Longarm 422 (3 page)

“Ira Collins. What can you tell me about him?” Longarm asked the waiter/cook and presumably the owner of the Tisbury Café the next morning.

“And who would you be?” the Tisbury counterman asked in return.

“Just a newcomer in town,” Longarm said. “I heard the name last night over a friendly game of cards. Heard he was a big shot. So who is he? What does he do to swing such a wide loop?”

The local man polished some freshly washed platters but said nothing.

“Are you Tisbury?” Longarm asked.

“I am.”

“An' this is your place.”

Tisbury grunted. The man set a plate aside and threw his towel across a shoulder. “There's not much I can tell you. Mr. Collins, he owns this place.”

“But I thought . . .”

“I started the business. Opened it six years ago when the rails got here. Mr. Collins made me a generous offer. And I can still run the place. Mr. Collins pays me a nice salary too. It . . . it works out fine.”

“If you say so,” Longarm said. “But what can you tell me about Collins? Who is he? Where'd he come from?”

“I wouldn't know about any of that,” Tisbury said, “and if I was you, I wouldn't be asking too many questions. You don't want to come to the attention of his man.”

“That would be Stepanek,” Longarm guessed.

“You've heard about him then.”

“Only the name,” Longarm said. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Mister, if you run into the man, you'll know it. He is . . . I probably could get in trouble myself for saying this, but he is one rough customer. Quick with his fists; quicker with his gun.”

Longarm dragged his coffee cup closer and idly stirred the dark contents. “Maybe I should stay away from the gentleman then.”

Tisbury grunted again. “Stepanek is no gentleman, but if you're lucky you won't ever find that out for yourself. And if anybody asks, you heard nothing from me. All right?”

“Agreed,” Longarm said. “Anyway, it's true. I've heard nothing much from you about either fellow.”

He laid a silver cartwheel down and said, “Thanks for the breakfast, Mr. Tisbury. Keep the change.”

Longarm slid off the counter stool, hitched his britches up, and headed for the street.

He wandered the streets to get acquainted with Helen's town. He thought of talking with her about Collins and Stepanek. She was really the person he needed to ask about them; she would not hold back in either her opinions or her descriptions. But this was not an appropriate hour to go visiting in a whorehouse.

At this early time of day only an employee or a very good friend was likely to be knocking at that particular door.

Better, he thought, to wait until this evening before he spoke with Helen again.

The time could be well spent, though, simply by walking. Later he could listen in on conversations in a saloon or two.

And of course this evening he would head for Helen's main whorehouse, where his comings or goings would simply be regarded as those of a horny traveler.

In the meantime he would . . .

“Bitch!”

The voice came from across the side street Longarm found himself on at the moment.

It seemed to be coming from inside a tailor's small shop. It was followed by the sound of a loud slap and a woman's voice crying out in pain.

Longarm was not fond of the idea of ladies being abused. Not even whores. And any lady in a tailor shop at this hour was not likely to be a whore.

He had not checked with Helen about the local habit—or laws—regarding when her girls were allowed to shop, but it was unlikely that any of the local whores would be up and about at this hour of the day anyway.

Curious, he angled across the street and entered the tailor shop, a bell rigged at the top of the door announcing his visit.

Inside he found a woman—he guessed her to be somewhere in her late thirties or early forties—behind the counter.

A tall, very lean man wearing a leather vest, black gloves, and a wide-brimmed pearl-gray hat stood at the end of the counter. The ivory grips of a pistol hung beneath his left armpit.

The left side of the woman's face was bright red and beginning to swell. A small trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.

And the man, who had obviously just hit the lady, had his hand drawn back ready to smack her again.

“Hello,” Longarm said. He was smiling. Or at least his teeth were exposed. His eyes, however, had turned flinty, and any sensible human being would have known not to cross him right then. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Yes,” the man growled.

“No, not at all,” the lady said at the same moment.

“Get the fuck out of here,” the man said.

“How may I help you, sir?” the lady asked.

Longarm approached the counter, still smiling. He took his hat off and bobbed his head, just a customer ignorant of the tensions in the room, or so it seemed.

“I was thinking 'bout getting me some shirts made,” Longarm said. “Nothin' fancy. Just one or two if the price ain't too dear.”

“I said you'd best get the fuck out of here,” the tall man snarled.

Longarm smiled at him. “And you'd best watch your mouth around this lady. You two aren't married, are you?”

The man just glared at him.

“No, sir, we are most definitely not married,” the lady said.

“Mind what I said, sir,” Longarm warned.

“Or what, asshole?”

“Or you and me will have us a learnin' session about how a man should act around ladies,” Longarm answered.

