by Matt Braun
The question caught Tallman unprepared. He’d expected an interrogation about the settlers’ legal position, some test of his ethical code. Apparently McQuade had concluded that anyone with the morals of a tomcat was worthy of trust. So it was down to business, quid pro quo. A mutual scratching of backs.
“I’ll need a bit of time,” Tallman said with a shrug. “From a legal standpoint, that contract forecloses most of our options. So I’ll have to pull something out of a hat—fabricate new charges.”
“Do whatever needs doing.” McQuade’s tone was severe. “But have a plan worked out within the next couple of days.”
“Any special reason for the time limit?”
“I’m catching the morning train to Bakersfield. I expect to be back the day after tomorrow. See to it you’ve pulled something out of the hat by then.”
Tallman was instantly attentive. “What’s in Bakers-field?”
“Personal business.” An indirection came into McQuade’s eyes. “Nothing that concerns the Settlers’ League.”
“Need a good lawyer?” Tallman gave him a tired smile. “I work cheap and I’m not exactly overburdened with clients.”
McQuade sidestepped the question. “For the time being, concentrate on the Southern Pacific. Do the job right and you’ll have all the clients you can handle.”
On the spur of the moment Tallman decided to tail him to Bakersfield. Something in McQuade’s cryptic manner told him it was the smart move. There was, moreover, the fact that McQuade was originally from Bakersfield. Which lent added significance to the trip. A surveillance might easily uncover an old strand in the web of deception. And perhaps a motive.
Outside the café, Tallman took his leave. He hurried back to his hotel room and threw his suitcase on the bed. One side of the bag was equipped with a false bottom; within the compartment was all the paraphernalia for operating in disguise. He stripped to his undershorts and went to work before the washstand mirror. A vial of stage makeup and a bottle of spirit gum turned the trick. Within a matter of minutes, he was swarthy in appearance and a brushy mustache was pasted onto his upper lip. The transformation was complete when he donned a battered slouch hat, a baggy pair of trousers, and an oversized jacket. A final inspection in the mirror told the tale. Ash Tallman, otherwise known as Alex Fitzhugh, had ceased to exist. In his place stood a careworn bum who wouldn’t draw a second glance.
A half hour later Tallman boarded the train for Bakers-field. He’d slipped out of the hotel by the rear firestairs and made his way to the depot. There he’d loitered around until McQuade took a seat in the lead passenger coach. Then he mounted the steps to the rear coach and found himself a window seat. He settled back and tugged the slouch hat down over his eyes.
He was asleep when the morning southbound chugged out of Hanford.
Late that afternoon the train rumbled to a halt in Bakers-field. Tallman was rested and alert, revitalized by his extended nap. He watched out the window as McQuade crossed the platform and disappeared around the corner of the stationhouse. Then he quickly detrained and tagged along.
Tallman was an old hand at surveillance. He maintained a discreet distance from the subject, and regardless of the surroundings, he managed to make himself all but invisible. Sometimes he shadowed the man from the opposite side of the street and sometimes he tailed directly behind. He was never too close to be spotted and never too far to be ditched. He stuck like a leech, unshakable.
Within a block it became apparent McQuade was on no ordinary business trip. His every effort seemed directed at throwing off a tail. He ducked into a pool hall, only to reappear on the street not thirty seconds later. He stood for a moment, surveying passersby, and then walked away. A few blocks farther on he entered an emporium and slowly browsed through the store. Then he emerged by a side door and marched off at a rapid pace. Once in the downtown area, he mingled with shoppers and all but lost himself in the crowd. He appeared to have no fixed destination.
Tallman took it all in stride. Over the years, he’d seen every trick in the book, and nothing phased him for long. Yet he was quick to admit that McQuade was a cute piece of work, clearly versed in the more serious aspects of hide and seek. The game ended on the far side of town, a block from the central business district. McQuade rounded a corner, momentarily disappearing from view, and then abruptly reversed directions. Tallman veered into a saloon the instant McQuade reappeared around the corner. He waited by a flyblown window as the League leader passed the saloon and angled sharply across the street. He saw McQuade enter a building and somehow sensed the chase was over. A sign on the storefront window caught his eye.
