Longarm 422 (5 page)

“Do you think you are making any progress?” Helen asked after Longarm had brought her up to date with the little he had learned so far.

Longarm shrugged and took a small sip of the superior rye whiskey. “It's too soon to tell, darlin'. Something like this, 'bout all a man can do is to throw some chum in the water an' let it float. Maybe something will turn up, maybe not.”

“You aren't giving up, are you?” Helen sounded worried.

“Course not. I'm just getting started.” Longarm set his whiskey aside and reached for a cheroot. Helen quickly struck a match for him and held the flame to the end of the cigar. “Thanks,” he said and leaned back to pick up the whiskey glass again.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. Before he had a chance to answer, Helen said, “One thing I insist on doing is replacing the money those robbers stole from you. How much was it?”

Longarm shook his head. “That don't matter. Wasn't none o' your fault.”

“Of course it matters, dear. You would not have been here if it weren't for me and my problems. Besides, I want to.”

“It's all right, I tell you,” he insisted.

“It isn't all right. And you wouldn't believe how much I make with these houses. I can certainly afford it. Now, how much was it? Three hundred? Four?”

Longarm laughed. “Darlin', you've got an inflated idea of how much money a deputy marshal makes and is apt to have in his pockets.”

“A hundred then.” Helen got up, opened a drawer in her rolltop desk, and pulled out a handful of gold coins in the smaller values. Without bothering to count them, she dropped the gleaming disks into Longarm's shirt pocket. “And don't you say a word about not taking that,” she said. “As it is I owe you more than I could possibly pay, just for you coming here to help me. So shut your mouth, sonny, and do as you're told.” But she was laughing when she added that last part.

Longarm shut his mouth. And reached for the rye.

“Do you know what you want to do next?” she asked.

He nodded. “I think I'm gonna open me a saloon.” Then, a twinkle in his eye, he added, “An' maybe run me some whores of my own.”

“Collins won't let you do either of those without his blessing,” Helen said.

Longarm chuckled and said, “Exactly,” emphasizing the word with a string of smoke rings that drifted toward the ceiling before they dissipated into the perfumed air.

“I almost forgot,” Helen said.

“Mm?”

“You said you wanted to know if any more of those letters came?”

“That's right.”

“There were three more in the box today,” Helen said.

“Did you save them for me?”

She once again left her chair and crossed heavily over to the rolltop. From one of the pigeonholes she produced an envelope. The glue on the envelope flap had been carefully opened—steam, Longarm guessed—and the note inside exposed.

“There were three, but they were all the same,” Helen said. “I burned the other two, but I saved this one to show to you.” She handed the opened envelope to him.

Longarm pulled the note out.

I KNOW YOU, SARAH. I KNOW YOUR PARENTS. DO THEY KNOW WHAT YOU DO HERE
?
I CAN TELL THEM. YOU KNOW, THIS MAY BE A GOOD TIME FOR YOU TO TAKE A TRIP—A LONG TRIP, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. THINK ABOUT THAT, SARAH. THINK ABOUT IT. TELL THE OLD BITCH YOU WANT TO GO HOME. THE TRAIN WILL TAKE YOU RIGHT THERE, SARAH

Longarm read the note twice, then said, “You say they were all the same?”

Helen nodded. “Except for the names, yes. Sarah is the girl who works under the name Daisy. She's a good girl. All the gentlemen like her.”

“I wonder why three letters,” Longarm said.

“There was one addressed to a girl at each of my houses if that means anything.”

“Whoever is doing this is trying to ruin you,” Longarm mused.

“The son of a bitch could do it too if any of these letters got through. My girls are spooked enough without this.”

Longarm raised an eyebrow. “Spooked how?”

“Out at the hog ranch someone has started riding up in the middle of the night and yelling. Shouting ugly things. Some of the girls . . . they aren't very bright, you know, even the not so pretty ones . . . some of the girls have decided there are haunts and goblins out there. I lost another girl just today. A lovely little Mexican thing. She came to me crying and clutching at her rosary. She said she was afraid of the ghosts of all the men she has been with. Not that the johns are dead. She is afraid of them anyway. She took an afternoon train south.”

“I want to meet this Collins fellow,” Longarm said. “You think he's the one behind your troubles?”

“He almost has to be,” Helen said. “But be careful when you meet him. You don't want to cross Stepanek.”

