?"
Matt leaned on the worn wooden bar after tipping his hat back a bit; trying to be casual. "Actually, I'm looking for anyone that might know a fella by the name of Gus Leotie. Has he ever been in here?"
The barkeep responded condescendingly. "Well what's he look like, cowboy? As you can see, we do get a big turn out here." He crossed his arms on his chest; nodding ever so slightly to someone on the other side of the room.
Matt pretended not to notice and simply replied he didn't know what the man looked like, turning slowly around to scan the room while sipping his beer. No face stood out, so he continued to stare until the man behind the bar suggested the westerner talk with some of the girls. Letting out a lustful guffaw, he continued, "They should be more familiar with the visitors first hand, than myself."
One of the girls saddled up to Matt, as if on cue. Looking at her hands, the lawman noted she was young, but a person would never been able to tell from her face. A mass of applied color attempted to hide the fact that she looked like she'd been around the corral a few too many times. She batted her close set hazel eyes; a beguiling crimson smile grew on her mouth as she began to talk in a sloppy southern drawl.
"Hi thar, ya big han'some cowboy. Ya surely look far away fr'm home." Matt cringed at yet another person that wasn't Kitty Russell, referring to him as 'cowboy.' She smoothed her obviously dyed rust colored hair chirping, "Are ya lookin' fer someone special?"
Taking the barkeeps advice, Matt told her who he was looking for. Though the smile remained on her face, her eyes darted over her shoulders before speaking. "Buy me a drink. I think I c'n fill ya in some." Matt quickly bought her a drink and followed the young fallen woman to a small table towards the front entry. Once seated, the girl introduced herself.
"M'name's Mary Anne, cowboy." She leaned into the marshal, "An' yers?"
Thinking rapidly; not wanting to use his real name and definitely not wanting to be called 'cowboy' for the rest of the evening, Matt told Mary Anne his name was Newly. It was the first name that came to mind, after Festus. Once again she batted her eyes as she touched Matt's hand, her smile looking forced.
"Have you seen Gus? I heard he got himself arrested. He hasn't been in for weeks." The saloon girl sat back in her chair, took a large swig of beer and searched Matt's face for an answer. The lawman was surprised that her southern accent was gone. "We spent some time together." Her smile was more genuine, but a bit broad. "I'm originally from Michigan, ya see..." She hesitated, "when Gus found out I was... a half-breed..." Looking around; avoiding Matt's eyes, Mary Anne giggled nervously. "My Ma was Chippewa and Pa, French Canadian... Gus wanted me to come away with him, but there was something crazy about him. He said there was gonna be some money comin' to him for work he offered to do. He was gonna head back west with that money. I really didn't understand what a Dog Soldier was, but the way he talked... So where is he?"
When Matt explained that Leotie had in fact been arrested, but was killed in jail, the saloon girl laughed; rough and forced, but her eyes were filled with unshed tears. "That damn Charlie." She spit, "I bet he was doin' something for that goombata." Before Matt had a chance to ask about the word goombata or who Charlie was, the table was surrounded by strumpets. Two sat on either side of him; one handing him a fresh beer, while the other ran her hand up the inside of the baffled marshal's thigh. He took a chug of the fresh glass of beer as a painted cat standing behind him began to play with the hair on the back of his neck. They all chattered and fussed at him, before he knew it, Mary Anne was being escorted into a a back room by the giant barkeep. This was an unusual tactic that the forthright lawman was unfamiliar with. Matt tried to convey that he and the young woman were having a private conversation. The ill fated shady lady playing with the commonly cool lawman's leg, responded in word and action.
"There are private places for private talk, big man. It looks t'me that you can afford more than one o'us," her hand skipped precariously up the the marshal's inseam to his manhood, "and I'm guessin' there's enough o'you to go 'round!"
