Chapter 3 - Engage

Bradacus awoke with visions of Dream Noir in his head. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. This was an important day for business. Why would his thoughts turn toward the busty barmaid? Well, there were reasons, two of them at least.
The crew wolfed down the remainder of last night's horse stew and packed up their belongings. Having secured their gear on their buffaloes, they began the short ride to Chuparosa to meet with the enigmatic DJ Picard. 

Before arriving at Kappa Kafe and Saloon, Dream sat upstairs in her room. It was decorated with yellow wallpaper and throw pillows, her flat directly one floor above the bar. At the moment, she was busily engaged in a conversation with her daughter.
“What did you gather?” Dream asked Rachael in a hushed voice.
“They're plannin' on some kind o' robbery,” Rachael told her in her young voice. “To get more horses. And, Ma, I think I was followed.”
“Followed?” Dream shrieked in disbelief. “Say it ain't so!”
“I wasn't the only one out there. Someone else made a sound and got away before they was discovered.”  
Dream paced around the room, biting her thumb. Bradacus was planning a robbery and someone else knew about it. Should she get involved and tell Brad? But how could she explain to him the way she learned this information?

As he neared Chuparosa, Wilko sat atop his buffalo, idly fingering the gun strapped to his hip. He pulled it from its holster, removing and inserting all the bullets back into the nine chambers. Most revolvers only accommodated six or eight bullets, making his revolver particularly unique.
“Hey, Wilko. You ever get that squabble settled between you and Mev?” Leaking Pan asked.
“Mev Gamer?” Wilko nearly spat the words, grunting in contempt. “Not yet.”
“Whatever was that beef about anyway?” Leaking Pan pressed, hoping Wilko would finally share the story.
“None of your concern,” Wilko answered angrily, removing and then inserting all the bullets once again. 
That was the one topic Wilko was strangely mute on, refusing to ever go into detail. From the little they had learned, Mev Gamer, a countryman of Wilko's, had wronged him in some way. The dispute prompted him to leave Mev and join the Glue Crew full-time. 
Wilko holstered his gun and spat at the ground, riding in silence until at last they arrived at the saloon.

A bouncing number sprang from the pianoforte, its fast pace inviting all who listened to stand and dance. A few patrons actually were, their movements awkward and jerky. Picard's fingers slid rapidly across the keys, his red tie bobbing as he moved up and down. Even the stoic Jingle Wumpus and Echo Twenty Aught Seven, standing on opposite sides of the room, could be seen nodding their head or tapping a toe.
Zee had three shots of whiskey by the time Picard finished, which was to say he finished three minutes later. Picard stood up from off the stool and bowed to his audience. A few people even clapped.
“What was that?” Leaking Pan asked, intrigued.
“Oh, that kind of music won't come out for another century or so,” Picard replied cryptically. “The real stuff will involve electricity, but until then, you can call it swing.” He motioned to the men to follow him, and once more they entered the poker room with the ugly, brown walls.
When Echo and Jingle took their positions, Picard spoke.
“How do you find my offer?” he asked, wasting no time.
The barmaid sauntered to the table to take their orders, her dark blonde hair carefully styled. Her shirt, a low-cut white blouse, was strategically worn today. When she saw Bradacus, she winked.
“Beer me,” Pancake told Dream. “I'm gonna need a champion's breakfast for a day like today.”
“Whiskey!” said Zee. “And some tea, swift!”
“Vodka,” ordered the Pan.
“I'll have a cosmo, three cherries.” Wilko glared about the room violently, daring anyone to comment on his choice of drink.
Dream nodded and turned to Bradacus, noticing his deep green eyes.  Every so often, those hard eyes flashed with hints of red. Pretty.
She cleared her throat. “And you, Sir Bradacus?” His name rolled off her tongue like music.
“Jameson.”

