Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
Part Fifty-Seven: Edgar
9:15 AM, November 1st, 1899
Old Light Saloon was tumbledown, a gray-black skeleton of a joint,
Edgar had to stumble now, three-legged, pissed, but unvoiced.
Across mud and shit he trekked as he entered,
To the bar—more of a pit—where with the whiskey, he found his mentor.
Milton looked quite bad, there was nothing else to say.
His eyes were sad, suit soiled, spirit toiled, as he gruffly muttered, "Hey."
Edgar swiped the bottle from his hand, and a greedy gulp he drained,
Yet Milton didn't stand, Milton didn't complain.
Oh Andrew, Ross thought, look what you've become,
For six years I learned, you taught, and now you're just drunk dumb.
"I won't do it, Ross," Milton muttered with a hic,
"Not for that boss, not for any check."
Edgar sighed and sat aside,
His friend of six good years. Six good years of justice and service,
Praying he'd keep open ears.
"There's no choice, Cornwall's puttin' us to the test—"
"Should've stayed in Illinois, I hate the goddamn west."
Edgar gritted his teeth, thinking on repeat: just breathe, just breathe.
"Bellyaching does no good, grow some balls and grow some wood.
They're killers, killers, killers, all,
They're goin' to hell, so who cares if we bend the law?"
Milton scoffed, "Bend the law, that's what you call it?"
His bowler hat he doffed, and at Edgar he hauled it.
"No, what you're talkin' about is coercion, blackmail, and sabotage. It's cowardly, ungentlemanly, and not what we were hired to do."
"We were hired to dismantle the Dutch Van der Linde Gang," Edgar protested. "This would do it. If we kidnap Molly, we can force Micah to kill Dutch for us—"
"No—"
"—and without him the gang will collapse."
"No!" Milton threw his whiskey bottle at Edgar's feet and its shatter was a scream. He blenched back, startled, along with the other agents hanging back in the saloon. Milton huffed heavily, for almost a minute, before reaching over the bar and pinching another bottle and two shot glasses. He popped the cork and let the contents cascade into the glasses in golden-brown streams. He slid one across the counter to Edgar and took a small sip of the other. "Drink it."
"Not thirsty," Edgar said sententiously.
"Drink it!" Milton demanded, pounding the bar so violently three glasses fell off the barback shelves at the wall.
Briskly, Edgar pulled a chair and descended onto it, which hurt in no small part due to his wound, and raised the glass to his lips. He managed a fetus of a sip; his stomach spun like a windmill and he felt sick.
"Now we've drunk the same booze," Milton proclaimed with an ugly hiccup. One of his buck teeth was crooked and Edgar found it painfully distracting. He himself had all straight teeth and it made him proud to smile; his Emily had straight ones too and he'd thanked God for it. "And once we have, you can't argue you're any more sober than I am." He set the shot glass down; the yellow juices jumped to one side, then the other. His chocolate-brown eyes were hard as ice when he said, "Ross, if we drink from their unholy cup, we're just as bad as them. We will do this the lawful way. We will make a deal with those two psychos, they will lead us to the gang's hideout, and then—"
"—and then what? We're split down the middle a hundred times over. We didn't have the manpower to defend this shithole, do you really think we'll have the manpower to attack them, wherever the hell they're at?"
"We'll go at night—"
"Like we did in Lakay?"
Milton finished his glass. "We'll figure out a way. And when we do, we will offer them a chance to surrender like the decent men we are. They won't take it, but we will offer. We will not assassinate someone in their sleep by taking a woman as a hostage."
"Why not? We've done it to a little boy."