Longarm grinned. “You got that wrong, darlin'. It's Stepanek that oughta be careful not to cross me.”

Helen laughed, then got up and said, “Let me refresh your glass, sweetie.”

Longarm woke early the next morning. He shaved carefully and used a splash of the smell-good stuff that a woman back in Denver had given him. While he was busy doing that, he sent a bellboy out to collect his clean clothes from the dry cleaner—who'd done a good job, not perfect but good—and freshly black his boots.

He went from the hotel to Tisbury's for breakfast, then over to the barber's for a quick trim.

“Who should I see about finding a place in town to rent?” he asked the barber who was working on him.

“Like a house, you mean?” the barber asked.

“No, like a storefront. I'm thinking this might be a likely place to open a saloon,” Longarm said.

“Oh, now, that's different. For commercial property there's only one person you want to talk to,” the barber told him. “Go see Mr. Collins. He doesn't own quite all the property in town, but he owns all of it that's available.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Yes, sir. Positive,” the barber said.

“Where would I find this Mr., er, Collins, did you say?”

The barber stopped snipping and pointed. “You just go . . .”

 • • • 

Half an hour later Longarm stood on the sidewalk outside Western Land and Investments. He admired the sign for a moment, then took a deep breath and opened the door.

The first person he saw when he stepped inside was the tall man named George with whom he'd fought inside Iris's seamstress shop.

The fellow named George was George Stepanek, it seemed.

And the two men who were idling in the outer office looked vaguely familiar too. They could have been two of the three who jumped him on the street, although he was not sure about that.

Stepanek, though . . . he was sure about Stepanek.

“Hello, Georgie,” Longarm said with a grin as he removed his Stetson. “How're you feeling today, Georgie?”

Stepanek looked like he positively itched to go for that ivory-handled revolver that hung under his left armpit.

But he swallowed back the impulse and said, “What do you want here, mister?”

“Business,” Longarm said. “But not with you. I want to see Mr. Collins.”

“Wait here. I'll ask if he wants to see you,” Stepanek growled. The man whirled and disappeared into a hallway leading toward the back of the offices.

Ira Collins was a surprise. The man was trim, fit, heavily muscled . . . and not much more than five feet tall. He had dark hair and a spade beard and was wearing a handsomely tailored suit on his tiny frame. Even from within the suit coat, though, his biceps were obvious, so much so that his arms hung a little apart from his body. Like those of an ape, Longarm thought. But the reason in Collins's case was that his upper body was so muscular that his arms could not hang close to his body.

He had another surprise to deliver when Longarm stood before him.

“Greetings, Custis Long from Denver,” the little man said.

“You've been checking up on me,” Longarm said.

“Of course,” Collins replied. “You appeared like Galahad to rescue the fair maiden.” He smiled. “And quite thoroughly thrashed my man Stepanek in the process. Then you squired said maiden to a luxurious dinner and spent the ensuing night with her.” Collins laughed. “There is much about you to interest a man, Mr. Long. But the really important information is lacking. Who are you, Mr. Long? What do you want here?”

“There isn't much 'bout me that would interest you,” Longarm drawled. “I'm just a fella tryin' to get along in the world.”

“And the nature of your business with me today?”

“I'm thinkin' about opening a saloon. Just a small outfit. Maybe put in a few poker tables. Buy me a few girls since I know a fella down in Denver that will sell for a fair price.”

Collins paused for a long moment, pulling at his beard and frowning. “Somehow, Mr. Long, you do not appear to be the sort of man who would be content with operating a saloon. In fact, you might be a threat to me if you enter business here. You might become . . . greedy. You might want it all.” He smiled . . . if the expression could be called that. “And in this town, I have it all. And I intend to keep it too.”

“I'm no threat. Just a fella who wants to do a little business,” Longarm assured him.

“I am not so sure,” Collins said.

“Oh, I'm sure you'd have your people keep a close eye on me to make sure I ain't no threat.”

“You could count on that, Mr. Long.”

“Good. Send 'em in in droves.” Longarm laughed. “Just make sure they buy some drinks while they're there. They'll all be welcome.”

“Even George?”

“Ha.” Longarm nodded. “Sure. Even Stepanek. Tell him he's welcome anytime. But to mind his manners.”

“I shall tell him,” Collins said.

“‘Shall,'” Longarm repeated. “Does that mean we can do some business?”

“Possibly. You are looking for a business location?”

