Majoring on the Minor

by The Wild Wild Whovian

The minor characters of The Wild Wild West, that is. This is a series of stand-alone one-shot stories exploring such things as various characters' backstories, their motivations, what happened to them after the end credits rolled - and I plan also to fill in some plot holes along the way. This time: Hallelujah Harry from TNOT Fugitives. Updating at whim.

2. Madame Moustache

Mme Moustache

Connections. That's what it's all about, connections. Connecting up the one who wants to sell a thing with the one who wants to buy it. That's why I have ears out there on the streets, and eyes as well. That's why, when that fancy Japanese sword got heisted, I knew about it within minutes, and minutes after that, I knew about a customer looking to get his hands on it.

Connections. If I could put together that customer with whoever had the sword to sell, I stood to make a pretty penny as the middleman. Or middlewoman - put it that way.

So I was pleased when Soapy came over and whispered in my ear, pointing out the stranger bellying up to the bar. He was a disreputable-looking character, meaning of course that he fit right in at the Bucket of Blood. His clothes proclaimed him to be a captain of some type or another, and he was all grins and winks and glittering eyes, full of compliments and flattery, calling me Nina Candida - whoever she was - and lauding my beauty!

A liar then. Well, he fit right in on that count too.

Oh, and one more way he fit right in: he was drunk. Stinking drunk. Soused to the gills, and yet the shrewdest drunk I'd ever come across, and I've met far more than my fair share of drunks while presiding over the bar here in my saloon.

But there was one thing that recommended him to me, and that was the long cylindrical package he'd laid on the bar by his side. If he had the missing sword in there - and he certainly made it sound like he did - it would simply be a matter of separating the sot from his package and thus eliminating the middlewoman of the transaction by replacing the pickled seller with myself.

It was not to be.

The package, as it turned out, contained not the elusive sword but an impressive set of Roman candles! And after the light and sound had died away enough for me to venture a glance over the top of the bar again to take in the sight of my now-empty saloon - there he was still, the drunken captain, still full of grins and flattery, still lauding me as Nina Candida.

Well, what could I do then? He'd spoiled my plan of eliminating him from the chain of commerce, so the only position I had left to fall back on was that of middlewoman once more. We sealed the deal; I held out my hand to shake his, only to be shocked when he kissed me, right on the forearm, right on the tattoo!

I sent Soapy along with him to lead him to the customer, as well as to bring me back my cut of the deal. And then that smiling fellow surprised me once more. He turned back at the doorway, put his hand up to the cigar on his lips, and shot me one last grinning flirtatious wink.

Then he was gone. And there I stood in my empty saloon, stunned.

I had a hand mirror there at the bar. I took it up and looked in it, wondering what he had seen. And as I studied the reflection of my face - so plain, so unbeautiful - I found myself wondering also if perhaps the fellow might come back again, and wondering as well if it would be so bad of me should I decide to answer to the name of Nina Candida. If he came back. If he called me that again.

But now, an hour later with business bustling along once more, I watch the door waiting not for the flirty captain to return, but to find out what has become of Soapy, and whether that little rat has decided to skip out with my cut!

FIN