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 8

An hour after sunup, Al walked the short stretch to Madam LaRue's Parlor House. He hung back behind a parked horse cart as two uniformed policemen walked down the steps and away from him. A young maid came out to sweep the porch, gesturing for him to wait when he asked if Madam LaRue was receiving. She disappeared, then returned, beckoning him inside. The girl steered him away from the main parlor to a flight of back steps by the kitchen. In another minute he was in front of Pearl LaRue's office door. Two sorrowful damp-faced girls came out, motioning him to go in and speak to the black-veiled madam.

Once again, he stood silent in front of her while she readied herself to speak.

"I heard this morning that a man was found dead by the train yard." She looked past him. "They say his throat was cut." She pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. "They say it was the Police Chief's nephew." He took the envelope and waited.

"Within, you'll find ten thousand dollars."

He nodded.

She pulled another envelope out of her desk drawer and met his eyes. "They say he was beaten badly before he died. Ribs broken, leg stomped in half. Multiple kicks to the groin, testicles almost torn off from the force." She played with a silver cross around her neck. "They think it was an amateur, maybe someone he wagered with last night."

"Really? What makes them think that?"

He fingered the second envelope.

"It was strange, they said. Whoever did it had a sharp enough blade, but terrible aim. The poor man's face was sliced quite a bit before his assailant made the final cut to his throat."

"So what's this, then?"

She smiled an icy smile. "That, Mr. Swearengen, is another five thousand dollars. I am a firm believer in quality pay for quality work."

"I'm sorry we had to do business under these circumstances, Mrs. LaRue."

"As am I. Now, if you'll excuse me…" she broke off, fingering a large bottle of opiate, full to the neck.

"I met again with the doctor this morning. I have a medical situation to which I must attend."

He nodded again, standing aside as she got up and went to the door. She stopped in front of him.

"One last thing, Mr. Swearengen. I've seen your young whore, the one that's been at Sunny's of late."

"Yeah?"

She sighed. "I'd not speak against the profession, as whoring has been very good to me, as a worker and an owner. But if the young lady ever shows an inclination or ability to do something else with her life, something that doesn't put her with strange men behind closed doors several times a day, more times at night…I would hope you might consider encouraging her, if you care for her at all."

"I'll consider it, comes the day she shows an interest."

"Godspeed, Mr. Swearengen, and have a care in leaving town. For all of his personal distaste for the victim, the Chief will be expected to make vigorous inquiry."

He paused at the door, opening the smaller envelope, pulled out a bill. He spoke without looking directly at her.

"That picture of her in your whore-book? How 'bout seein' if a painter-type can paint some lace or the like over her parts, maybe stick the picture in a nice frame. It'd be something good, I think, givin' people who knew her…something pretty to remember her by."

Her hand tightened around the bottle she held.

"That's a fine idea, Mr. Swearengen. I believe I'll speak of that as Ava falls asleep."

He heard one soft sob as she passed, then the madam collected her composure and turned towards the hidden door and her niece.

.

.

He took time to go by Dr. McDonald's office to tell a rattled story about a patient's extended treatment interrupted by an irate husband the day before, leading him to the conclusion that leaving town would be wise. Trixie was ready and waiting by the time he returned. Newsboys were calling out about the policeman's murder as Al finished his dealings with the First Bank of Denver and pointed his hired wagon towards Nevada and Virginia City, Trixie by his side. They finally had a decent stake, and Virginia City had the Comstock mine, worked by thirsty, horny miners.

Things were looking up.

.