KERN COUNTY LAND & DEVELOPMENT CO.
Harlan Ordway
President
Staring at the sign, Tallman considered a knotty problem. The land company, beyond any doubt, represented a strand in the web. Yet the longer he shadowed McQuade, the greater the risk of being recognized and blowing his cover. On sudden impulse, he decided to return to Hanford by the night train. There, once more in the guise of Alex Fitzhugh, he would make further inquiries into the League leader’s background. Then, when McQuade returned home, he would create some pretext to leave town. Trains were frequent and Bakersfield wasn’t that far away. His investigation of the land company could then be conducted with leisurely attention to details.
Not the least of which was the one named Harlan Ordway.
TEN
The Palace was packed with the usual evening crowd. The barroom was mobbed and it was already standing room only in the theater. Only one table was empty, located down front with a ringside view of the stage. A reserved sign and a watchful bouncer kept it unoccupied.
Vivian was posted near the broad entranceway to the theater. Her spangled gown revealed the swell of her breasts at the top and the lissome curve of her legs at the bottom. A steady parade of men ogled her with covetous glances, and some of the bolder ones paused to offer a drink. She put them off with a smile and the coy promise of another time. Her attention was fixed on the front door and her gaze was that of a huntress. She was waiting for Ambrose Sloan.
Outwardly gay and effervescent, Vivian was nonetheless troubled. Her meeting with Tallman last night had raised a sticky problem. He wanted her to concentrate on Sloan and play the femme fatale. Yet that presented the nettlesome chore of separating Sloan from Benjamin Canby. The two men always arrived and departed together, like a chummy duo with their own exclusive club. At first, she’d thought they were queer; but events had quickly dispelled that notion. Both men wanted her and each was hesitant of making a move for fear of offending the other. Friendship, judging from their behavior, was stronger than lust. Still, it was imperative that she cleave them apart before she put the whammy on Sloan. Three was definitely a crowd for what she had in mind.
“How’s the new girl tonight?”
Vivian turned to confront another of her problems. Horace Logan, the theater owner, stood with his thumbs hooked in his vest. He eyed her with the proprietary air of a sultan inspecting his harem. His breath smelled like he’d had supper with a vulture.
“Evening, boss!” Vivian faked a carefree smile. “Looks like we’ve got a full house.”
“Lotta good it does you,” Logan said with heavy humor. “You act like you’re waitin’ on a streetcar.”
Vivian laughed. “Well, you know me, boss. I’m partial to highrollers. Champagne suits my style better than John Barleycorn.”
“I take it you mean Canby and Sloan?”
“Nobody else.”
“Time’s money,” Logan said importantly. “Get your fanny in gear and push a few drinks while you’re waitin’.”
“C’mon, be a sport,” Vivian mewed. “I hustle a bigger tab than any girl in the joint. And it’s all because I’ve got a couple of swells hooked solid. Jeezus, talk about a regular meal ticket.”
“Guess again,” Logan corrected her. “You are lookin’ your meal ticket square in the kisser. None other than yours truly.”
“Criminy sakes.” Vivian seemed properly abashed. “Nobody ever said otherwise, boss. You’re ace high in my book.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” Logan huffed. “You been here three days and you haven’t come near my office. Or maybe you accidentally-on-purpose forgot our deal?”
“Nosirree!” Vivian proclaimed. “Sally Randolph never goes back on a promise. I’ll show you a good time—real soon.”
“How soon?”
“Don’t you fret. Keep your couch warm and—”
Vivian saw Canby and Sloan walk through the door. She blew Logan a kiss and hurried toward the front of the barroom. There she linked arms with the two men, smiling radiantly, and steered them toward the theater. A bouncer joined the entourage and cleared a path through the crowd. With the fanfare reserved for big spenders, they were escorted to the vacant ringside table. Hardly were they seated when a waiter appeared with a bucket of iced champagne. He popped the cork and poured with a flourish. Onstage a scruffy band of acrobats bounded out and went into their routine. The crowd quickly lost interest in the newly arrived trio down front.
