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Authors: J.A. Johnstone

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BOOK: The Loner: Crossfire
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Chapter 10
 
The area known as the Barbary Coast had grown up during the turbulent days following the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill, when Argonauts by the hundreds of thousands poured into San Francisco and used it as a jumping-off point in their quest for riches. Some of them decided to stay instead of heading for the goldfields, some came back when they abandoned their dreams of finding a fortune, and many of those who were lucky enough to strike it rich returned to San Francisco intent on spending some of their newfound wealth.
Naturally, there were plenty of tinhorns, whores, and bartenders willing to take that money from them.
Gambling dens sprang up around the old Spanish plaza known as Portsmouth Square. Houses of prostitution spread along the waterfront. A man could get a drink in any of them, or in scores of other saloons, taverns, and dives.
The atmosphere in those places ranged from high-toned and luxurious to downright squalid, and sometimes you could find examples of both in the same block along Clay, Kearny, Pacific, and Grant Streets. The boundaries of the rather nebulous area people called the Barbary Coast drifted here and there with time and according to the vigilance of the local law enforcement agencies, but the core of its existence remained the same, the twin titans of Lust and Greed. They made up the foundation upon which the Barbary Coast was built.
That was where Conrad was headed. A damp chill hung in the air along the bay, and tendrils of fog crept up from the water and curled through the streets.
The only time Conrad had visited the Barbary Coast was when he was a much younger man, still in college. He and some of his wealthy classmates from back east were in San Francisco on a lark, and naturally they wanted to see the lurid denizens of the notorious area and sow some wild oats.
In those days, Conrad had been as arrogant and obnoxious as his companions, so he had gone along willingly on the expedition. They had caroused and whored all night, and they had been extremely lucky they hadn’t wound up shanghaied, bleeding and robbed in some alley, or wasting away from some pustulent disease. He had heard it said that God looks after drunkards and fools, and he and his friends had fit into both categories.
Now, of course, things were totally different.
Time and tragedy had humbled him, stripped away most of the arrogance and pretense. But he remembered how to get to the Barbary Coast, and a short time after slipping out of the Palace Hotel, he entered a saloon called the Bella Grande, which didn’t live up to its name at all. Conrad kept his eyes down and moved in a somewhat furtive manner, but in reality he was keenly studying everything around him.
He made his way across the crowded, smoky room to the bar and slid a dime onto the hardwood. “A schooner of beer,” he told the man in the dirty apron who came to take his order.
The bartender tapped the bar next to the dime. “I’ll need another of those, and a nickel besides.”
“Two bits for a schooner of beer?” Conrad protested. “What is this place, the damn Palace?”
“It’s the goin’ rate, friend,” the bartender said. “You must’ve been at sea a long time if you didn’t know that.”
Conrad shrugged, picked up the dime, and pawed around in a handful of coins he pulled from his pocket. The ivory Golden Gate token was among them. The bartender couldn’t help but see it, but he didn’t react in any way as far as Conrad could tell. The man scooped up the twentyfive-cent coin Conrad dropped on the bar and drew the beer from a big keg. He used a paddle to cut off the head and slid the big glass in front of Conrad.
“Seen Floyd around tonight?” Conrad asked.
“Floyd who?”
“Hambrick. Floyd Hambrick.”
The bartender frowned and shook his head. “Don’t believe I know the gent.”
“Sure you do. He said he always drinks here.”
“Maybe he does, but I don’t know him by name, mister. What’s he look like?”
Conrad didn’t have Hambrick’s description. Turnbuckle’s source inside the police department hadn’t been able to come up with anything except the name. Conrad just shook his head disgustedly. “Ah, never mind. I’ll just have a look around.”
“You do that.”
Conrad picked up his beer and moved off into the crowd. He circulated for a few minutes, then set the schooner on an empty table and slipped out a side door. He wanted to keep a clear head, so he couldn’t be guzzling down suds every place he went. One of the saloon’s customers would snatch up the schooner and polish off the beer, probably by the time Conrad reached the street.
Over the next hour, the scene in the Bella Grande was repeated with minor variations in half a dozen other saloons. If anybody knew Floyd Hambrick, they weren’t admitting it. Nor did anyone react when Conrad flashed the ivory token.
He was in a place called Spanish Charley’s when he got his first break. The bartender, who wasn’t Spanish at all but rather a fat blond Dutchman, had professed never to have heard of Floyd Hambrick, and he didn’t blink at the ivory token.
Conrad still had it lying in the palm of his hand, along with some coins, when one of the women who worked in the place sidled up beside him. “Ooh, you’ve been to the Golden Gate.”
Conrad looked over at her and revised his original opinion. Despite the painted face and the low-cut dress that revealed her breasts to the upper curve of her brown nipples, she wasn’t a woman but rather a girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old.
