The Devil's Collector

by J. R. Roberts

“Definitely,” Clint said. “Somebody with money. Those people always think they can buy the law.”

  “Must be quite a few people in town who match that description.”

  “Mmm,” Clint said. “We could look into that.”

  “How?”

  “There are two kinds of people with that information,” Clint said. “Bartenders, and newspapermen.”

  “I can check with the bartenders,” Sonnet said.

  “And I’ll check the newspaper,” Clint said. “I’ll meet you in the saloon in our hotel in about two hours.”

  “Fine,” Sonnet said, “I’ll hit that one last.”

  “See you then.”

  They separated from there.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Clint found there was only one town newspaper, the Monroe City Chronicle. The office was about three blocks from the sheriff’s office. As he stood out front, he thought it would have been pretty hard not to have heard those shots from here.

  The name of the newspaper was etched on all the windows, and the glass was frosted, so he was unable to see inside. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and went inside.

  It was quiet, the printing press sitting unattended. He looked around, didn’t see anyone, but there was an inner office behind a frosted glass door, again with a name etched in the glass. This time, however, instead of the newspaper, it bore the name of the editor: J. ABBOTT, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.

  He knocked on that door before opening it and entering.

  A woman turned and stared at him, her eyes wide.

  “You startled me,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was looking for J. Abbott, the editor.”

  “That would be me,” she said.

  “You’re J. Abbott?”

  “Jennifer,” she said.

  Her honey-colored hair was piled high on top of her head. She was wearing a purple, high-collar blouse underneath a brown jacket, and a matching brown skirt and boots. She looked to be in her late thirties, maybe forty, but she was lovely nevertheless.

  “And you are?”

  “Oh, my name is Clint Adams.”

  “Clint . . . Adams?” she said. “You mean . . . the Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well . . . wow,” she said. “What is the Gunsmith doing in Monroe City?” She grabbed up a pad of paper. “And can I quote you?”

  “Um, no, you can’t quote me,” Clint said. “I came here to ask some questions, not answer them.”

  “Well, you can understand if I’m more experienced asking them than answering them.”

  “I do understand,” Clint said. “But my questions are very simple.”

  “Well,” she said, “maybe we can come to an understanding.”

  Clint did know why he’d met so many attractive newspaperwomen in his life. Was there something about the job that made the women in it appealing?

  “Miss Abbott, I just need to know who the rich men in town are.”

  “That’s it?” she asked. “You could get that information from any bartender in town.”

  “I know that,” he said, “but I thought while I was here, I’d have a look at your coverage of the shooting that took place a few months back.”

  “The shooting?”

  “Five men shot down a man named Carl Sonnet.”

  “Of course. I know what shooting you’re referring to.”

  “Well, nobody else in town seems to want to admit to knowing about it,” Clint said. “At least, everybody claims to have heard and seen nothing.”

  “Well, it was a terrible thing.”

  “Tell me,” Clint said, “were you able to hear the shooting from here?”

  “Actually, I didn’t hear anything that way.”

  “How could that be?” Clint asked. “That much shooting would have made plenty of noise.”

  “Well,” she said, “the printing press . . .”

  “I see,” he said. “Can I look at a copy of your newspaper from the next day?”

  “We are a weekly paper,” she said, “but I can show you the issue that covered the shooting.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Come in the back with me,” she said. “That’s what we consider our morgue.”

  He followed her to a back door that led to a hallway, then along that hall to another door, which she opened with a key. The interior of the room smelled musty. She lit a lamp and he could see the stacks of newspapers on shelves.

  “Wow,” he said, “this is a lot of paper for a weekly.”

  “We started out as a daily,” she said. “Feel free to look through it all.”

  “Thanks,” Clint said. “Where’s the most recent—” But before he could finish his question, she was gone, closing the door behind her.

  He started leafing through papers . . .

  • • •

  When he came out, the printing press was still not running. He reentered the editor’s office, and she turned to look at him from her desk.

  “Find what you wanted?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “That everybody in this town is probably deaf and blind,” he said. “Thanks for the look.”

  He started for the door.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  She walked to him and handed him a piece of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “The list you wanted,” she said. “Richest men in town? I included some of the ranchers in the area.”

  “Oh . . . thanks.”

  “Didn’t think I was going to come through, did you?” she asked.

  “Well . . .”

  “Look,” she said, “I’d love to do an interview with you while you’re in town, but that’s up to you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I do ask one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you come across anything that’s newsworthy, you’ll let me know?”

  “Miss Abbott,” he said, “since you’re the only newspaper in town, you’ll be the first to know.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  When Clint got to the saloon in his hotel, Sonnet was already there, nursing a beer.

  “Beer,” Clint said to the bartender.

  The bartender set one up.

  “What’d you get?” Sonnet asked.