The mood at the table was lighthearted. Canby and Sloan, who considered themselves bon vivants, ignored the stage show and concentrated on Vivian. Between sips of champagne, they eagle-eyed her peek-a-boo gown and vied with one another in delivering witty remarks. Vivian buttered them up shamelessly and kept a smile plastered on her face. Yet, all the while they clowned for her benefit, she was in something of a quandary. By hook or crook, she had to split them apart, and she was admittedly at a loss for a solution. Sloan wouldn’t risk offending Canby, and to provoke an incident herself might very well alienate both men. Finally, stumped for an answer, she decided it was now or never. Time was at a premium, and the urgency of the case overshadowed all else. She spiked the first wedge with blunt directness.
“Ambrose?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Are you married?”
“Why, no,” Sloan replied, somewhat taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just because,” Vivan pouted. “You’ve never invited me out and I’m really a little hurt you haven’t tried. Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”
“Quite the contrary,” Sloan said stoutly. “Unless it’s escaped your notice, I find you extremely attractive. I’d gladly take you anywhere.”
“Well, then?” Vivian persisted. “Why haven’t you asked? I’m certainly not playing hard to get.”
“Hold on!” Canby interrupted. “What about me? Don’t I deserve some consideration, too?”
“Now really, Benjamin.” Vivian wagged a finger at him. “You’re a married man. Anyone would know that.”
“How would they know?”
“Silly man!” Vivian giggled. “It’s written all over you. You just look married.”
“What if I am?” Canby demanded. “Why should that stop you from going out with me?”
“Honestly.” Vivian looked shocked. “A girl does have to watch her reputation.”
“Bullfeathers!” Canby declared hotly. “Your reputation’s not all that lily pure. Not working in a dive like this.”
“No, it’s not.” Vivian hesitated, then hammered the spike home. “But you’re much too old for me, Benjamin. Why, mercy sakes, you probably have daughters my age!”
A strained stillness fell over the table. Canby’s face turned red as oxblood and he glowered at her in tonguetied rage. Then his expression turned to one of cold hauteur and he slowly rose to his feet. With a curt nod to Sloan, he strode away from the table.
“A pity,” Sloan said at length. “I fear Benjamin may never recover from your . . . rejection.”
Vivian fluttered her lashes. “You aren’t angry with me, are you, Ambrose?”
“Angry?” Sloan repeated in a deep baritone voice. “I couldn’t be more delighted, my dear. I’ve been trying to edge Benjamin out since the night we met. A threesome was simply too—awkward.”
“Truly?” Vivian gushed. “You wanted me all for yourself?”
“Yes, indeed,” Sloan said triumphantly. “Benjamin’s a grand fellow and all that. But shall we say he was an obstacle to my affection for you.”
“Holy Hannah!” Vivian appeared enchanted. “You could charm the birds right out of the trees.”
“Let us hope so.” Sloan grinned, and brushed knees with her under the table. “I have some rather extraordinary plans in mind for later.”
“Naughty man.” Vivian smiled suggestively. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a girl, would you?”
“Come home with me tonight and find out.”
“Ambrose, I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
Vivian laughed and Sloan refilled the glasses. They toasted one another and quaffed the champagne in a gulp. Then he poured again and stared into her eyes with a look of onrushing conquest. She proceeded to drink him under the table.
Vivian possessed an uncanny insight into the male mentality. She knew that some men were strong and others were weak, and she read their minds like an omniscient gypsy witch. Her inner voice told her that Ambrose Sloan was an emotional cripple.
Sloan was lean and muscular, with hawklike features and virile good looks. He was urbane and glib, with a droll sense of humor and a certain sardonic self-assurance. Yet, for all his outward trappings of virility, Vivian sensed he was not secure in his own manhood. Secretly, he was obsessed with the need to please, and an even deeper yearning to be dominated. So he was driven by an overwhelming compulsion to appear the perfect lover, a man who was at once skilled in erotic technique and brute rapine, a conquering, trumpeting stallion who drove women insane with desire.
