Longarm #431 (5 page)

Melody was still sleeping when Longarm woke and slipped out of her bed. He thought about waking her for one more plunge into that delightful flesh but decided to let her sleep instead. She deserved it after all the effort she had put forth during the night.

He stood, stretched, yawned, then pulled on his clothes and slipped quietly out of her room and down the hall to his own.

Once there he washed and changed to a clean shirt, then went downstairs and out. Buck Walters and his wife provided him with a breakfast big enough to fit a raging appetite.

“Thank you, Buck, Miz Walters,” Longarm said, touching the brim of his Stetson to the hardworking pair. He paid and left a generous tip as well. Good people, he reminded himself. Like the Walters family and Glenn Farley. He smiled and silently added, and like Melody Thompson. Now she was good indeed. He almost got another hard-on just thinking about Melody's sleek, supple—and oh-so-hot—body.

He wandered down the street, in no hurry, for a shave and a trim at the barber's. “But leave the mustache, please. I'll trim that myself.”

Then down the street to Sensabaugh's to see if his funds had come through yet. They had not, so he ambled on.

He walked over to the livery just to get acquainted with the hostler.

Longarm was more than a little surprised to find both his horse and the one Al Gray had been riding standing in a corral there. Both were borrowed animals, not owned, but he was sure of whose they were.

With that prompting him, he went inside for a closer look. His own McClellan saddle was there, as was the saddle he had borrowed along with the horse Gray had been riding the day Longarm was shot.

There was no sign of his saddlebags and bedroll and he did not want to call attention to himself as a deputy marshal, so he did not ask about them. But he damned sure intended to look for them once he had winkled out the whereabouts of that son of a bitch Alton Gray.

Bringing Gray in was still his priority.

The good news was that, the horses being here, it was entirely possible that Gray was somewhere in or near Crowell City.

Of course it was also possible that after this much time, Gray could be in San Francisco. Or Boston.

Still, the presence of the horses gave Longarm hope that he might yet be able to get Gray back into custody and deliver the man to Denver like he was supposed to.

Longarm felt mighty good when he headed back to Buck's place for lunch.

Wilson Hughes had said Longarm should check back with him about the same time the next day. After lunch should be close enough, Longarm figured, so he dawdled over his meal, then headed for the town marshal's office.

Hughes was not in, but the door was unlocked so Longarm helped himself to a seat, tipped his hat over his eyes, and laced his hands over his belly while he dozed.

Half an hour later the marshal showed up. “Ah, Long. Just the man I'm wanting to see.”

“Marshal,” Longarm said, rising and extending a hand. He was careful to hide his true opinion of the corrupt lawman. He would much rather slug the man than shake hands with him, but that would not accomplish anything. Unfortunately. He even managed a smile when he greeted the son of a bitch.

“I was just talking about you,” Hughes said.

“With Al Gray?” Longarm asked, hoping. That would mean Gray indeed was still in Crowell City.

“Uh, no. Mr. Gray is, um, not available right now. But his closest associate happens to be. This is someone whose advice Mr. Gray trusts, someone whose advice he takes, in fact. And frankly this is someone who plans most of Mr. Gray's, shall we say, professional activities. If you know what I mean.

“I can arrange a meeting between you and this person, but I was hoping, well . . . to tell you the truth, Mr. Long, I would need some grease on the wheel. If you know what I mean.”

Longarm knew what he meant, all right. The slimy SOB wanted another bribe.

Longarm dug into his pocket and came up with a single ten-dollar eagle and some silver.

“Look, the truth is that I'm near about tapped out,” he said. “I'm waiting for some money t' be sent to me, but it ain't arrived yet. You can have this if you like. As a down payment, so t' speak. But I won't be able t' come up with anything more until that money arrives.”

Hughes smiled, exposing yellowed teeth that reminded Longarm of a coyote, a carrion-eating pest. “Four hundred dollars, I believe the amount is.”

Longarm was glad now that he had chosen to avoid using Billy Vail's name or the office address when he sent that wire. Hughes had his tentacles everywhere in town. The game would have been up if Longarm had been open about the addressee of that telegram.

“If my friend has that much t' send,” Longarm said. “How'd you know about that anyhow?”

