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wrapped tightly around his neck, but the tempo and the words themselves became increasingly familiar. Old habits died hard. Lucas pushed closer. He wanted to listen to a real master work the crowd.
    Lucas was beholden to the Preacher for staking him when he first arrived in Denver, down to his last dime and in trouble with tinhorn gamblers for cutting into their action. The Preacher had gone through a saloon, preaching of the evils of gambling and illicit sex with the Cyprians working there. The owner had thrown him out, which suited the man just fine. He picked the saloon keeper’s pocket and had given Lucas most of it to return to the gambling tables, where he had finally hit a winning streak. He had repaid the Preacher threefold but that hadn’t been the only time Lucas had needed to call on the man for his questionable charity.
    The man began his spiel, and Lucas found himself caught up in the power and rhythm of the words. He wasn’t a religious man and he doubted the Preacher was either, but he had never asked. He might not like the answer.
    The collection plate went around and most people added a few dollars to it. If nothing else, the Preacher gave them a fine show, castigating sinners even as he detailed their transgressions in graphic detail. Lucas dropped in five dollars and passed the plate on, watching how the men reacted. At the edge of the crowd he saw one man put in two bits as he palmed the five-dollar bill Lucas had contributed. The plate went on and the man, so tall he stood a full head above anyone else in the crowd, edged away, then turned and walked off briskly.
    Lucas pushed his way through the crowd and followed. The tall man set a fast pace, long legs devouring the distance at twice the pace Lucas could comfortably maintain. Only the occasional flash of sunlight reflecting off the man’s bald pate kept Lucas on the trail.
    He stopped in front of the Merry Widow Saloon and peered into the dim interior. Again came the flash of light off the man’s shaven head. Lucas pushed through the swinging doors and paused as he always did when entering a new saloon. A back storage room door was padlocked. A staircase went up to the cribs, but no soiled doves were in the saloon. It was too early for them to begin plying their trade. Only three customers drank. Two were at the bar, and the bald man dropped into the chair situated in the far corner of the room—where the bouncer posted himself.
    Lucas walked to a spot directly in front of the seated man, ignoring shouts from the barkeep to order something or leave.
    â€œWe don’t run a hospitable place,” the man said, stretching out his long legs. Lucas gauged his height at six foot six. He appeared skinny but so much height concealed bulk. The man weighed more than two hundred. From the way he tucked his thumbs in the arms holes of his vest, he wasn’t much bothered by anything Lucas might say or do.
    â€œI noticed.”
    The man fished in a vest pocket, crumpled what he found, and tossed it to Lucas. He caught it with a quick downward swipe, rolled it about, and then produced the stolen unfolded five-dollar bill.
    â€œI reckon this is my bill.”
    â€œDoes it make a difference?”
    â€œOnly to the Preacher.”
    â€œHe’s not hurting much. Fact is, I never heard him in finer form. That story about the sweet little girl from a loving family who was lured into prostitution by the evil Fagin is worthy of Dickens himself.”
    Lucas considered shooting the bartender, who continued to shout at him for not ordering any whiskey. That made him wonder if the man intended to drug him and steal whatever he could.
    â€œYou always were a reader of things literary,” Lucas said.
    â€œAnd you weren’t. You could learn a great deal reading Charles Dickens.
Oliver Twist
might be retitled
Lucas Stanton
, without much exaggeration.”
    â€œI don’t like children.”
    â€œNeither did