He swallowed his disgust that a girl so young would be working in a place like that and put a leer on his face. It was probably what the girl was used to. He hadn’t missed what she’d said. “The Golden Gate, eh?” he repeated.
“
Sí.
” The girl, at least, was Spanish, or Mexican, more likely. Maybe a descendant of one of the proud Californio families that had settled the area long before any gold-seeking Americans arrived. “The nicest place down here. Or so I have heard. I have never been there.” Her blush was visible even with her dusky skin. “It is not a place for one such as I.”
“Don’t say something like that, darlin’. You’re worthy of going anywhere you want to go.”
The bartender rested a hand with fingers like sausages on the hardwood. “Where she’d really like to go is upstairs with you,
mynheer.
Ain’t that right, Carmen?”
The girl batted her dark eyelashes at Conrad. “
Sí.
I mean yes.” With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, she pushed her breasts against Conrad’s arm and cocked a hip so it pressed against his, though without any real urgency.
“She will cost you only a dollar,
mynheer
,” the Dutchman went on.
Conrad pretended to think about it. The girl—Carmen, the bartender had called her, but more than likely that wasn’t her real name—was the first person he’d encountered who admitted to knowing anything about the carved ivory token. He wanted to talk more with her, and some privacy would probably make the conversation more productive.
With pretended reluctance, he slid a silver dollar across the bar. The coin disappeared into the Dutchman’s fat fingers. “She better be worth it,” Conrad said.
“Oh, she will, she will,” the bartender promised. “Won’t you, Carmen?”
“You will never forget me, señor.” The girl linked her arm with his. “Come with me.”
She led him toward a staircase on the other side of the room. Conrad looked up at the second floor and saw a large number of rooms arranged along a balcony.
They were rooms only in the strictest sense of the word. Thin wooden partitions a foot short of reaching the ceiling separated them, and curtains closed off the front. The room where Carmen was taking him wouldn’t provide much privacy, but it would be better than nothing.
She kept bumping her hip against him, seemingly out of habit, as they went upstairs. When they reached the balcony, she led him to the nearest room where the curtain was pushed back, but he steered her toward one farther along that had an empty room on each side.
“You’re going to be yelling in pleasure,” Conrad told her with the leer still on his face. “We don’t want to disturb anybody else.”
“Oh, señor, I am sure I will be,” she said listlessly. She didn’t argue as Conrad took her into the room and jerked the curtain closed.
As he turned toward her, she had already reached down and grasped the hem of her dress to pull it over her head. “Wait a minute,” Conrad said. “Just hold on.”
Carmen frowned at him in confusion. “You do not want me to take off my dress?”
“Not just yet. Why don’t you sit down?”
She shrugged and sank onto the narrow bed. It was little more than a cot, and it was the only piece of furniture in the room other than a small, rickety-looking table. The light came from gas fixtures hung over the balcony. Their glow spilled over the short partitions, making the room a little dim, but Conrad had no trouble seeing the puzzled expression on Carmen’s painted face as she looked up at him.
“What is it you wish me to do?” she asked.
“I thought we’d talk for a few minutes first. I like to get to know a girl before I—”
“Then you are an unusual man,” Carmen said. “Most men don’t want to know anything about me.”
“I’m not like most men. You should know that because I have that token from the Golden Gate, right?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes, only the best people go there. Well, the best people for this part of town, anyway. I have heard there are crystal chandeliers. Is this true?”
“I never paid that much attention to the lights.” Conrad dodged the question.
“And a long bar made of the finest mahogany. I would love to see it.”
“I’m sure you will, one of these days. Maybe I’ll take you. How’d you like to go sporting in there on my arm?”
“Oh, señor, that would be wonderful.” She sounded more like she meant it. She started to push her dress off her shoulders, obviously figuring she would disrobe in the other direction, since he’d stopped her from pulling the garment over her head.
“Hold on, hold on. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there. The Golden Gate’s on Kearny Street, right?”
Carmen shook her head. “No, no, on Grant, near where the Chinese live.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. On Grant Street. I told you it’s been a long time.”
Carmen reached for her dress again. “Please, señor, if we do not do what we came up here for, I will get in trouble.”
“I never said we weren’t going to.”
“But I am only allowed so much time with each customer—”
Conrad took the token from his pocket and held it up. “You have to show one of these before they’ll let you into the place, right?”
“Into the private rooms on the second floor, yes, or so I have heard.” Carmen frowned again. “But you would know that, if you have been there.”
“I just wasn’t sure what the procedure was now, since I’ve been gone for a while.”
His explanation didn’t lessen the suspicion in her eyes. She stood up suddenly. “Did you bring me up here because you like me, señor, or because you are some sort of spy?”
“Spy?” Conrad repeated. “That’s crazy. I just—”
Without warning, she darted past him and jerked aside the curtain that closed off the room. As she rushed out, Conrad reached for her but missed. “Dutchy!” she cried as she ran onto the balcony. “Dutchy!”
