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ST. LOUIS IN 1895 was still a wild city. Though similar to New York in its mix of cultures and very tall buildings, it was still untamed. Cattle were prodded down the main thoroughfare to the stockyards alongside motor vehicles, horse-drawn wagons, cowboys on horseback, and pedestrians. The air was scented with animals, petrol, and men. Men of every size, shape, and affluence. Stiles loved it.
He called at the Pinkerton office to address the lack of response to his letter. A young man dressed in a black suit, stiff white collar, and brilliant blue tie that matched his eyes, smiled shyly at him when he entered the office.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Long, but appointments are by invitation only. Mr. Wallace and Mr. McCullough are very careful about accepting recruits.”
The nameplate on the desk read Lawrence Whitley.
“Lawrence, I do understand, but how does one get an invitation? I did send a letter some time ago, outlining my credentials for the agency.” Stiles had a suspicion, so he took a chance. He let his eyes roam down the man’s body and back up, smiling softly when he stopped to stare into those striking blue eyes. Whitley was a handsome man with a strong body and wavy dark-brown hair.
Color rose in Whitley's cheeks and his next words came out stuttered.
“Yes... yes, we... did receive... it.”
“So, do I not look like a man who could handle himself in any situation,” Stiles asked, emphasizing the last word. It had the exact impact on the handsome young man behind the desk for which Stiles had hoped.
Lawrence’s eyes popped open and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Stiles smiled at him again. The young man cleared his throat several times and then gathered himself before he spoke.
“I’m truly sorry, sir; as I said, there is a strict rule of ‘by invitation only’,” Lawrence repeated. Then he leaned across the desk and whispered, “But he, Mr. McCullough, might be at the Iron Horse on Dahlia Street around ten this evening.”
Lawrence’s cheeks were flushed bright red as he stood to attention and offered his hand to Stiles. Stiles shook it softly and gave the man his thanks.
THE IRON HORSE saloon was exactly what Stiles had expected. Red satin drapes and round tables where men played cards or flirted with women. He had quickly learned that Americans loved their vice even more than his fellow Englishmen. The building stank of tobacco, liquor, and body odor. There might have even been a tinge of sex in the air as well, given that the women lolling about looked to be for hire.
The saloon was crowded, and every table in the room was taken. Stiles found an empty spot at the end of the bar, ordered a pint, and rested his back against the hardwood to observe the room. Before he was halfway through his ale, a man across the room lurched to his feet and banged his fists on the table he had been sitting at. The room grew quiet.
“You’re a bastard, McCullough!” Stiles perked up at the mention of the name.
Every head in the room turned to look at a man sitting calmly at the table sipping on a glass of amber liquid. The angry man’s words didn’t seem to bother him at all. He set his half-drank glass down before he spoke.
“Sit down, Roberts. Let’s discuss this like gentlemen.” McCullough emphasized his last word, as if he were speaking to a simpleton.
His attitude seemed to inflame Roberts even further. He growled and shoved the table. McCullough’s drink tipped over, the liquid spilling and running across the table toward him. He stood quickly, grasping the edge of the table and throwing it aside with ease.
Roberts, though a head taller and a good fifty pounds heavier, took several steps back as McCullough strode toward him. McCullough’s eyes were as amber as the drink he had been sipping. Now they seemed to glow with a fire from deep within. His face showed no other emotion. When he spoke, it was with an icy calm.
“You owe me a drink and...” His arm pulled back and Roberts received a solid punch to the center of his face.
The crack of his nose breaking could be heard throughout the room. Blood gushed between his fingers as he cupped them to his face. And thus it began.
The entire room seemed to choose sides and a brawl broke out. Women screamed, tables were flipped over, and chairs were flung through the air. Some of them broke apart on men fighting, and others crashed and splintered into pieces on the walls and floor.
Stiles continued to drink his pint and observe the scuffle from the safety of his vantage point at the bar. Eventually Roberts recovered and counterattacked, backing McCullough into a corner not far from where Stiles stood. Stiles considered whether to join in the ruckus or not. He finished his ale and approached Roberts from behind. Lifting the heavy copper pint cup he’d been drinking from, he let loose with precise aim, hitting Roberts on the back of his head.
