False Names and Dangerous Games
“Are you Jones?”
The person asking him the question was a girl—a young woman, actually. She appeared to be in her twenties, was tall with long black hair, and was wearing a jacket and trousers that had seen better days but were, at least, clean. She was better than the hotel they were standing in.
“Well?” she asked.
She was also wearing a gun on her hip, worn like she knew how to use it.
“If I am,” he said, “are you going to shoot me?”
“Why would I shoot you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just not used to seeing a girl wear a gun.”
“I’ve got to protect myself.”
“This is Saint Louis,” he said, “not the Wild West.”
“Believe me,” she said, “there’s a lot in this town I need protection from. But no, I’m not gonna shoot you.”
“Then I’m Jones.”
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THE COUNTERFEIT GUNSMITH
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2014 by Robert J. Randisi.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14534-4
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / September 2014
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
All-Action Western Series
Title Page
Copyright
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
ONE
Jeremy Pike looked at the hundred-dollar bill in his hand. He turned it over a few times, snapped it to test its strength, then put it down on the desk in front of him. The man he was seated across from picked it up and leaned back in his chair.
“Whataya think, Pike?” the other man asked.
“It looks damn good,” Pike said, “but it’s a fake.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
The older man regarded him intently for a moment, then said, “Well, you’re right. It is fake. And it’s all over the country.”
Pike stared back at the Secretary of the Treasury.
“Why am I here, Mr. Secretary?”
“We need somebody to go out there and find out who’s making these,” the Secretary said.
“Why me?”
“Frankly?”
“Please, sir.”
“West and Gordon are on other assignments and unavailable,” the Secretary said.
“So I’m your third choice?”
“Basically, yes.”
Pike thought about that, then shrugged and said, “I guess I can live with that.”
“Good.”
“Where did this particular bill come from?”
“It and a bunch like it were picked up in Missouri,” the Secretary said. “Saint Louis, to be exact.”
“Was an arrest made?”
“Unfortunately,” the Secretary said, “the gentleman who was passing these fake bills was killed when the bills were confiscated.”
“I see,” Pike said. “Sir, am I supposed to work alone on this?”
“Unless you can draft someone into your service,” the Secretary said. “Of course, at the time that you are ready to make an arrest, we can send in some military assistance for you.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Pike said.
The Secretary opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a white envelope, and tossed it over to Pike’s side of the desk.
“Traveling money,” he said. “If you find you need more, let me know, and you’ll be able to pick it up at any bank.”
“Sir.” Pike grabbed up the envelope and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
“That’s all,” the Secretary said. “Stay in touch.”
“Directly, sir?”
“Mr. Jenks will liaise between us,” the Secretary said. “Do you know Jenks?”
“I do, sir.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I do not, sir.”
“Hardly matters, does it?”
“No, sir.”
“He’s waiting for you outside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pike stood up and left the office. The Secretary had been in Federal service for over thirty years, and had always been a man of few words and much candor. Pike appreciated that.
Adam Jenks was, indeed, waiting for Pike outside the Secretary’s office. Jenks was in his thirties, had been working in the Treasury Department for ten years. As far as Pike knew, nobody liked him. Maybe not even the Secretary.
“Pike.”
“Jenks.”
“I have your travel papers.” Jenks handed him a brown envelope. “Also the file on what we know so far.”
“Thanks.”
“You will dispose of the file after you’ve read it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Your train leaves first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Doesn’t give me much time to draft any help, does it?” Pike asked. “Unless you want to come along.”
“Please,” Jenks said. “I know my limitations, Pike. I’d probably get us both killed.”
Pike actually found a little more respect for the man after he said that.
“I’ll walk you out,” Jenks said.
Outside they stopped just in front of the Treasury Building.
“Try not to mess this up, Pike,” Jenks said.
“Thanks, Jenks.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me why I don’t like you.”
“Please,” Jenks said, and went back inside.
TWO
TWO WEEKS LATER
SAINT LOUIS, MISSOURI
“Call.”
Clint Adams tossed his chips into the pot without looking at his cards again. He knew very well what was in his hand. He set the five cards down on the table and waited to see what the other players would do.
The first to act had been Jack Denim. He had made his fifty-dollar bet with a confident smile.
Clint called.
There were three other players.
Barry Cord looked at the cards in his hand. They hadn’t changed.
“I fold,” he said.
Tom Curry had already set his cards down on the table, but now he lifted the corners to look again. The telltale sign of a man who had nothing.
“I’m out.”
The dealer of that particular hand was a local gambler named Crane, Henry Crane. He had his five cards in his hand, closed rather than fanned out. Clint watched his body language, his eyes. He never looked at the cards again.
“I call,” he said, “and raise fifty.”
The original bettor, Denim, stared at Crane.
“What are you holdin’?” he asked.
“Pay and see,” Crane said.
“Oh, I call,” Denim said, peeking at his cards first. “And I raise a hundred.”
Then he looked at Clint. “Your play, Adams.”
Clint had not raised because he’d felt sure that Crane would. Now he felt sure he knew the strength of each man’s hand.
“I’ll call both raises,” Clint said, “and add one of my own.”
Denim glared at him.
“But you didn’t raise when I did,” he said. “All you did was call.”