Apart from reading his mind, Vivian had resorted to an age old stratagem normally used on the weaker sex. The art of seduction, as practiced by randy cocksmen, was nine parts alcohol and one part charm. Not surprisingly, then, Vivian’s advantage tonight had been increased many-fold by the quantity of champagne they’d consumed. While she had paced herself, Sloan had swilled with a thirst fueled by lust. He was drunk as a lord.
Earlier, after the Palace closed, Sloan had brought her to his home in Fresno’s upper-class residential section. She was at first submissive, allowing herself to be pawed and fondled with kittenish modesty. Then, pretending ardor stoked by his rough caresses, she let him undress her and lead her to a massive four-poster in the bedroom. She lay there now, watching him tear off his own clothes with fumbling haste. He grinned at her like an exultant satyr.
The moment he hopped into bed, Vivian took charge. Avoiding a slobbery kiss, she grabbed him by the ears and forced his head downward. The sudden reversal of roles seemed to fan his passion. Anxious to please, compelled to prove himself, he dutifully went lower and lower. She spread her legs wide and arched her mound upward and he wedged the whole of his head between her thighs. He parted the soft folds of her vulva and his mouth closed over her in a greedy sucking action. His tongue began to probe her crevice, flicking and darting on her sensitive spot with ever faster tempo. The exquisite shock sent needles of fire throughout her body and she was suddenly unable to restrain herself. She hunched forward, forcing herself deeper into his mouth and his tongue penetrated her slippery chalice to the very root. Trapped within the damp convolutions of her body, he wiggled the tip of his tongue and a spark ignited her nerves with an electrifying jolt. She clove tighter to his head, lost in a moment of unbearable rapture, and climaxed in a volcanic eruption that left her dizzy and drained. He lapped her creamy juices like a milk-fed vampire.
Still the aggressor, Vivian abruptly flung her legs over his shoulders and locked him in a scissorhold. Her hand found the hard erect length of him and jacked it back and forth in a rapid whipping motion. Then, opening herself wide with one hand, she slowly rubbed the head of his phallus between the hot, wet lips of her cunt. He groaned deep in his chest, his mouth skinned back to reveal his teeth in a grimace of ecstatic torture. Before he could react, she clamped down with her legs and thrust upward w
ith her buttocks. The impact joined them in perfect union and drove his cock to the depths of her fountainhead. She hung on with her legs, rotating her hips, and pumped him up and down. He shivered, his arms strapped around her thighs, and exploded in a searing rush that snapped his head back in a keening moan. All but paralyzed a moment, he finally shuddered and rolled away as she released her scissorhold. He flopped down beside her, panting heavily, exhausted.
Vivian sighed inwardly. She’d come, by virture of his tongue, and in the shortest possible time she had forced him to pop his rocks. The physical release was exhilarating, and while she felt slightly soiled, she had to admit she’d enjoyed herself. But the game had only just begun, and now she collected herself for the critical match of wits. For a brief interlude, the combination of champagne and lovemaking made him vulnerable. Flattery was the key to his vanity, and those hidden doubts about his manhood. She deliberately set out to exploit the moment.
“Ummm, that was yummy, Ambrose.”
She stretched voluptuously, her breasts round and full. Then she turned, her lips close to his ear, and her hand squeezed his cock with an intimate touch. Her voice was furry velvet.
“What you’ve got there is the answer to every girl’s prayer. You drove me wild, Ambrose.”
Sloan gave her a sly and tipsy glance. “Since we’re being vulgar about it, you may henceforth address me as ‘Ambrose the fucking machine.’ I ream any hole to new and unimaginable dimensions.”
“Oooo honeybun!” Vivian’s eyes twinkled. “I do love a man who’s all man. And there’s never been another one like yours—not ever!”
“Yes.” Sloan’s speech was slurred, almost a lisp. “So I’ve been told before.”
“I know!” Vivian laughed a deep, throaty laugh. “All the girls at the Palace talk about you constantly.”
“Do they?” Sloan perked up noticeably. “What do they say?”
“Well, for one thing,” Vivian said with soft wonder, “any one of them would give her eye teeth to get you in bed. They say a girl’s still a virgin till she’s been fucked by Ambrose Sloan.”