Lone Star 02 (9 page)

Jessie continued walking. She turned the comer at Kearney, and headed north. Here there were more stores and shops, but now Jessie paid no attention to the fine merchandise displayed in their windows. Past Geary Street, Post Street, Sutter, and then Bush, she walked, all the time watching out of the comers of her eyes. Her shadow was staying right with her.

Years ago, Ki had taught her that there were several ways to handle a situation like this. If she was in a busy area, surrounded by people, the best thing to do was to simply turn and wave at the tail. Once he knew that he'd been spotted, he often gave up and went away. The thing was, Ki had cautioned her, that you then had to make sure there wasn't another tail somewhere about. Very often, the first tail had been
meant
to be spotted, and in that way lull you into a false sense of security.

But Jessie did not want to scare this shadow off. She wanted to
catch
him. The cartel thought they could find something out about her, did they? Well, she was going to find out a thing or two about
them!

Just to make sure she wasn't imagining the whole thing, Jessie did an about-face at Pine Street, and then headed back toward Bush. The fellow on her tail paralleled her actions from across the street. Jessie felt a moment's panic, but banished it. The cartel wanted her to be afraid, but she was damned if she was going to let them have their way ...

She headed east on Bush, looking for a quieter thoroughfare, one where she could set and then spring her trap. She found what she was looking for between Kearney and Montgomery. It was an alleyway which stretched for two blocks. It was not used for trash, but for the businesses of shopkeepers of more modest means: cobblers, tailors, and the like. The pastel-painted doorways were clean, but their windows were dark and narrow, most of them wire-grated against burglars and vandals.

Jessie doubted that any clerks could see through their barricades and out into the alley. It was perfect.

She ducked into the alleyway, went several doors down the thoroughfare, and then stood in a deep doorway. She quickly lifted the hem of her skirt up past her gartered thigh, and drew the ivory-gripped derringer. It held two .38-caliber rounds. She palmed the little gun and waited.

And waited.

Evidently the man following her had sensed that something was up. Jessie strained her ears for the sound of his footsteps on the cobblestones of the quiet alleyway. When she finally heard the slap of shoe leather, she had to remind herself to wait at least until the man was directly abreast of her, so that she could be sure it was her tail. How embarrassing it would be if she ended up accosting some innocent gentleman on his way to his tobacconist!

But it was not some innocent gentleman. It was the man in the blue wool suit. He looked even bigger to Jessie, now that he was so close. She took a quick step out of her doorway and jammed her gun into the spot on the man's neck just below his ear. He was so tall she had to stand on tiptoe to do it.

“You don't move a muscle, mister!” she hissed. “Now put your hands up!”

“How can I, if I don't move a muscle, lady?” he said contemptuously.

Jessie snapped back the hammer on the derringer. “Just do it! I've killed more than one man who didn't take me seriously,” she warned, pushing hard to grind the derringer's snout into his neck.

“Okay! Take it easy with that thing!” the man winced. He slowly raised his big, hamlike hands. “A woman gets the drop on me ... I don't believe it!” he scolded himself. He so shook with anger that his too-small derby toppled off his head and into a puddle. “That's a new hat, dammit!”

“Hope it doesn't shrink,” Jessie said. She carefully came around to face the man, all the while keeping her gun tight against his neck. He had a flat, broken nose, and a lantern jaw. His full head of wiry, salt-and-pepper hair was cut short. There were deep creases around the fellow's gray eyes, and more of them around his mouth. He was clean-shaven. Jessie figured him to be around fifty.

“I could tell you that you're making a big mistake, Miss Starbuck,” the man began wearily.

“That's what you
could
tell me,” Jessie said scornfully. She unbuttoned his suit jacket and reached inside on his left, finding and extracting from its shoulder holster a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .38-caliber Detective Special. “But what I'd rather hear from you is who you are, and how you know my name!” She dropped the man's gun to the cobblestones.

“Hey!” he cried. “You'll nick the finish!”

From his right breast pocket she took his wallet. She flipped it open and extracted a business card from one of its folds. The pasteboard rectangle read:

When Jessie looked back at her prisoner, he was smiling. “Can I put my hands down now, Miss Starbuck?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Shanks,” Jessie said, quite flustered.

“Would you take your gun out of my ear?”

Jessie lowered and uncocked her derringer, slipping it into the pocket of her skirt. “I'm very sorry, but how could I know it was you following me? I told Mr. Moore that his services as a bodyguard were not necessary.”

“Yes, ma‘am,” Shanks said. “But Jordan was worried about you, so he asked me to keep an eye on you whenever I wasn't busy tailing Smith.” He grinned sheepishly. “I guess I can tell him that you can take care of yourself, Miss Starbuck. You sure got the drop on me!” He stooped to gather up his gun and hat.

Jessie handed him back his wallet. She was too polite to tell Shanks that a blind man could have spotted the big, badly dressed private eye. “I'm afraid all this has taken so much time that I'm going to be late for my appointment with Mr. Moore.”

“You just continue on down this alley until you get to Sutter,” Shanks instructed her. “It'll be easy for you to hail a cab. Or you can walk, since you'll only be a couple of blocks from the Palace. I've got to go back the way I came, to take care of some other business ...” he trailed off.

Jessie, not wanting to pry, thanked the detective, apologized again for accosting him, and turned to hurry off.

“Miss Starbuck!” Shanks called.

Jessie turned to see the man staring down at his feet, his silly little hat in his hands. “If you don't mind—” Shanks glanced up bashfully. “Please don't tell Jordan what happened.”

