Longarm 422 (8 page)

Longarm dropped the satchel containing the day's receipts onto the floor beside Helen's desk. He was using her safe to hold the earnings of the Star since he did not have a safe of his own. Buying one had seemed an unnecessary extravagance since he did not intend to be in business very long, just until he smoked out Helen's problems for her.

He slumped gratefully into an upholstered chair and accepted the glass of rye she poured for him.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a swallow of the excellent whiskey. He set the glass aside—being around liquor all day was beginning to take the edge off his enjoyment of it; very much more and he would be in danger of becoming a teetotaler—and reached for a cheroot.

Helen waited until he had the cigar lighted, then said, “So how did it go with our esteemed sheriff today?”

Longarm raised an eyebrow. “Jeez, woman, do you know everything that happens around here?”

Helen laughed. “If I did, Custis, I wouldn't have asked you for help. Actually, this morning was the time when the working girls in town are allowed to shop. They saw Anderson going into your place. Three of them told me about it. They thought something was up. Two of them suggested you might be secretly working for the other side.”

“They know what's going on,” Longarm said.

“Not really. I already told you, most of them are dumb as fence posts. But they can be sly, and most of them understand lies and betrayal well enough. God knows they've experienced enough of both before they ever come to my houses. I'm careful to
not
give them any more of the same here, which is why they learn to trust me and why some would want to tip me off if they saw or heard anything that could hurt me.”

“You live an interesting life, Helen. It must be eye-opening in a lot o' ways,” he said.

“More than I ever expected when I, um, entered the business,” Helen said.

Longarm chuckled at the thought of how disconcerting it must have been for a prim and proper bookkeeper, which Helen had been at the time, to inherit a whorehouse.

“So go on, Custis. Tell me about the sheriff and what he wanted with you,” Helen said.

Longarm polished off the glass of rye and looked Helen in the eye. He sighed and said, “Trouble.”

“So they're starting with you now,” Helen mused, “and they are using the sheriff. I wonder if that miserable son of a bitch even knows who he's working for. And why.”

“He can be bought?” Longarm asked.

Helen grunted her disdain for the Quapah County sheriff. “Like a can of beans,” she said. “Probably about as cheap too.”

“Have you tried to buy him?” Longarm asked.

“Oh, I do. I pay him off the first day of each and every month. Ten dollars for each girl.”

“So he works for Collins,” Longarm said.

“You would think so, but to tell you the truth I'm not sure about that. I've heard rumors that suggest there may be someone else pulling the strings behind Anderson.”

Longarm rose and helped himself to a small refresher on his drink, then leaned down and kissed the large woman lightly on the forehead. “We'll figure it out,” he assured her.

“I hope so. My girls got some more of those letters. More of the same. Do you want to see them?”

“They're the same bullshit as before?” he asked.

Helen nodded. “The same. Same envelopes, same penciled handwriting, same old crap.”

“No need for me to look at them then, not when I have one of my own to admire.”

“Is there any way to trace mail back to its origin?” Helen asked.

“Not that I know about, but I think it's about time that I talk with the postmaster here. Maybe he knows something that would help.”

“She,” Helen said.

“Pardon?”

“I said ‘she.' Our postmaster is really a postmistress. We have a woman in the job. Her late husband was a big supporter of the governor. Big contributor too, I gather. When he died, the widow discovered that the rat had been living well beyond their means. She was broke. Either she told the governor or someone else did, because he found out about it and secured an appointment for her as postmistress. Now she lives on what she earns in that capacity.”

“Unusual,” Longarm said, taking first a drag on his cheroot and then a swallow of Helen's good rye. He wished he could keep a bottle of whiskey that good in the Star, but if he did, someone was bound to pour from it for a bar patron, and in his opinion that would be a hell of a waste. Set a bad precedent too, because soon everyone would want the good stuff, and any chance of making a profit would go out the window.

“Do you need any more money to run your joint?” Helen asked.

Longarm aimed his cheroot toward the satchel he had set on the floor earlier. “There's your answer. I don't know that we're making a profit yet. Probably not. But we're bringing in money. Won't be long until the setup costs are met and you should be pulling in a profit.”

Helen laughed. “Not me. You're the proprietor there.”

“We both know better, darlin'. I'll be gone before long an' you'll have the place all to yourself.”

“Will I be able to trust Robert to run the place for me when that happens, Custis?”

“Absolutely. Robert is a good man. I trust him.”

“Do you think he is talking with Collins behind your back?”

“If I did,” Longarm said, “I wouldn't be recommending him to you.”

“Something else I just thought about, Custis. Are you remembering to pay yourself a salary for running the place?”

He shook his head. “I draw my pay from Uncle Sam. That's enough for me.” He laughed. “But I'm not above treating myself to a glass of bar whiskey or a pocketful of smokes now and then.”

“You help yourself to anything you want, dear. I'm just grateful you are taking the time to help me.”

“Not that I've been much help so far,” he said.

“You're here. That is enough to make this old woman happy. Is there anything I can get you, dear? Anything I can do for you?”

In the morning Longarm made sure things at the Star were running smoothly—or as smoothly as things seemed to get in a railroad town saloon—then turned it over to Robert.