“Do you know who I am?” the tall fellow snapped.

Longarm's phony smile became all the wider. “Don't know,” he said. “Don't care.”

“Get out, asshole, or we'll have that lesson for sure, right here and now.”

Longarm bowed toward the lady. “My apologies, ma'am.”

Then he turned and whipped his Stetson across the eyes of the tall and belligerent fellow.

That got the ball rolling to a fare-thee-well. Before the tall man could react, Longarm dropped his hat and delivered a rapid-fire pair of blows to the fellow's gut.

The man doubled over, placing his face quite conveniently for an uppercut that pulped his nose and sent blood spraying onto some bolts of cloth stacked on a table nearby.

He staggered back, took a deep breath, and got himself set to enter the fray.

The fellow was quick. Longarm had to give him that. He came in like he knew what he was doing, light on his toes and moving from side to side. Longarm guessed the man had done some prizefighting somewhere in his past.

He feinted with a left but threw his right hand, hard and straight and quick. Longarm's forearm flicked it aside, and he hit the tall man in the face. Twice. Hard, quick, short jabs that did more damage to the already flattened nose and split the fellow's upper lip as well.

The man's upper body dipped to the side, and he landed a punch that came out of nowhere and turned the left side of Longarm's face numb.

Bastard wasn't just nasty to women, Longarm realized. He could handle himself in a fight with a man too.

But then Longarm had had this sort of dance before.

He reared back and drove his right hand hard in an attempt to push the man's face into the back of his skull.

The punch was a powerful one. It sent the fellow staggering backward. He stopped, shook his head again, sending bright strings of blood onto the bolts of cloth around him . . . and sagged down onto his knees.

“All right, damn you,” he muttered. “You s'prised me this time. You won't do that again, I fucking promise you.”

The fellow grabbed hold of a table and pulled himself upright. Shook his head again and glared at Longarm. Then he stumbled to the door and out into the street.

Longarm watched him out of sight, cautious lest the fellow go for that ivory-handled shooter under his arm, but there was no return engagement and no firearms came into play.

Longarm turned to the lady and again bowed. “My apologies.”

“No . . . I . . . thank you, sir.” She picked up his Stetson, found a sponge on a shelf behind the counter, and used it to brush off Longarm's hat before handing it back to him. “George is . . . overly zealous at times, and he assumes more than I care to offer.”

Longarm smiled. “Then I'm glad I happened by, miss.”

“Did you really come in to see about shirts, sir?”

“No, ma'am. I heard you from out in the street. Don't like to intrude, but some things a gentleman doesn't do. Like hitting a lady, which I can plainly see that you are. I just hope he won't come back and take out on you what he couldn't do to me.”

“Thank you for that thought too, sir.” She stepped closer and went up onto tiptoes to examine the side of his face. “You're bleeding a little,” she said. “Come into the back. I'll wash the blood off and do something about that cut.”

Feeling was beginning to return to Longarm's face—the son of a bitch really could hit.

“That's mighty kind of you, ma'am.”

“It is ‘miss,' not ‘ma'am,' and it is no trouble at all.” She stepped to the door and turned the
OPEN
sign around to read
CLOSED
but did not bother turning the bolt to lock it. “This will only take a minute,” she said. “Follow me, please.”

“It” took more than a minute. Considerably more. Dressing Longarm's cut led to coffee, which led to lunch, which led to an examination of his torso in case there might be damage there, which led to none-too-subtle suggestions that more clothing be removed, which led to . . .

“Ah, darlin', it feels mighty good to be inside that pretty body o' yours.”

“If I had known how big your cock is, I would have had your clothes off before we wasted time having lunch.”

“That wasn't a waste, ma'am. It just gave me more energy to spend bumpin' bellies with you now.”

Iris Tyner laughed. And waggled her butt from side to side in response. Longarm happened to be deep inside her at the time. He rather liked the feel of it.

Iris was small, dark, and slim. She admitted to being thirty-eight years old, a statement that he suspected was the truth. And she liked to fuck.

“The problem,” she had explained over lunch, “is that George seems to think one invitation to share my bed gives him proprietary rights over me anytime he wants more of the same. It doesn't. I may like sex . . . the fact is that I very much do like sex . . . but that does not make me his, or any man's, possession. I am an independent woman, not a whore. And certainly not a sex toy.” She sighed. “George just doesn't understand that.”

Now, the two of them entwined on Iris's narrow bed in the back room of her shop, Longarm shuddered and stiffened as a wad of sticky cum squirted deep inside the woman's slender body.