“I keep a close eye on the goings-on in my town,” the marshal said. “And I know you will need some of that money for yourself, so let's say I get three hundred and you keep the rest.”

“Bullshit,” Longarm snorted. “Let's say you get one hundred. I need the rest.”

“Two hundred then,” Hughes said. “Unless you can do whatever it is you are planning without Mr. Gray's help.”

Longarm frowned and fidgeted, then made a show of reluctantly giving in. “All right. Two hundred.”

Hughes smiled his carrion-eating smile again and rubbed his hands together. “I'm glad we see eye to eye,” he said.

“When will Gray be back?” Longarm asked.

“Soon. That is all I can tell you,” Hughes said.

“All you can?” Longarm asked. “Or all you will?”

“All I know myself,” the marshal said. “When I find out more I will certainly pass that information along. Is there a, um, a time limit on the, uh, project you need Mr. Gray's help with?”

“It'll hold for a while. Not forever.”

“As soon as I know,” Hughes said. “In the meantime there is that little matter of my, um, fee.”

“When my money comes in, I'll give you half. The other half when you arrange the meet between me an' Gray.”

Hughes nodded. “That would be satisfactory, Mr. Long.”

Longarm stood, anxious to get out of the marshal's office. He felt dirty just being in the man's company. “As soon as my money gets here, you'll be the first t' know.”

The town marshal laughed. “In fact I will,” he said. “Maybe even before you.”

“For what it's worth, I'm heading over there right now, so you'd best hustle if you want t' beat me to the information.”

Hughes laughed again. Longarm reminded himself that it was the last laugh that mattered. And he intended to have that one.

He strode out of the town marshal's office and turned toward Sensabaugh's Dry Goods.

“That's right. Long. Custis Long. An' no, I don't have any identification t' prove that.”

“We're supposed to get identification before we pay out this much money, Mr. Long,” the clerk insisted.

Longarm gave the dry-goods clerk, who doubled as telegraph agent, a dirty look. “Sonny, you're the one that took my message down t' send, asking for this money.”

The truth was that he did indeed have the sort of identification that the young man was asking for, but it proved he was Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long. And wouldn't town marshal Hughes be interested in that tidbit of information. Hughes would probably give the telegrapher a bonus for that.

“All right,” the clerk finally said. “But you will have to sign a statement testifying to your name.”

“Get out your papers then. I'll sign 'em.”

Ten minutes later Longarm had his cash in hand. Billy Vail, bless his heart, had sent five hundred dollars instead of the four hundred that had been requested. And he did not even know why Longarm wanted that amount of cash. Now that, Longarm thought, was a splendid boss.

From Sensabaugh's he went back to the town marshal's office and delivered five double eagles to the scumbag.

“Remember,” Longarm cautioned him. “You get the other hundred after you put me an' Al Gray together. An' the sooner the better.”

“I can't introduce you to Mr. Gray until he gets here, Mr. Long. Surely you understand that. At the moment he is what you would call away on business.”

“I understand business, Hughes. I got business o' my own with Gray. Surely you understand that. Now if you'll just give me a receipt for that money I just gave you.”

Hughes gave him a stricken look, his eyes bulging and jaw dropping.

Longarm roared with laughter. “Reckon I got you this time, didn't I?”

“I, uh, yes. You did, Mr. Long. Can I buy you a drink? To, um, celebrate our business deal?”

“Thanks, but I got something I need t' do this afternoon,” Longarm said. Actually he just did not want to have anything to do more than was strictly necessary with the sleazy marshal. Certainly he did not want to drink with the man. “You'll let me know when Gray gets back, right?”

“Immediately,” Hughes promised.

Longarm grunted a good-bye and got out of there. The very idea of having to drink with a man like Wilson Hughes made him angry.

Spending some time with Melody Thompson, now that was a different notion altogether. He would have to see if she was free for a little playtime this afternoon.

“Sorry, Mr. Long. Miss Thompson checked out this morning. And before you ask, she did not say where she would be going.”

Longarm sighed, then thanked the hotel desk clerk.

“I can get you another girl,” the clerk said, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder. “Just as good as Miss Thompson and not as expensive.”

“Not as . . . expensive?” Longarm said, not taking the man's meaning for a few seconds.