  Clint showed Sonnet the list.

  “I got the same names,” Sonnet said, “except for these two.”

  “Those are ranchers,” Clint said.

  “You got this from the newspaper?”

  “From the lady editor herself.”

  “So we’ve got . . . what, seven names.”

  “Right.”

  “Seven men who might have the sheriff in their pocket?” Sonnet said. “Seven men who could have been sending me those telegrams.”

  “We could take them alphabetically,” Clint said, “but I think we should check on the ones in town first. Save the ranchers for later.”

  “And how do we do that?” Sonnet asked. “I mean, how do we check them out?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “we could ask them.”

  “And they’ll tell us the truth, right?” Sonnet asked sarcastically.

  “First of all, you’re too young to be that sarcastic,” Clint said, “and two, yeah, they’ll tell us the truth—at least, six of them will. That seventh one? He’s not going to be too happy to see you.”

  “So where do we start?”

  “Well, there’s an Emmett Toth on this list.”

  “We already talked to him.”

  “Right,” Clint said. “He’s the one who owns the feed and grain. According to this list, he also owns several other businesses in town. Let�
��s talk to him again.”

  • • •

  Benny Nickles took a bill from the envelope Michael Albert had given him and handed it to Marcy Wilkes.

  “Oooh,” she said, “money.” She grabbed it between her fingers, then rubbed it between her small breasts and over her already turgid nipples. She was a black-haired girl with very dark brown nipples, and accepted the fact that she was Benny’s girl—that is, when he wanted her to be.

  “Ha ha!” Nickles laughed. “And lots more where that came from.”

  He leaned forward, took one of her nipples between his teeth, and rolled it there.

  Marcy dropped the money to the mattress and grabbed his head with both hands.

  “I love it when you do that,” she said.

  She slid one hand beneath them and grabbed hold of his hard, jutting cock.

  “Mmm,” he growled deep in his throat, “and I love it when you do that.”

  “That?” she asked, sliding down between his legs. “Or this?” She swooped down on him with her mouth, taking him all the way inside, then bobbing up and down on him, gobbling him up.

  “Oh,” he said, putting one hand on her head, “definitely that.”

  • • •

  Michael Albert was having much the same experience, except that the girl on her knees in front of him was not there by choice, and she wasn’t being paid for her services. Actually, she was on salary as a saloon girl, but sucking her boss’s cock was just something she had to do every once in a while to keep her job. All the girls there had to be willing to do it if they wanted to keep working there. And since he paid so well, none of them really complained about the extra duty—much.

  “That’s it,” he said, guiding her head by putting one hand behind it, “nice and wet and slow.”

  Sex served two purposes for Albert. Sometimes, he was just mindless in his pursuit of pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Other times—like this—going nice and slow helped him to relax, and to think.

  That’s what he was doing in that moment. He had his head back, and was letting his thoughts work themselves out. Clint Adams . . . Jack Sonnet . . . Benny Nickles . . . even Sheriff Koster, were all in there, being sorted out. Actually, having each one of those men dead would not have done anything to ruin his day. But it was better to take one thing at a time.

  “Slower,” he told the girl, Emmy, “slow down, I don’t want to finish yet.”

  Emmy let his penis slide from her mouth, happy to do so. She took some deep breaths.

  “In fact,” he said, “hike that skirt up and come and sit on this thing for a little while. There’s a good girl . . .”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you two,” Emmett Toth said. “I told you last time I didn’t hear nothin’.”

  “That’s true, Mr. Toth,” Clint said, “you did tell us that. What I want to know is, why?”

  “Huh? What’s that?”

  They were standing in the middle of his feed and grain, rather than in the privacy of his office. His other employees were watching.

  “Well, sir,” Clint said, “the shooting took place right outside this building. How could you not have heard anything?”

  “I was busy,” Toth said, “workin’, and so was everybody else. You’re gonna have to find your answers someplace else.”

  “Did you have something against my brother?” Sonnet asked. “Or my family?”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Toth demanded. His eyes were red-rimmed beneath bushy white eyebrows, and his thick cracked lips and yellow teeth were surrounded by a huge, white beard. “I didn’t even know your brother.”

  “But you know who the Sonnets are, don’t you?” Clint asked.

  “Huh? The Sonnets? Gunfightin’ family, ain’t they?” the man asked.

  “That’s their reputation, yeah,” Clint said. “But Carl, he wasn’t any kind of hand with a gun. Fact is, one man with a gun could have shot him down. There was no need for five to do it.”

  Toth’s eyes became less angry, and a little wary.

  “I wouldn’t know nothin’ about that.”

  Clint looked at Sonnet and nodded.

  “Mr. Toth,” the younger man said, “I’ve been huntin’ down the men who killed my brother. Fact is, I been getting telegrams giving me their names, one at a time.”