Milton rose, towering over Edgar. "Don't you dare! We were freeing that boy from a life of crime and sin and relocating him to an orphanage once things had calmed down. He was not a bargaining chip and you know that." He brushed a hand through his buzzed-cut hair and returned to his seat. "Christ, Edgar! I muttered it once when I was drunk…"
Edgar stroked the silver bear on his cane. The contour was jagged, but he liked that. "Yeah… you've been doing that a lot lately…" Milton scowled at him for that but said nothing. "And I'm the poet, Andrew, so let me break down your metapho—simile. The prob—no, wait, metaphor, metaphor. Yeah, the problem with your metaphor is that you've sucked back every drop of your unholy cup, whereas I…" He pointed to his shot glass. "Yeah… Look, God's a reasonable fellow. The border between heaven and hell ain't the width of a pencil. People do good things and bad things, I mean you read the report. That gang used to donate their earnings to charity and the poor and unfortunate, oh bless their generous hearts. If they drank outta that holy cup, does that mean they're all good? All square with the big man on high? No. And conversely, pal, I've done some things. Cheated on my wife more than a few times, killed an innocent man by accident, killed an innocent woman by accident, still see her pretty pale blue lips sometimes—one of the many factors that's led to my declining sex life—but in my heart, I still know I'm a good man. Y'know why? Because men like Dutch Van der Linde are in the world."
Milton itched his patchy pink nose. "You know you're not changing my mind, Ross, so what was all that for?"
"I don't rightly know, but it sure felt good saying it." Edgar chuckled faintly before his smile sagged into a frown. "But let me finish, there's an epilogue to that speech that I think will grab your attention."
"You're wastin' your time—"
"Let me finish! Please, I'm your underling, and I'm asking you this favor." Milton groaned, pouring another glass and beckoning him to continue with his middle finger. "Great, okay, so… where was I? Right: in my heart, I know I'm a good man. Just like I know you're a good man, Andrew. You've made mistakes surely. Payin' off an outlaw with six thousand dollars worth in state bonds that ain't yours—"
"What—?"
"—thus violating the strict conduct of the Pinkerton Detective Agency's principles regarding ethics and legalities. Therefore, it is recommended by your junior partner that termination would be the most sagacious course of action."
"You son of a—!" Milton lunged and then he was on the floor, clutching his broken nose. The silver bear dripped red at the maws.
Edgar stood. "Bad news, Andrew: you're fired, discredited, and ruined. Good news: you don't have to be."
Milton seethed with rage and glanced to the bowler hats in the shadows. "Arrest this man." But he made a mistake, the Pinks were gone, replaced with mannequins, they must be because not one of them moved an inch. "ARREST HIM!" His wet shriek echoed through the room and died.
"Here's the riddle of the month, Andrew," Edgar continued, finishing his shot glass. His stomach felt a whole lot better now. "What is quite bright, yet sheds no light. Invert your answer, and you will be right. A German guy in Annesburg gave me the answer to that. It's an idiot. Don't be one."
Milton tried to stand, but the bottom of the cane was driven into his chest and he fell to his back, wheezing coarsely. "You've got… nothing… no proof."
Edgar couldn't fight the smirk. What can I say, I like to win. He said it to Emily all the time. "Oh, I wouldn't say that… I've got lots of… eye-witness testimony." He snapped his fingers and the dark mannequins stepped forward, standing in a circle around Milton, faces black with shadows so all he could see was pale teeth when their lips moved.
"I saw him," one said.
"He offered a bribe with client money," came another.
"It was unethical and illegal."
"But as an insubordinate, I felt pressured not to disclose anything."
"But I can't contain myself anymore, it must come out."
Milton lay recumbent, eyelids as agape as his mouth. A tear welled up but he forced it down. He was pale as the sonsie whore Edgar had shot. He hadn't meant to, he thought she was guilty. His wallet had been missing, but it turned out that in the excitement, it was flung under the bed when he stripped off his jacket. Whatever, she'd been surely guilty of something else.
"Liars," Milton whispered. "Liarsliarsliarsliarsliars."
"Yes," Edgar sighed, "we know, we know. Archer?" A young man with a square jawline and cleft chin stepped forward. "Archer is going to take you to the nearest post office with a telegram or telephone. You will send a message to the agency upstate and inform them that the stress of this job is too much and you are requesting to be reassigned."
Milton shook his head, lips fat like a child pouting. "How could you do this me?" It was a general question, and everyone was free to answer it. In the end, only Edgar did.
