Longarm #431 (9 page)

Longarm was having a drink in one of the town's many saloons when Wilson Hughes sidled up to him.

“I just thought I would let you know. No news recent about your, um, friend,” the town marshal said. “But I expect some soon.”

“All right, thanks.”

“Buy me a drink?”

Longarm did not like the man but it would have been rude to refuse. He knew good and well that Hughes could afford to buy his own drinks. After all, Longarm had already paid him more than a hundred dollars in bribes. And promised more after that.

Longarm nodded to the barman, who brought Hughes a beer and a shot. The bartender extracted the price of Hughes's drinks from the change lying in front of Long- arm.

“What d'you know about Melody Thompson?” Longarm asked. The marshal seemd to be Crowell City's most complete source of information, and if he had to drink with the man he might as well get some good out of the experience.

“Other than the fact that she sells pussy for a living?” Hughes asked, snickering.

“Yeah, I already got that much,” Longarm said.

“I'm not real sure I can remember anything,” Hughes said, taking a sip from his shot and following the raw whiskey with a swig of beer.

Longarm sighed. Reached into his pocket and extracted a twenty-dollar double eagle, which he slid across the bar to Hughes.

Hughes smiled as he pocketed the coin. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“Who she is,” Longarm said. “She doesn't act like a normal whore. That is, I know that she is one. But something about the woman doesn't quite ring true.” He took a drink of his rye. “Am I making any sense here, Wilse?”

“I think so. You are right that she is not your usual sort of working girl. For one thing, she has a boyfriend. The man is not a pimp. In fact, he might be her legal husband.” Hughes's smile was sly. He took another drink.

“It isn't generally known,” the marshal said, “but they work together in some ways, I think. You, uh, you know the man, or anyway know about him.”

“I do?” Longarm was genuinely puzzled by the comment. “Who the hell are you talkin' about?”

Hughes laughed. “Your pal Al Gray, that's who.”

“Melody? And Gray? Well, I'll be a son of a bitch.”

Hughes's laughter became louder until Longarm thought he might choke on his own amusement. Which was, in fact, a rather pleasant thought.
Choke on your own puke, cocksucker.

He was surprised but now understood why Melody Thompson was snuggling up to him. And asking questions. After all, he made no secret of the fact that he was here hoping to meet Gray and speak with him about some unspecified something.

That would explain too why she had gone through his pockets during the night but did not take anything. She did not want money; she wanted information. He tried to remember where he had put his badge and if she might have found it in her nocturnal search.

The badge and wallet were hidden beneath the mattress in his room, and he was fairly sure she could not have reached that without disturbing his sleep.

He thought he had shoved it under the mattress far enough that she would have difficulty reaching it and would almost have to know where it was in order to find it.

So he was safe.

Probably.

He was still hoping that Gray would present himself, thinking to meet someone who had a line on something illegal but lucrative. And wouldn't the bastard be surprised to see Longarm standing there ready to take him back into custody.

Longarm wanted Gray and had not forgotten the rifleman who came so close to killing him out there on the trail. Bringing in the two of them would be a great joy.

As for Melody . . . he did not know what to think or to do about her.

He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Have another drink, Wilse,” he said, tossing back the rest of his whiskey and lifting a finger to call for another.

The barber had an easy way with scissors and razor. Longarm leaned back in the articulated chair and closed his eyes. The sounds of the barbershop surrounded and lulled him. The low hum of conversation from others waiting their turn—or simply loafing in the shop—the slap of the strop and the click of the scissors. It was a relaxing experience.

Then his pleasant reverie was interrupted when he heard one of the loafers say, “Oh, shit!”

Longarm's eyes snapped open to see a man silhouetted against the bright sunlight at the doorway. The only thing he could make out was that the fellow was carrying something long. A shotgun?

Longarm sat upright, ignoring the barber, who had a razor at his throat.

His lap was covered with the striped cloth intended to catch falling hair.

“You!” the fool with the shotgun said.

“Is that you, Wright?” Longarm asked, the entire right side of his face covered with lather.

“It's me all right, you son of a bitch,” Timothy Wright's brother snarled.

He stepped forward, into the shadowed interior of the barbershop, and Longarm could properly see him. Wright looked pleased with himself. He glanced toward the side wall where a row of pegs held Longarm's coat and hat along with a number of others. And where there were four gun belts hanging as well.

The expression on Wright's face broadened to a wide smile. “Don't have your damn pistol now, do you, fucker? You remember. The gun you used to murder my brother.”

“Can I ask you something, Wright?” Longarm said, motioning for the barber to step aside.