“I have some errands to run,” he said, wiping his hands with a bar rag. “No idea how long I'll be. Not long, I think.”

“Take your time,” Ware told him. “I can handle things until you get back.”

“I know you can,” Longarm said with a smile. “Thanks.”

He removed the apron he had taken to wearing when he was behind the bar and retrieved his tweed coat from a hook he had screwed into the wall.

“I won't be long.”

He walked to the post office, a block and a half away from the Pickering Hotel. The clerk behind the counter was a man, a stocky fellow with dark hair and a hairline mustache on his upper lip.

“Yes, sir, how can I help you?” The man had a rugged enough appearance, but his voice was soft, almost feminine. Longarm had seen him in the Star a few times, always in the company of a skinny man, always more interested in playing cards than drinking.

“I'd like to see the postmistress.”

“If you have a complaint, sir, I'm sure I can take care of it for you.”

“What I would like is to see the postmistress,” Longarm repeated.

“Very well, sir. Just a moment.” The clerk left the counter and disappeared into a back room. He returned after less than a minute and pointed toward the bank of postal boxes. “Back there, sir. She will meet you at the door.”

Longarm hadn't noticed that there was a door beyond the lockboxes, but it was obvious enough when he looked for it.

Postmistress Anne Gilbert emerged after several minutes. She was tall, slim, and elegant. She had hair so pale he was not sure if it was blond or gray. Her age might have been anything from thirty to fifty. He simply could not tell. She wore her hair pinned up in a tight bun and had a black velvet choker at her throat, with a cameo brooch. Longarm started to feel the stirrings of a hard-on when he saw her.

“Yes, sir?”

It took him a moment to answer. He would have preferred to just stand and stare at her for a few minutes. Anne Gilbert was far and away the best-looking woman he had seen in some time.

“Yes, sir?” she repeated. “Barney said someone was out here wanting to see me. Would that be you, sir?”

Longarm cleared his throat and reminded himself to pay attention to business. “Yes, ma'am. And I assume you're Mrs. Gilbert?”

The lady nodded. “I am. How may I help you?”

“Is there some place private where we could talk?” he asked.

“We could go in the back. I have a desk there,” she said.

He nodded and followed her inside. There was the usual sorting table, a bin of outgoing mail, and several empty mailbags. The postmaster's desk was stuck away in a corner.

“Now. This is as private as we get, so what do you want to tell me?”

Longarm smiled. “Now that I think about it, this ain't really private enough. Maybe we could talk over dinner tonight instead.” The smile turned into a grin. “My treat at the Chauncey.” The place was devilishly expensive, but what the hell, Helen was paying for it.

Anne Gilbert said nothing, and for a moment he thought he had offended her. Then she relaxed. “We close at six.”

“I'll come by for you then,” he said, touching the brim of his Stetson and nodding to the lady. “Six o'clock. Sharp.”

Longarm turned and left.

The noontime rush went off well enough. The Star seemed to be gaining something of a reputation, as men from all the various business factions—railroaders, miners, cowboys, and townspeople alike—were choosing it to do their drinking.

It took both Longarm and Robert Ware working pretty much full-time to keep up with the demand. The customers came in steadily, but no one took on more booze than he could handle.

“I'd count this something of a success,” Longarm said.

“Treat people right,” Ware winked and chuckled, “and beat the competition's prices, and you can count on it being a success. Mind if I mention something, Boss?”

“Of course not. Say anything you like, Robert,” Longarm said.

“Forgive me for saying so, but I don't think you have a lot of experience with running a saloon.”

“It shows, huh?” Longarm said with a rueful smile.

Ware nodded. “It shows. For instance, you need to reorder your beer and your bar whiskey. Thanks to the railroad it will only take two, maybe three days for the goods to get here, but the thing is, you don't want to run out. If the patrons think they can't count on getting what they want here, they will go somewhere else. This is not the only saloon in town. They have others they could go to, some of them closer to the railroad depot and easier to get to. You need to put your orders in now while you have plenty of time before we'll run out of anything.”

“I hadn't thought o' that,” Longarm admitted.

“And that is why I get the idea you're a mite new to this business,” Ware said.

“I'm glad I found you,” Longarm said. “You know the business, and the customers seem to like you. You have enough experience that I'm a little surprised you don't have a place of your own.”

“I don't have the kind of capital it takes to open my own place or I would,” Ware said. “But I do have experience. I've run saloons for other owners.” He hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I like you, Mr. Long. There is something I should tell you.”

“Anything, Robert. You can tell me anything,” Longarm said.

“When I first walked in to apply for the job . . . I was sent here.”

“Oh? By who?”

Again Ware hesitated. “I was sent here by Mr. Collins. He knew I was looking for a job after I quit Wash Howard at the Deuces. Son of a bitch tried to cheat me. But that's neither here nor there. Mr. Collins suggested I come here. For a couple reasons, I think. One is the obvious. He wants you to do well because he is in for a share of your profits. Don't look at me like that, Mr. Long. It's no great secret the way Mr. Collins works. The other reason, I think, is so I can keep an eye on you. He likes you, but I'm not sure he trusts you.”

