New in Town, Part 2
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Setting: The Gem Saloon, main bar-room
Two men, weathered, dark, and roughly equal in stature and age, sat across a table, each taking the other's measure.
"I had thought I'd be working for the town."
"Does it matter?"
"You haven't given me enough information to answer that yet."
Al Swearengen snorted and called across the half-empty saloon.
"E.B.! C'mere a minute. Got someone for you to meet."
A scuttering little man made his way to the table where the two men sat. He oozed obsequiousness as he wiped his palms on his thighs again and again.
Al stood up with a cynical smirk.
"E.B., Bill Adama here is thinking about settling in Deadwood, might seek employment with the town. Why don't you give him some immediate past history while I inventory the whores, hmm?"
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Twenty minutes later, whores monitored and tallies added twice, Al returned to the table. Bill's face looked like a thundercloud teetering at the edge of a pile of shit.
"Thanks, E.B." He pulled out a chair.
E. B. Farnum wiped his sweating cheeks on his dirty lace cuffs.
"Oh…I was just up to—"
Al lifted one eyebrow a centimeter before the little man moved up and back from the table, mouth finally closed. He was at the door before risking a thin "Welcome to Deadwood, Mr. Adama."
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Bill nodded as Al held the bottle of whiskey over his glass.
"That, Mr. Adama, is the mayor, to whom you would be answerable, should you seek public employment."
Bill's shot glass hit the table, empty. He nodded again for another pour.
"I get your point."
"Thought you might."
"Can I ask a question?"
Bill scanned the saloon as Al nodded.
"Why does a saloon owner need his own private trained militia?"
He followed Al's gaze as he looked around the room, looked down at his bandaged hand, the missing finger, then looked at something Bill couldn't see.
"Havin' and not needin' beats the fuck out of needin' and not havin".
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Setting: The Grand Hotel: Operator, E.B. Farnum
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"That lady in the red dress sure was purty." Richardson kept his eyes on the potatoes he was cutting up in a fine dice.
E.B. Farnum smacked the wild-haired man on the shoulder with a rusty ladle.
"And will you next, Richardson, tempt the Fates to rain down molten stone and ash on our heads as if we were inhabitants of Pompeii, to be cast, writhing in agony, as statues for eternity? You fool, did you not see the militaristic brute accompanying her?"
E.B.'s quivering increased, his pitch rising as he berated his cook.
"That fella in the blue soldier-lookin' suit?"
E.B. sat at the kitchen bench, wringing his shaking hands.
"A veritable Doppelganger to Al, save for the odd detail here and there, with the same ability to turn my unfortunate and beleaguered bowels to water with a look."
Richardson took up the carrots and his paring knife.
"I thought him and his lady looked like nice folk."
The mayor toyed with his threadbare cravat as he muttered "Keep your thoughts to yourself, shit monkey", wondering how he might best placate the new arrival, should the need arise.
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Setting: The Gem Saloon, the room where the whores rest
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"You did very well at guessing my size."
Trixie fastened the last button at the back of the black patterned blouse.
"Couple of whores I used to work with had builds similar to yours."
Laura looked at the little blonde woman, more concealed by her clothes than the other women in the Gem. She seemed equal parts gritty and kind.
"You're a…a sex worker, then?"
That got a raspy laugh.
"I'm a fuckin' bank teller, if you can believe that. Used to whore here, though, for the cocksucker bending your husband's ear. Now I just fuck the Jew that runs the hardware store and has an eye to bein' mayor, we ever get a fair election in town."
She paused in her task of putting up the mass of red hair as Laura issued a sound between a cough and a giggle.
"You need some water? Whiskey?"
The former President of the Twelve Colonies patted her chest until she regained some self-control.
"I'm fine, thanks. So…you don't work here now?"
"I might do a turn or two for himself, keep things runnin' smooth. Like buying you somethin' decent and lettin' you dress indoors. Hard for a woman, tryin' to make do in a fuckin' tent."
Trixie let the thick strands of reddish auburn hair flow through the comb before tightening them into sedate twists.
"You dye your hair?"
Laura shook her head absently, using the mirror to take in the slightly shabby room behind her. Medicinal-looking bottles shared space with pots of cosmetics and jars of greasy-looking ointments.
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"Who's she?"
A plump big-bosomed woman stood in the doorway, nervously twirling a strand of dyed red hair in her fingers.
Before Trixie could answer, Laura had stepped over to the other woman, extending her hand.
"I'm Laura…Adama. We just got into town."
"Oh."
At Trixie's glare, she offered that her name was Dolly, and tentatively shook the proffered hand.
"You belong to that man sitting with Al?"
Laura calmed her instinctive bristle and thought of cultural and gender-role diversity.
"She ain't a whore, Dolly. That's her husband out there. She's fixin' to go see Mrs. Bullock about bein' a teacher."
Trixie gave Laura a pointed look as she combed. "Can't say why she walked in here looking like a fuckin' travelin' stage dancer with no undergarments to speak of and her hair hangin' loose…." She paused to gather a few hairpins. "But it gave Al enough of a turn to send me to fetch her some teacher-ish clothes. There!"
Trixie stood back as Laura looked in the mirror. Her red hair was tamed in a sedate roll at her back of her neck. Her body was covered from throat to toes in a black shirtwaist blouse and skirt, scattered with a tiny white print. Her body was covered again underneath by cheap cotton long underpants, thick black stockings, and a camisole. She had stood her ground at the steel-ribbed corset and Trixie hadn't pressed the point. Laura hugged the small bundle of her New Caprica clothes as she tried to force her feet by sheer will to hurry up and adjust to the black buttoned boots.
Bill better not say one frakking word about this get-up, she thought to herself.
Dolly gave her a shy smile as Laura walked gingerly towards Bill and the saloon owner.
"Sure hope things go well for you over at the schoolhouse, Mrs. Adama."
This last carried solemn sincerity. Even with being old enough to be any of 'ems mama, Laura Adama was pretty and trim enough to be worrisome, especially with that glorious hair.
"Hey."
Dolly jumped at Trixie's sharp elbow in her side.
"Quit worryin'. I got a good look at her man. You ain't got nothing to worry about."
"How do you mean?"
Trixie firmed up a hand-rolled cigarette before striking a match and holding it to the end.
"What I mean, Dolly, is even if Al was to be interested, if it came to putting her man up against Al, I ain't sure which way I'd bet."
Both women were silent, contemplating that strangeness as they watched the smoke curling up towards the ceiling, then fading into the air.
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