“Oh, Mr. Shanks, I can't believe Jordan is the sort who might fire you for something like this—”

“No, ma‘am,” Shanks agreed quickly. “Anyway, he can't fire me, as we're equal partners in the agency. It's just that I'd never hear the end of it.”

“I understand, Mr. Shanks.” Jessie smiled. “It'll remain our secret. But next time be more careful,” she pretended to scold. “We
are
supposed to be the more deadly of the species.”

“Certainly the more charming,” Shanks muttered thickly, his big face turning pink.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shanks,” Jessie laughed, and went off down the alley. When she turned, she saw Shank's broad, blue-suited back disappearing into the traffic coursing along Pine Street.

Jessie walked quickly. She was half a block away from Sutter Street when she heard fast footsteps coming up behind her. She turned, expecting to see Shanks hurrying toward her with some message he'd forgotten to deliver. Instead, she saw a young, good-looking fellow dressed in dark wool trousers and a short leather jacket.

“Miss Starbuck!” the young fellow called.

Jessie slowed and waited for him to reach her. The man's hair was black and curly. He had what seemed to be an apologetic smile on his handsome, open face.

“I won't keep you too long,” he huffed as he reached her.

Jessie smiled and nodded. She remembered once again what Ki had taught her about tails. Obviously, Shanks was the decoy. This man must be an apprentice of the two older detectives. She wondered if what he had to tell her concerned her meeting with Moore—

The leather-jacketed man brought up his arm and hit Jessie across the face with the back of his hand. She went down hard, to stare up at a crazily spinning sky. The left side of her face felt numb.

Above her, seeming to tower over her like a giant, the man flicked open a straight razor. He still had that open, friendly smile on his handsome, hawk-nosed face as he crouched to grab her foot with his left hand.

The derringer was in her skirt pocket. She'd managed to get it out by the time he'd pulled her to him, bouncing and scraping her spine along the cobblestones.

Jessie aimed carefully, and shot him in the left shoulder. He shouted and let go of her foot as though it were a red-hot poker. His shoulder was bloody, and his left arm hung limp, but the razor was still in his right hand.

He went to swing the razor at her, and Jessie shot him in the face. A black-rimmed, red hole appeared between his eyebrows, and his eyes rolled up as if to look at the spot where the bullet had entered. Then, giving a little sigh, he folded to the pavement.

As Jessie's heartbeat returned to normal, she turned and looked toward Sutter Street, half a block away. Business seemed to be going on as usual. No one seemed to have noticed the life-and-death battle that had just occurred in the midst of this crowded city on a sun-drenched afternoon.

Her face was no longer numb, but was painfully throbbing. She carefully moved her jaw from side to side, her fingers gingerly exploring the line of bone. Nothing seemed to be broken.

Her derringer had sounded like a firecracker, the twin, sharp reports echoing weakly against the thick walls enclosing the alley. Nobody had heard or seen a thing.

Get his wallet,
Jessie ordered herself.
Find out who he is—if he works for the cartel ...

Jessie heard two shrill blasts of a whistle. Was it a policeman? She did not want to become involved with the police. She wanted to go back to the hotel, to clean herself...

Before her, the dead man's body twitched in some muscular contraction. The razor, still clenched in his right hand,
moved
—

Jessie turned and ran from the alley.

Chapter 5

Ki was about to leave the Embarcadero, but the clock tower atop the Ferry Building told him he had a lot of time to spare before he was to meet Jessie and the detective back at the Palace Hotel. He'd watched behind him, but it was obvious that there was no one at the cartel's dock who was willing—or able—to follow him. He wasn't worried about the cartel's employees summoning the police. That was not likely while they had a hold full of opium.

He'd gotten away clean, and had been able to inflict some damage upon Starbuck enemies as well. Ki was pleased. It had all been excellent and honorable.

It was lunchtime. Several food vendors were pushing their carts along the Embarcadero in order to serve the longshoremen their midday meal. As Ki watched, laughing, hungry men—their baling hooks dangling from their shoulders, their work gloves tucked into pockets and belts—hurried to queue up in front of the food cart of their choice. Ki saw vendors selling sandwiches and fruit, milk and coffee. Several carts manned by Italians from nearby North Beach were doing a thriving business selling wine, food, and strong espresso coffee to those of their countrymen who had found their livings on the waterfront.

Ki felt hungry himself. He approached a cart being thronged by the few Chinese dock workers fortunate enough to be paid a wage that allowed them to purchase food. The cart was operated by an old Chinese man and a girl. The old man's long pigtail hung down the back of his frayed, blue cotton tunic. His wide-brimmed bamboo hat looked like an inverted tray upon which the food he was peddling might be served. His pants were cut wide, and stopped just past his knees. Cork-soled, braided cotton slippers coverd his feet. A white apron protected his garb.

A charcoal brazier kept several pots steaming. The blackboard hanging from the cart's side gave the menu and prices, but as the menu was in Chinese, Ki could not read it. He watched several workers being served. The aromas escaping as each pot's lid was lifted, combined with the appetizing appearance of the food, told him all he needed to know. Being offered was a clear broth loaded with vegetables, noodles, black mushrooms, and chunks of seafood. The fish had most likely been purchased on this very dock during the dawn hours, while the dried mushrooms had come from the far side of the world.

Ki kept the brim of his Stetson low on his forehead as he stepped up to the cart and asked for some of the soup. The old man scowled and shook his head; clearly he did not understand English.

“I apologize most humbly for my grandfather,” the girl said in a lilting, lightly accented voice. “He has not learned the language of our new homeland.” She quickly took a sparkingly clean, white bowl from a shelf beneath the cart's counter, and ladled into it a portion of soup. This she handed to Ki, along with a soup spoon made of white porcelain.