by Erik Carter
Again there was no reply, but this time I heard some movement. Some branches bent, some twigs snapped.
“Get on out of there!” I said.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity. He was making a run for it. But to where? I gambled on it being the field and darted in that direction.
I’d made the correct choice.
The mystery man was mounting a pinto horse that he’d apparently kept at the ready on the other side of the trees. He was out in the broad daylight now, but still I couldn’t make out any details. His back was to me as he climbed on the horse. He wore long sleeves and gloves and had a second black bandanna coming out from beneath the backside of his hat, covering the back of his neck. He bolted across the field.
The mystery man might not have been an expert at hiding, but he was a very skilled at riding. He drove that animal fast, like a man who knew his way around a horse.
Bob and I gave him a run for his money, though.
In a heartbeat we were across the field and heading toward the grove of pine trees. The mystery man ducked and flew in among the trees. Bob and I plowed our way in.
As we broke through to the other side, we came upon the creek I’d crossed on the way to the mansion. The mystery man barreled through, throwing up a fan of water that shimmered in the sunlight.
I followed right behind him, but Bob’s hoof slipped on a wet rock. He reared back, and I slid down the saddle.
“Whoa, Bob!”
Bob dropped back down with a splash. I scanned ahead of us. The mystery man was gone. He’d disappeared over a little rise in front of us. I was certain he was heading for cover behind a butte that lay ahead.
But then I saw something. A glint of light. It was the barrel of his gun again.
The shaft of metal teetered over the crest of the hill. The top of his hat was also visible. In that moment when Bob had reared, the mystery man had cleared the hill, hopped from his horse, and set up a shot. He was a talented rider indeed. Intelligent.
My instinct told me to swing my gun around at him and start firing—but I controlled the urge. Any sudden move, and I’d be turned into Swiss cheese.
I slowly raised my hands into the air. “What do you want?” I called.
There was no reply.
I sat with my arms extended for what felt like an hour. Believe me, when there’s a rifle pointed at you, time no longer makes sense.
I was confused. The mystery man had the upper hand. Why wasn’t he making a move? If he was out to kill me, he could have already blown me away. If he wanted something else … then why the hell wasn’t he talking?
It was then that I noticed the gun barrel shaking. It was shaking pretty badly, as a matter of fact. Was he injured? Scared?
Whatever his ailment was, he still had me by the short hairs. I called forth that peripheral vision of mine again. Wide-open space to my right. Ditto to my left. If I made a run for it in either direction, he could easily shoot me down. A blind drunk could make the shot. There wasn’t a whole lot I could do.
The barrel remained on me. It continued to shake.
Hmm, it was possible that this fella was a first-timer. Perhaps I should help him out a little. “Maybe some sort of demand from your end would be in order?” I hollered.
There. That might get the ball rolling.
But again there was no reply.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s just take things one step at a time, here. First I’ll lose the gun then I’ll slowly back away. Sound good?” I tossed the Colt to the side and started easing Bob backwards.
There were a couple of jabbing motions from the gun barrel as though he was urging me backwards. All right, we were making some progress. I was fast becoming the world’s first hostage-turned-confidence coach.
“Good, good,” I said. “Now I should just keep going. Slowly now! I’d better keep those hands up!”
Bob and I backed up past the bank of the creek. “I should just keep on moving if I know what’s good for me! Give you plenty of space so you can get on your horse and get on out of here.”
The gun barrel made a downward swiping motion.
“Good,” I said. “That’s right, I should get off my horse.”
He was getting the hang of this. Good for him.
I climbed down from the saddle, keeping one hand in the air as I held onto the horn with the other.
The gun barrel motioned me to the left. I took a few steps away from Bob, to the left, my hands raised in the air.
The gun barrel turned skyward and fired a round off. The crack echoed off the butte beyond. Bob jumped, but didn’t go galloping off, as I’m sure was the intended outcome. Bob had been around the block a time or two.
There was galloping on the other side of the rise. I snatched my gun from the ground, jogged over to Bob, and hopped in the saddle.
“He-yah!”
We were off.
Over the creek we flew and up the rise. When we cleared the top, I looked out to the butte ahead of us. The mystery man had gotten one heck of a jump on us and was headed toward the butte as I knew he would. We charged toward him, but with the lead he’d gained, he’d be there long before us. There were a bunch of hills and rocks and caves beyond. Plenty of places for him to hide.
The mystery man rounded the side of the butte, and a few moments later I did the same. I pulled Bob to a quick stop. Dust rose from his hooves.
I cocked my head and listened. Hoof beats echoed harshly off the rock surrounding me. They came from the left. Then they came from the right. I couldn’t get a fix on them.
I took off my hat and put a hand on Bob’s side to steady him.
The hoof beats clattered this way and that, but they were getting fainter. The mystery man was getting away.
I holstered my gun.
“Well, Bob,” I said as the sounds of the mystery man’s horse faded to nothing. “Looks like there’s a new member of the Barnaby Wilcox fan club.”