Conrad hurried after her. She was at the landing at the top of the stairs. The fat bartender had come out from behind the bar and was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with an angry expression on his florid face. “What in blazes is goin’ on up there?” he demanded as the men drinking at the bar and the scattered tables looked on with interest.
Carmen ran down the stairs. “He asks too many questions, Dutchy! I think he is a spy for one of your competitors ... or a policeman!”
“I’m not either of those things,” Conrad insisted as he reached the top of the staircase. “I was just talking to the girl—”
“Men who come here aren’t interested in talking,” Dutchy said with a glare. “I don’t know what you’re up to, mister, but I don’t like it.”
Conrad knew he had found out everything he was going to. Actually, it had been a pretty productive visit. But it was time to go. He wasn’t worried about the bartender being able to stop him.
But then Dutchy shouted, “Hans! Ulrich!” and two men emerged from the shadows, one at each end of the balcony. The huge, blond bruisers stalked toward Conrad, each with scarred fists and broken noses of men who had dealt out and received plenty of violence in their lives.
“Take him!” Dutchy ordered. “I show you what we do with spies,
mynheer
!”
Chapter 11
 
Hans and Ulrich were big, but they were slow. Conrad avoided their lumbering rush by bounding down the stairs toward Dutchy and Carmen. The girl shrieked and ran, but Dutchy stood his ground, bellowing, “Help! Stop him! Help!”
Several burly customers sprang to his aid. As Conrad reached the bottom of the staircase, a man pushed Dutchy aside and swung a mallet-like fist at Conrad’s head. Conrad ducked the punch and hooked a hard right into the man’s midsection. The man grunted in pain, doubled over, and staggered backward.
Unfortunately, that delay was long enough for one of Dutchy’s bouncers to leap down the stairs and slam into Conrad from behind. He wrapped his arms around him and lifted him off his feet. They crashed onto a table that splintered under their weight. Conrad landed amidst the debris with his attacker on top of him, knocking the breath from his lungs, stunning him.
“Hold him, Ulrich!” Dutchy shouted.
Ulrich’s arms tightened around Conrad, preventing him from drawing in any air to replace what he had lost. Almost instantly, Conrad’s head began to spin and a red haze drifted over his eyes. On the verge of losing consciousness, he drove an elbow into Ulrich’s belly, hoping to loosen the man’s grip, but it was like hitting a wall made of thick, sturdy planks and didn’t seem to have any effect.
The roaring in his head rose to a thunderous level. Conrad knew he was about to pass out. Then he heard a shout that was muffled by the pounding of his pulse, and the vise-like grip around his chest and the great weight on his back was released. He rolled over and lay with his chest heaving as he dragged in great lungfuls of air.
His blurry eyesight cleared after a moment and he saw a large, black-clad shape flashing back and forth. He pushed himself to a sitting position and got a better look at what was going on. His rescuer was a tall, broad-shouldered man who kept Dutchy, the bouncers, and the patrons of Spanish Charley’s at bay by slashing back and forth with a large, heavy-bladed hatchet.
Conrad wasn’t surprised when he saw the man’s yellow-hued skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and black hair braided into a pigtail that hung down his back between his shoulders. The man also had a peculiar scar shaped like a half-moon on his right cheek. The hatchet men of Chinatown were famous—or notorious was probably a better word to describe them—but Conrad didn’t know any reason why one of them would be helping him.
He wasn’t going to turn down the aid. As he struggled to his feet, he spotted a man with an old cap-and-ball revolver on the balcony drawing a bead on the big Chinese.
Conrad’s hand flashed to his Colt still behind his belt at the small of his back. Sweeping his coattails aside, he brought up the revolver and fired a split second before the man on the balcony did. Conrad’s bullet smashed into the man’s elbow, shattering bone and throwing off his aim. The old revolver boomed, but the heavy slug smacked harmlessly into a wall. The man screamed, dropped the gun, and clutched at his wounded arm. He fell forward against the railing along the edge of the balcony, smashed through it, and plummeted into the angry crowd, knocking a couple men to the floor as they broke his fall.
Conrad put his back against that of his unexpected ally and swept the gun around. The mob drew back.
“I’m not a spy and I’m not a policeman,” Conrad said raggedly as he continued to catch his breath. “But I’m leaving here, and nobody better try to stop me.”
“You lie!” Dutchy accused. “You’re up to no good!”
“Back off and I’ll never set foot in this place again. I promise you that!”
Gradually, the crowd parted. Conrad kept a close eye on them as he edged toward the door with the Chinese man beside him.
Evidently anyone who had the impulse to pull a gun thought better of it, having seen what had happened to the man on the balcony. Conrad and his companion reached the door. They couldn’t go through it together. The Chinese man jerked his head toward the door, indicating Conrad should go first. He didn’t argue and ducked outside.
