Kitabı oku: «Damn Loot!», sayfa 3

1 Good manners.

Hugg Badfinger had a perfectly good reason to go straight to Agua Dulce. There, one could find a scanty old junk shop where a modest variety of services and accessories could be accessed by asking the right questions. For example, it was possible to pawn or sell an item, even if it was of dubious origin. Aaron Mansill, the shop owner, was nothing but a cheap loan shark, but he was the only hustler Hugg knew of in those parts. He had already concluded a few transactions with him and didn’t have any complaints thus far.

He was very sure the merchant could never take on the entirety of the stolen goods; primarily because he did not have enough connections to be able to sell it all. He also wouldn’t remotely have the liquidity to afford it all in one go. If he did have it, he wouldn’t have been there counting the nickels earned from pickpockets. Either way, Hugg had to start somewhere.

He hadn't trusted himself enough to take the entirety of the loot with him, so he had stashed most of it under a rock just outside of town. He had been very careful, and before taking off he stood watch for a long while. Long enough to be absolutely certain that no one had seen him; a precaution which bordered paranoia.

He arrived at the saloon of Agua Dulce a moment before high noon. Just in time for old Ben to serve a flat, piss-warm beer and a potato and rabbit stew. He was reasonably sure that the “rabbit” was not rabbit at all, but he ate it anyway. He just needed to put something in his belly. Fortunately, thanks to his grim face and standoffish demeanor, he had managed isolate himself in a secluded corner without being bothered.

According to an unwritten rule, he was supposed to offer a drink to the guy seated across the way from him. He had always hated this rule, and this aversion was not at all lessened by the fact that he was now rich. Upon finishing his meal, he was given a room to stay in. There he locked himself inside, turning the key twice to be sure. He intended to wait until late evening to go to the merchant. By showing up at closing time he would have plenty of time to make the deal without being disturbed by the occasional patron.

Evening came, and it was nearing the time to meet Aaron. Before he did anything else, he checked that he still had the jewels on him, even though they weren’t likely to grow legs and run off. Then he slipped the important-looking document into an inside pocket of his vest, lit a cigar, and shuffled downstairs to grab himself a whiskey. His throat was dry, and as far as he was concerned, no good business deal was ever made without a little spirit.

He had just brought the glass to his lips, when an unpleasantly familiar voice made his drink go sideways.

“I knew I'd find you here! See what happens when you gorge yourself? Like I always say: anybody who drinks alone is gonna choke to death!” His overtly cheerful manner made one wonder if his statement had a double meaning.

“Ben! A fresh glass of firewater for my friend. What the devil are you doing here, you old spooney? How is it that you didn’t go down with the rest of Little Pit?”

"Tell me now, Hugg, whereabouts did your little nipper run off to? When I was on my way back to town, a gunslinger on horseback who seemed to be in a bit of a rush went right by me. Then, when I was almost to town, I saw you dart away as though you had the devil on your heels. You was in the same hurry and... riding the same horse. I tried to shadow you in my carriage, but you was just too quick and I lost sight of you. But I knew I’d find you here. What you find on ‘im?” Joe Otthims, who had sat down next to him, accompanied the question with a cheeky grin and an elbow nudge.

The man was huge and sported a very prominent belly. He was much bigger than Badfinger, who was also slightly better proportioned. His pockmarked and flushed face was surrounded by a black beard and an unkempt mop of salt and pepper hair. The gravelly, powerful voice and the colorful vernacular clashed with his perfect British accent.

"Shut up, you idiot!" hissed Hugg, looking around in alarm.

"I’m on to something, eh! What’s it worth? A hundred? Two hundred?” He gave it his best effort, but just wasn’t capable of whispering. Hugg just shot him a fiery glare. Some patrons turned an interested glance in their direction.

"A hundred bucks and a gold-plated watch that could earn me another one-fifty if I’m lucky," he whispered, while still being deliberately audible. Two to three hundred dollars was the most common payload of Aaron's patrons. A fair sum, but nothing that would instigate a scuffle. On the other hand, the place was crawling with petty thieves trying to get similar amounts from their scanty spoils. He himself had never gotten more than two hundred dollars in earnings before that day.