Chapter Four
It’s funny what a few hours can do. Six hours ago I had been sitting in my office pampering a slight hangover and contemplating calling it quits on private investigation. Since then I’d been visited by a beautiful little nymph, gotten a personal tour of the most luxurious house in all of Desecho, and been chased by and given chase to a gun-toting stranger.
And now I was riding down one of the main streets in Desecho, headed to one of my favorite places in the world. The sun was beginning to set, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. The crickets were out. Piano music was filtering out into the street from all the saloons.
When a fella has a day like the one I’d had, he has to get himself a beer. Earlier in the day, I’d determined I’d get said beer at the Funhouse.
I was about two blocks away, and my stomach fluttered with excitement. There are special places for all of us. Places that settle into your soul, wriggle around and curl up in your heart. Places you can visit any time if you just close your eyes. To me, Madame Fannie’s Funhouse is just such a place.
I approached the familiar two-story building and hopped out of the saddle. I tied Bob to one of the hitching posts and looked up, absorbing it all.
It was a typical night at Fannie’s. Colorfully dressed prostitutes cavorted with drunken cowboys on the balcony. People were passed out on the lower level. The sounds of laughter, cheering, and, yes, even a gunshot came from behind the batwing doors. There was raucous music. The whole building was moving slightly. The sign over the entrance shook.
It’s enough to bring a tear to a man’s eye.
I smiled and bounded up the steps.
Soon I found myself at a table in the back. I’d ordered the beer, and the first few drops had been honey. Half of the beer remained in a mug on the table in front of me, and next to it was an untouched salad.
On stage, a kickline act was finishing up. The girls were wearing little red teddies and fishnet stockings. Nice little numbers, the whole lot of ’em. A bit scrawny, though. They kicked their way
off the stage.
At the tables beyond, drunken cowboys, a few with hookers on their laps, hooted and hollered. A couple of them shot their guns into the air.
Now, believe it or not, I wasn’t here just for the beloved atmosphere and the beer. No, I was still working the case. As a detective you gotta look at lots of different leads, you gotta knock on all the doors and ask all the questions. Sometimes the best place to start is with an old friend.
A scantily clad waitress walked by, and I flagged her down.
“This salad is unacceptable,” I said. I pointed down at the pathetic display of “vegetables” on the table in front of me. Iceberg lettuce, carrot shavings, a couple cherry tomatoes, and a small cup of dressing.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” squeaked the waitress. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Look at it. It looks like it just stepped off the six o’clock train from Mediocrity.”
Her lips slowly parted, and her eyes scrunched. Perhaps I threw too much at her—a train station metaphor and the word mediocrity in the same sentence. “I’m very sorry,” she said finally.
“I’d like to have a word about it.”
“I can get the chef, sir.”
“No. I want to see the owner.”
She gasped and scampered off.
Back to work. I took my notepad from my pocket. Earlier I had written, Significance of kettle. Cost?? Butler—Pattison. I tapped my pencil. A metal pot, supposedly priceless. Only thirty years old. I had socks older than that. Butler was a little skittish. Seemed to check out, though.
I wrote a new note on the pad. Gang wearing blue bandannas. Jimmy Blue Eyes? When she was in my office, Lilly had said that the gang that intercepted her on the way to the kidnappers wore blue bandannas. When she told me that, I thought of Jimmy Blue Eyes.
Jimmy was one of a plethora of “gang” leaders in the Desecho area. Though I’d never investigated his gang, I’d trailed Jimmy once upon a time. He’d been a key player in one of my many unfaithful wife cases. I remembered Jimmy always wearing a light blue bandanna that matched his trademark eyes. I seemed to also remember—
A plate slammed on the table in front of me. A salad. She plopped down into the chair on the other side of my table.
Fannie.
Oh, she looked good tonight. Low-cut, frilly, red dress. She had everything pulled in there as tight as she could. Her dirty blonde hair was in long curls. Real nice makeup. Her eyes looked swell. She was wearing too much powder, though. She always worried about her wrinkles. I thought they were just fine.
She frowned at me.
“Here’s your damn salad,” she said.
I was so distracted by Fannie, I hadn’t even checked out the salad.
“Now that’s more like it!” I said. “Spinach leaves, golden raisins, and that’s, what, raspberry vinaigrette?”
“That’s right,” Fannie said. “I hope that’s fitting of a man who eats steaks with his bare hands.”
I dug into the salad. Heaven, it was. Heaven. “Hey. Real men eat real salads.”
She scowled at me harder. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming in here.”
“Why do you say that, beautiful?”
“The last time you were here you cost me three of my best customers.”
I was always astounded by the memory function of the fairer sex. Fannie seemed to remember only the bad times, never the good ones. And believe you me, I’d given her good times.
“That didn’t stop you from inviting me to stay the night,” I said. “Besides, that was two weeks ago. You’re living in the past.”
“What do you want, Barney?”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“What do you want, Barney?” she said again.
I frowned at her. “What’s with the hostility, angel?”
No reply.
“Fine,” I said. “Listen, you know Jimmy Blue Eyes. That gang he started, are they still raisin’ hell?”
“They still ride sometimes, I believe.”
“What do they call themselves?” I said. “The Blue Wings? Bluebirds?”
“Blue Eagles.”
“That’s a sissy name.”
