CHAPTER 20
Assets
SOME assets are never meant to be anything else. They do not mature into pretty houses or a cushy savings. Some assets are simply meant to be held by their owner and, indeed, held up by their owner, as proof of status. Tarlston had already used up a great many of his assets. Thanks to rumor, and the edges it acquires as it churns through the mill, he had lost access to a few more. He was about to liquidate another. This did not make him a happy individual.
This particular asset was singular.
It had a purpose.
Whenever Tarlston found himself in a bind, he drew up a list of pros and cons, blessings and curses. At first, the lack of assets sat squarely on the con side of the ledger. And then, slowly but inexorably, this particular asset eventually shifted its hue from red to black. Tar at midnight in a deep cave black. Because, every time a roadblock barred his progress, or a proverbial tree fell on his metaphorical wagon, every time his life in fact stunk like the colossal rotten onion, he recalled this asset. Things aren’t really that bad, he could tell himself, at least I don’t need to rely upon those funds. And so, not using this asset had become a measure of success. As a poor man would make the rent and be grateful, thank goodness, he still had a tarnished three cent piece to his name, so Tarlston was grateful for this quietly stashed and moderately worthwhile asset. Liquidating it, having been forced into a position where he had to liquidate it, well. . .the pen of retribution dipped itself into the red ink of his soul.
“A quarter-eagle, as agreed,” he said.
Tarlston had enlisted some two-bit weasel to fetch his property; Mr. Stephens could not be associated with the likes of Tarlston nor any of his business affairs. The tin, barely scratched for all its years in hiding, held two pristine documents that would lead to ready cash without too much hassle— exactly as it should. Tarlston grunted appreciatively; he still commanded enough respect to keep someone honest.
“What’s that?” he said, realizing the weasel had paused at the livery’s big, double doors.
“I said maybe there’s another way I could help you, if the pay’s right.”
The voice was not exactly wheedling, more hopeful, and shot through with a slyness only obtainable by those unlikely to become big men in any field or occupation.
“Yeah? How’s that?” said Tarlston, tucking his documents safely under his shirt and not really paying the other man much attention.
“Because I suspect you’re looking for someone. And, if not, it’s only because you don’t know where to start. Am I right. . . Mr. Tarlston?”
Dropping the name had a more dramatic affect than Lynch had anticipated. A second man appeared out of nowhere and, where someone like Lynch could read someone like Tarlston and know him to be a big-boot knuckle-basher masquerading as a gentleman in a suit, this second man radiated the ice-cold message that, no matter how good things had been going up to now, you were about to have a very bad day.
“Now, where did you hear a name like that?” asked Tarlston casually, as his henchman lifted Lynch six inches off the floor and pinned him to a wall. “I paid you to fetch my papers. Not read them.”
“I didn’t!” Lynch lied. “Why would I?”
The professional muscle’s very solid hand reached out and encircled Lynch’s skinny throat.
“People talk,” Lynch hastily added. “Barbers, farmers, traders— they all talk! I’m a good listener.”
“Good, then listen to this,” Tarlston nearly growled. “You enjoy waking up in the morning. Yes?”
Lynch nodded.
“And you would prefer to continue doing so?”
Lynch nodded again.
“Then telling me what you know would be an excellent idea. And I would suggest not trying anything clever. Mordaki here does so hate clever people. What do you say? You won’t get a better offer in your whole life, I can promise you that.”
It occurred to Lynch that, when people said things like ‘in your whole life’ there was a general conversational assumption that you did, in fact, have a whole life coming to you. The way Tarlston said it, Lynch found he had some serious doubts about the validity of that assumption. This being the case, and being unable to draw breath for anything better, Lynch nodded again.
“A kid,” he squeaked, when his toes reached the ground. “I heard a kid torched your plans.”
“What’s his name?” said Tarlston.
“I-I don’t know.”
Tarlston nodded at Mordaki, who reapplied pressure to Lynch’s fear lever via his throat.
“I don’t know!” Lynch repeated. “Just a kid. That’s all I heard. A kid.”
At another nod Mordaki eased up. Lynch looked from him back to Tarlston and decided he should have kept his mouth shut from the start. Now he just hoped what he had to sell would buy him a sunrise.
“Where do I find him?” Tarlston asked.
“The Black. It’s a river up in the mountains.”
“A river? That could cover a lot of territory, mister. Surely you can do better than that?”
“It’s the only river, the only big river. Only so many places a fellow can cross it, too. Some of that’s canyon country up there. You follow it, there’ll be a few places to look, but you’ll find him alright.”
“Alright. How did he do it?”
Lynch shrugged. “It’s all rumors.”
“Yeah, I know. Were it not for all those blasted rumors, I wouldn’t have needed you today. I meant who else did he hire? One man could not have poisoned the opinions of so many people so quickly.”
“It’s all rumors,” Lynch repeated. And, to stop Mordaki joining the conversation again, he said, “Really! He used rumor. Mail may take a year, but rumor travels almighty fast.”
This was mostly supposition, but Lynch figured it was a pretty good shot in the dark. People like a story. They can hear solid-gold legal truth from a gavel toting judge and walk out of a courtroom still arguing, but tell them you know a gent who talked to another gent who saw the prairie up and turn blue— and he’ll believe you. And run to tell his neighbor.
Tarlston mulled the idea over and decided it might have some merit. He had certainly made selective use of rumor once or twice in his own career.
“What’s your name?”
“Huh?” said Lynch.
“Your name,” said Tarlston.
“Lynch.”
“That an alias?”
“No,” said Lynch, because this was not the most auspicious time to offer friendly advice regarding the inappropriateness of the question.
“You might want to think of changing it. A name like that might give people ideas.” Tarlston smiled. It wasn’t nice. “But I promise you, if you’ve lied to me, I will find you. No matter what name you use, Mr. Lynch. I hope that’s understood?”
Lynch nodded his understanding and, with a tip of Tarlston’s head, was excused from today’s intimidation session. Lynch took the hint and let his pride catch up as it could. He may have been aptly named, since someday he probably would be, but he was in no hurry to fulfill the prophesy. He had hoped he might impress the owner of the name Tarlston, maybe sign on with him for a job or two. At the very least, he had imagined coming away from their meeting with a couple of gold eagles weighing down his pockets. Now Lynch was satisfied with the quarter-eagle and getting away.