The door to the poker room banged open and a woman wearing a frilly, red garment burst in. Echo and Jingle, their pistols already drawn, had their sights trained on their target.
The woman wore a red and black corset decorated with ruffles and lace, her short, brown hair slightly wavy. Her legs were slender, covered in translucent, black stockings that came to a lacy finish near the top of the thigh, a red bow accenting each one. 
“He'll have a shot of me, is what he'll have,” the girl announced brazenly, sashaying toward Brad in red and black pumps. She sat in his lap, crossed her legs, and gazed into his face. “One shot of Ange, ain't that right, darling?” She kissed him gently on the cheek. “Your ruler!”
Brad shifted in his chair uncomfortably. How did Ange Ruler find him?
Dream Noir's eyes narrowed. “This is a private party, Miss Gena,” she said, calling Ange by her given name rather than her stage name. “And Bradacus has more important matters at the moment than the dancing of an overpaid strumpet!”
If the insult bothered Gena, it didn't show. She smiled and stood up, fixing Dream with icy blue eyes. “No matter,” she said casually, tossing her chocolate hair with one hand. “I'll be performing all month. No doubt Brad will catch one of my shows.” She dragged her finger sensually across Brad's chest. “And more than one of my private shows, I'm sure.” She walked away slowly, exaggerating the sensual rock of her hips.

“Well now,” Picard said as Dream followed Gena out. Echo and Jingle returned their pistols to their holster. “That was invigorating. You'll have to tell me that story another time.”
Bradacus raised an eyebrow. They said the West was a vast expanse of unexplored space. A man could get lost in all that space. Obviously, this wasn't the case.
Clearing his throat, Brad changed the subject. “We accept your terms, Mr. Picard. We split the profits fifty-fifty, providing you live up to your end of the bargain.”
“I certainly will, I assure you,” he promised. “When it comes to money, I don't fuck around.”
Brad saw the intensity in Picard's hazel eyes and was inclined to believe him.
DJ Picard slid a folded map across the green felt. “The McFartland's hidden stock of horses is thirty three miles from here. The map will show you the way.”
“And it's guarded by?” Pancake asked, leaving his question hanging.
Picard smoothed the front of his creamy suit and looked Cake dead in the eye.“El Rota, and his Beast Rebels of the Hellscape.”
Agitated Pancake couldn't refrain from letting out a long whistle, this time sending his toothpick flying and landing on the felt. El Rota was one nasty hombre to tango with.
“I'll kill him myself.” Leaking Pan's gentle demeanor had vanished, his voice filled with tightly controlled rage. That son of a bitch was still alive.
“Who are these Beast Rebels?” Burning Zee asked, his blood beginning to warm. Whether it was from the whiskey or the idea of a good fight, he wasn't sure.
“The gang's comprised of Rixo, Cali, Militant Bralor, and Sargento Rosquilla. That's Sergeant Donut, for those of you who don't speak Spanish.”
“Mean bunch,” Zee noted, recognizing the names. He looked at his friends, a wild grin spreading across his face.
“El Rota dies by my hand,” Leaking Pan reaffirmed, his fingers unconsciously resting on his pistol. “Ya'll leave him for me, you hear?”
Dream returned with their drinks, deliberately bending by Brad as she passed them out. Bradacus, unabashedly, sneaked a peek. Nice.

