The bearded man didn’t seem to know what to say. His three companions shifted uneasily. The whores sat perfectly still.
“You ladies sit right there, where I can see you, make sure you’re not stealing any business from our girls,” I said. “You gentlemen step to the bar and I’ll buy you all a drink ’fore you leave.”
The men sort of looked at one another, then at me. Then the bearded man nodded.
“I could use a drink,” he said. “Night like this.”
11.
Place has turned into a fucking sanctuary,” Wolfson said.
I shrugged.
“It’s not just whores now,” he said. “Anybody got trouble comes running into my saloon and waits for you to protect them.”
Wolfson was leaning on the bar near my chair, sipping whiskey. He usually drank whiskey through the evening, but it didn’t appear to make him drunk. Maybe it was how slow he sipped it.
“For crissake, some guy made a pass at Harley Porter’s wife on the street the other day and she hustles right in here to tell you.”
“I know,” I said. “Maybe if there was a sheriff or something. ”
“You’re turning into the fucking sheriff,” Wolfson said.
“Except I ain’t,” I said.
“No, you ain’t,” Wolfson said. “You work for me.”
“I do,” I said.
“Keep that clear in your mind,” Wolfson said.
I nodded, watching the room. It was full and lively, the card tables were busy, the bar was crowded. Everything was in good working order. Wolfson sipped his whiskey and looked at the room, too.
“Nice and busy,” he said.
He snorted or laughed or something like that. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“Thing makes me laugh,” he said, “is my saloon, a sanctuary, like a fucking church or something. People come to my saloon because they feel safe.”
“That’s not bad for business,” I said.
“No,” Wolfson said, and made the laugh sound again. “That’s what’s so funny. I’m busier than I ever been.”