Longarm 422 (9 page)

“Are you Mr. Long?” The youngster asking the question was likely in his teens, with the bright red pimples and peach fuzzed upper lip to announce the fact.

Longarm looked up from his steak—but no eggs in this café—and nodded.

“Mr. Collins wants to see you,” the boy said.

“All right. Thanks.” Longarm went back to sawing at the tough slab of meat with a table knife that was much too dull for the task. The messenger boy remained standing beside his table.

Longarm grunted and reached into his pocket, found a nickel for a tip, and handed it over. Still the boy stood there.

“Is there something else?”

“It's just . . . when Mr. Collins wants to see somebody, they most generally go,” the boy said. “Right away.”

“Well I ain't ‘somebody,' and there's nothing I got to say to Mr. Collins. If he wants to see me, I ain't hard to find. You managed just fine.”

“Sir, I can't . . . I can't say something like that to Mr. Collins,” the kid stammered out, backing away a half step as if he expected Longarm to reach out and hit him.

Longarm merely shrugged. And took another bite of the exceptionally tough chunk of beef. Damn, but he wished he had gotten that meal at Tisbury's. At least the steak there was reasonably tender. And Tisbury made a better gravy than these people too.

The messenger boy turned and left. Finally. Longarm looked up from his meal for a moment to watch the boy out the door.

Then he went back to his delayed lunch.

“Anything happen while I was at lunch, Bob?” Longarm asked when he returned to the Star Saloon. His saloon. His very own. He was still having a little difficulty accepting that reality.

“No, Boss, but I hear there was plenty happening around you,” Ware answered.

“Word does seem to travel fast around here,” Longarm said.

“Believe it,” Ware told him.

There were two mid-afternoon drinkers propping up the bar with their elbows. When they saw Longarm come in, they shifted down to the other end of the bar, separating themselves from him and from any trouble he might bring with him.

Three men playing cards at one of the tables eyed him carefully, but they remained where they were.

Longarm was beginning to feel like something of a celebrity here. Or a pariah. He walked behind the bar and drew a beer for himself. Then he took a deck of cards from a shelf and went out to one of the tables to begin playing solitaire.

If the sheriff—or anyone else—wanted him, dammit, he did not intend to be hard to find.

 • • • 

The two buzzards at the bar tossed back the rest of their drinks and skedaddled. The three playing cards threw their hands in, scooped up their coins, and hurried out. Even Bob Ware grabbed a towel and drifted to the far end of the bar, just as far from the door as he could get.

Standing near the doors onto the street was Ira Collins.

Longarm leaned back in his chair and waited for the man to do whatever it was he came here for.

Collins did not appear to be carrying a gun. Of course he could have had half a dozen well-concealed hide-out guns, and no one would likely know.

The little man, or big man depending on how one wanted to look at him, glanced around the room but patiently waited until the customers cleared out before he approached the table where Longarm was sitting.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Help yourself,” Longarm said, one boot pushing a chair out.

Collins sat down.

“Can I offer you something to drink? We have whiskey or beer, your choice. Or both.”

“Nothing for me, thanks. I won't be here but a moment, Long. There is something I want to make clear to you,” the town boss said.

“All right. Say your piece.”

“It's about Kenny.”

Longarm raised an eyebrow. “Kenny? Who would that be?”

“Kenneth Milbank. He is the man you shot at Tisbury's.”

“I never knew his name,” Longarm said.

“Kenny worked for me. You may have heard that.”

“Nope. Kinda thought so, but I didn't know it for sure,” Longarm said.

“Yes, well, he did. But I want you to know, Long, that I had no part in that assassination attempt on your life. Kenny was not acting on my behalf when he tried to kill you.”

“You know that he drew first, I take it,” Longarm said.

Collins nodded. “I already spoke with Tisbury about it. He admitted to me that he saw the whole thing. Kenny walked into the café, sat down, and when he saw you he tried to kill you. It is as plain as that.”

“Interesting,” Longarm said. “When I asked him if he'd seen it, he didn't say aye or nay, just stood there with his mouth shut.”

