Chapter Three

When malice is joined to envy, there is given forth poisonous and feculent matter, as ink from the cuttle-fish.

—Plutarch (c. 46-120), Greek philosopher and biographer

Upon leaving the police building, the agents parted ways. Artemus caught a streetcar that would take him to the railroad station, while Jim waved down a cab to carry him to the Barbary Coast. As usual, he had to promise the driver an extra tip to enter that hellish area. The hack stopped on Montgomery Street, Jim hopped out and paid the promised fare, then strolled toward the first of the many saloons that populated this area.

A woman, Ruth Deaver, owned this particular establishment on the outer edge of the area known as the Barbary Coast. She had arrived from the east as a rather naïve young woman after inheriting the establishment from an uncle. In the last ten years, nonetheless, she learned swiftly and promoted her place into one of the best and certainly the most honest bar in the area. Her bouncers, constantly on duty, kept the fights down, and the bartenders were quick to notify the musclemen if a patron seemed to have had enough or might be inclined to be rowdy after having a few. The games had to be played straight.

Although certain Ruth would have had nothing to do with the counterfeiting, Jim called on her. Ruth was known to keep up on the gossip along the Coast. He found her at her favorite table, in a corner where she could keep an eye on everything. She was in her mid thirties now, nowhere near as innocent as she had been upon arrival, but still a fine looking woman with dark shiny hair piled atop a somewhat square face and brown eyes that smiled a lot.

She was smiling as she saw the agent approach. "James! It's been too long!"

He leaned down to kiss her cheek before taking the chair opposite her. "I know, Ruthie. We've been in and out of San Francisco over the last few months, but always seem to be rushing hither and yon, with little time to visit friends."

Ruth grinned. "Or else you didn't need any information from me."

"Uh-oh. You know me too well. I'm afraid that is my mission today." Quickly he explained about the counterfeit money.

She was frowning and shaking her head before he finished. "I haven't heard a thing, James. That doesn't mean it's not happening in this part of town, but I think makes it less likely."

"I agree. It's pretty baffling. Usually the department gets hints of such goings on, or else the moneymakers will start testing it in different areas of the country, and we hear about it that way. But until we found that money on Mouse Naiman, we had no clue, although a few bills had been turned into the police here that same day."

"My people here are pretty savvy about bogus bills," she said, glancing toward the bar where the barman was busily filling drink orders. "They look at the bills carefully, especially the tens and twenties."

"Yeah, that's a popular denomination for fake money."

"Where's Artemus?" Ruth asked then.

"Oh, he'll be around," Jim smiled and winked. "Please don't give him away if you spot him."

"Ha! That's not likely. Last time I was almost ready to call the boys in blue to come get him, he was so convincing as that boisterous Texas cattleman! I didn't know until it was over."

"He's pretty good, all right. I've got to keep moving. Got a lot of ground to cover. But I'll try to stop in later." Jim got to his feet.

"You'd better. I haven't told you about Willie!" William was Ruth's younger brother whom she was putting through college to become a doctor.

"I won't want to miss that!" With a wave, Jim headed out the door.

He skipped the next two pleasure palaces, knowing their owners were not likely to cooperate at all. His next stop was in a large saloon full of glittering crystal chandeliers and sparkling mirrors owned by Clay Murrell, a transplanted Alabaman. The Southern Rose was one of the most successful on the Barbary Coast, partially because despite all the splendor, the bartenders had a habit of watering the drinks once a patron became inebriated enough to not be able to tell the difference. Plus, the men who ran his gambling tables were suspected—but never proven—to be pretty slick with marked cards and loaded dice. All in complete opposition to Ruth's establishment; yet, both were successful.

Clay welcomed him with a smile that did not quite reach his gray eyes, and immediately disclaimed any knowledge of counterfeiting, becoming a bit defensive, as he was wont to do when the honesty of his employees was questions. Jim shook his head.

