And speaking of meetings...
Dragging a pocket watch from her vest, Sadie muttered an oath to see the hour was well past 10 a.m. She tossed a nickel to her shoeshine boy.
Joaquin couldn't have been more than 11 years old. He grinned, a flash of pearlescence in a sun-blackened face. "Gracias, seňor! You will see Madam LeBeau now? And maybe under her skirts?" he added slyly, pointing to his reflection in Sadie's boots.
She coughed to hide her amusement. To wear a beard and a mustache had made her part of a previously inaccessible club, whose membership bandied all kinds of interesting dialogue that would never have been broached over embroidery hoops and baby cradles.
"Hope springs eternal, niňo," she said with a wink.
Abandoning the Dispatch to Joaquin's next customer, Sadie hopped a mule-drawn trolley and headed west on Third Street. Her destination was the "boardinghouse" that strategically straddled the boundary between the commercial district and Silk Stocking Row, where Lampasas's wealthiest residents had erected turrets on castle-sized homes.
From the outside, Wilhelmine "Wilma" LeBeau's brothel looked like any other charming, limestone cottage on Third Street. The three-story construction had a wrought iron gate, forest-green shutters, and a sprawling porch, whose pillars were festooned with drought-resistant climbers, like blue plumbago and sunny Lady Banks Roses. Thanks to the season, Wilma's porch also had enough leering jack-o-lanterns to qualify as a pumpkin patch.
Sadie rang the bell. Less than a minute passed before a railroad spike in black broadcloth opened the door.
"Bonjour, m'sieu," Cottonmouth greeted with aplomb. The twinkle in the Cajun's dark eyes betrayed his mirth to see her swimming in a brown linen sack suit. "And whom shall I say has called this morning?"
Sadie bowed, sweeping off her bowler and furtively checking her chestnut-colored sideburns in the window. The damned whiskers were constantly threatening to peel off.
"Dusty Dudman's my name; sodbusting's my game," she announced in her brashest hick accent. "Madam Wilma is expecting me for brunch."
Cotton's lips twitched. Occasionally, her disguises fooled the big, bald lug, but not this morning.
Of course, there were only so many ways she could hide brandy-colored irises without being redundant. Her eyes had been her bane ever since she'd joined the Agency. Pinkerton had feared they would prove a liability in the field. In fact, he'd rejected her agent application on that basis. If Rex hadn't interceded, vouching for her street smarts and her cool head under fire...
She shuddered to think what her life might be like today.
"C'est bon," Cotton said gamely. "I shall show you to the solarium."
She followed his daunting six-feet, ten-inches past the parlor, with its orange dust covers and black-cat pillows; through the conservatory, where a massive arrangement of golden chrysanthemums topped a baby grand piano; to a lush jungle of potted palms. Above the frond spears, in the fluttering shadows of breeze-blown awnings, Sadie could just make out a shock of pewter hair, as thick as any wolf's pelt.
Rexford Sterne rose from the table as Cotton announced her. A handsome man in a harsh, sun-chiseled way, the Rangers' leader was lean, fit, and immaculately groomed in a suit of charcoal-colored pinstripes, complete with the obligatory Peacemaker and his beloved Justin boots.
Rex hiked a bristling eyebrow as she swaggered through the door. "You walk like a drunken sailor at sea."
"Nonsense," Wilma purred. "She walks like a cowpoke."
"I'm a sodbuster, for crying out loud."
Rex grunted. "Needs work."
Exasperated, Sadie elbowed Cotton, who was snickering because his twin brother, Gator, had schooled her for an hour in "the Cajun man strut."
"I suspect one must be born to the role," Wilma said diplomatically. "Tea?"
"Somehow, I don't think my new, sodbuster alias would opt for rosehips," Sadie said drolly. "Jamoka. Black." She plopped into a chair like she'd been raised in a barn. "How'd I do that time?"
Rex sighed. Sadie grinned. There was something so endearing about a man who took exception to lewd conduct in a woman.
But Sadie knew from experience that the 50-year-old Ranger never let chivalry stand in the way of an arrest. When it came to his job, Rex couldn't be bribed by sex, money or power. Like the Alpha Wolf he so thoroughly resembled, he radiated command, even now, while engrossed in the most commonplace task, like slathering butter on jalapeno cornbread. The only woman whom Sadie had ever seen ruffle Rex's feathers was their wily hostess.
Dressed in an elegant, topaz-silk day dress, Wilma presided over a sumptuous table, set with crystal, sterling, and hand-painted china. The sloe-eyed, olive-skinned brunette was as mysterious as she was exotic, with a voluptuous torso and ageless face that rival bawds whispered was proof of dark magic. Only the identity of Wilma's grandmother, an octoroon Mambo, was a more closely guarded secret than Wilma's birth year.
Because Wilma used to manage a rival bordello in Dodge, Sadie knew the Mambo's richly embroidered gown and gracious manner disguised a barracuda's sense for business. Wilma's "business" was to ensure the success of her Pinkie protégés in a glittering circle of man-sharks. In fact, Sadie had been the one who'd convinced Pinkerton to recruit Wilma to train his up-and-coming agents in the finer points of seduction.
As Wilma waved Cotton from the solarium to fetch more coffee, Sadie wondered how three people were supposed to consume such a lavish, New Orleans-style feast. While Rex, the consummate Texican, poked suspiciously at a hush puppy with his fork, Sadie helped herself to a piping-hot square of gingerbread.
"Thanks to you, General Sterne," she chided with mock severity, "that poor editor at the Dispatch didn't sleep a wink again last night. He was too busy setting type." She smirked to imagine Baron's outrage as he'd spouted his tactless, front-page quote. "'Want Justice? Get Sterne.' That campaign slogan is priceless."
Rex's gun-metal gray eyes warmed with approval as they touched Wilma's face. "You can thank our anonymous tipster for luring Baron out of hiding with that slogan."
Wilma's cheeks turned pink with pleasure.
Sadie arched an eyebrow. Wilma never blushed.
"Mr. Perkins may have scooped the Austin Statesman with your campaign announcement," Wilma warned the Ranger, "but he's no man's fool. And neither is Baron. Few men who know you will believe you're content to retire from the force."
"I've been choking down injury pay for close to five months. I don't see why anyone would think there's much difference between pushing paper as a bureaucrat and a senator."
"The point, mon ami, is that you are unaccustomed to undercover work. You do not lie with great credibility."
Rex grimaced over his coffee cup. The dainty porcelain looked in dire peril from such a manly fist. "I like to think my reputation for integrity lent credibility to that cock-and-bull story in last week's Dispatch.
"In any event, my farewell speech—and Governor Ireland's trumped up response—were reprinted in some form by every newspaper in every major city. Most folks will believe anything they read."
"Baron sure did," Sadie said, relishing the beginning of the end of Senator Scum Bucket's political career.
"Hmm."
A forkful of gingerbread halted half way to Sadie's mouth. "Hmm?" she repeated archly.
Rex sipped his coffee. He didn't look like a man who was contemplating victory.