A/N: This is an imagined prequel to the Al/Trixie pairing, set some years before 1876, the "Deadwood" years. This picks up a few years after "Miseries and Familiars" ends.

I own nothing, all is HBO's, David Milch's , or history's creations. Some fictitious characters are based on composites of historical figures.

Warnings for violence, graphic description of violent facial wounds, pimp/prostitute dynamics, language, implied euthanasia, casual sex (non-explicit), abortion.

Making Their Way

Chapter 4

Trixie looked up at the sun low in the sky, tossing her chicken bone to one of the wandering mutts hanging around. She thought she had time for a quick cigarette before going back to work. As she smoked, she thought the air in Denver seemed clearer than Chicago's atmosphere, but thinner, colder. Stubbing her cigarette out in the dirt, she went back in the over-heated bright bar, setting her features in a promising smile.

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Rays from the setting sun filtered in through leaded glass and lace curtains falling behind heavy damask drapes. The clink and high-pitched chatter on all sides was beginning to feel like an assault on his ears. Annoyingly small sandwiches and bite-sized pieces of cake sat neglected on a tray next to their table, alongside some type of pastry he couldn't identify. There was no conversation at his table until the waiter finished pouring the tea into two teacups, withdrawing after leaving cream, sugar, and lemon next to the tea service. Al waited stoically for a response to his proposal, already getting a rebuttal prepared against refusal.

"Mr. Swearengen, I have no doubt as to your bona fides. You have to realize, you are asking to set up business that is in direct competition with us for both clientele and workers. That's quite bold for someone new to the area."

The well-dressed woman in front of him seemed to be moving from mild interest to disapproval. She set her tea cup down and waited for his response, discreetly looking at her brooch watch to remind him that his time with her was running out.

"Mrs. LaRue, I'm not tryin' to horn in on your business areas as such. I'm just tryin' to lease a small saloon, running less than a dozen girls, two or three faro tables. I don't see that as any real competition to Madame LaRue's sporting houses. I ain't goin' to have girls in furs and diamonds, trust me. My clientele will most likely be men that find your establishments out of their price range, anyways."

Pearl LaRue ran a fingertip around the engravings in her watch.

"My colleagues and I have lower-end establishments as well, Mr. Swearengen. Not all our houses are on Market Street. And that puts us back at square one."

"Have you considered working at one of the established houses? Mrs. Bennett is in need of a bartender."

He looked at the blonde matron sitting with him, fancy hat and diamond earrings. He couldn't decide if she was just obtuse or actually trying to be insulting. Galling enough to have to seek permission to open a saloon from the head of the Denver whore union, or whatever they considered themselves, Mrs. LaRue speaking for the main madams in town. Worse still was her offering him a job, like he had come hat in hand, begging for work. Wouldn't be here at all if the fuckin' chief of police hadn't warned him to meet with Mrs. LaRue before trying to set up shop, else not a property owner in town would speak to him.

"Not an option. I don't plan to work for anybody but myself."

"Pity. Actually, I know of another option, if it's to your taste." She hesitated for a second, looking at him thoughtfully, then pulled a heavy embossed card from her purse.

"Dr. McDonald mentioned that he was seeking a well-favored gentleman to assist him in his treatment of particular ladies' maladies. I understand the pay is more than adequate for a person of talent."

Al's eyes turned stony. "I should become a whore, instead of runnin' them, that what you're saying?"

The elegant woman stood up, straightening her gloves. "We all whore in some way or another, Mr. Swearengen. You appear to meet the doctor's requirements and seem to be a good twenty years younger, which I imagine would be much appreciated by the good doctor's patients. I lost a piano player to him last year for the same purpose. That young man left for San Francisco in the spring with enough money to open a fifteen room sporting house."

He watched in silence as she laid the card beside his plate. At her cocked eyebrow, he stood up as well.

"What about my whore? Is she a problem, too?"

Mrs. LaRue leaned towards his ear. "You can continue to hire out your girl to the establishment with which you currently have an arrangement. You can also deal faro at Sunny's, tend her bar, or provide services for the doctor. I don't give a good goddamn if you service gentlemen yourself, if you've a bent in that direction. What you cannot do, Mr. Swearengen, is operate a full-scale establishment of your own in this city. " She gave a discreet nod at the two uniformed policemen standing at the door of the tea shop, courtesy of the Chief.

He didn't react to the implied threat. "As a courtesy, Madam, will you at least give me a sensible reason, so that I might understand why you feel you must…impede my commerce?"

She stepped back. "Look in the mirror, Mr. Swearengen, when you return to your rooms. Ask yourself if that is the face of a man who would be satisfied with limiting his control to one house, one operation, and working within parameters set by others. Your answer to that question will illuminate my answer to you." She tilted her head so the feathered brim of her hat hid her eyes. "Good day to you, sir."

Raising her head, her eyes were dark with warning until she turned towards the waiting officers, greeting them with a warm smile and bright pleasantries. The most successful madam in town left him there, standing over his empty cup, stymied. He crumpled up the heavy card, stuffing it is his pocket as the left the shop.

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