"You're not a counterfeiter, Clay. I know that." He could see by the expression on Murrell's face that the saloonkeeper did not quite know if that was a compliment or an insult. "I'm just wondering if you've seen any of the fake bills, or heard any talk."

Murrell shook his graying head. "Not a bit. Not lately anyway. Last bogus bill we took in was maybe six months ago… and I took care of the passer."

"I'm sure you did." Murrell would not want to involve the authorities. "If you hear of anything, get word to me or Artemus at the Metro Hotel."

Jim stopped in at three more taverns before arriving at the one that was his target, as well as one where he knew he would not receive anything resembling a warm welcome. The Gold Eagle was owned by Rance Ricks, now in his late twenties, having inherited the place from his father—whom Rance was rumored to have had murdered in order to take over his parent's lucrative business.

His father had been one of the "Sydney Ducks," immigrants from the British penal colonies of Australia, New South Wales, and Tasmania, who had originally established what had once been known as "Sydney-Town," now the Barbary Coast. Ed Ricks had tried his hand in the goldfields, soon realized he was not going to make it there, and set up a tent in the city selling cheap whiskey and providing the services of a couple of women, eventually constructing this permanent site. He had been known to be reasonably honest, if always looking for a fast buck. His son had not inherited the honest streak.

Jim made his way through the always-crowded tables, conscious of eyes on his back—not very friendly eyes. He strolled by the long bar and headed for a door in the back area, where a beefy man was sitting in a chair tipped back against the wall.

"Hello, Muff. I want to talk to the boss."

Jim had no idea why a man built like "Muff" would have acquired such a name, but that's what he was called. The scarred face with the crooked nose, broken several times, and yellowed teeth was certainly not a soft muffin, or a hand muff.

"He don't want to see you."

"Why don't you ask? It's kind of important."

"Beat it."

Jim's expression grew hard. "I can have two dozen coppers here within the hour."

Several seconds elapsed as the green eyes met the dark brown ones of the man in the chair. Finally, the brown ones dropped and Muff lowered his chair, shoving himself to his feet. Without a word, he pushed through the door, closing it tightly behind him. Jim waited perhaps two minutes before it opened again. Muff jerked his head and stepped aside for him to enter.

While the saloon itself was rather ordinary, Ricks's office was not. He had spared no expense to decorate it with gleaming wood paneled walls, Turkish carpets and gold sconces, along with a huge polished walnut desk. Jim knew that Ricks's living quarters led off this office, but he had never seen them. He suspected, however, they were just as lavish, if not more so.

Rance Ricks did not stand up or offer his hand as Jim entered. He was a thin, rather good-looking man with thinning dark hair and neat, narrow mustache over a wide mouth. His eyes were blue, and always seemed to be narrowed, as though looking for something untoward. Just now, they were glaring at Jim West with overt dislike.

"What do you want?"

Uninvited, Jim took one of the chairs. "Just a social call, Rance." He sometimes wondered why he and Ricks had had an instant dislike for each other upon meeting several years ago. They had not had any official confrontations; despite the probability that Ricks was involved in some criminal activities, nothing had ever been proven. Just one of those unexplainable things.

"I doubt that. State your business and beat it so I can air out the place."

Jim chuckled. "Sorry to cause you so much trouble." He sobered. "I was just wondering if you have heard anything about some new bogus bills being passed around town."

"No."

"No? That's all?"

Ricks scowled. "What do you want me to say?"

"I actually thought you would get your back up and be insulted that I appeared to be accusing you."

"I just want you to get the hell out of here, West."

"I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you to get word to me if you hear anything."

"Not one damn bit of good. I'll more likely give the fellow a medal and a free drink."

"Thought so." Jim rose easily. "In that case, I guess we'll be keeping an eye on the Gold Eagle. Thanks, Rance." He turned toward the door, then paused and looked back. "By the way, I don't suppose you know a woman named Ivy Carothers."

Jim did not smile as he saw the flicker in the blue eyes. The query had taken him off guard. "Never heard of her," Ricks snarled.