“Has he asked you to report anything back to him?” Longarm asked.

“Not directly, but the bookkeeper is his man. I'm sure he tells Mr. Collins everything he knows. And he asks me questions sometimes that I think go right back to Mr. Collins.”

“That's interesting,” Longarm said. “But there is nothing about the Star that I wouldn't want Collins to know, so don't you worry about being disloyal. You do whatever is comfortable for you an' don't worry about it none. I won't mind. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what you pass along to Collins, but you don't have to. Just keep on doing what you have been, an' you and me will get along just fine.”

Longarm paused to fetch a cheroot for himself out of the humidor and to offer one to Ware; then he said, “If you don't mind I'm gonna go have my lunch now. The crowd has thinned out enough that I reckon you can handle it by yourself.”

“Take your time, Mr. Long,” Ware said.

Longarm smiled. “That's Custis to you, Robert.”

“In that case, sir, if you don't mind, I really prefer Bob with my friends. Robert is for business.”

“Bob it is then.”

“Enjoy your lunch, Custis.”

Tisbury's was empty of customers when Longarm got there. Apparently the always busy lunch crowd had had their meals and gone back to the afternoon's work.

Longarm took a seat in a corner, by habit placing his back to something solid. He ordered steak, well done and smothered in milk gravy, plus biscuits with more of that gravy, and asked, “Would it be possible for a man t' get a mess o' eggs at this hour of the day?”

Tisbury grunted. “How many do you want?”

“Four if you have them to spare.”

“I can cook you all you like up to and including six dozen.” He smiled. “But four eggs it will be.”

Longarm worked on a cup of stout coffee while Tisbury went back to his stove to make Longarm's steak and eggs. He was halfway through the coffee when someone he thought was one of the men who'd jumped him in the street several weeks past came in.

The man, shaggy and unshaven, hung his hat on a rack beside the door and said to Tisbury, “It looks like it's coming rain.” His remark was punctuated by the sound of thunder outside.

He took a seat on one of the stools at the counter and asked for coffee, then swiveled his stool around. The man glanced idly in Longarm's direction. His casual demeanor changed like a flash of the lightning that flickered beyond the windows.

Recognizing that he was not alone in the café, he saw who the other customer was. He instantly stiffened, his whole body going rigid. His right hand formed into a claw that hovered over the gutta-percha grips of the revolver on his hip.

Aside from the possibility of him being one of his attackers, Longarm did not think he had ever seen the man before. Certainly he was not a patron of the Star saloon.

But the fellow recognized Longarm. And seemed to fear him.

His hand leaped toward that revolver.

Longarm had no idea why.

But he did not have time to ponder the question or to ask why. The man was drawing on him. That was introduction enough.

Longarm's .45 came to hand almost without him taking time to consciously reach for it.

His Colt spat its own brand of thunder and lightning as flame and smoke—and lead—belched from the muzzle.

Across the width of the café floor Longarm's first bullet took the man in the belly.

A second struck him high in the chest. And a third ripped into the left side of his face.

“Jesus!” Tisbury screamed.

Longarm came to his feet and stood poised to fire again if necessary. A fourth bullet was not needed. The man, a complete stranger as far as Longarm knew for sure, crumpled. He toppled face-forward onto Tisbury's floor. He fell like a sack of grain, making no move to soften the blow or prepare for it. Once he hit, he lay completely motionless.

Longarm coughed as smoke from the black powder cartridges filled the café. His ears rang a little from the contained concussion, and the sounds were hollow and dull when Tisbury said, “Jesus, Long. What . . . ?”

“Damned if I know. I'm not sure I ever saw the son of a bitch before, but he sure as hell recognized me. You saw him go for his gun, didn't you?”

Tisbury said nothing, so Longarm said again, “You saw him reach, didn't you? Well, didn't you?”

Tisbury remained silent.

“What the hell are you doing, man? You saw. You saw I didn't have a choice,” Longarm barked. He crossed the room to stand nose to nose with Tisbury and said it again. “You saw that he drew on me. You saw I had no choice.” His words came not as a question but as a statement of fact. “What are you worried about anyway, Tisbury? This town don't have no regular law, and Sheriff Anderson damn sure isn't around. Not that I'd expect him to do anything if he was. This was simple self-defense, no less.”

Still the café owner stood mute. After a moment he turned and fetched a mop and bucket. Silently the man began to clean up the blood that had spilled onto his floor.

Longarm stood for a moment staring down at the mop swishing back and forth beside the corpse. Then he turned and left Tisbury's. It was obvious he was not going to get his meal. He had no idea who would collect the body and haul it off to . . . he had no idea where. An undertaker's, perhaps. Or simply to an ice house where the thing could be kept from rotting until someone came to claim it.

Longarm did not even know for sure who the man was. He thought the fellow might have been one of the three who jumped him—also without provocation—that night a little while back.

Whoever he was, Tisbury seemed to be in fear for some reason about his death. But in fear of what, or of whom, Longarm did not know.

What he did know was that he was still hungry.

He went in search of a different café where he could get something to eat.