“Says the man eating a delicate, little salad.”
“No, see the vinaigrette gives it a bolder flavor,” I said. “A more delicate taste would have the leaves tossed lightly with—”
“No, I’m not classifying the salad. I’m saying you’re … never mind!” She huffed loudly and threw her head to the side, even stomped her foot. Oh, she was cross tonight. Would she terribly mind if I told her she was turning me on? Better not.
Instead I continued my questioning. “This gang, these ‘Blue Eagles,’ do they happen to wear blue bandannas?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought they might.”
She scowled again. Fannie clearly wasn’t enjoying being questioned—yet she’d willingly come to sit with me. See, the thing about Fannie was she liked to maintain this facade. She claimed to be so frustrated by me, but she always came back for more.
She narrowed her eyes. She did that sometimes. Trying to analyze me. It never worked. She couldn’t read me, and it vexed her like crazy. Gotta love it.
“Come on,” she snapped. “I’m working, you know.” She stood and walked away. I shoved the last few bites of salad into my mouth and followed after her.
I trailed Fannie as she zipped past the tables and headed toward the swinging door in the back that led to the kitchen. I chewed the big wad of salad in my cheek and watched her butt swing back and forth as she walked. It was a fine butt. A little wider than a younger fella’s tastes might run, but to a versed connoisseur, it was perfectly round and wonderful. The red cloth of the dress that was currently covering it had a nice, lacy texture—made you want to touch it. The stitching of her corset ran halfway down its curve, and the strings swung as she walked.
It’d been a few weeks since Fannie had given me any special attention. It usually went in cycles like that. She’d open up to me for a while, I’d say or do something wrong, and then I’d be back to square one—she’d be frigid, and I’d have to earn back her warmth. But even though she occasionally convinced herself that she hated me, she always came back around.
And she would come back around this time too. In fact, that would be my goal. By the time this Clements kettle business was wrapped, I’d get Fannie to invite me for a sleepover.
Challenging oneself—it’s what successful people do.
We breezed into the kitchen. It was, like the rest of the Funhouse, a hornet’s nest of action. Grimy kitchen workers fought for precious space with the waitresses in their skimpy outfits.
Fannie was in inspection mode, scanning the kitchen with a critical eye. I liked to call this part of her personality “General Fannie.” She rushed through the kitchen like a gale force wind. I’d be lying if I said this didn’t give me a thrill.
“So why you lookin’ at Jimmy anyway?” she said.
“My client. We only have three days to get her ransom back. It was intercepted by a gang wearing blue bandannas. The Blue Eagles ever come in here?”
“Some of ’em visit us from time to time. They’re pretty low key. Never make too much fuss,” she said, obviously more interested in the current batch of dinner rolls.
“What about Jimmy himself?” I said.
“Put some garnish on that plate!” she yelled at a scared-looking teenage cook. “No. He doesn’t visit us.”
“You know where he does like to visit?”
“Mop that up. You born in a barn?” She turned back to me. “Why should I tell you that?”
“Why shouldn’t you? You been playing with his blue eagle?”
She glared at me.
I knew then that our conversation over. Fannie had a line, and once I crossed it, there was no going back. I’d crossed that line with my last little quip.
Barnaby, Barnaby. You and your big mouth.
Indeed Fannie quickly escorted
me to the hostess stand at the main entrance of the Funhouse. A couple of muscled behemoths in suits stood on either side of me, two of the guys Fannie liked to keep around the place to handle unruly customers like me. Big bruisers. They had that vacant look that tells you third grade had been just too much for them.
I turned to Fannie. “Now come on,” I said. “Is this really necessary? Just tell me where I can find Jimmy, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I’ve given you all the information I got,” she said. “Now you can leave.”
“Who says that’s the only reason I came, huh?” I pumped my eyebrows up a couple times. Pure Barnaby charm, through and through.
Fannie rolled her eyes.
“You know my new client’s a real cute little dish,” I said.
Step one of getting to Fannie: jealousy.
“That a fact?” Her cheeks dropped ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah, it is. In fact, I may just have to enjoy some of the fringe benefits that come with private investigation.” I meant that. Since she’d been in my office, I hadn’t been able to shake the image of Lilly Cosgrove’s smooth, porcelain leg when it momentarily escaped from her dress … the dress that clung to her like a thin, wet handkerchief. Good gracious, if an opportunity were to present itself, I certainly wouldn’t be turning it down.
Fannie rolled her eyes again and shook her head. “Knock yourself out,” she said—but she bit her lip after saying it. “I told you to leave.”
Step two: provocation.
“In fact,” I said, “she’s such a little number that I might’ve suggested that she audition for you. But, then, she has class.”
Any jealousy that might have been there disappeared. Fannie’s nose flared, and her cheeks flushed.
Heh heh.
She turned to the big fellas. “Boys, see Mr. Wilcox out.”
They went to grab me. I stepped away. “All right, sweetheart, I get the point.”
I stepped outside. There was a nice chill to the air. I fished my cigarette case from my pocket and popped out a smoke.
That gal could be a real you-know-what when she wanted to. Not to worry, though. I’d gotten some good information out of her.