“He was, shall we say, worried that he might say the wrong thing. All I asked him for was the truth,” Collins said. “He told me what happened, and there will be no charges filed against you.”

“The man did work for you, though,” Longarm said.

Collins nodded. “He did.”

“An' he was one of them that mugged me an' stole my money a while back.”

“I believe he was, yes,” Collins admitted.

“But you had nothin' to do with this time.”

“That's right. Kenny was not acting under my orders. I want you to know that.” Collins fashioned a small smile. “After all, I am expecting to gain some profit from your business here. It would make no sense for me to have you killed. Think of all the profits I would lose. I am a businessman, after all. It is your profit that I want, not your life.”

“Makes sense,” Longarm conceded. “But what about the mugging?”

“That was a misunderstanding. It was discussed. And corrected,” Collins said. “I doubt it will need to be repeated.” The smile broadened. “You are a businessman too. I am sure you understand these things.”

Longarm was tempted to ask, that being so, why Collins was set on ruining Helen, but he bit back the notion. He did not believe Ira Collins knew about his connection with Helen. He certainly did not believe Collins knew he was a deputy United States marshal, and it was probably best that that remain so.

“Thanks for tellin' me the shooting was his own idea,” Longarm said. “Naturally it crossed my mind that you might've wanted it done.”

“Trust me about this, Long. If I had wanted you dead, I would have sent more than one man. And you would be dead now.”

Collins stood, touched the brim of his narrow-brimmed hat, and left.

Only when he was gone did customers begin to return to the Star.

“Bob? When you get a minute?” Longarm gestured to his second-in-command, then picked up the cards and resumed his game of solitaire.

Three or four minutes later, Robert Ware made sure everyone at the bar was taken care of then came over to the table where Longarm was seated.

“Sit down, Bob,” Longarm said.

Ware chose a seat where he could keep an eye on the bar and hustle over there if anyone wanted a refill. “Yeah, Boss?”

“I had me an interesting talk with Collins.” Longarm outlined the gist of the conversation then asked, “What d'you think about it, Bob?”

Ware thought for a moment, then said, “He could be telling the truth. Especially when he said if he wanted you dead he would've sent the whole bunch of Stepanek's people, not just the one man.”

“Maybe, but that one . . . Kenny something, Collins said he was . . . That man didn't come into Tisbury's looking for a gunfight. He sat at the counter and ordered something. It was only when he noticed me in that back corner that he got his hackles up an' went for his gun. It was happenstance, not planned.”

“It sounds personal to me,” Ware said. “Just a minute. That fella at the end of the bar needs a refill. I'll be right back.” Ware left the table and hurried back behind the bar to attend to the customer.

Longarm watched him, but his concentration was on Ira Collins, not Robert Ware.

When he returned to the table, Ware asked, “Is there anything else, Boss?”

“Just wonderin' what your thoughts are,” Longarm said.

“To be honest, Custis, it's possible Collins was lying. Not about Kenneth but about wanting you to make a go of it here. I happen to think that if you were to be killed before you start paying Collins for the rent on this place, he could foreclose on the Star and take it over. That would give him a hundred percent of the profit on something you've developed. You did the work. He would reap the profit.”

“He wouldn't run the place himself,” Longarm said.

“He would probably hire me to run it for him,” Ware said. “I already know the trade, the customers, the ordering procedures. And Collins thinks I'm working for him anyway.”

“Is he paying you?” Longarm asked.

Ware grinned. “No, Boss, he's letting you do that for him.”

“Interesting,” Longarm said.

“Excuse me. I'd best get back behind the bar. Those fellows over there are just about to the bottom of their glasses. They'll be wanting refills soon.”

Longarm nodded, and Robert Ware went back to work.

Longarm wanted to talk with Helen about this, especially about the point Bob Ware had raised that Collins could foreclose if anything happened to Longarm. It probably would be a good idea for him to get something in writing with Helen. As an investor, perhaps, or showing that she had loaned him the funds to get started. That way she could claim the Star if Longarm were gunned down.

