Read Online Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) by Sean Michael O'Dea - Free Book Online Page B

with impeccably dressed children in tow, copper Choctaw Indians, bronze Mexicans with slicked black hair, scurrying Chinese merchants and deliverymen, dark-eyed Spanish creoles, light-eyed Africans, French businessmen speaking a refined English to New Yorkers and Bostonians, British sailors in wrinkled uniforms taunting French sailors who whose uniforms were finely pressed, unattended children everywhere in ill-fitting corduroys loitering in alleys or shining shoes, muscular longshoremen who smelled like coal and catfish, and the occasional soft-spoken prostitutes who enticed everyone with a smile and overwhelming floral perfume.
    The detective dusted off his black pants, adjusted the all-seeing Pinkerton eye on his lapel, and bent over for his bag.  Blast!  It has torn open again! The detective walked a brisk pace east on Canal Street feeling a warm, sticky stream down his back.  I will need a new shirt .  He followed the unending light posts connected by a slightly buzzing electrical wire and a silent telegraph one.  A few blocks later, he reached his destination.  Wedged between two brick buildings near Chartres Street was The House of Black Curtains.  It was an off-white, three-story French colonial establishment with wrought-iron balconies and, true to its name, windows strewn with jet-black velvet curtains.  The only sign hung above the swinging doors of the entrance.  It read simply, in script: Saloon & Entertainment.  The all-to-eager gentleman at the railway station described it perfectly after the detective showed him the recovered matchbook.  The gentleman even went on to describe the best types of entertainment.
    Before going in, the detective called out to a young boy standing with his foot against the wall of the full-service saloon.  His suspenders held up wool pants that were too big for him, and a flat brown cap covered hair that looked like trampled hay.
    “Young man, may I have the privilege of knowing your name?” the detective asked.
    “Leroy Jardin.”
    “ Le Roi du Jardin ?  King of the Garden,” the detective said.
    “Sure.”
    “Well, Monsieur Jardin , my name is Porter.  How would you like to earn a little money?” Detective Porter asked.
    “Sure.  I would like that just fine.”
    “Excellent.”  Detective Porter dropped his bag once more and pulled out his sketchbook from his inner jacket pocket.  He flipped through his notes and a few drawings until he came to a blank page.  He jotted down a few numbers, ripped out the page and handed it to the boy.  “I require a white button-down shirt with a British-spread collar.  Take these measurements to the local clothier and return here with my shirt.  Leave it with the bartender if I am not here.  Do you understand?”
    “Sure.”
    “Master Leroy, I have chosen you for this task because you have an honest demeanor about you.  Can I trust that you are not morally scrupulous?”
    “Morally what?”
    “Can I trust you to discern right from wrong, Master Leroy?”
    “What’s discernin’?”
    “How about this.”  The detective replaced his sketchbook and pulled out his pocket book.  “Now, here is the money for the shirt. You are entitled to any change there might be, but to ensure your morals are firmly intact, I will pay you exactly what the shirt is worth plus another quarter when you return.  And after your return successfully with my new shirt, I will promise you further profitable opportunities.”
    “Hell yeah, mister.  You got a deal.”
    “A most wise choice.”
    “Well, if you excuse me, I will get to discernin’ you a shirt,” Leroy said, tipping his hat.
    “Yes, Master Leroy, very good, commence with your . . . discernment,” the detective replied.
    He winced in pain again as he reached down for his bag.  He entered through the swinging doors.  The bar was no doubt an overflow for the currents of motley folk.  On the first floor, The House of Black Curtains was a wood-paneled saloon covered