No sooner had his boots hit the street than a shot rang out from his right. He heard a bullet whip past his head and twisted in that direction. Some of Dutchy’s friends must have come out a side entrance and up the alley to the street. More shots blasted as orange muzzle flame stabbed from the darkness of the alley mouth.
Conrad crouched and returned the fire, triggering two swift shots as he aimed at the flashes. Beside him, the Chinese man emerged from the saloon and took a hand in the fight, too. His arm flashed back, then forward, and the hatchet he held spun through the air. Conrad heard a distinctive
chunk!
and a man screamed.
The shooting stopped as a figure reeled forward into the dim light spilling through the grimy windows of Spanish Charley’s place. The man pawed with both hands at the hatchet blade buried in his upper chest. His strength deserted him, and he pitched forward.
Conrad grabbed the sleeve of the black jacket the man wore and tugged on it. “Let’s get out of here!”
As furious shouts rose behind them, they ran along the street. A few wild shots followed them, but none of the men from Spanish Charley’s gave chase. Conrad and his companion had proven to be too deadly.
After putting several blocks behind them, the two men slowed. Conrad heard shrill whistles in the distance and knew the police were converging on the saloon in response to reports of the gunfire. They would be too late, as usual. The ruckus was over.
Conrad looked at his companion. He didn’t know if the man spoke English, but he said, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer back there without your help.”
The man grunted.
“What’s your name?” Conrad asked. “Did you just happen to come along and see what was going on?” He didn’t believe that for a second, but wasn’t aware of any other explanation.
The Chinese man didn’t say anything. He looked at Conrad with narrowed eyes for a second, then turned and loped away into the night.
“Hey, wait!” Conrad called after him, but it didn’t do any good. In a matter of moments, the man disappeared into the shadows, just like he had shown up suddenly and mysteriously.
Conrad shook his head. He had no explanation for what had just happened, but he knew he’d been lucky to get out of Spanish Charley’s alive. Now that he’d been given another chance, he intended to make good use of it as he continued his search for his children.
He had what might be his best clue so far. One of the men who had taken part in the attempt on his life had a connection to the Golden Gate, a saloon or gambling den on Grant Street. Should he turn over that information to Claudius Turnbuckle and see what the lawyer’s hired detectives could find out about it?
Or should he continue his own investigation and pay a visit to the Golden Gate himself?
He knew which way he was leaning, but he had done enough for one night. He still had to find a way to sneak back into the Palace Hotel without Morelli spotting him.
 
 
That proved to be easier than Conrad expected. He used a tradesman’s entrance in the rear to get into the hotel, then climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, where a stealthy look around the corner revealed that Morelli was sitting back in his chair with his hat tipped forward over his eyes, snoring heartily. Conrad crept past him silently, unlocked the door of his suite, and let himself in. The door squeaked as he opened it, and Morelli began to stir.
Conrad had lost the stevedore’s cap during the fight at Spanish Charley’s. Stepping into the bedroom, he grabbed a long, thick robe and wrapped it around himself as he strode back to the door and jerked it open. He surprised Morelli in the act of raising a hand to rap on the door.
“Mr. Browning!” the bodyguard said. “What ... I thought I heard ... Is something wrong?”
“Only you sleeping on the job,” Conrad said in a chilly tone. “My God, man, I could hear you snoring while I was all the way in the bedroom.”
Morelli snatched off his derby and stammered, “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Browning. It won’t happen again, I swear. I won’t close my eyes the rest of the night. Y-you can see your way clear not to say anything to Mr. Turnbuckle about this, can’t you?”
Conrad kept a frown on his face for a moment, but when he figured he had maintained the act long enough, he shrugged. “All right. But stay alert, Morelli.” He added caustically, “I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, but somebody wants me dead.”
“Yes, sir, I know, but they’ll not get past me, sir, you’ve got my solemn oath on that!”
Conrad made a shooing motion with his hand, sending Morelli back to the armchair. He closed the door, drew in a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh. His ribs ached from that bear hug Ulrich had put on him. But the Palace, haven of luxury that it was, had hot running water available in all its suites, so Conrad drew a bath, stripped off the workingman’s clothes, and sank down in a massive, claw-footed porcelain tub to soak away those aches.
He made sure his Colt was fully loaded and lying on a chair within easy reach of the bathtub, and alongside the gun he had placed the carved ivory token from the Golden Gate. After soaking for a while, he reached over to the chair, picked up the token, and studied it, idly turning it over in his fingers.
Tomorrow he would find out more about the place it came from. If someone connected with the Golden Gate had the initials D.L., he would know he was still on the right trail. And if not ... well, he would keep looking.
Nothing was going to stop him from finding and claiming his children. This was the endgame, and Pamela wasn’t going to win.
BOOK: The Loner: Crossfire
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