‘Whatever we do,’ Corinne addressed them all, the frustrated and the melancholy. ‘We have to do things by the letter. We have to show the sheriff that we’re not what we’re believed to be. The Gambler’s Den is not home to degraded standards or troublemakers. We do it right. No fights, no scenes, nothing messy. We can get Franco back by having right on our side and being sensible. It is the only way.’
Wyld thought for a moment, wrapped in crossed arms, and spoke without thinking. Her voice was thick with resolve and her eyes burned with resentment. The law wasn’t clear-cut. There were no heroes or villains in this world, not in the troubles that she witnessed. Her poverty-stricken upbringing defined no right or wrong, just the ambiguity in between. People like Alex Juniper were not in the right in any sense. They just used the title as a shield.
‘Or we can just stage a jailbreak and run like the wind.’
The showgirls each looked at one another in turn and then to Jacques who let a thin smile pass over his parched lips.
‘Or –’ Corinne shrugged in defeat ‘– I suppose we could do that.’
Wilheim
Wilheim Fort was an appalling individual.
The only redeeming quality he possessed was his intellect, which in Windberg only got you so far. In his younger days he had taken to accounting for some of the smaller shipping companies, before going so far as to falsify the books for tax inspectors. His reputation grew, and he quickly understood that criminality bore more profit than any legal trade could. Cooked books turned heads with some small-time merchants, where a bit of coin here and a bit of coin there resulted in enough for a venture of his own.
Wilheim’s first was trafficking whatever he could. Agreements were made with sand ship captains, loading secret compartments with contraband of tobacco, arms, and other such illegalities. When docked they shifted their loads, in darkness, to where Wilheim found easy buyers. A hired back room became a storage shed, one became many and before long Wilheim’s empire expanded.
Though like all criminals, he had a problem with his legitimacy.
So much money was moving back and forth that the law was starting to take notice. He bribed some, threatened a couple, had one or two beaten and unfortunately ordered the execution of one particular troublemaker, though all through the actions of others, of course. Wilheim was smart enough to know that when you had to do something difficult, you made sure that you were not responsible. Assumed? Of course. Proven? Never.
Dirty work was for the expendable. There was no lack of willing hands for such tasks. Uppity youngsters keen to prove themselves made it their place to take on the more dangerous, the more daring. The pay was handsome, or so they believed, and the chances to rise throughout the fraternity came up often as places regularly became available from loss or incarceration.
Windberg demanded change and no matter how Wilheim tried to subdue it, the voices of the public were too loud and numerous to ignore. They were tired of some of the more violent results of his dealings, and those of copycats. Places of business were burnt down; fights in the street by hired gangs resulted in deaths. They demanded change, and Alex Juniper answered that call with an iron and unbendable resolve.
With no other option, Wilheim decided to coat himself in legitimacy. Using his connections, he began to invest in small operations as a silent partner – legally. Multiple investors ensured his anonymity and before long, control via corruption had gripped most of the city. Those who avoided his influence soon fell under it by proxy, to a point where the law couldn’t even prevent it. Alex Juniper was aware, fully, of this corruption but had to bide his time to take action. Those who had taken action before were added to the lists of those missing, or those who had met with tragically unfortunate ends.
Wilheim was, at his own acknowledgement, untouchable. He walked where he wished to walk, spoke to those he wanted to speak to with no regard for status or protocol, and lived a life of excess and debauchery. His couriers would trade under the table. His bookmakers would help swing horse races in his favour. His bars became hives of wickedness, where bad decisions were made that cost others profit and life. Sometimes one, sometimes both.
* * *
Wilheim licked his thick dry lips in slow relish, withdrawing the cigar that released ribbons of haze, and smiled in contentment, surveying one of these establishments, The Lavender Club, and those within.
Every seat was filled with either the regular morning drunks or those on the payroll. Bursts of laughter sporadically erupted between groups of the worst kinds of people. Muggers, pimps, burglars, thieves – all congregated, formulating their plans over alcohol.
Wilheim adored these mornings. Every illegal trade that passed beneath the law’s gaze resulted in him taking a cut, and a substantial cut at that. When you were the only business in town willing to deal in the illegal you could command whatever price you wanted. Wilheim’s cut kept him in his finery, thick suits, competent protection, and substantial amounts of thick jewellery that dripped from his more than ample frame.
This entire bar was supplying bootlegged liquor, avoiding the substantial taxes imposed on drink in the city. Sure some suspected it – the locals who watched the deliveries under the veil of darkness knew it; but it was never proven.
He rattled once more on his cigar, unable to contain a bold, toothy grin. Things were progressing in his favour and soon enough he could have this city, claim the very ground and everyone within. Windberg could be under his absolute control, a worthwhile goal indeed, given time. Dominating the routes over the Sand Sea would ensure a capital profit.
* * *
The woman at Wilheim’s side stood rigidly, as if she was expecting to defend herself at any given time. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, though her clothing, a pinstripe grey blouse and walking skirt had not one crease out of place. Gold hung from her, decorated bands that her suitor had insisted she wear. Wilheim had decorated the woman with whatever he saw fit. Though despite this expense, Misu would always remain perpetually afraid in his company.
‘You needn’t look so concerned, dear. You’re among friends here.’
Friends. The word was hollow.
‘Please don’t be so condescending to me. These are your kind of people, Wilheim, not mine. I know what they are capable of.’
She ran her fingers over her throat – still tender from Flenn’s grip – and the additional swelling beneath her left eye. It was still bruised from last night, a violent, open-handed reminder of her treachery.
‘Condescending nothing. Relax and have a drink. I would say you’ve even earned it.’
‘I’ve earned nothing.’
‘On the contrary, my dear! Think of all that you’ve given me. Your fine self at my arm, and soon, the Gambler’s Den itself. The value of one of those is splendid. The other, not so much.’
Misu’s fingers dug into her palms in frustration. ‘You said you would leave them alone.’
‘No, you assumed as much; I just didn’t say any different. There were no terms made. With its owner imprisoned for misdeeds, I assume the train will be put to public auction to aid the skyrocketing
