Longarm 422 (2 page)

When he had known her before—long before he became a deputy United States marshal—Helen Morrow had befriended a young out-of-work and out-of-money Custis Long. She took a liking to him and gave him a hand up.

At the time she worked as an accountant for an elderly gentleman. Longarm had suspected she did more for the old fellow than keep his books, but he had never asked and Helen never volunteered any information of that nature.

She had taken him in. Fed him. Washed his clothes. Given him a place to sleep. And fucked him. She had helped him find his way in this brawling, sprawling, wide open Western land, and he had never forgotten her. The way Longarm saw it, he owed her. Anything he could do that would help Helen Morrow, he would do and gladly.

He reached for the carafe and refilled his coffee cup, then said, “If you don't mind me askin', how'd you come by three whorehouses? Back when we were close, you didn't have much more'n I did.” He grinned. “And I didn't have hardly nothin' but a ragged shirt and a wore-out pistol.”

“I remember that shirt.” She laughed. “I had to patch it for you, as I recall.”

“You did a fine job of it too. I can recommend you as a seamstress if you get tired o' riding herd on these ladies of the evening.”

“Yes. Them,” Helen said. “Do you remember Albert, the gentleman I worked for at the time?”

“I remember meeting him. Didn't exactly get to know him, of course, but we met.”

“Yes, well, Albert and I were . . . close, you might say. He was married, of course, and had children. Naturally they were the recipients of his estate when he died, but there was a secret . . . I think the word is codicil or something like that. Anyway it was a bequest that he did not want his wife and children to know about.

“He didn't want them to know about quite all of his business ventures, and he certainly did not want them to know about me. So when he died, I inherited a whorehouse. I already knew about it, of course. I had been keeping the books on it for almost a dozen years by that time.

“I had my own ideas about the business side of how to run a house. And I learned the practical side of it. How to hire the girls. And how to fire them when necessary. How to handle the drunks and the brawlers and the ones who couldn't get it up.” She smiled. “It might surprise you, Custis, how many there are of those. They come in acting tough and saying they will strap on their spurs and ride a girl into the ground, then when they get to the room, they can't get a proper hard-on. Naturally our rule is that no one ever finds out about those boys. But we know. The truth is that the girls like to have them as customers. Usually they are no trouble at all; they don't want their secret to get out, you see.”

Longarm finished his coffee and took the last cookie from the plate.

“It turns out that I have a good head for business,” Helen said. “I inherited the one house, but I've worked my way up to own the others as well. And my girls are treated right. I haven't had a suicide in more than a year. Show me one other house that can make that claim. My girls make good money, and they can leave whenever they like. I even give them an address in town where their folks can write to them and think they are working for a hatmaker. Not many of their families know what they really do for a living, of course.

“I've worked hard for my success, Custis,” she said. “I would hate to have to start over at my age. I could do it, of course. But I would hate it.”

“Then let's make sure it don't come to that,” Longarm said. He set his cup aside and went to her. He put his arms around her and held her close. After a moment Helen began to weep silently.

“There, there, darlin',” he said. He fashioned a smile and added, “You did exactly the right thing when you asked me to come lend a hand.”

“Could I have a taste o' that rye whiskey you were talkin' about?” he asked.

“Of course. I have it right here.”

Longarm enjoyed rye whiskey. But more than the drink, he wanted to give Helen a task that would help settle her down. It was his experience that nothing benefited a woman more than waiting on a man. It took her mind off whatever had been bothering her so she could concentrate on being helpful.

Helen rose ponderously from her armchair and went to a waist-high cherrywood cabinet at the side of the room. She opened it, took out a bottle and glasses, and poured a generous measure of whiskey for Longarm. Finally she delivered the drink to him and resumed her seat.

“Ah. You were right, darlin'. This is good stuff,” he said after trying the whiskey. “The best. Thank you.”

“I'm glad you like it,” she said.

“Do you feel like talking about your situation now?” he asked after a minute or so.

“Certainly.” Helen said.

Longarm took another swallow of the rye and asked, “How exactly is someone trying to undermine you and you don't even know who's doing it?”

“Oh, Custis. It has been horrible. You remember that I told you I have a post office box where the girls' families can write to them?”

He nodded and drained the last of the rye. Helen did not seem to notice. In any event she did not offer to refill the whiskey, so he got up and helped himself to another glass. The rye really was of excellent quality, and he just plain enjoyed the stuff, even though Helen was suffering.

“Someone knows what that box number is, Custis. They are sending threatening letters, some of them really nasty.”

“To you?” he asked.

“Yes. And lately to my girls as well.”

“Have you saved any of those so I can see what they say?” he asked.

