"How you doin' fancy man?" I ask. The gent steps into my humble saloon, takes off his hat. He looks around, his lips pressed tight into a thin line. This is what he sees:
A cramped little room filled with bags of grain and feed, rows of farm tools, shelves of canned food and dry goods. The floor covered in peanut shells, bolts of fabric tacked along one wall, all muddied browns and grays and then me behind the long counter, a dirty rag thrown over my shoulder.
This is what I see:
An empire.
"I am fine, thank you," he replies. He takes a seat on one of the bar stools.
"What'll you have?" I ask.
"Whiskey," he says. I raise an eyebrow but give it to him straight. He knocks it back real quick and levels me with a steely gaze. "Do you know who I am?" he asks. I look him up and down. He's no trapper, no mountain man. His hands are soft and white, his face smooth and unlined proof he's not a toiling man.
"Can't say that I do, mister," I reply. "We get a lot of folks through here."
"Ah, yes. Mariano's Town; trapping and trading and ferrying and everything in between."
"It's the in between that makes the most money, I figure," I say carefully. The man straightens his fine silk tie and casts me a look I well recognize. It's the look of a man whose just about desperate--not quite, but he'll get there.
"They call you the Don Juan of the Big Thompson," he says.
I laugh, wiping down the counter with the already sullied rag. "It's not inaccurate," I reply.
"You have your fingers in every pot," he says.
"I got eager fingers," I reply. "We do alright. We get by."
"Please, Mariano," says the fine gent. "Everyone knows you do more than get by." His tone is bitter. "How someone like you managed to do so well for himself I shall never know." He motions for another dram of whiskey which I give him 'cause it's my job and I know he'll pay.
"Careful, sir," I say nonchalantly. "If I'm right--and I'm almost always right--you're not here for the ambiance of Mariano's Crossing. Looks to me like you got a question for me; you keep insulting me and I may not have the answer you're looking for." This gets his attention; he sits up straighter, has the decency to break eye contact, to sheepishly squirm on the stool.
"My apologies, Mr. Medina," he says. "You are correct; I have a...matter of business to discuss with you."
I lean over the bar, my elbow resting in a pool of soured alcohol. "You need money."
He blinks at me. "Well...yes. I represent the-"
"First National Bank of Fort Collins," I finish for him. His mouth drops open, all astonished.
"Yes...how..."
"I got my ways, Mister Blanchard," I reply. "Honestly I thought you'd be by sooner."
"As it is, I'm here now. The First National would like to enter into a business agreement with you--"
"A loan. You need a loan," I say. He doesn't reply, just sits there staring at me. I resist the urge to rub my hands together in anticipation. Money making has always been one of my favorite endeavors in this life. Taking it from men like this is only that much sweeter. They thought I wouldn't be able to do it. They all expected me to blow right on through this place. But I've got roots, see; I'm not going anywhere and this river's too lucrative. I got myself a business, a homestead, a saloon and good standing. I'm no mountain man--not anymore.
"Do we have a deal, Mr. Medina?" The fancy man asks me. He holds out his hand and I stare at that soft pink palm and think to myself money knows no friend or foe; why should I? But it's not that simple. I know that, but still...
I take his soft hand in mine, a hand that ain't so soft but rather rough and callused and all scarred and give it a firm shake. "You got yourself a deal, bank man; to the tune of $61,00."
No comments:
Post a Comment