Counterfeit

Chapter 8

In the early hours of the morning Quartermaine took him to the train depot, and the Marshal, now dressed in city clothes and carrying a briefcase containing what looked like $2000 dollars in legal currency, purchased a ticket to Richmond Va. He had the name of a hotel he was to check into and was told that Mendoza would contact him. From then on he was on his own. He hoped his portrayal of John Henry Weeks would stand the test.

-XX-

The hotel where he was staying was one of the fanciest in town. Large gaslight chandeliers illuminated the lobby in the evening and two curving stairways with decoratively carved handrails led up to the second and third floors. Thick carpets with intricate designs covered the floors, and men in uniforms festooned with gold braid where everywhere to open doors and carry bags. There was a restaurant in the hotel where tables of varying sizes were covered with crisp white tablecloths and set with elaborate dishes and silverware. The menu was extensive and mostly in French, which left the Marshal wondering what his order would bring to the table.

That evening he was tempted to go out and walk around the town itself, for so long now he had been living within the confines of walls and he had a need to feel the open spaces. Quartermaine had warned him not to do that. "You never know who you might meet," he had said, "and also the hotel is the only place where Mendoza will be able to find you."

Sleeping was difficult that first night. The bed was clean and comfortable and a soft breeze blew through the half open window, but now he had time to stop and think. It had been more than a month since he had left Dodge. He worried for his town and its inhabitants even though Devens had assured him everything was being taken care of by an experienced man. When it came down to it he knew what it was he really missed. The feeling of home whenever he walked into the Long Branch, his red headed lady and the welcoming smile she always bestowed upon him and most of all the feeling of lying next to her at night. The secret hidden joy of their relationship filled his mind until he finally fell asleep.

Quartermaine and Brooks had both told him that Weeks was a man of extravagant tastes and so when he went to eat or order at the bar or do anything around the hotel to do it with a flourish, order the most expensive food and wines and tip well. They had given him plenty of money to fulfill the role. To play the part he got up early and went to breakfast in the fancy restaurant, ordering steak and eggs and all the trimmings that went with it. He had to admit he had never tasted steak like the one he ate that morning. The coffee was excellent and bore no resemblance to Chester's brew. A faint smile crossed his lips as he thought of Chester and he couldn't help but wonder who was sitting in his office right now, probably propping up their feet on his desk.

Having finished his meal he walked out into the lobby and picked up one of the newspapers lying around. Several were in languages other than English and most of those were several weeks old and, by the looks of them, had been thumbed through many times. In a small pile by the front desk he saw one from St Louis and found a comfortable leather chair in a corner of the lobby from where he could watch the entrance way and the front desk. He had read the newspaper from cover to cover and had just about decided to go out and walk around when a short stocky man came in and went directly to speak with the clerk at the desk. The clerk looked around the lobby and pointed discreetly towards Dillon, the man handed the clerk some coins and walked towards the corner where Dillon sat.

"Mr. Weeks?" he asked. Dillon stood up.

"You must be Mendoza," he said extending his hand. "Do you wish to talk here or in my room."

"Neither, I have a carriage outside. We will talk while we drive around if you don't mind."

Dillon had no problem with that, he would appreciate seeing the outside world for a change. He did miss the feel of the colt pistol that usually hung by his right hip but with a slight squeeze of his left arm he could feel the small gun they had given him, safely lodged in its holster under his coat. He carefully folded the newspaper and put it back on the table where he found it and followed Mendoza outside to where an enclosed carriage stood. It was something a lot fancier than the farm wagons and old buggies he was used to in Dodge. This had carved wood and painted designs on the doors, and was pulled by two matched grey geldings.

Mendoza signaled him to climb in and he did so while his new acquaintance had words with the driver who sat on the outside.

The carriage pulled away from the hotel and the men looked at each other for a few minutes.

"So Mr. Weeks you are involved in a variety of businesses so I hear."

"You could say that."

"What is your purpose with me?"
"I understand that you can provide me with a substantial quantity of paper money."

Mendoza paused and looked at his own hands for a minute or two while Dillon looked out of the carriage window.

"How much did you have in mind?"

"Shall we half a million dollars to start with, then if that is satisfactory we can go from there."

"We can give you a discount of twenty-five cents on the dollar."

"I had fifty cents in mind."

"I can't go any higher than 30 cents."

"Look," said Dillon leaning forward and looking the man directly in the face. Already he felt contempt for this stocky little individual who could cause so much havoc to a country whose very existence he had fought in a war to preserve. "I am not talking petty cash amounts here, I hope to buy a million dollars from you and I do not intend to pay a penny more than fifty cents on the dollar. Further more I want to see the goods before I put any money on the table. It's obvious that you are just a go between in this business – I need to negotiate with the top man. I have cash money back at the hotel and I am ready to deal, I have a market waiting to distribute your product all I need is the goods."

Matt hoped he was using the right words and conveying the right impression. His main concern was to get through this as quickly as possible.

Mendoza started to wave his hands to emphasize his words. "Nobody meets the Boss," he said. "You have to go through me."
Dillon grabbed the man's right wrist and bent it back.

"You go tell your Boss I only deal with him. I have twenty thousand dollars in the hotel safe for starters and there is plenty more where that came from. I am ready to buy. Now take me back, I'm done talking to you."

Mendoza tapped on the roof of the carriage and Matt felt it change direction. In ten minutes they were back outside the hotel. He turned and gave a final glance at the stocky little man, then climbed down and went inside through the big double doors with leaded glass windows.

Matt heard nothing from Mendoza for two days, then at breakfast time the following morning the man walked into the restaurant looking for him.

Matt encouraged the man to join him and refused to hurry over his food. He wanted to jump up and get this deal over but something told him that John Henry Weeks would not do that.
Mendoza told Him they were going to his boss's home in the country. He had a buggy outside and it would be easier if Weeks brought all his things – including the money, and move out there for a few days to conclude the deal.

At last things were moving, hopefully in a few more days this would be finished and he could go home. He went up to his room, packed the few things he had there into a soft leather valise that Quartermaine had given him and checked the small gun he carried putting some spare bullets in his pocket. Mendoza was waiting at the hotel desk and the clerk already had his bill made out. The amount of money that Dillon handed over was equivalent to about six months of his usual salary as a US Marshal. He collected the brief case from the hotel safe and followed the drummer out to a waiting buggy.

TBC