Matt stood abruptly, all but tipping the table. The bawdy women surrounding him and a number of men at nearby tables laughed wildly at the tall man's discomfiture. It was then he realized that his new drink had been laced with something. As he moved towards the exit, the chair he'd been sitting in flipped backwards causing a larger response from the crowd. Once outside, Matt stood near the entrance to the saloon, leaning against the door frame. His plan for getting some fresh air and returning to the saloon changed when he missed the second and third steps down to the sidewalk. People strolled by chuckling at what they thought was just another drunk about to roll into the street. The disoriented US marshal tried to focus the moment he heard a voice offer him help. The trust factor gone, Matt tried to push the person away, but before he knew it, a number of hands were dragging him into a poorly lit alleyway. Dumped unceremoniously on some wooden crates, Matt sought the face of the man speaking to him.
"You have traveled onto a dangerous path, marshal. Knowing that you are an honored guest of the Crescent City, we'll let this be a warning." With that said, Matt felt a fist make contact with his cheek; sending him backwards. He then heard the man tell one of his henchmen to take the lawman's gun, which brought the marshal to his feet swinging savagely. He caught one of the assailants dead on and clipped another, before being winded by a low blow to his gut. As quickly as his gun was taken, it was returned, without bullets.
"Who are you?" Matt wheezed.
"I am a reasonable man," the voice smugly continued, "and this is my town. Go back to Kansas, cowboy; before someone gets themself killed."
Incensed that another person called him cowboy, the tall lawman lunged at the leader of the assault. The next thing Matt heard was the voice of an old man gently trying to roust him.
"Master Dillon, sir, can ya heah me?" At the request of Butch Steedle, Jacob had been following the justice hungry westerner. "It's Jacob, Master Dillon, com'on now."
The lawman's head was spinning; more from the tainted beer than from the physical abuse. He closed his eyes and responded to Jacob's voice; letting the old man know he was coherent. When asked if he could stand, Matt completed the task, but then immediately had to close he eyes.
"I has a ride waitin' for us a safe piece away." Matt grunted an okay. He gritted his teeth focusing on his feet and the ground ahead of him. "Da buggy jis be a coupl'a blocks up Dumaine. Can ya make it, sir?" The weary lawman suggested that the elderly black man walk slightly ahead of him. The path to their ride was short, but laborsome for the muddled marshal. In the carriage, Matt passed out; staying that way until reaching the back entrance of the Queen of Hearts. Jacob hastened into the saloon for help. Butch and his barman, along with the old man awkwardly assisted a dazed and disheveled Matt Dillon into a back room at the Queen of Hearts, where the aroma of coffee filled the air. Even after two mugs of the brew, the marshal still had trouble focusing visually, but had little difficulty verbalizing despite a split lip.
Once they were alone and Matt set his pride aside, he explained to Butch what had happened. The saloon owner was somewhat surprised that Dillon was in one piece; confirming that the crime family played vicious and dirty.
"They were sending a message, Butch." The lawman said as he gently wiped his bloodied face with a damp cloth. "They knew who I was," he finished his coffee and continued, "so someone warned them. My guess is that it came from the telegraph office. I sent a message to the War Department requesting help on this case." Disapprovingly, the tall man shook his head at himself , causing the room to spin once again. Steedle noted Matt's difficulty with visually focusing and asked him if he could make it up stairs. Sleep was probably the best thing for the marshal right now.
"You lead, and I'll follow. I should be fine. "He pursed his lips; centering his gaze on the back of Butch's legs and shoes, while thinking to himself Golly, I hope so
Matt shut his eyes as soon as Butch stopped to unlock the door to the marshal's accommodations. Steedle suggested Matt wait outside the room until a lamp was lit. The lawman knew almost immediately whose room it was. Though Kitty hadn't been in her apartment in over a month; the light scent of rose and jasmine wafted over the aggrieved man. He was too exhausted to put up a fuss; thanking Butch for the hospitality. Matt stopped dead in his tracks; seeing the big brass he once shared with Kitty. He sat in a chair trying to focus on the headboard as he took off his boots. So many memories were whirling around his already dazed mind. He gently shrugged out of his jacket and shirt before collapsing across the bed. Images of a stunning redhead, covering nearly twenty years reached out to him. Feelings he thought had died over the prior year ignited his body. The rumble of her laughter against his bare chest, the way she ran her delicate fingers through his hair, and how she arched her back into him, as he spooned his body around hers during the night. Her name was always the last thing on his lips at night. Tonight was no different, but in so many ways it was.