"Sorry, pal. You won't go far enough. Anyway, this is for the best. When that message is put out, you will stay in the closest hotel with Archer until the agency arranges everything. He will stay with you as you hop the carriage which will take you to a train which will take you to a boat which will take you out of state. If he doesn't see your tiny bald speck on that boat and if I don't hear back from him every day (though I doubt you'll have the balls to play that way) I will inform the agency about everything you've done." His features softened and he leaned close to Milton. "Andrew, don't throw your life away on one man. Forget about this gang, move on. Trust me, although it may sound blasphemous, you'll thank me one day."
The spit was hot and bubbly as it left Milton and slapped Edgar in the eyes. He groaned and wiped it with the back of his hand. "I'd hoped we could go separate ways with a handshake, but I guess that'll do."
"This is not justice," Milton spluttered. "Not justice at all."
Edgar laughed. "Friend, where the hell do you think we are? Justice is a concept built for post-war societies. This place? This part of the map? We are very much in a war, compadre. You're just too polite to see it. Or maybe just too drunk." Milton arched his back for a pounce, but the bear dug into his shoulder blade and his face hit the floor with a groan. Edgar yanked by his suit's midnight-black hem, pulling Milton to his feet. He shoved the giddy drunkard to Archer, who snapped a firm hand around his upper arm.
"You always was proud of that prim and proper suit," Edgar said softly, running the bear's scarlet teeth over Milton's spotless white cotton shirt. "I don't know why… What's the point in dressin' nice when no one can tear their eyes away from those disgusting crooked teeth." He motioned for Archer to get lost.
"This is not over!" Milton insisted as he was dragged outside.
"Yes, it is!" Edgar shouted back. "You ought to retire soon, pal! Kick up your feet! Play golf!" The sun blinded him for a moment, and he didn't speak again until darkness returned and he blinked a few times. "Alright, okay, that's one piece of business. Next—oh, and by the way, I'm proud of all of you. I am. I know that couldn't have been easy."
"It had to be done, sir," one of them said, a red-haired woman. "I'm tired of that damn gang runnin' circles 'round us. Sir."
"That's that attitude I need," Edgar exclaimed with a gratified finger aimed at her chest. Her well-endowed and slender chest. Dammit, she's a knockout. I just wish she didn't have that one fucked-up eye. Shoulda slid into her pants before Marston shot half her face off in Saint Denis. "Alright, okay, there's four—well, I guess we checked one off the list. Okay, three things we need to be on top of. First,"—he turned to another agent, Willie Paretti, but he always just addressed him by his chosen nickname for the lad—"Wormface, when were Strawberry and Shortcake supposed to meet with us?"
Paretti dug into his coat pocket for the faded paper. "We met last… uhhhhhleven days ago. They were supposed to meet us a week after that for a report orrrr… analysis orrrr… whatever you want to call it—"
"Don't care."
"—which would mean they were supposed to be here for a meeting aboooooooooooout… uhhhhhh…"
"Reading takes that long?"
"Four days ago, sir." He tucked the parchment away.
"Thank God you shoot faster than you speak, son," Edgar mumbled before clapping his hands together. "Alright, okay, I'm a nice guy, so I will assume that is just laziness or stupidity on their part. Uh…" He snapped his fingers at the red-head he'd had a wet dream about more than once. "You… uh…"
"Agent Young?"
"Yes, that's it! Much obliged. Agent Young, I want you to go draft up a letter, in code. Send it to that pen name Micah told us about." He sighed and glanced back over his shoulder. "What was it?"
"Uhhhh… gimme a sssssssecond… gotta fish it out of my… oh where did I pu—got it, alright, so… uhhhh… T—sorry, gimme—no, no, I'm reading that right. Tacit-tus—that even a real name? Uhhhh… Kilgore. Tacitus Kilgore."
"Alright, okay." The snaps at her resurfaced.
"Young," she repeated.
"Young! That's it, alright, okay, you're gonna send Tacitus Kilgore a letter, in code, urging Micah and Molly to meet us in Annesburg as soon as possible."
"Annesburg?" Agent Lee chimed in.