“That's right. Not too big. Decent location. That'd be important.”

“I have two properties that might suit,” Collins said. “George will take you to look at them. You should know, however, that my terms are not negotiable. Your rent will be forty percent of your trade. One of my people will audit your books to verify the amount. And mind you, that is forty percent of your gross.”

“I'll agree to forty percent,” Longarm said, “but of the net profit, not off the gross income. Unlike you, I have a stiff cost of doing business. Gotta lay out for product an' so on. I might be able to live payin' forty percent off the profit but not off the gross.”

“I told you my terms are not negotiable,” Collins said.

Longarm extended his hand to the man. “Then I thank you for your time, sir, an' I'll be movin' along to another town.”

Collins seemed surprised. He took Longarm's hand and shook it automatically but acted like he scarcely was aware of the gesture.

Longarm turned and started for the door.

“Wait,” Collins barked before Longarm got out. “Come back here. I think we can talk.”

Longarm turned, but without walking back toward the little man's desk he said, “Off the profit?”

Collins nodded. “Off the profit,” he agreed.

“I'll tell Stepanek you need to see him. Then he and I can go look at those two locations. He can let you know which one I'll be takin'.”

It was no contest. One of the vacancies was half a block from the railroad depot, the other a corner location three blocks distant.

“I'll take the corner,” Longarm said to the scowling George Stepanek.

“Really? The other is closer to the trains.”

“It ain't necessarily the train passengers that I'm lookin' for,” Longarm told him.

Stepanek shrugged and handed Longarm a key. Then he walked away, tossing “I'll tell Collins” over his shoulder.

Longarm stepped inside his newly acquired property. The place was about fifteen feet wide by forty deep and was bare to the walls and floor. It needed . . . everything.

He stood there in the empty place, looking at the dust motes floating in the air. Then he threw his head back and broke into laughter. A saloonkeeper. A businessman. Him. If that wasn't enough to get a man's belly to jiggling, nothing should be.

He walked back and forth through the store, looking and planning. After a half hour he left, locking up behind him.

 • • • 

“This is good whiskey,” Longarm observed, holding up his glass to inspect the color of the liquor. “Where d'you get it?”

Helen Morrow snorted and told him, “Never you mind where I get it. I'll send you a couple bottles for your own pleasure, but you are not going to stock it. It costs too much. You'll buy medium-quality liquors, first-rate beer. And you will make a profit.

“You need to start thinking like a businessman, Custis, not as a fellow reveler. What's more, when it comes to the hard stuff, you need to stock at least three levels of quality. You serve the best for the first two shots. No more. Then the middling stuff. If the customer keeps drinking after two or three of those, you can safely shift to the cheap horse piss; he won't be able to tell the difference by then anyway.”

“Dammit, Helen, that sounds like cheating,” Longarm protested.

“Not at all,” Helen said. “The man orders a drink. That is what he gets. If he orders a shot of your best, give him that. But he won't. Not one time in a hundred.” She smiled and leaned forward to pat him on the cheek. “Business, Custis. You have to think of profitability in the smallest detail. In everything you do. Everything.”

The thought of that local saloon charging for the use of an already used deck of cards came to mind. It was only pennies, but it was profit. “I . . . think I see what you mean, darlin'.”

“And don't ever forget, dear, it is my money that is at risk here, not yours.”

He smiled. “And in the end it's you that will have another established saloon where you can pick up that trade an' maybe run some o' your girls at the same time.”

“Why, Custis,” Helen said, batting her eyelashes in mock surprise, “what a lovely thought. Now, why didn't I think of that!”

Longarm laughed and took a small swallow of the truly excellent rye whiskey. Which he would
not
be stocking behind his own bar when the . . . What should he call the place? Then he laughed again. “The Star,” he said aloud.

“What?”

“The Star,” Longarm repeated. “I'm gonna name the place the Star Saloon.” He grinned. “Kinda fits, don't you think, for a deputy marshal's place?”

Helen threw her head back and roared with laughter, her large body shaking.

“Mind if I have another o' this good stuff?” Longarm asked, leaning forward for the bottle. “Now, where'd you say I can get my wet goods? And what about carpenters? Who would you recommend there? And how the hell is a boss supposed to act anyway?” He shook his head. “This is all confusing to an innocent country boy like me, darlin'.”

“You will learn, Custis. It may be in fits and starts, a bit at a time, but you will certainly learn.”