"Thanks."

Jim stepped through the door and was not completely surprised to notice that Muff was not in his usual chair. Instead, the big man was near the bar with two other men. Jim knew the pair as well, a whip-thin man called Deuce, who was said to be as good with a knife as he was with cards, and a stocky, younger man with a crop of carrot red curls, tagged, unsurprisingly, Red.

"Hey, West," Muff called as Jim started to make his way toward the front exit, "we wanna talk to you."

"Another time," Jim replied pleasantly. "I'm busy." The conversation in the room had lowered in tone. Every person here knew what was coming.

Deuce stepped out directly into Jim's path. "Not too busy to talk to a couple old friends, are you?"

Jim halted, a smile on his lips. "Never too busy for that."

Deuce may have thought his move was going to surprise the agent, but he was the one who was caught unawares. As Deuce's right fist started toward Jim's chin, Jim's forearm came up to block it, while his other arm drove a hard fist into the thin man's abdomen. With an "oofff!" Deuce staggered back, catching himself on the back of a chair that was quickly vacated by the man in it.

Now the other two moved in. Muff grabbed Jim's arm and his intention was clear. He was going to twist it behind Jim's back, rendering him painfully helpless so that the others could have their turn at him. Instead, Jim spun toward Muff and kicked him hard in the shin. Muff yowled and loosed his grip, allowing Jim to pull free and turn toward Red, who had hesitated just an instant when Jim made his move.

Being next to the bar now, Jim put his left hand on it, pushed against the solid wood to lift his body, giving him a chance to forcefully jam his boots into Red's chest. That man, like Deuce, staggered, but he did not find a chair to break his fall. He went on his back and lay there, gasping for breath.

Muff was yelling some curses now, as Deuce came up beside him, both ready to charge at Jim, pinned against the bar. Again, Jim grabbed the edge of the wood, and this time hoisted himself up onto the top. In one fluid motion, he turned and leapt toward the two men, arms wide. His head went in between Muff and Deuce while his arms caught them around the neck, his momentum throwing them back.

He was on his feet instantly, and was not astonished to see Deuce also regain his feet quickly. Deuce's hand moved and he came out with a long-bladed gleaming knife, lunging forward with it. Jim jumped back agilely, and found his old friend the bar one more time, giving himself purchase to kick hard. The knife flew out of Deuce's hand.

While Deuce was adjusting to this sudden change, Jim waded in with forceful blows, and within moments, Deuce was on the floor, out cold. By now, both Muff and Red were climbing to their feet. Jim took on the bigger man first, slamming his fists into Muff's stomach and countering with blows to the chin. When Red tried to interfere, Jim was able to kick him in the side, putting him out of commission until Muff finally plopped on his behind, his bleeding face blank as his eyes rolled in his head and he fell backwards.

Jim turned toward Red, but that man apparently had enough. He crawled to his feet and headed toward the back door of the establishment. Glancing around to ensure that no one else was going to take up the fray, Jim picked up his hat, dusted it off, and looked toward the door of the office, where Rance Ricks was standing, gaping with an open mouth.

Jim waved the hat. "Thanks for the entertainment, Rance!" A path toward the front door opened wide as the men and women, like Ricks, simply stared at him. He saw the old salt standing just inside the front exit but barely glanced at him as he pushed out to the open air.

W*W*W*W*W

Artemus had entered the Gold Eagle just as the melee started. He remained put, waiting to make sure that more were not going to pile onto Jim. I kinda think no one wants any part of it, he decided, biting back a grin as he watched Red vamoose out the back, while everyone else remained frozen where they were.

Artie had donned the guise of a half crippled old sailor, complete with whiskers and a scar that disfigured his left eye. It was uncomfortable but a nice touch, he thought. His clothes were old and faded—and smelly. He had kept them in a burlap bag with a dead fish for a while to gain that particular ambience. Jim insisted that the bag be buried in the feed bin for some reason.