"You have a hundred bucks in your pocket and you're hoping to get off with just one sip? You owe me at least a quart of whiskey! And I mean the good kind!”

Badfinger shook his head, snorted, and finally nodded to the bartender who handed him an entire bottle of bourbon. He grabbed it angrily and slammed it on the counter in front of Joe, then he settled the bill and left without saying a word. He had forgotten about the cigar, but it didn't matter; his urge to smoke had also dissipated. Hugg thought as he walked out, I hope he’ll be blackout drunk by the time it takes for me to disappear! Actually, it’d be even better if his liver dissolved once and for all, the damned fool!

"Oi mate, watch out for Mansill! He always tries to cheat when namin’ prices!" The Giant shouted after him. He should never have offered him that drink. He should have shot him full of holes to see how much booze would leak out. He had to restrain himself from doing so, but not because he had any scruples. Given how things had gone down so far, much of his discretion had vanished in the wind. However, if he reacted badly, he would have attracted the attention of the entire county.

Joe hadn’t downed even a third of his bottle before Weasel burst into the saloon. He was breathless and panting.

“Hey, rascal, you got the wrong waterin’ hole. They don’t serve milk here!” A man taunted, sparking snickers from the other barflies, most audibly his two drinking buddies. The man was a textbook bully; one who would likely never have the courage to ruffle the feathers of someone his own size. The boy ignored his taunting and continued toward the bar.

“Did you hear what I said, stinker, or do you need my boot in your ass to make you understand?" The bully got up from his rickety chair to cut him off.

Unfazed, Finn made to dart around him. The man decided then that he was going to teach him a hard lesson and tried to grab him. His lesson was thwarted, however, when he found himself with his arm twisted firmly behind his back. Before he could register what was happening, a well-aimed kick sent him crashing into the table he came from. This time, the laughter in the room was directed at the heckler.

"That boy is an acquaintance of mine. You and your little shit pals get back to minding your business and you’ll have no trouble.” Joe turned his back to him and joylessly sat back down to finish his drink.

“I think you’re the one who’s gonna have trouble, ya big babboon!” The sound of three guns clicking into action was unmistakable. Otthims grabbed what was left of Hugg’s cigar, took a shot, put his hand under his vest to scratch his belly and let out a sigh of exasperation. Then, with characteristic indifference, he turned in their direction without getting up from his stool. In his hand was a bomb full of black powder. The fuse was lit, and it was short.

“First of all, didn’t your Ma ever teach you good manners? You don’t bring guns to the table! By now you will have understood that this saloon and all of us in it will soon be just a mem’ry if you don’t hand over your guns in three...two...one...” The three obeyed and Finn quickly grabbed the revolvers. Meanwhile, Joe extinguished the last quarter inch of the fuse.

“Much better. Now, since I’m occupied with this lovely dame, I’d like to not be disturbed." He caressed the side of the bottle as though it were the one of the naked concubines depicted in the dingy painting on display behind the counter.

Otthims had no interest in their pistols, so he left them in the hands of the kid. The three amigos, however, still had knives. The companions exchanged glances and understood each other. The three of them, armed, against the unarmed mammoth. From behind, no less. It was almost too easy.

They drew their blades and hurtled toward him. The first man tumbled to the ground after Finn managed to trip him. The lunge of the second man was intercepted by Joe, who grabbed his wrist with such vigor that he heard it crack. He simply wanted to make him lose his grip on the knife, but it seemed that he didn’t measure his strength properly. In a flash, without letting go, he slammed the man's hand in the face of the third who, stunned by the episode, froze his attack for just long enough. A double crack was enough to be certain that neither the bones of the hand nor the face on the other side of it withstood the forceful impact. One man lay lifeless in a pool of blood, while the other howled in pain from his shattered arm.

Fortunately, it didn't last long, because with a knock in the head that would flatten a bison, Joe sent him to sleep as well. In the confusion, the remaining amigo scampered past Weasel on all fours in attempt plant the blade in the calf of the brute. However, the boy saw him coming and promptly and planted the tip of his boot in his temple, putting him definitively out of action. The three amigos would not be back on their feet any time soon. All the other patrons stopped laughing and, feigning disinterest, returned to their own business.