"Yeah, this dump doesn't work for me no more. Plus, Cornwall's got a bunch of our guys guardin' Annesburg cuz a' the riots from that mine blowing up. If we can squeeze in there and quash some of that unrest, maybe he'll cut a few of our people loose to us. We'll need all the help. Where was I? Oh, yeah, alright, okay, if Micah and Molly don't answer in the next few days, we have to assume they've gone AWOL. If that's the case, kidnappin' Molly's gonna be a bit tricky, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Young, you still here? Get out, that letter ain't writing itself." Nervous feet scurried out the door. Edgar had the clairvoyance to turn away this time so the light wouldn't sting his eyes. "Last on the agenda: Agent China and Agent Spain?" Agents Lee and Cruz stepped forward. "I want you to try talkin' with Langton's people."
"Interrogate, you mean?" Cruz asked, filmy mustache bouncing with his tan skin. "Sir?"
"Did I say interrogate?" Edgar mused. "No, just two guys havin' a normal fuckin' conversation. Grease a few hands if need be, but I want to know how much they know." They didn't dare ask what, but their eyes were so curious he felt compelled to elaborate. "The gang went to Emerald Ranch to buy a wagon or somethin', and immediately were met with that… whose that fuckin' clown?"
"Uhhhhh… let meeee chec—"
"No! Shut up, I remember! White Tom. White Tom and his goons. They knew the gang was goin' there, but how? We met with Micah as it was goin' down—didn't even have enough time to mobilize and head over after he told us. But they did. How?"
"Maybe they were at Emerald Ranch for a different reason?" Agent Radmore suggested. "Our Lord works in mysterious ways. Sir."
"D-did I hear that right? 'Our Lord works in mysterious ways.' Are you shittin' me? As a member of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, your best guess for this obvious piece of conspiracy and plotting is 'God willed it so'?"
"Well—"
"Shut up, Radwhore."
"Sir," Lee asked, finding his throat dry suddenly. "Are-are you sayin' what I think?"
"Yeah…" Edgar waddled over to where Milton sat and settled in. "Bad news: I think someone leaked information to those bounty hunters. There's no other way that white cat could've known about Emerald Ranch." Anxious whispers filled the bar but were dispelled when their new senior detective raised a hand to his lips. "Good news: I believe that man is gone now."
"A-Archer?" Radmore guessed.
"Stick to being the one here with the biggest beard, pal, smarts ain't in your wheelhouse. Milton."
The gasps echoed lowly. He wouldn't… What would he have to gain? No… They all went something like that. Edgar of course didn't believe it for a second, but whoever the real rat was couldn't think they were being sniffed out. Spain's got some gamblin' debts. A bribe woulda done it. Or maybe Radmore? He definitely wants to feel important, even if he's dumb as rocks. He'd crack that puzzle soon enough—no riddle alluded him forever, just ask that German idiot in Annesburg.
"Alright, okay, so Lee and Spain, I want you to go have that gentleman's talk. Learn what you can. Those bounty hunters have more men than us and don't have some corporate fatcat fiddling with them with a tacky overcompensating golden fork. And if we find out they're just as well-informed as us? Well… that makes them a problem we can't ignore. Milton gave them that black boy, and that's the last one of the Van der Linde Gang they're allowed to get." He stood abruptly, his cane clicking with every step as he approached his agents. The Pinks jounced into a straight line, standing at attention as he addressed them. "I promised our benefactor heads, and I swear by Christ, if they ain't Dutch's, or Micah's, or Molly's, or any other of them whores or killers, it'll be yours. Starting with you, you slow-talking prick! Is that understood?"
"Yes sir!" Wormface said quickly, in unison with all the others.
In the shady saloon of Old Light, Edgar's teeth were straight as arrows when he grinned. "Excellent."
Ross is in charge now...
Hope you enjoyed the poetry format. Thought that would be a fun way to connect to Ross' love of poems and flowery talk.
Remember when I said way back in Chapter 28 that there would be a reason why the bounty hunters happened to stumble onto John, Charles, and Lenny at Emerald Ranch? Yeah, this is it. Pinks have a rat of their own. The specifics will be revealed soon enough...
Next chapter should actually take a little longer to write. I'll personally mail a quarter to anyone who can guess correctly what three members from the gang will be in it (trust me, you can't).