Helen shook her head. “They are . . . They were terrible things. I didn't want them under my roof. They threatened to . . . to do things to us. Ugly, hateful things, Custis. They threatened to mutilate us. Threatened to cut off certain, um, body parts. That sort of thing. I burned the letters. Every one that I had. When they started coming, I didn't know. Wasn't prepared. I just gave the unopened envelopes to the girls.” She made a sour face. “That was a mistake.”

Longarm grunted. He set his whiskey aside and took out a cheroot, nipped off the twist and spat it out, then struck a match and held the flame to the blunt end of the slender cigar.

“I might have thought it was all a terrible prank,” Helen said, “but whoever is writing these letters knows the girls' real names. They use nicknames for their work, of course. All working girls do. But the person who is writing those letters knows the real names of my girls. Some of them are becoming afraid that this person will tell their families where they work.” Helen sighed. “It is one thing to be a whore, you see, but quite another thing for one's mother to know. They would hate that, even the girls who have been thrown out of their homes, which is how I get a good many of my girls.”

“Have you done anything about the letters?” Longarm asked.

Helen managed a smile. “Aside from asking for your help, you mean? Well, yes. I have. I've started opening all the mail and throwing those letters away before the girls see them. That has helped, of course. But I've already lost some of my best girls because of it. Three from this house. Two from my middle-class house over on Buxton Avenue and four from my hog ranch down by the creek. It is easy enough to replace girls, but this whole thing has them rattled.”

“I would imagine so,” Longarm said. “I wish you'd saved some of them, but if they're gone, they're gone. Any more that come in, though, I want to see them.”

“Of course,” Helen said, nodding. She stood and began pacing back and forth across the room. After a few turns around the room she stopped, looked at him, and asked, “Is there anything you can do to help me, Custis?”

He smiled. “It just could be. And in the line o' duty too. I'd think that this jasper using the United States Post Office to make his threats is cause enough for me to take a hand in the game as a deputy as well as as your friend. Now, tell me where I can get something to eat in this town. Then I'll get started and see what, if anything, I can do to help you, darlin'.”

“You can eat here, of course, Custis,” Helen said. “Sleep here too if you wish.”

“Thanks, but it might be a good idea if I don't let folks in town know that we're such good friends,” he told her. “If I come and go, no one will think a thing about it. After all, men do visit whorehouses. But if I were to move in and stay, well, that'd be a whole different kettle o' fish.”

“Oh, I see,” Helen said. “I hadn't thought of that.” She came over to him, leaned down, and kissed him on the cheek. “You've grown, Custis. Not just gotten bigger, I mean. You've grown up. Matured. You were a lovely boy when I knew you. Now you are a man through and through.”

“I hope you don't mind the changes,” he said, giving her a fond smile.

“I like everything about you.” Helen laughed. “Especially that magnificent dick. Oh, I remember that, all right. Biggest damn thing I ever had shoved up my twat.”

“Helen, you talk pretty slutty, but I bet you haven't had half a dozen peckers stuck in you your whole life long. Now, fess up. Am I telling the truth there or not? Half a dozen tops,” he said.

“Why, Custis. A gentleman does not ask a lady such a thing.”

“Shit, Helen, I do. So tell me true. Half a dozen? Less?”

“I am not going to tell you any such thing, Custis Long,” she insisted. But he could see from her expression that she was more amused by his question than offended by it.

He stood and gave her a kiss. Considerably more of one than the little buss she had planted on his cheek. “Helen, you know you're lady enough for me. Always have been. Now, tell me. Is there a halfway decent hotel in this town, and where can I find a good meal that doesn't come out o' your kitchen?”

“That is one benefit from being the madam of a whorehouse, Custis. I get to know almost everything about my town and the people who live here. So let me tell you what I would recommend . . .”

 • • • 

Half an hour later Longarm had checked into the railside Pickering Hotel and was seated on a stool at the counter of the Tisbury Café, which was across the street half a block from the hotel.

He ordered coffee—it was not half as good as what had come out of Helen's kitchen—and a huge steak with all the trimmings.

The most essential needs of the inner man satisfied, Longarm ambled along the street until he found a likely looking saloon. That was not a difficult feat in a railroad town. Half the buildings were either saloons or rooming houses.

He pushed through the batwings and inhaled the familiar scents of sawdust, beer, and tobacco smoke.

The place had five round poker tables, only one of them occupied, and an empty faro table at the back. Half a dozen men leaned on the bar. There were no working girls visible although this was what Longarm would have thought was prime time for whores to ply their trade.

“What will you have?” the barman said by way of greeting. The man was balding, probably middle-aged, wearing a sleeveless shirt beneath his apron.