He would have gone to her as soon as it got dark, but he had promised to take Anne Gilbert to dinner at the Chauncey.

Later, then, would have to do.

Ira Collins had certainly
seemed
genuine when he spoke.

Longarm just wished that he knew where the truth lay with the man.

He picked up the cards again and once more resumed playing. But his thoughts were far from solitaire, allowing his mind to work on his problems unconsciously while he slapped the cards down and moved them from place to place on the table before him.

Longarm walked down to the railroad depot and sent a telegram to his Denver supplier ordering four more barrels of beer, and while he was in the vicinity, he asked that Cory Dreason be notified to get the carter to pick up the barrels when they arrived and haul them over to the Star.

From there he headed for the Pickering and his room so he could wash up before he met Anne Gilbert for dinner.

“Message for you, Mr. Long.”

He changed direction, turning from the staircase and heading for the desk. “Thanks, Jersey,” he said when the youngster handed him an envelope that could have been a twin to the one he had gotten before.

“Where'd this come from, Jersey? Who brought it?”

“Andy brought it, Mr. Long.”

“And who would Andy be?”

“He's just a kid. Runs errands. Does odd jobs. I see him around,” the desk clerk said.

“Does Andy have a last name?”

“Oh, I'm sure he does, but I've never heard what it is.”

“Do you know where Andy lives?” Longarm asked.

“No, sir.”

“How d'you think I might go about finding him then?”

“You see him hanging around on the street sometimes,” Jersey said. “Mostly over by the train station.”

“All right, thanks.”

Longarm changed his mind about going up to his room and having a wash. Instead he spun on his heels and headed for the railroad depot to see if he could find this Andy.

He stuffed the envelope—unopened—into his pocket. There really seemed no need to read whatever it contained. He felt sure it would just be another warning that he get out.

That was almost a compliment. It meant he was annoying someone. With any luck at all, that someone he was pissing off would be the same person who was trying to ruin Helen's trade by frightening her whores.

Two birds with one stone.

But first he had to smoke the son of a bitch out into the open.

“Sure, I know who you mean,” the stationmaster said. “Andy Warner. I see him here all the time. He's a good kid. Handy to have around. He does odd jobs. Runs errands. Like that.”

“Did you see him today?” Longarm asked. “This afternoon?”

The railroad man nodded. “Yes. Saw him here, oh, I'd say it's been an hour or so. But he isn't here now. He went off with a couple fellows.”

“For a job?”

“I wouldn't know where they were going or what they wanted with Andy,” the stationmaster said.

Longarm pulled out a cheroot, hesitated, then offered it to the stationmaster and got out another for himself. He bit the twist off the end of his cigar, struck a match, and lighted both before he asked, “Do you know who these fellas were?”

The railroader shook his head. “Don't know their names or anything like that, but I've seen them around town. They don't hang around down here, though. You mostly see them with George Stepanek. Do you know him?”

“Oh, I know George, all right. These men that Andy went with. You say they're friends of Stepanek?”

“I don't know if they're friends or what, but you see them together a lot. Them and there's a third one. But I heard he got killed, so I guess it's just two of them now to do Stepanek's dirty work.”

“What do you mean when you say ‘dirty work'?” Longarm asked.

The stationmaster blinked. “I . . . I said too much.” He looked down at the cheroot in his hand as if accusing it of making him say more than he should. For a moment Longarm thought he was going to throw the cigar on the ground to rid himself of the offending article.

The man suddenly clammed up. He spun around and practically fled back into the depot without a word of apology.

Longarm grunted his own displeasure. Wherever Stepanek's cronies had taken Andy Warner, it was clear that Longarm was not going to speak with him. Not now at any rate.

He pulled out his bulbous Ingersoll and checked the time. Anne Gilbert had said she would be through work at six. He barely had enough time to wash up, change his shirt, and get back to the post office to pick her up for their dinner date.

He would have to leave off looking for Warner until tomorrow.

He turned and headed at a fast walk back to the Pickering.