The barman shook his head with a grimace, threw the cloth he was using to dry the glasses onto the counter and took a deep breath. In that godforsaken place, not a week went by without a fight. Otthims noticed his consternation and consoled him: "I hope I didn't do too much damage. I reckon I know what it’s like: I used to run my own saloon once." Except that in his saloon, there had never been enough patrons to even have a one-on-one brawl.

The giant rummaged through the pockets of two of the men he had knocked out. He barely made it to nine dollars in all, which he promptly deposited on the counter. “This is for the ruckus. Young Badfinger, clean that one up too." He pointed to the guy lying beside the boy. It was the braggart who had taunted him. He had only six dollars in his pocket. To compensate, he was able to recover a gold tooth with a well-aimed pistol whip to the mouth.

When he saw the owner take off his apron to begin cleaning up the mess, Joe stopped him with a wave of his hand and a friendly smile. “Don’t you worry about it! I'll take care of throwing out the garbage." He threw one of the men over his broad shoulder as if he were a palfrey saddle. He lifted the other two, one in each hand, using their shirts as handles. He then brought them out the swinging doors and tossed them in the clearing to collect dust.

As he started back towards the bar to finish his drink in peace, he found himself blocked by Weasel.

"Mr. Otthims, Ben told me that my old man talked to you and left a little while ago. Do you know where he went off to?" He knew that his father would go to those parts occasionally to sell items, but he had no idea where exactly it was he went to conduct his business. He hoped to discover any information the Giant had managed to tap from his father.

"He went to Aaron Mansill to exchange some loot.” He gave a knowing smile.

I can't believe he confided in this simpleton! He had to investigate further.

"But can this Aaron guy take on a loot like ours?"

"Of course, it's easy to sell a good watch. He could even sell it for twice as much as he paid for it. I tried to tell your Pa’, but he left without giving me the time’a day! Maybe you still have time to warn him. If it really is gold plated like he said, he shouldn’t ask for less than two hundred bucks. One-fifty for sure wouldn’t be enough.”

"Well then I better get going! I just don’t know whereabout to find the dealer.”

"No problem, son. Go left ‘til you get to the blacksmith, take the street on the right, then go a few steps and you’ll come to a shabby little shop full of junk. You can't go wrong; this town is a hole. Go on, now, if you wanna make it.”

"Thanks!" The boy dashed out at breakneck speed. The reason for his rush was far more important than fifty dollars. It was likely that the double-dealing Rick was there, and he had to warn his father. In fact, when he was about to reach Agua Dulce, he heard the sound of hooves behind him. Luckily, he had a small hill between himself and the pursuer, so he had time to hide behind a bush. From there, he watched as the horseman streaked past and wondered to himself if he was also headed to Mansill to do business.

1 Good Business.

The clocks on display in the shop were nothing but junk seeded on top of an even larger pile of junk. They all displayed seven o’clock. Every damn day those clocks held him hostage with a pace slower than cold molasses. As if to further mock him, they tortured him with their tedious ticking and methodical detachment. In this moment, however, they were giving him the best news of the day: it was closing time, which meant he was free. Seven o'clock at last. Time to close up, find a chair at Ben's to force down the slop of the day, complain to the first unfortunate passerby in sight how his business was crumbling, and finally, plop his tired bones on the rickety cot in his musty little room.

While Aaron Mansill was not a multi-millionaire by any means, he was certainly wealthy enough to afford some extra comfort. He preferred, however, to lay low, due to his obsessive preoccupation with thieves. He saw them everywhere and in everyone; even in the men he hired to protect him or collect his dues. For this reason, he preferred to hire help that was a little on the slow side, and lazy to the point of ridicule. Any mistakes or oversights they could commit were offset by the fact that they were too dumb to fool him. More importantly, that they would not be likely to turn from guards into thieves. He did his best to seem destitute, and as such, he lived a modest life. He was doomed to live a miserable life until his death. That was, however, the price to pay to become rich.