“I got you dead to rights, Long, so go ahead and ask. I ain't in no hurry to send you to hell,” the fellow said.

His shotgun was cocked, Longarm saw, ready to fire at the touch of a trigger.

“What's your name?” Longarm asked.

Wright looked puzzled. “I thought you knowed that. It's Wright. You remember my brother? His name was Timothy. But he's gone now. Dead and buried, and you're responsible for that.”

Longarm nodded. The loafers, he noticed, were staying put to see the show. They obviously expected blood. And they would get it.

“And your name?”

“Carl, mister. That's short for J. Carlisle Wright. I'm the last one of our family that's left. But one is all it takes to avenge Tim's murder.”

“All right, Carl. I'll make sure the stone carver gets your whole name on the marker over your grave. An' that's a promise from me t' you. I take promises serious. I'll see that it's done.”

Carl Wright huffed and said, “That'd be nice except you're the one as is gonna die.”

He started to tip the barrel of his shotgun up toward Longarm.

Longarm's .45 roared, blowing the sheet outward and setting it ablaze where his bullet passed through ahead of its lance of fire.

Carl Wright looked down at his chest, his expression incredulous. Then he glanced over toward the pegs and all the guns hanging against the wall.

“They aren't mine, Carl,” Longarm said just as Wright dropped to his knees. And then forward onto his face.

His shotgun clattered hard on the floor, and Longarm flinched, fully expecting the impact to dislodge the hammer and fire the gun. Fortunately there was no discharge. He and the other men in the shop began to breathe easier.

“Rory, you'd best run over and fetch Marshal Hughes,” the barber said.

“What about an undertaker?” Longarm asked.

“Oh, that's me.” The man smiled. “At least this time I don't have to drag him far.”

Longarm allowed town marshal Wilson Hughes to take his .45—but neglected to mention the .44-caliber derringer he always carried in his vest pocket—and marched docilely in front of Hughes to the Crowell City jail.

When they were out of public view, Hughes dropped Longarm's Colt onto his desk, yawned, and pulled out a desk drawer. “Drink?”

“I could use one,” Longarm said.

“All I have is bourbon. Is that all right?”

“I've always thought that any whiskey in hand is better'n some other brand elsewhere,” Longarm said.

“Sit down then and we will . . . talk,” Hughes said.

Longarm took the hint and dug a double eagle out of his pocket. He flipped it onto the desk and reached for the bottle.

“Huh-uh,” Hughes said.

Longarm's hand stopped, his fingers curled around the neck of the whiskey bottle. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“What is
wrong
,” Hughes said, “is that now you've killed two men in my town.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the price has gone up. I'll want twice that to keep you out of jail until you see the magistrate.”

“You're a hard man, Wilse, an' a thief.” Longarm smiled. “And them's just two of the things I like about you.” He found another gold coin in his pocket and added it to the one already lying on the desk.

Hughes picked up both and dropped them into his pocket. He smiled and said, “I'll let you know when to show up for your court hearing.”

“You have a magistrate in town?” Longarm asked.

“No, but if we really need one they'll send Sam Carver over from the county seat,” Hughes said.

Longarm grinned. “An' you'll tell me if Judge Carver happens by, won't you?”

“Count on it,” Hughes said.

“Nothing new on your friend Gray?” Longarm asked.

“Not yet. Maybe when Melody gets back to town she'll know something more. She keeps up with his movements; I don't know how,” Hughes said.

Then he gave Longarm a worried look. “You aren't forgetting our deal, are you? I mean, I let the cat out of the bag about her and him being friends. I wouldn't take it kindly if you was to make a separate deal with her.”

Longarm grunted. But said nothing. The truth was that he would like to see Wilson Hughes fired from his town marshal's job and made to do some actual work for his livelihood. There was little Longarm detested more than a bent lawman, and Hughes was so far bent he could probably kiss his own ass.

He had another drink of Hughes's whiskey—Longarm preferred rye, but he was not a fanatic on the subject—he did not mind a drink of bourbon now and then.

“Thanks, Wilse. We'll talk more when Miss Thompson returns.”

He picked up the dove-gray Stetson—he did sorely wish he could find another flat-crowned brown hat instead, but that would likely have to wait until he returned to Denver, hopefully with Gray and that sharpshooter in chains—and touched the brim in silent salute then headed back for the hotel to see if Melody was back yet.

“Oh, shit!” Longarm said aloud. A passing matron turned and gave him a look of glaring disapproval.

He stopped where he was and tried to think. Melody Thompson certainly knew him. Knew his name but little else about him. She definitely did not know what his business was. No one in Crowell City knew that.