Now he limped forward to the bar and waved to the bartender. "Cold one! Say who the de'el was that fellow? Fought like a whirlwind, he did."

The bartender scowled as he slammed a mug of beer in front of the old sailor. "Name's West. Don't ever tangle with him. It's a losin' proposition."

"So I noticed. Nice place here. Is there action like that all the time?"

"Naw. This is a nice quiet place." The sarcasm in his voice caused Artie to chuckle.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Say I was just in a café over on Folsom and they was complainin' about getting some phony money. You ever see any of that here?"

"I got work to do," the bartender said, and moved to the far end of the bar.

Artie enjoyed his beer and watched the mirror behind the bar. The barkeeper had gone straight to Rance Ricks who was still at that far end, having not returned to his office. Well, well. I might have stirred up a little something with that question. He tipped up the glass and drank most of it, wiped his mouth with the grimy jacket sleeve, and hobbled toward the door.

Hearing a stir behind him, Artie walked a little faster. He got out the front door and turned to the left, ducking into the alley alongside the bar. Continuing down the alley, he circled around behind the next building and by the time he emerged on the street again, he was a new man, this time beardless, but with a heavy mustache, and longish curly graying hair. The heavy coat had disappeared, as had the limp. He walked straight toward Ricks and the several men who were on the porch of the Golden Eagle, barely looking at them as he passed by.

Just so no one notices the odor!

Apparently no one did. Artemus continued until he reached a street where he caught a hack—having to show the cabbie he had the money first—and rode back to the hotel. The hotel clerk, Ennis, laughed when he saw Artemus pulling off the fake mustache as he crossed the lobby. "I take it you've been working, Mr. Gordon." This was not the first time he had seen Artemus Gordon in disguise.

"Yep. Is Mr. West upstairs?"

"He came in about half an hour ago."

Taking his key from the clerk, Artemus climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered his room. He removed the disguise and clothes and washed up before rapping on the connecting door that led to Jim's room. Hearing his partner call out, he opened it.

"Well, you had fun with Muff and his friends, eh?"

Jim was in his shirtsleeves, stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head. "Nice of them to throw me a party. I figured something was up when Muff spent a couple of minutes in the office with Ricks before coming back to tell me to go in. I guess Rance told them to show me a good time."

Artie grabbed the lone chair, swinging it around to straddle it. "Learn anything interesting?"

"Only that Rance probably knows Ivy Carothers somehow."

"Really?"

"I know. I just cannot imagine a woman like her being acquainted with a man like Ricks, let alone being involved in the counterfeiting."

"Well… when I was at the train, I sent a message back to Washington asking for any information they could find on her."

Jim sat up, swinging his legs over the side. "Good. It will be better to get her out of our heads. It's all a coincidence, no doubt."

"Yeah."

Both men fell silent for a moment, Jim staring at the window. Then he turned to his partner. "Last night, while I was drifting off to sleep, I had this… this half dream about Ivy. I could see her, it seemed, smiling, talking. But it wasn't quite right."

"What do you mean?"

"That's just it, I don't know. Something didn't fit but I couldn't figure out what it was."

"What about the butler?"

"No, nothing."

"Are we going to go to her party Saturday?"

"I've been wondering about that myself. I suppose we'd better see how things are going by then. When are you supposed to meet His Highness for the chess game?"

Artie snapped his fingers. "Thanks for reminding me. That's tonight. Want to come along?"

"And watch you play chess? I might as well watch paint dry!"

Artie laughed, getting to his feet. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry. How about dinner?"

They chose a restaurant they could walk to from the hotel, and it turned out to be a fortuitous selection, for they encountered a federal attorney of their acquaintance with his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Alonzo Overton. The Overtons were planning to attend an opera that evening, and had two extra tickets. Artie was dismayed that he had made the date with the Emperor, but both the Overtons understood: one did not break an engagement with His Excellency! However, Jim was happy to accept, and arranged to meet them at the Tivoli.