Longarm wondered if the bare arms were because he did not want to get sleeves wet while washing up . . . or to show off muscles that were only beginning to sag and must once have been powerful indeed.

“Beer,” Longarm responded. After Helen's superb rye whiskey, he did not want to settle for something less. And any whiskey found behind a public bar like this was bound to be considerably less. “And is that a box of cheroots I see over there by them bottles?”

The bartender nodded. “Aye, and they're good and fresh.”

Which they would not remain, Longarm knew, if the man kept them out in an open box like that. They would quickly dry out in this climate. Better to keep them in a humidor. Or, if he wanted them on display, in a glass jar.

Not that it was any of his business. “I'll take six.” Longarm accepted the beer, slipped five of the cheroots into a pocket, and bit the twist off the sixth before striking a match and lighting the slender cigar.

The barman was right about the cheroots being fresh. The tobacco was moist and tasty, and Longarm drew the smoke deep into his lungs, let it out in a series of smoke rings that hung in the air overhead before dissipating, then reached for his mug of foaming beer.

“Do you have a deck o' cards I could have?” he asked.

Again the barman nodded. “For a nickel,” the burly man said. “Hand them in when you're done, you get two cents back.”

“All right.” Longarm used a forefinger to shove a nickel from his change across the bar to the apron. The man pocketed the coin and bent to get a deck of pasteboards from somewhere below the bar.

The cards had been used before, but they were in decent condition, none of them marked or with corners bent.

“All right?” the barman asked.

“Fine,” Longarm said. He stuck the cheroot between his teeth, picked up his beer, and carried the beer and the deck of cards to one of the empty tables.

If someone came along who wanted to play a little low-stakes poker, that would be a fine way to pass the evening. Otherwise he would be content to play solitaire instead.

And either way he intended to keep his eyes and ears open.

Longarm yawned and dealt five cards to each of the two gents who had joined him at the table and five to himself. The game was penny ante poker, something to pass the time, not to rake in any money.

“If you don't mind me askin',” he said as he studied the truly lousy hand he had dealt himself, “I'm new in town. What's it like here? Is there anybody a newcomer should walk soft around?”

The wheezing, red-faced man to his left acted annoyed by the questions. Apparently he wanted to concentrate on his hand. But the nicely dressed gentleman to Longarm's right tugged two cards out of the fan in his hand and pushed them to the center of the table.

“Two names you want to know,” that gentleman said.

“Anything you need?” Longarm asked of the wheezer. That fellow was still studying what he had been dealt. Longarm turned his attention back to the fellow at his right. “Two names?”

The gent nodded. “Ira Collins and George Stepanek.”

“An' they would be?” Longarm asked.

“Ira, he's the big he-coon around here. Owns half the buildings on Front Street and is working toward pulling in the other half. George is his . . . I suppose you would say that George is Ira's regulator. If you know the term.”

“If you mean it like they use the word over in Wyoming,” Longarm said, “then yeah. I know the term. It means George is a man to steer clear of if you want to stay outa trouble.”

The gentleman nodded. “You have it right.”

“One card,” the wheezer said, finally deciding what he wanted to do with his hand. One card. Which meant that he had shit for cards and was relying on sheer luck. If he had asked for the lone card right away, it might have meant something, but the procrastination suggested he was on a fishing trip and had nothing to start with.

Longarm dealt the man his one card and two for the gentleman to his right. “Dealer stands pat,” he said. He had nothing in his hand, but the stakes were agreeably low and the conversation was already paying off.

“Open for a quarter,” the wheezer said, tossing a coin into the center of the table.

Trying to buy the tiny pot, Longarm thought. A quarter was a large bet in this game.

“I'll see your quarter and raise you fifty cents,” the well-dressed gentleman returned.

“Too rich for me,” Longarm said, tossing his cards into the discard pile.

“Your fifty cents and up a dollar,” Wheezer said.

“And a dollar more,” the gent responded.

Longarm sat back and watched while the two locals went at each other, building the pot until it was a respectable amount. When they finally got around to showing their hands, Wheezer turned out to have four treys, which he likely had had to begin with. The man had simply been bluffing with that act of taking so much time to consider his cards. Longarm gave Wheezer a closer look.

He had underestimated the man to begin with. That was not a good way to begin this quest to help Helen.

Longarm waited until Wheezer had collected his winnings, then he raked the cards toward himself, made sure there was nothing but backs showing, and began to shuffle.

“Still straight draw poker,” he mumbled as he shuffled. “Nothing wild. Penny to play.”

He pushed his penny into the middle of the table and waited for the others to ante up before he once again began to deal.