Not that he had much life left in him. He was just over sixty years old, but decades of hardship and sacrifice had worn him down both in body and spirit. Because of this, his appearance was that of a man twenty years older. He was of miniscule stature, thin, gaunt, and hunched over. His skin was waxy and colorless, his limbs weak and trembling. He was almost completely toothless, but he did not wear dentures. He preferred it that way; he could not fathom that gold, the noble herald of wealth, could ever be used for something as unimportant as teeth. It was a wonder he was even able to eat. He didn't mind, though. It meant he had to spend less money on short-lived nourishment.

No doubt about it, Aaron was a truly generous man. He had given his all for his precious Lucille. He had invested his body and soul without thought, and never asked for anything in return. He had secured it, protected it, cultivated it, pampered it, and never, ever, squandered it.

It was important that his shop mirrored his appearance: old, loathsome, dingy, and useless. What kind of outlaw would ever want to rob a place like that? If an outlaw did attempt to rob the place, they wouldn't have gotten away with much. Lucille, as he called his beloved treasure of a savings, was safe and sound elsewhere.

He gently placed the ledger in the drawer of a worm-eaten desk and stood up from his chair with a groan. He wasn't much taller standing up than he was sitting down. He wore a small cap made of black cloth and grabbed his walking stick, which would have better served as crutch for how it was proportioned. Even it was shabby. The sporadic traces of paint that remained testified that it was once lacquered, but now it was nothing but a splintered wooden stick with a tarnished brass head.

He busied himself with closing the doors and windows. When he approached one window, through the glass that had been burdened by years of dirt, he glimpsed a large silhouette. He shuddered with delight, as he had always done at the prospect of a new deal.

Aaron claimed to renounce the use of firearms, so he never carried one. Truth was that he didn't have the strength to lift a gun without shaking like a leaf, let alone shoot one. He had no reservations, however, regarding the use of firearms in his shop by others in his stead; especially when it was for reasons of conducting business.

"Y'all polish silver here?" Upon entering, the customer began with a phrase that hinted at the need to sell goods of dubious origin. The door was so small that the huge man had to bend over and contort himself to get through it.

"That and much more… Oh, it's you, Hugg." He had already worked for him several times as a fence. Most of the time, he would move stolen personal effects and small items from heaven knows where. Hugg had experienced first-hand how tightfisted a man he was, with his constant penny-pinching ways. Doing business with him was unpleasant, to say the least.

Mansill made enough money from salvaging, but his main source of income came from his loans. Lending money was like growing beans; put a seed in the ground and if it's fertile you come away with a sackful. His small financial contribution to the client's needs was the seed, the fool's vain optimism was the fertile soil, and the interest made was the bountiful harvest.

At first glance, one might take Aaron for a materialistic man. However, he was not. Interest rates are not physically tangible, but an abstract concept. Yet, he adored them almost as much as his Lucille. He respected them with earnest dedication, so what was wrong with demanding that the people in business with him do the same?

Despite his wretched appearance, the hustler had several internal strengths. For example, he was a very open-minded and tolerant man. In fact, though he did not himself partake in spirits, he didn't knock those who spent their days getting loaded to the gunwhales. Quite the contrary; he indulged them, pampered them, and was always at the ready to give them whatever they needed. It often happened that in order to get their fill, they handed over personal effects that were worth at least ten times what they received in return. The important thing was to reassure them that they would be able to repay such a small debt. Naturally, they rarely ever could. No problem. He would be so kind as to settle for what was left, as collateral. He also exhibited the same open-mindedness with gamblers. As far as he was concerned, he had no idea how to play cards or dice, but he still took it in his heart to support practitioners.

Mansill considered salvaging to be a form of publicity; a great way to bring in business. The men in those parts weren't used to handling more than ten dollars at a time. So, when they entered his shop to sell misappropriated items, they often came out with a little money, a huge smile stamped across their face, and a single desire: to have a good time. Whether it was in a saloon, a game room, a brothel, or all three, it didn't matter. They'd take a liking and couldn't help themselves. They would run out of money and crawl back to Aaron for a loan.

Vice is an ugly beast, and you must put an end to it before it puts an end to you.

