Stringer and the Deadly Flood (4 page)

The S.P. agent said, “I can see you know a thing or two about land speculation, Mister MacKail. Putting all our cards on the table, I will tell you true that the Southern Pacific offers no guarantee you'll ever grow a head of lettuce on the land we're offering so cheap. I don't mind saying the lots we're offering may be worth less than nothing should the water project fail. We've been paying taxes for years on land we couldn't give away before the engineers discovered a canal route from the Colorado River near Yuma to the center of the Imperial Valley and beyond. We're not affiliated with the water outfit in any way. But we know them by reputation and we think we know a good plan when we see one.”

Stringer nodded doubtfully. “So why ain't the grand irrigation scheme on paper, where a body like me could judge for himself whether they know their asses from their elbows?”

“That's simple,” the S.P. agent answered, smiling thinly. “We'd look dumb mapping water canals on our own brochures when we're not sure where they'll run in the end, wouldn't we? The Imperial Valley is flat as a pancake to the eye, but water runs a lot more particular. They have to grade their canals as they go, to allow for such gentle rolling as there might be to the lay of the land, see?”

Stringer shifted the unlit stub of his smoke to the far side of his mouth and replied, “I dunno. I suspect I'd best have me a powwow with these water lords afore I lay out any hard-earned cash. How do I go about that? Do they have an office somewhere around here pard?”

The slicker shook his head and tried to look regretful. “Nope. Yuma, in the Arizona Territory, is where they have their main office. They may or may not be able
to
show you just how far any land you buy off us may wind up from one of their main feeder canals. The point you seem to be missing is that now is the time to grab some of that cheap land, before the real land rush starts. Irrigated desert loam can run as high as three figures an acre. Would you rather buy a full section at those prices?”

Stringer said, “Not hardly,” and got to his feet. “I reckon I'd best study on it some. It's been nice talking to you.”

The land monger didn't argue. He was no doubt used to having anyone with the brains of a gnat hesitate to jump at the chance to buy a greasewood flat. And that would have been the end of it had not Stringer encountered yet another slicker coming in as he was leaving.

Stringer didn't recall the man's face. But the son of a bitch shot him a thoughtful look and demanded, “Say, aren't you Stuart MacKail from the
San Francisco Sun?
What brings you to our land office at this hour, for Pete's sake?”

Stringer muttered he'd come to see Pete and pushed past him and out to the street, his impersonation of a sucker blown to shreds. But, what the hell, he'd likely found out as much as these land mongers meant to tell anyone in any case.

CHAPTER
THREE

Downtown L.A. had grown up around the already fair-sized Pueblo de Los Angeles, and nobody had evicted the original Hispanic population as other ethnic groups moved in. This didn't worry Stringer until he'd returned his hired mount to the livery and found himself afoot on the dark sidestreet a livery hand had assured him to be the shortest way to his hotel.

The buildings to either side were frame. Mexican carpenters had been as quick to grasp the advantages of the Yankee two-by-four and machine-made nail as anyone else in the Los Angeles Basin. So Chicano kids were taking advantage of that other Anglo cultural introduction, the front porch, to lie in wait for any source of amusement that might pass through their otherwise dull thoroughfair. As a native Californian himself, Stringer spoke a more refined Spanish, or surely a more polite form, than he heard in passing. But since his .38 was packed in his gladstone and he'd left the goddamned travel bag in his hotel room, he thought it wiser to pretend he didn't understand some of the remarks he heard about his hat, his mother, and obvious sexual orientation.

He'd just about made it back to the more brightly lit and more populated Main Street around Union Depot when he heard a feminine scream behind him. He knew it was dumb to look back in a neighborhood like this one, but the lady in distress sounded sincere. So he turned just in time to see a teenaged Chicano jogging his way, laughing, with the purse he'd snatched in one hand and the knife he'd used to cut the carrying strap in the other. Stringer couldn't make out his victim at the end of the darkened street, but her voice came loud and clear as she called out, “Stop, thief! Oh, lord, somebody stop that thief!”

So Stringer stopped him, knife and all, by stepping aside as a prudent gent in these parts was supposed to, and then rabbit-punching the purse snatcher as he passed.

The
Chicano youth belly-flopped to the brick wall and stayed there, moaning soft and low, as Stringer scooped up the eight-inch knife and purloined purse. He'd just risen back to full height when a lady ran up to him, gasping. “That's my purse, sir.”

He handed it to her, saying, “I noticed. Now stick tight as a tick and we'll see if this is over yet.”

It wasn't. As Stringer and what he now saw to be a pretty young miss in a travel duster and straw boater atop her pinned-up hair moved on toward the brighter lights, a trio of Chicano toughs who'd cat-footed it down the other side of the dark street suddenly darted across to block their way. The girl made the mistake of stopping, forcing Stringer to do the same. This gave two others who'd been tagging behind time to get into the act. The girl was trying not to cry as she clung to Stringer's left arm. Stringer didn't feel at all like crying, but he didn't feel too optimistic either.

“Let go my arm and let me handle this, ma'am,” he muttered to the terrified girl.

One of the gang snickered, then said, “That's right, puta, let the big caballero handle us. Didn't you know any gringo can take on any number of us poor greasers?”

In her fear, the girl couldn't answer, and Stringer saw no reason to. It was the usual set-up for a street gang. He knew the one doing all the talking was the last one he had to keep an eye on. Once they worked themselves up, it was usually the biggest bozo in the gang who'd wade in first.

The talker seemed to feel it was his duty to draw more of a response from them, so he asked Stringer, “Hey, vaquero, where is your horse? Do the putas of your kind admire big hats and spurs on a shop clerk? For why did you take the side of this one, here? Are not the girls of this barrio good enough for you?”