The clerk in turn failed to appreciate the reason for Longarm's confusion. “Only five dollars. Ten for all night,” he said. “And the girl I have in mind is really quite beautiful. I'm sure you would like her.” The man smiled. “Would you like for me to arrange for her to come to your room? You wouldn't have to be seen in public with her, if that is what you are thinking.”

“I, uh, no. I mean . . . I'll let you know later if I want her. This girl you have in mind, would she, um, does she work for the same people as Miss Thompson?”

“No, sir. Miss Thompson doesn't work for a house. She has a, uh, a special friend, as she puts it. A man, of course. But the two of them come and go. Her gentleman friend is away at the moment, which I know for a fact. Otherwise he would have been the one to arrange for you to have her company,” the clerk said.

Shee-it!
Longarm thought. Melody was a whore. She had a pimp. But last night . . . what the devil was that all about? Certainly she never mentioned money. He'd had no idea who she really was.

Longarm had no illusions about his own looks. Oh, it was true enough that he had no trouble finding pussy. Women seemed to think his rugged looks were attractive enough. But whores? Why in the world would a working girl approach him, give him a delightful night of fucking and sucking, yet never so much as mention payment?

That did not seem reasonable. Certainly a whore would not be in the game just for the fun of it.

At least he did not think that seemed reasonable. Melody seemed a smart girl, competent and capable. And damned good in bed. If all she wanted was a roll in the hay, she could get that professionally.

In his experience, whores did not generally give free samples.

Was she setting him up for something? For what? And if she was, why disappear now?

Longarm grunted. Smoothed the ends of his mustache. Turned around and headed for the street.

He had many more questions than answers. If he kept this up, he decided, he was just going to give himself a headache. Better, he thought, to go have a drink, maybe find a friendly card game. For sure he wanted to quit thinking about Melody Thompson and the many possible reasons for her actions.

The saloon seemed more whorehouse than drinking establishment. There were eight or nine of the soiled doves fluttering around the place in their short dresses and feathers, and he had had just about enough of their sort for the time being. He was still not over the surprise of learning about Melody.

On the other hand the bar served a decent brand of rye. And they were cheap. The place was a bit house, meaning any drink you ordered cost only a bit, two drinks for a quarter or thirteen cents if you only wanted one.

Longarm laid down a half dollar. “Rye whiskey,” he said. “Beer chaser.”

The rye was good on the tongue and warm in the belly, and the beer was crisp and pleasant.

“Cigar?” the bartender offered.

Longarm smiled. He was definitely beginning to like this place with its low ceiling and dark walls. A man could lose himself here, and that was just exactly what he intended.

Half an hour later he was giving thought to supper. Buck Walters was not open for the evening meal. He and his wife started early but closed their café in midafternoon, so that was out.

In the meantime there was the free lunch spread to assuage his hunger. Longarm reached for a pickled egg and started to munch.

“Are you Long?” The question sounded more challenge than simple inquiry.

Longarm turned. Saw a short, stocky man with a receding hairline. Receding jaw, too, or so it appeared. This fellow would have an unfair advantage in a fistfight, Longarm thought; he didn't have a chin to punch.

“I'm Long,” Longarm admitted.

“You murdered my brother,” the man accused.

“Y'know, neighbor, I don't recall murdering anybody real recent,” Longarm said, fashioning a smile and placing the remains of his egg down on the bar.

“Does the name Timothy Wright mean anything to you?”

Longarm nodded. “He's the fella as tried to kill me over in the hotel lobby. Laid in wait for me with a shotgun an' an attitude. I shot quicker an' straighter. Let me ask you something. You got any more brothers?”

Wright looked puzzled. “Why would you ask that?”

“T' see if I got t' watch over my shoulder for any more o' you Wright boys after I've done with you,” Longarm said. He straightened, putting his back to the bar. “What will it be? Are you gonna make me shoot you, too?”

Wright hesitated. For a moment Longarm thought he was going to go for the pistol on his hip. Instead he looked like he was about to cry. His face flushed dark red and he began to shake. With a stifled cry he turned and walked, practically fled, out of the saloon and into the street.

With a sigh, Longarm turned back to the bar. He did not want what was left of the egg after it was lying on the bar so he reached for another. Good eggs, he thought. Tasty.