Good ol' Aaron took care of that too. When those poor, naive people didn't even have their skivvies left as collateral, the trader understood that they had developed a true addiction and stopped ransacking them before things got unmanageable. Oh, how many folks he saved that way!

All things considered, he was a tried and true philanthropist. Yet, everyone despised him.

To be fair, Badfinger was also a tightfisted man who certainly would not be tangled in a trap of expensive vices, even if it held the prospect of a thousand dollars in his pocket. It was another good reason to not nurture any sympathies toward him. He knew from experience that if he handed over money in exchange for whatever he had to offer, unlike what usually happened with others, he would not be back again.

Now that he let him in, there was nothing more he could do but to try to pay as little as possible, so that he could earn at least something in the exchange. He certainly would not give him a penny over half of what his black-market wares were worth, which would have been a quarter of the estimated value when speaking of legal methods of distribution.

"Aaron, my man, this time I'm gonna make you filthy rich!" Hugg began with a wily grin.

If all my customers were like you, the shop would have gone under and I'd be auditing the books of some Big Bug, he thought, then said, "Rich? Don't you see what I've been reduced to? Unfortunately, not all customers are as reliable as you are, but it's their own fault they're destitute. I'm happy you're here. We've always done good business, you and me."

"Mostly you. I can't complain, anyway. You've never passed me a fake banknote."

Aaron had scammed several of his customers with fake money, but he only ever did so to folks with one foot in the grave or those who couldn't harm him or otherwise harass him with a bounty on his head. He never would have dared to enact such obvious chicanery to such a dangerous brute as Badfinger.

"They told me you're also a forger, so I'm assuming you ain't a very good one at this point. Don't matter. I need you to put on your dealin' hat."

"Same as always!"

"Well, I reckon this time the matter is a little more serious. We'll have to talk for a while without being bothered." He had brought enough items with him to get at least a thousand dollars. Their true worth was nearly three thousand, but he knew that cheapskate Aaron would never produce that much money.

"Ok. Close the door, but be aware that you'll have to wait for the money tomorrow. I only have eighteen in the till." He wanted to make it clear that there was no reason to pull any dirty tricks.

"Yeah I know how it works. We did this last time, too. Now let's talk shop. Then tomorrow you send me one of your henchmen to bring the money and take the goods."

"Temporary employee, not henchman. If you put it that way, you make me sound like a man of mischief."

"Ain't you a damn loan shark?"

"The fact that I take pity on folks who have a hard time making ends meet doesn't make me a loan shark."

"I saw how you pitied Mudd, alright. He left Little Pit with a case of rifles he risked his hide to swipe out from under them soldiers and came back wearing nothin' but his drawers, a swollen face, and both thumbs smashed to bits."

"Weaponry, especially of the military sort, is a uniquely uncomfortable topic. Regardless, I found a way to pay him handsomely. Next thing I know, the hack came crawling back after a game of poker. A less charitable fella would’ve sent him away, but I wanted to help him. But then he wanted to make a game of it and I was forced to send a ‘mediator’ to persuade him to return the goods to me. I'm not all that good at convincing folks, so I asked the kind help of someone more practiced than me. I'm no debt collector, that's for sure. You're free to believe that my associate exaggerated a bit on your friend, but I personally refrain from making judgments on the job of a professional in a trade of which, I repeat, I know next to nothing."

"All them fancy words just to tell me you washed your hands of it. Don't even think about playin' me like that, ya damn loan shark! Any good business you ever did with me was because of Mudd's introducin' us." Which was just one more reason to sic his dogs on Mudd, in addition to the fact that Mudd hadn’t kept his word and returned the money. He was the one who brought one of his least favorite clients to him.

He remembered the it perfectly fine. It was a simple question of getting back the fifty bucks he had lent to Mudd, plus another modest interest fee of forty-nine for services rendered. It was also only right that the extra twenty dollars required to hire the mediator to settle the outstanding account did not come out of his own expenses. They were all documented costs, yet people still stubbornly considered him a shark.