  “That right?” Toth said. “Sounds like somebody’s tryin’ to help you, boy. You should be grateful.”

  “The only problem is,” Clint said, “they may have been the wrong names.”

  “Which means,” Sonnet said, “I may have killed the wrong men.”

  “Why come to me with this?” Toth asked.

  “Because,” Sonnet said, “if it turns out you were sending me those telegrams, there’ll be hell to pay. And I’ll be the devil’s collector.”

  Sonnet turned and walked away.

  Toth looked at Clint.

  “You got something to say?” Clint asked.

  Toth opened his mouth, but nothing came out. In the end, he shook his head. Clint turned and followed Sonnet outside.

  • • •

  After Clint Adams and Jack Sonnet left the feed and grain, Emmett Toth took his apron off and tossed it aside. The gesture was both angry and impatient.

  “Willie!”

  A young boy about seventeen came running over. He was also wearing an apron.

  “I have to go out,” he told the boy. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Okay.”

  Toth started for the back of the building.

  “Where are you goin’?” Willie called. “I thought you said you were—”

  “I’m going out the back!” Emmett Toth snapped impatiently.

  Willie watched his boss go with a confused frown on his face, then went back to work.

  • • •

  Benny Nickles put Marcy on her back, straddled her, and beat his hard penis on her belly. The sound of flesh smacking flesh filled the room.

  “What are you doin’?” she asked.

  “Teasin’ you.”

  “Uh, why?” she asked. “You’ve never teased me before.”

  “I’m in a good mood,” he said. He took the head of his penis and pressed it to her moist slit, slid it up and down, wetting her even more.

  “Jesus,” she said, “that feels good.”

  He stuck the head of his dick into her, then withdrew it.

  “You bastard!” she said. “Stop teasin’ me, or I won’t be in a good mood.”

  “What do you want, then?” he asked with a smile.

  “I want you to fuck me,” she said, “hard!”

  “You don’t like the gentle Benny?” he asked.

  “I hate the gentle Benny!”

  He smiled and said, “Okay, then,” and drove his hard cock into her.

  She gasped and opened her legs wide . . .

  • • •

  Emmy bounced up and down on Michael Albert’s lap until he thought he had his thoughts organized. Then he grabbed her beneath the arms and began bouncing her even harder. She was a petite girl and was completely helpless in his hands. Her head bounced around on her neck, and just as she thought her neck would break, he exploded inside her.

  In the next moment he literally lifted her off his cock and tossed her aside. She landed painfully on her butt on the floor.

  “We’re done,” he said. “Go back to work!”

  She got to her feet, straightened her dress, and left the office. He closed his pants, turned his chair so that he was facing his desk.

  He needed to see Benny Nickles, because he had changed his mind. He was tired of waiting . . .

  • • •

  “What do you think?” Sonnet asked.

  “He may not be the one who sent the telegrams,” Clint
said, “but I think he knows something. He went from angry to worried pretty quickly.”

  “Then maybe we should go back in and press him,” Sonnet suggested.

  “We’ve got other people to talk to,” Clint reminded him. “And maybe one or more of them will know something, too. By the time we’re done, somebody may want to talk to us.”

  “You think one of these men will give another one up?”

  “If only to keep himself in the clear,” Clint said. “And it may be more than one. I’ve always found that rich men will work together almost as much as they’ll compete with each other.”

  “Have you known a lot of rich men?”

  “Enough to know that I usually don’t like them.”

  They started to walk away from the feed and grain building.

  “I’ve got a question,” Sonnet said. “If I killed the wrong men, then there are still five men out there who killed my brother.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “And they might still be here in town.”

  “Also makes sense.”

  “So what if they come for us?” Sonnet asked.

  “I think they’ll find we won’t be as easy a target as your brother was,” Clint said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint and Sonnet talked to three more of Monroe City’s wealthiest citizens. The banker, Thomas Benedict, seemed genuinely confused about why they would come to him. Clint decided he was not involved.

  Louis Blake owned the general store, and two restaurants in town. He appeared nervous when they talked about the shooting, but then everybody did. When they talked about the telegrams sent to Jack Sonnet, he seemed baffled. Clint put him on the list with the banker.

  And the third man was Benjamin Atwill, who was the mayor of Monroe City.

  “I understand you’ve been talking to some of our prominent citizens,” Atwill said after he admitted Clint and Sonnet to his office.

  “How do you know that?” Clint asked.

  Atwill, a large, pale-faced man in his sixties, laughed and said, “Because they all came running to me after you spoke with them, starting with Toth. You frightened the poor man out of his wits.”

  “The banker didn’t seem very frightened,” Clint said.

  “Oh, Tom Benedict was just confused. He thinks the sheriff should run you both out of town.”