Iris had already reached her own climaxes at least three times, and those were only the ones Longarm was sure of. The way she grunted and moaned throughout made it a little difficult for him to tell when she was coming.

Iris was a girl who just plain liked to fuck, and she was not shy about letting the fact be known.

She was also not bad-looking. Unlike most women, Iris Tyner looked better naked than she did when she was dressed for the world to see.

She had small, nicely formed tits with pink nipples standing tall atop them, slender legs that could clamp around a man with remarkable strength, and a round, compact, lovely ass.

For some reason—he hoped it was not crabs—she kept her bush trimmed almost to the point of being shaved. It was unusual. But he liked it. The effect was a clean and quite lovely pussy.

With no hair to hide her private parts from view, her lips were pink and pretty. And her love hole gaped wet and ready as soon as she stepped out of her knickers.

Longarm finished and rolled off of her. He had to be careful about it because her bed was too narrow for them to sprawl. They lay pressed close together, Iris trailing her fingers over his now limp cock.

“Lovely,” she said. She giggled. “There is something so pretty about a cock. Do you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“If I look a little closer?”

“Of course not. Whatever pleases you, darlin'.”

Iris untangled herself from him and slid down toward the foot of the bed. “My, my,” she mumbled.

She used a fingertip to lift his pecker, then peeled the foreskin back. She used thumb and forefinger to milk his dick, forcing a small pearl of white cum to the tip.

Iris's tongue flicked out, and she licked his juice away.

“Tasty,” she said. “Would you mind . . . ?”

She did not wait for him to answer, just sucked his cock into her mouth.

“Careful what you're startin' there, darlin',” he warned.

Iris's answer was another giggle. And to suck him deeper into her mouth.

Longarm's response was immediate. And powerful. He came erect, strengthening and lengthening and filling Iris's mouth and on into her throat.

Her response was to mumble something that sounded very much like a cat's purring and to use her fingers to tickle his balls while she sucked.

This girl, he thought, was one helluva nice find.

By the time Longarm got around to leaving Iris's bed, it was late in the afternoon, too late to accomplish much.

“Hungry?” Iris asked.

He nodded. And yawned. The day had been a strenuous one. In a very nice sort of way.

“I could cook something for us,” Iris suggested.

He said, “If there's a nice place to eat in this town, I could take the two of us out to dinner.” Longarm smiled. “I haven't had the pleasure of squiring a pretty lady in quite some time. If you're not ashamed to be seen on my arm, that is, me bein' a sort o' rough-hewn stranger here.”

“I would be honored. And very pleased too, Custis. Get dressed while I find something I can gussy up with.” She crawled over him to reach the floor. He stopped her halfway, and they nearly became sidetracked, but after a minute or two he took his tongue out of Iris's mouth and let her get off the bed.

Iris headed for a wardrobe at the side of the small, crowded room while Longarm stood and stretched for a moment, then reached for his hastily discarded clothing that was scattered hither and yon.

Five minutes later they were both dressed and ready to be seen in public.

“We can go out the front,” Iris said. “The alley in back is always muddy because old man Barnes insists on watering his horse back there. The old fool pays a boy to carry buckets of water from the railroad's pump, and the kid can't handle a full bucket yet. He's a nice boy but too small for the job. Still, he does need the income. His ma is a railroad widow and doesn't have any sort of pension or anything to help her get along. I sell her yard goods as cheap as I can so I can try to help out a little.”

Longarm followed the babbling little woman out into the shop, darker now that the sun was almost gone. He stopped her at the door and thoroughly kissed her before opening the door and escorting her out onto the public street.

He leaned down and whispered, “Where are we going?” He was supposed to be escorting her, but he had no idea where.

Iris laughed and said, “The Chauncey Hotel over on Second Street has the most elegant dining room in town. Can you afford something like that?”

“For the pleasure of the company of a beautiful lady like you, I reckon I can,” he told her, bowing slightly as he did so.

Iris laughed again and hugged his arm. “Oh, I
am
glad you came along,” she said.

They sauntered slowly toward the Chauncey, Iris telling him where to turn when need be, window-shopping along the way, and got there just about the time the sun disappeared below the horizon.

The front of the Chauncey was ablaze with lamplight, and inside was even brighter from the crystal-drop chandeliers hanging overhead. The waiters wore red jackets, and the tables were covered with white linen. The place settings looked like bone china, and the silverware appeared to be real silver.

“Like it?” Iris asked as she clung to the crook of his arm.

Longarm grinned down at her and said, “It's just the sort of place I'm used to.” Then he laughed to admit to the lie. “Come on then. Let's go in an' put on the ol' feed bag.”