"I have no intention to deceive anyone. What I want most is to be clear with my customers, especially the most loyal ones, like yourself. Perhaps it is my honesty in how I conduct my business that would explain why I've never been able to lift myself out of total poverty. Unfortunately, I am just the middleman, and I get to keep very little of what passes through my hands. If you then take into consideration the folks who unfortunately meet their maker before paying off their debts or the times that I'm unable to sell what I've taken on, you’ll see that it's a miracle that I haven't gone under yet. As you can see with your own two eyes, this work has reduced me to a shadow of my former self and I don't even have a pot to piss in to show for it." Oh, how many times he had pulled that card and in so many contexts! It was, perhaps, the only subject he ever discussed with such tenacity. All hogwash, of course. But as wise men say, hiding something is the best way to protect it. He was incredibly protective of his Lucille. He alone was the only one who was to ever know, not only of her contents, but of her very existence.

"Is it me, or have I heard that ballyhoo already? Anyhow, quit your bellyachin', 'cause I've got an eyeful for you. Here I have near five grand in gold and precious jewels." Hugg opened the bundle on the desk, revealing its contents.

Sure enough, an unnerving expression of longing momentarily flashed in Aaron's eyes. The look made Badfinger feel as though the man was blatantly ogling his woman's backside. He wanted to knock him across the room, but he had to make the deal for at least a thousand bucks, so he was going to have to bite the bullet. It wasn’t too difficult. He would have handed over his wife, rest her soul, for much, much less. To be honest he had attempted it in the past, but she resisted. Truthfully, it was one of the reasons that he had killed her, in addition to the fact that she had the gall to undermine his authority as head of the household. His children were his property and if he decided to eliminate one because he was no good, he had every right to. It really was a simple and indisputable concept. Yet that shrew he was dumb enough to marry had squalled until he couldn't take it anymore. Putting her out of her misery was inevitable. She was challenging his role as head of the family. He was well on his way to be the best trapper around, but because of them he had to go get lost in the bush and live like a stray in that cursed land. However, his time for redemption had finally come.

While he was lost in thought, he had also missed the first part of the assessment during which the dealer, now armed with a monocle, had spewed a series of complicated words to discredit his goods. He returned to reality at the ideal moment, because he seemingly caught the only part of his long-winded speech worth listening to: the final evaluation.

"...all of which I had predicted at first glance. I'd say about the best I can do here is about five hundred dollars. Don't ask me for any more because I would have a hard time finding any more cash."

"Go to lick a cowhand’s boot, you damn cheapskate! You hear what I just said? I know for a fact that this stuff is worth over five grand!" Hugg swore, then thought to himself, "Alright, five hundred bucks is a good start."

"Excellent... He didn't seem to have taken it too badly. His stuff is easily worth three thousand bucks, but I won't give him any more than a quarter of that," Aaron thought as he replied, "Now let's not exaggerate, young man! At most, it's worth two thousand on a clean market. Underground it's not even worth half that. Then consider the fact that I have to find buyers, and that's never a guarantee, then there are the administrative costs... If all goes well, I earn maybe three hundred. If it doesn't go well, I'll come away empty-handed."

"Then you should close up for good. Seems like you're too old to do this job. Not only are you hard of hearing, looks like you're half-blind, too. Does that look like some junk jewelry you get for just two grand? Go clean that lens a little better so you can see what treasures just came into this junk heap of a store! I could always go to somebody without cataracts. You ain’t the only one I do business with."

"All right, all right. I'll give you that. Perhaps you'd be able to get $2,500 in a no-nonsense boutique. That said, the black market would pay half, at most. $1,250. Look - just because it's you, and I want to be sure we continue to do good business together, this time I'll take the hit. I'm not greedy. If I can make an honest three hundred bucks, I'm happy. So, with blind optimism I will value this stuff at $250 more. I'm giving it all to you. Let's close at $750. And people wonder why I'm by the wayside..."

"I reckon you're gonna earn at least twice as much. And what in tarnation are these 'administrative expenses'? Anyway, today's your lucky day. It's a deal!" It wasn't the thousand dollars he was hoping for, but considering that he had no one else to turn to, what he was getting out of it wasn't half bad.