"Oh, Mr. Callahan, please, for the love of all that is stylish, allow me to call you Arthur, my friend!" Ms. Camille practically squealed, her hand darting out to snatch the membership card Dutch presented as if it were a winning lottery ticket.
Americans, bless their direct little hearts, weren't prone to the tedious ballet of polite refusal; if it was offered, it was taken. And so, she accepted Dutch's gilded offering, simultaneously showering him with fervent blessings. She didn't just drop the honorific "Mr. Callahan"; she threw it overboard like a soggy sack of regrets, affectionately rebranding him "Arthur."
This, precisely, was the delicious outcome Dutch had meticulously orchestrated. Out in the chaotic wilderness of civilized society, it was all about human relations. His inner "Ideal Man" had, through brutal personal experience, drilled into him the folly of blind force. So, naturally, he would now deploy every ounce of his cunning to navigate the intricate, perfumed game of polite society. And the passengers on this train? Oh, they were clearly the useful kind.
"Ho ho ho, ladies," Dutch chuckled, his smile radiating enough warmth to melt the stubborn heart of a winter blizzard. "You simply need to grace me with your contact details. Of course, if the fates smile upon us, our Saint Denis clothing store will be unveiling its glorious doors in just a couple of days. Would I be so profoundly fortunate as to invite both esteemed ladies to witness the ribbon-cutting, and perhaps, do myself the honor of inviting you to a small, intimate meal?" Dutch's charming attire and gentlemanly panache sent literal ripples through Ms. Camille's eyes. For women of their… discerning age, Dutch wasn't merely charming; he was a goddamn siren, a walking, talking, perfectly tailored temptation.
"Oh, of course, Arthur, of course!" Ms. Camille's face flushed a delightful shade of giddy crimson. "We simply must interact more, truly! A charming gentleman like you is rarer than a polite O'Driscoll!"
She practically yanked Dutch down to sit, her gaze then locking onto his face with the intensity of a starved hawk eyeing a plump rabbit.
"Oh, Arthur, to be brutally honest, my family has a rather… significant business interest in Saint Denis, so we are obligated to remain for a while. You can invite me anytime! For you, dear, I always, always have time."
Ms. Camille was enthusiastic, openly eager, practically emblazoning "DATE ME, YOU HANDSOME ROGUE!" across her forehead. Dutch, a master of emotional poker, remained perfectly composed.
He smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, dear lady, that would be truly wonderful. But I still haven't had the pleasure of knowing your family's esteemed name…"
Ms. Camille offered a faint, knowing smile. "The Jones Family, Arthur. My family resides in Ohio, primarily engaged in various mineral trades. A rather solid foundation, if I do say so myself."
"Ohio?" Dutch murmured, the word sparking a flicker of a truly diabolical thought behind his charming facade. "That is indeed a… fortuitous place, dear lady." Ohio, he mused, was where those peculiar visionaries, the Wright Brothers, tinkered with their flying machines.
At this nascent stage, America's military might was hardly formidable. Boasting itself as Britain's "son" was one thing; having an actual army was quite another. In fact, the Pinkerton Detective Agency, with its 2,000 official agents and a staggering 30,000 reserves, was comparable to the U.S. military itself. This, of course, was precisely why those jittery politicians above were actively trying to curb their power – because they were absolutely, pants-wettingly terrified.
After all, in an era before planes and tanks, the sheer combat disparity between two forces of similar numbers wasn't overtly obvious. Only with the advent of those metallic monsters could a military truly be called an overwhelmingly violent institution.
Therefore, Dutch, ever the long-game strategist, sought to establish his own arms trade, his true foundation in America. To do that, he had to secure control of planes and tanks in advance. So, the Wright Brothers in Ohio… it seemed their groundbreaking blueprints might mysteriously vanish after their research was complete. Or, perhaps, the Van der Linde Gang would simply "welcome" two new, highly reluctant, scientific researchers.
Dutch casually touched the large, ornate ring on his hand, his smile unwavering. The journey, he knew, must be taken one meticulously planned step at a time, without a single moment of undue haste.
"Toot toot toot…"
The train's whistle sliced through the boundless, desolate wilderness, a piercing cry as the long, black-smoke-spewing serpent snaked through the stark Gobi Desert. Dutch, a picture of convivial charm, and his two new "friends" spent an utterly fascinating train journey together. After a few hours of expertly guided conversation, Dutch had thoroughly, painlessly, and completely extracted the entire lineage and business dealings of the esteemed Jones Family.
The Jones Family, indeed, hailed from Ohio, a venerable merchant clan. A century ago, a dashing, ambitious British rogue named William Jones had boldly ventured abroad to carve out his own empire, traveling thousands of miles to land on the American continent during the dying gasp of the infamous triangular trade.
No, it couldn't precisely be called the "American continent" then; vast swaths of land remained unconquered, a chaotic, wild frontier teeming with cowboys and gangs. And William Jones's method of accumulating wealth? Surprisingly similar to Dutch's own: he adopted various orphans, recruited the desperate, and formed an "elite model" gang, slowly carving out a notorious reputation.
However, unlike Dutch's more… philosophical approach to chaos, William Jones leaned into a desire for structured order. So, when order finally began to cautiously establish itself across America, he shrewdly led his gang to be among the very first to surrender, thus smoothly transforming his criminal enterprise into a legitimate family dynasty, securing valuable privileges in their local area. Most crucially, they underwent a complete public image overhaul, pivoting to an unimpeachable, sparkling clean persona.
Thus, the Jones Family had blossomed, multiplied, and flourished over a century, eventually becoming one of the most undeniably prominent families in Dayton, Ohio. And now? The Jones Family was so thoroughly whitewashed, its members, aside from a vague, whispered knowledge of their ancestor's dubious past, were completely oblivious to any inkling of their gangland origins.
The overall takeaway, however, was deliciously simple: this overture of goodwill was absolutely, undeniably worth it. Every single, calculated second of Dutch's strategic "fishing everywhere" had paid off handsomely.
As the train slowly, majestically glided into Saint Denis, Dorothea, An, and Alice, who had already received Dutch's urgent summons, were waiting patiently, a hired carriage at the ready, looking like a trio of impatient, well-dressed vultures.
"Ho ho ho, Ms. Camille, Ms. Shirley, it has been an absolute, unadulterated pleasure meeting you both!"
Dutch declared, a gentlemanly smile plastered on his face as he kissed the outstretched hands of Ms. Camille and Ms. Shirley with practiced ease.
"My clothing store will unfurl its banners in a couple of days, and I shall, of course, dispatch a messenger to personally invite both dear ladies then. Please, do me the immense honor of attending!"
"Oh, you are too, too kind, Arthur dear!"
Ms. Camille practically gushed, her eyes, never leaving Dutch's face, hinting at a thousand unspoken invitations.
"We are friends now, Arthur! I will absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, go and 'help out' when your clothing store opens! Oh, I simply cannot talk any longer, dear, our family carriage has arrived to collect us; we must tragically excuse ourselves!"
She cast one last, lingering, intensely suggestive glance at Dutch before finally, reluctantly, waving her hand and departing with Ms. Shirley, leaving Dutch in a cloud of expensive perfume and unfulfilled desires.
"FU*K! THAT DISGUSTING WOMAN!" Ms. O'Shea, who had been observing the entire nauseating display from nearby, was practically foaming at the mouth.