But Al Gray. Would he recognize Longarm's name?

Longarm could not recall for sure if he had introduced himself when he took the man into custody. And if he had, would Gray remember the name now, especially since as far as Alton Gray knew, the deputy who had been transporting him down to Denver was dead now, killed by that sharpshooter back in the mountain valley.

Not that there was anything Longarm could do about it at this late date. Melody was in contact with Gray somehow. Either she met him on her excursions away from town, sent him telegraphic messages, was in touch with him by whatever means.

If
she mentioned Longarm by name and
if
Gray recognized the name, well, the game would be up in that case.

But he did not know if either or both of those things happened, and he was not going to abandon his hope of grabbing Gray the easy way here in town. Marshal Hughes believed Gray was coming back. Obviously Melody had told the marshal that her boyfriend would return. Longarm simply had to go ahead on that basis until or unless he learned different.

When, though. When would Gray come back?

He wondered if he should ask Melody that direct question the next time he saw her.

It probably would do no damage to do so. Hughes had undoubtedly already tipped her to the fact that Longarm was wanting to see Gray about something. She knew so why not bring it up to her? Lord knew they were on friendly enough terms.

Longarm cracked a smile, thinking about Melody. Thinking about that slim, sensuous, oh-so-enjoyable body of hers.

Just thinking about her gave him a hard-on.

The same pinch-mouthed old biddy who had been so disapproving of his language a moment earlier must have noticed the bulge rising in his trousers because this time she whirled around and practically ran in the other direction.

Must never have seen a cock before, Longarm thought, not at all distressed by the matron's shock and dismay.

With that happy thought in mind he tipped his Stetson to the lady, then turned and headed into the nearest saloon.

The idea was that a low-life sort like he was playacting to be here in Crowell City would—and did—consort with fallen women. That was what people expected from the criminal sort, wasn't it?

And the little soiled dove at the back of the barroom was awfully pretty.

Longarm paused to question whether the girl really was that pretty . . . or whether it was the whiskey talking.

No, he decided, she really was that pretty. Probably hadn't been in the business long enough to get that hard outer veneer of contempt for her customers. It was his experience—and he had plenty of experience—that whores tended to develop those feelings after a while.

This one was hanging back a little, idling behind the billiards table while the other girls were out front, circulating among the customers and cadging drinks.

This girl looked fresh and friendly. And he could use a friendly exchange. Pretending to be something he was not was not an easy task.

The brief time he spent in Wildwood with Bob Kane had been enough to remind him of that. It had been a great relief to be able to be himself with Bob, no pretenses, no posturing, no acting the criminal looking to make a connection with another of his kind.

Here . . .

Longarm tossed back his fourth . . . or fifth . . . or whatever whiskey and motioned for the girl to join him.

She was small. She reminded him of the girl in Wildwood. A little. She had black hair pulled back and done up in a tight bun, apple cheeks, and a small mouth. He looked at her lips and visualized them wrapped tight on his cock. The thought made his erection grow all the harder.

When she came closer he could see her eyes. They were pale gray and very bright.

“You're pretty,” he said when she moved up against him and slipped her arm around his waist.

“Thank you, sir.” She smiled. “My name is Hortense. And before you ask, yes, I am tense.” She laughed. “Seems almost prophetic, doesn't it?”

“Prophetic?” he said.

“Look, mister, I'm a whore. That doesn't mean I'm stupid, just that I have to make my way in this world somehow and fucking is about all I know. I've been doing it since I was ten thanks to my uncle. I got tired of that and ran away from home. Okay?”

“I meant no offense,” he said. “Really.”

“If you're interested,” Hortense said, “my pussy is still tight, and I give great head. It will cost you two dollars for half and half or a buck for one or the other. I'll give it an honest try, but if you're too drunk to come, I'll give up. All right? Interested?”

“How much for all night?” he asked.

“That would be ten dollars.”

“Stiff,” he said.

Hortense giggled. “So are you, honey.” She reached down and placed her hand on the bulge in his trousers. “Do you have a room somewhere?”

“Uh-huh. Over at the hotel.”

The girl linked her arm into his, looked up at him, and said, “What are we waiting for, honey?”

“I can't think of a single reason,” Longarm said, leading her out onto the street.

On the way out the door he almost bumped into a fellow who was just coming in.

“Sorry,” he said automatically. He was half a dozen paces down the sidewalk when it occurred to him that the new arrival had looked awfully familiar.

His thoughts were occupied with something more pressing, however, and he put the man out of mind.