Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Joined by Cufflain and Foss, they headed into the city, the hard looks on their faces causing the prostitutes to retreat to into the doorways of buildings that lined the less savory section of Washington. Marson led the way, rain siding down his impressive figure. His eyes were cold; his mouth was half open sucking in the cool air as he retraced his steps of the night before.

This led the foursome to a red brick tavern wedged in between two hotels. The mortar was chipped in some places and missing completely in others. A wooden sign carelessly nailed to the door frame read: Schulz’s Tavern: Good food & better women

Inside, a group of soldiers at the bar talked drunkenly among themselves; Brighelm almost moved to reprimand the men but remembered he was there on other business. A middle-aged bartender looked up at the four men and spoke with a strong German accent “Vat can I bring you?”

“Four whiskeys,” said Brighelm, not intending to partake but not wanting to give away the fact that they were on a darker errand that day.

In a corner a man played a banjo and a few man danced with invisible partners. The bar room smelled of cigar smoke and stale whiskey. Laughter and other sounds of revelry could be heard from the upstairs balcony. The bartender returned with their drinks and Brighelm paid for them. They began to sip them, quietly formulating a plan to deal with the network of protection around the thieving prostitute

The bartender sighed loudly and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the crowded floor. His blue eyes, covered by horn-rimed spectacles, surveyed his customers for and he ran a hand through his thinning blonde hair. He had a feeling had seen at least one of these men in here before. Then it suddenly dawned on him why they might really be here when he saw Marson gazing at him coldly.

“She’s- she’s not here. Go away,” said the man in a panicked voice.

Marson started for the older man, hot rage in his eyes; the bartender threw one bottle and broke the bottom off another to defend himself. Brighelm stepped to one side as the first bottle flew at him spraying him with whiskey. Feeling this was getting out of hand he signaled for the rest of his men to move quickly around the bar and trap the man.

Foss screamed in fury as the broken whiskey bottle sliced his right hand. He had had enough and drew his bowie knife. Foss grabbed the bartender by the neck and held the knife at his throat. Brighelm ran to the two struggling men wishing to avoid murder.

“Let him go, Foss!” Foss didn’t listen and pulled the knife closer to the man’s windpipe.

“Please! Please! I,” gasped the man. Brighelm kicked Foss hard in the belly and caught the knife as it slid across the black stone floor.

“I told you let him go!” shouted Brighelm, “I should slit you’re gullet.” He let the remark hang in the air as he motioned for Foss to return to Cufflain’s side.

The bartender made a dash for the door, but Marson rammed the heel of his left boot into the man’s knee. As he collapsed Marson balled one of his hands into a fist and threw it forward with all his might. The man stumbled , his shoes scuffing the floor. Manson grabbed him again pulling the man’s bloodied face level to his snarling, “Where’s that thieving bitch?”

“Aright, aright, room six, just don’t kill me,” sobbed the man, shielding his face fearing more blows. Marson left the man cowering in fear and raced up the stairs ignoring the half naked couples peering out doors at the noise he rushed to the door of room six and found it locked. Marson smashed at the doorknob with the butt of his musket and there was the sound of bedsprings creaking and a man groaning at his interrupted pleasure.

“I’m working, damn you!” called a woman.

“Open the door you thiev’n bitch, or I’ll break it down!”

“Go away, Robert,” she shouted angrily when she recognized his voice.

“I’ll break it down,” repeated Marson harshly.

“You don’t frighten me,” she scoffed.

Marson backed up a few paces and threw his shoulder into the wood frame of the door as hard as he could; there was a shout on the other side and the whore’s customer tried to fire a Colt through the half open door. Brighelm rushed to Marson’s aid grabbing the barrel and forcing it toward the floor as the gun went off, the shot splintering the wood floor.

Marson barreled his way through the door and as he did it gave way tearing off its hinges and crashing to the floor. The customer had escaped through an open window landing, still only partially dressed, on the rain-slicked street. Marson ran to the window, rifle at his shoulder. Brighelm slapped it down just as Marson’s finger moved for the trigger.

“Leave him out of this, go find your damn watch,” snarled Brighelm.

Brighelm gazed at the young woman Marson had worked so hard to find. She was wrapped in a white bed sheet and sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, the light from a candle illuminating her features. Her blue eyes were like icebergs as they glared at him with a coldness that made him take a pace backward. Long brown hair cascaded to the small of her back and Brighelm felt his face flush unexpectedly. When Laura had died he made a promise to himself that he would never be touch another woman, but looking at this girl now he fleetingly felt a familiar longing.

He glanced over at Marson who was rummaging through the drawers of a nightstand cursing under his breath. Marson cried out in victory when he found the old scuffed pocket watch. Brighelm felt the men had wasted enough time, and started pulling Marson toward the space were the door had been. He threw down a wad of greenbacks on the floor to pay for the damage and ordered his men out the door.

“Wait!” shouted Molly, longing in her voice.

“What do you want do want?” asked Marson bitterly.

“ I only stole it because… I wanted to see you again,” she said taking a deep breath. “The rest of the men who come here treat me like I’m worthless, but you were different, you treated me with kindness, like … a human being.” Marson pulled his arm from Brighelm’s grip and took a step toward Molly who threw herself at his feet. He dropped to his knees, brushed a loose strand of hair from her tear streaked face and embraced her tenderly, the girl’s cheeks flushing brightly as Marson pressed his wide lips to hers. Brighelm looked at them with an exasperated grin on his face. Because it was true, Marson loved a whore.