Stringer smiled thinly, not taking his eyes from the bigger one to the left of their tormentor as he answered, in Spanish, “I have never seen your mother. So you would know better than I whether she is any good in bed or not. Why don't you trot her out and let us have a look at her if you are pimping for her?”

The spokesman gasped in stunned indignation while some of the others laughed in spite of themselves. But as Stringer had so wisely assumed, it was the big one who growled, “That is no way to speak about my friend's mother.” Then, as the muscle of the gang interposed his bulk between Stringer and their offended taunter,
Stringer
grabbed the girl's elbow with his left hand and charged first, the knife blade in his right fist coming up low and dirty to rip the big one's guts from groin to breastbone.

The bully of the bunch could see he meant it, as he leaped backwards with a chicken squawk to land a good six feet back. Another gang member made a hesitant move toward Stringer from his right, and Stringer slashed his shirt and some belly fat before he too crawfished back through a picket fence, bleating,
“Hijo de puerca!
You cut me!”

Stringer snapped, “My mistake. I was out to kill you.” He dragged the now sobbing Anglo girl straight at the gang's leader. The big one had his own knife out by now, but there was something about Stringer's direct approach, wielding a blade he obviously knew how to use, that induced him to yell,
“Vamanos, muchachos! El gringo es loco en la cabeza!”

And so, having dismissed him as a deranged foreigner, the gang evaporated, perhaps to reconsider, and Stringer ran with the girl all the way to the entrance of his hotel on the far side of the encouraging street lamps. He looked back in time to see just a shift of movement in the darkness they'd just left. So he hauled her inside the dimly lit vestibule, explaining, “We may not be out of the woods yet. We'd best fort up a spell before I run you home. Where might that be, Miss... ah?”

She gasped, “I'm Zelda Gordon and you'd be... ?”

“Stuart MacKail and I'd have never saved you if I'd known you hailed from an enemy clan,” he replied with a reassuring chuckle, but she didn't seem to get it. One no doubt had to be exposed to good old Uncle Don MacKail to have a grasp of the clan feuds in the old country, he decided.

“Never mind,” he assured her. “Us Scotch-Americans have to stick together in any case. What on earth were you doing in Little Mexico just now and where do you want to wind up tonight?”

“I was on my way to the railroad depot,” she answered. “I'm bound for my home in San Diego after visiting my sister and her new baby in Glendale. A nice Mexican girl I asked for directions told me that street back there was a shortcut.”

He grimaced and replied, “She sure must have liked you. All right, I see the picture now. Your best bet is a hack ride back to your sister's place, once we're sure the coast is clear. You'll have just missed the night train to San Diego. I know because
I
missed it on purpose. It would have put me in San Diego late at night, with another train to change to around noon tomorrow. I figured as long as I had to lay over I might as well check in here. Had a few bases here in L.A. to cover and I don't know anyone in San Diego... then.”

She said, “Oh dear, I don't want to go all the way back to Glendale and have my sister weep farewell at me all over again. You say you have a room here and that we'd both be on our way south aboard the same morning train?”

He nodded. “I did. Do you want me to see if we could book you a room? It's not a bad old hotel. Mayhaps a mite shabby. But it smells clean and the last time I stayed here I failed to spy any bugs.”

She looked undecided and rummaged through the purse he'd saved for her. “I suppose that would be most practical,” she murmured. “But I only came up here for a short visit that kept me longer than I'd planned. How much do they charge here for a small room with no trimmings?”

“I'm not sure,” Stringer answered. “I booked one with a bath for a dollar a night. Why don't we talk to the room clerk inside?”

She nodded dubiously, and he led her into the murky lobby. They'd turned down the lights and, except for one old man dozing under a rubber plant in a corner, the place seemed empty. Stringer led Zelda over to the deserted front desk and rang the bell on the mock-marble top. Nobody answered even after several rings. Behind him, Zelda suddenly gasped and said, “Oh, lordy, I think those Mexicans have followed us!”

He turned to follow her gaze. There seemed to be no signs of life out front right now, but then the glass of the front door was grimed as well as distant. Zelda suggested anxiously, “Why don't we go on up, for now, and you can ask at the desk later.”

That sounded sensible, and besides, Stringer was just beginning to notice that her hair was a soft lowland brown and her eyes were big and blue. He helped her up the stairs to the second floor and led her to his corner room. Fortunately, he'd held on to his hotel key, knowing that few hotel clerks cared anyway since it saved them work.

As he led her in and switched on the overhead Edison bulb, Zelda glanced about admiringly. “Oh, this is much nicer than I expected, Stuart.”

He didn't know what she'd been expecting. The room had cross-ventilation
and
an adjoining bath, but it was otherwise sort of seedy to his way of thinking. The wallpaper was ugly unless one admired orange flowers that Sarah Earp could have drawn better in crayon, and the only light fixture that didn't seem to be burnt out was the one in the ceiling above the brass bedstead. A fake Tiffany lamp sat atop a gateleg table near one window, and some earlier guest had stolen the clothes hooks in the one tiny closet. Stringer waved at the door to the bath in case his unexpected guest wanted to wash her hands or whatever. Then he pulled down the shades for such privacy as they offered from the world outside and plopped his Rough Rider atop the table lamp, the most suitable way in a strange hotel room to his way of thinking of getting his hat off his head while making it not too tough to find it in the future.

As he turned, he saw Zelda seated on the bed, fooling with the severed strap of the purse she'd almost lost.

“I can square-knot that for you if you like,” he offered. “It won't look all that grand. But at least you'll be able to hang it from your shoulder 'til you can get to a decent shoemaker.”