“We'll need Reno, Catalysts, and Wikki,” Wilko said with certainty. “Easier if we keep the numbers in our favor.”
Bradacus nodded. As quickly as she arrived, Dream left. He didn't like to see her go, but he loved watching her leave.
“And that new gear you promised,” Wilko pointed out to Picard, making sure he lived up to his part of the agreement. He still didn't trust the bald fuck.
Picard raised a finger to Echo. “Make it so.” 
Echo stroked his long, brown beard in acknowledgment. 
“One more thing,” Picard said, standing up. “Come out with me to the bar. There's more I want to show you.” The room emptied and soon they were standing next to the bar, the barkeep busily washing glasses. Burning Zee ordered two more shots, this time of tequila. It seemed appropriate, seeing as their next altercation was with a Mexican gang.
“See that man there?” Picard asked, indicating an unkempt man with stains running down his shirt. “That's Distorted Net.”
“Can't say I'm familiar with him,” Bradacus replied, sneaking a glance at Dream Noir once more. Those buns gave him two more reasons to think of her later.
“Distorted has access to all sorts of horses. Quarter horses, mustangs, appaloosas, Arabians, you name it. The man is well-connected. But, beware. He is just as deranged and depraved as his name implies.”
Brad understood the warning.
“And over there,” Picard subtly gestured toward two men in strange, black suits drinking from large beer steins. “Shinma Ryche and Dr. Mezmoriz, two new-comers from Germany whose end game I have yet to discover. One thing is certain, however. They are particularly interested in horses. They could be a problem down the road.”
Brad could see the business deal with Picard was already paying off. He was well-informed.
“I want you gentlemen to understand I'm in this partnership for the long haul,” Picard explained. “Together, I see a substantial sum of money in our future.”
For Brad, the money was just a perk. The real joy came from the slaughter, slaying horses one by one and two by two.

Dream Noir couldn't stop peering over at Brad, her mind preoccupied with the knowledge that someone was spying on him. Well, someone besides herself, that is. How was she going to let him know? And what in the world was Rachael doing? 
“Howdy, stranger,” Rachael greeted Burning Zee, pulling up a bar stool beside him. “Fancy sharing some o' that whiskey?”
Zee considered the girl for a moment. Was she hitting on him?
“A shot for the lady,” Zee ordered from the barkeep.
“Thank ya, mister,” Rachael replied, quaffing the shot in one gulp. Black Bush, her favorite.
Dream's ears turned red in anger. What in the blazes was Rachael thinking drinking alcohol with men twice her age?

“You've been very helpful,” Brad told Picard, tipping his ushanka at him. “How soon til that equipment is ready?”
“I'm outfitting how many men now, eight?”
Brad inclined his ushanka once again.
“I'll need a week.”
“Works for me. It'll take a week to find Reno, Wikki, and Catalysts anyhow.”
“Bradacus, it's been a genuine pleasure. I'll meet you here in a week.” Shaking Brad's hand, Picard excused himself, Jingle and Echo following him out.
Brad bought a whiskey and turned to face Dream Noir, who was occupied taking an order from the disheveled Distorted Net. Had he detected a hint of jealousy earlier when Ange Ruler came on to him? Dream had a daughter, so he knew there was a man somewhere in Dream's life, but how involved was he?
And then there was Ange, who appeared like a snake in a boot, complicating his stay here. Was it merely a coincidence she found him or was it something more contrived?
He considered the journey before him. Catalysts and Wikki Wald would answer the call, but Reno was going to take some convincing. He was confident he could recruit them for the McFartland job, but what about after that? Would they stay to take on Distorted Net, Shinma Ryche and Mezmoriz, or possibly settle the score between Wilko and Mev? How long would their interest in glue last? 
These solemn thoughts pervaded his mind as he twirled the whiskey in his shot glass.

“What in the Sam hell do you think you're doing?”
“Ma!” Rachael protested. “I'm a grown woman!”
“You're only sixteen, Miss Rachael!” Dream shouted.
“But Ma, it's the year 1911! Sixteen is like being thirty!”
Dream grabbed her by the hand and led her up the wooden staircase, marching her to their apartment. “You stay in that room until I get you, you hear?”
Rachael pouted but Dream slammed the door shut and stormed back down the staircase. Reaching the bottom, she put on a smile and returned to work as though nothing happened.

Brad made a mental note to look into the whereabouts of Mister Noir, if he was even still around. But that would have to wait. His nostrils flared as he thought about the glue that would soon be flowing from his factory. Was the chubby he got in his pants just now from thinking of horse killing or Dream Noir?
Hell, why couldn't it be from both?