Roberts received the blow and let go of the chokehold he had on McCullough. He turned to face Stiles, a puzzled look on his face, but didn’t go down.
Stiles moved quickly with a right hook, jarring Roberts’ head and then an uppercut with his left in the man’s gullet. Roberts released a large gush of air, grabbed his throat, and fell to his knees. Finally, he collapsed on the floor at Stiles’ feet.
McCullough looked at the heap on the floor that Roberts had become, and then his gaze drifted to take Stiles in. He offered his hand.
“The name’s McCullough, James McCullough.”
Stiles shook his hand and nodded.
“I know. Roberts here seemed to enjoy calling it out every so often.” Stiles toed Roberts with the tip of his polished shoe.
“I told you he’d be a good one,” a vaguely familiar voice chimed in as Stiles turned to see Lawrence Whitley approaching them.
“You did at that, Lawrence, and he does have the look we are needing.” McCullough was still eyeing Stiles.
“I told you that, too.” Lawrence blushed ever so slightly.
“Mr. Long, I believe you wanted an invitation for an appointment with me.”
“Yes, I did,” Stiles answered, and smiled at Lawrence.
“Tomorrow. My office. Eight a.m.” McCullough turned, said goodnight to Lawrence, and left the Iron Horse. Stiles watched the man leave and then turned to Lawrence.
“Buy you a drink?”
“I’d like that.” Lawrence smiled, and this time he wasn’t blushing.
“I TOLD HIM YOU’D be perfect for the job,” Lawrence said, after taking a long pull on the cigar he’d lit. He rolled it caressingly between his thumb and forefinger. The bluish-white smoke gathered around his head like a halo. Stiles laughed because he’d quickly figured out Lawrence was no innocent.
“What makes you say that?” Stiles asked as he motioned to the barkeep for another round of ale. He was glad he’d decided to chat this man up; he’d already learned a great deal about McCullough and the agency.
“Well, that name, for one thing. Stiles?” He laughed. “I mean, really. Could you get any more snobbish? Your slight British accent makes the effect even better. Not to mention, the cut of your suit shouts, “I have money.” It’s exactly what the agency was looking for.”
Stiles made note of the man’s comments and vowed to be more careful with his speech. But he didn’t know what was wrong with his name. It was a perfectly good family name.
“How does my name help with a case?” Stiles took a careful sip from his pint. Getting in his cups would not help him gather the information he wanted.
“St. Louis isn’t New York or London or any other big city. Though there are no stiff penalties for having certain tastes in companions, like there are in England, one must still be careful where one finds his companionship.”
Lawrence had whispered that long bit of nonsense. Stiles wished he hadn’t bought that last ale for the man.
“Lawrence, you aren’t making much sense, my friend.”
“Murder is what I’m talking about,” Lawrence said, looking about the room as if he was making sure no one was looking at them.
“Murder? Who?” Stiles perked up. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Three so far. Young men.”
Stiles watched as the other man closed his eyes and sighed, seeming suddenly exhausted.
“The Velvet Rope is a discreet private establishment that caters to a specific clientele.” Lawrence took a gulp of his ale.
Lawrence became very quiet. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he looked like a lost soul. Stiles was pretty sure he wouldn’t be getting any more information from the man this night.
“Can I see you home, Lawrence? You look a bit done in,” Stiles said as he laid a bill on the bar and made to stand.
“That’s kind of you.”
It was late and the night air was cool and damp. They might see rain by morning. At the porch to a neat, white-framed boarding house several streets over, Lawrence hesitated.
“I wanted...”
“Yes?” Stiles smiled at him.
“I wanted to invite you up to my rooms, but it’s late and I’ve drunk too much, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll have another time, Lawrence. Get some rest and I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
Stepping into the shadows of the porch, Stiles leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Lawrence’s lips. It was chaste and quick, but the smile on Lawrence’s face said he liked it very much. Leaving Lawrence at the door, Stiles walked away with a spring in his step and the feeling that life was about to get interesting.