Clint looked at the man. He was a townsman, not a gambler. Crane was a professional gambler. He was the one Clint had to beware of.
“It’s my play,” Crane said. “Adams, you’re makin’ this interestin’.”
“That’s my aim, Crane.”
“Well,” Crane said, “let’s keep it interestin’, then. I call and raise.”
“Sonofabitch!” Denim said.
“Your play, Mr. Denim,” Crane said.
“You fellas are workin’ together against me!” Denim said.
Crane’s face went cold.
“That sounds like a real uncomfortable accusation that we’re cheatin’, friend. That ain’t what you mean, is it?”
“Relax, Crane,” Clint said. “Mr. Denim didn’t mean that, did you, Denim?”
Denim actually looked like he was pouting.
“I just—I just meant—”
“Never mind,” Crane said. “What are you going to do, Denim?”
The townsman frowned, looked pained, and then dropped his cards on the table, facedown. “I’m gonna fold.”
“Adams?” Crane asked.
“Well,” Clint said, “we could go round and round with this again, but I’ll just call so we can move on.”
“Okay, there you go,” Crane said. He laid his cards out. “I got a pair of aces.”
“What?” Denim said, shocked. “I had that beat!”
Clint laid his cards down.
“Two pairs, tens over threes.”
Denim groaned, “I had that beat, too.”
“Then you should’ve called,” Crane said. “Good hand, Adams. Well played.”
“Thanks, Crane.”
It was a quiet afternoon in the Blue Owl Saloon, which was on the Saint Louis waterfront. Clint had found this to be more comfortable for him than some of the more expensive, high-class hotels in the city. Crane was his kind of poker player, Denim was annoying, but the other two men were dockworkers that he was comfortable with. And if any of them had recognized him, no one had made a comment.
As Denim picked up the cards and started to shuffle, the batwings swung in and a man wearing a badge entered.
“Who’s that?” Crane asked.
Clint, who could see the door clearly, said, “Looks like the sheriff.”
“This city’s got a police department,” Crane said.
“And a sheriff,” Barry Cord informed them.
“What’s the sheriff do?” Clint asked.
“Usually makes notifications of some kind,” Tom Curry said.
“Well,” Clint said, “he’s coming over here for some reason.”
“Deal the cards, Mr. Denim,” Crane said.
Denim began to deal them out for another hand of five-card stud.
“Clint Adams?” the sheriff said when he reached the table.
“That’s me,” Clint said, scooping up his cards.
“Can we talk?” the tall, fortyish lawman asked.
Clint looked at his five totally mismatched cards, tossed them down, and said, “Might as well. I’m not going to be able to make anything out of these.” He looked at the lawman. “Buy you a beer?”
THREE
When they were each standing at the bar with a beer in hand, the badge toter said, “My name is Sheriff Carl Kinkaid.”
“Clint Adams,” Clint said, “but you know that.”
“I been lookin’ for you in some of our town’s better saloons,” Kinkaid said.
“I find this place very comfortable,” Clint said, “but what is it that got you searching for me?”
“The Saint Louis Police asked me to find you,” the sheriff said. “They’d like you to come in and have a talk with them.”
“About what?”
“That I don’t know,” Kinkaid said. “They just asked me to find you and . . . what did they say . . . oh yeah, invite you in for a talk.”
“They didn’t give you any indication of what it was about?” he asked.
“No,” Kinkaid said, “but if it makes you feel better, I don’t think they plan to arrest you.”
“Well, that’s good,” Cl
int said, “because I haven’t done anything to get arrested for.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“So I’ll just finish this beer, collect my money, and you can show me where the police department is.”
Kinkaid raised his mug and said, “Sounds like a plan.”
* * *
Sheriff Kinkaid took Clint down to Market Street to Police Headquarters, and stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“Not coming in?” Clint asked.
“No,” Kinkaid said. “I did my part. Thanks for the beer.”
As the man walked away, Clint wondered, just for a moment, if he was walking himself into a bad situation on the word of a lawman he didn’t know. But in the end he decided to just go on in and see what the story was.
He ascended the steps and approached the uniformed officer—a sergeant—who was manning the front desk.
“Help ya?” the man asked.
“My name is Clint Adams,” Clint said. “Sheriff Kinkaid asked me to come here.”
“Who do you want to see?”
“Well,” Clint said, “I guess that depends on who wants to see me.”
The sergeant frowned, then sighed.
“Stay here, I’ll check.”
Clint remained standing at the desk and the sergeant soon returned with a young man wearing a charcoal gray suit.
“Mr. Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“A pleasure, sir,” the man said, extending his hand for Clint to shake. “I’m Detective Edward Donnelly.”
“Detective.”
“Thank you very much for coming.”
“Curiosity got the better of me.”
“Well, I’m sure we can take care of that,” Donnelly said. “Why don’t you follow me?”
As they started down a hallway, Clint asked, “Are we going to see your boss?”
“No,” Donnelly said, “we’re going to my desk.”
“But I thought—”
“That somebody in authority wanted to see you?” Donnelly asked. “I’m sorry, it was just me.”
“But the sheriff—”
“Yes,” Donnelly said over his shoulder, “I visited the sheriff and asked him to find you for me.”
“So . . . your boss doesn’t know about this meeting?”
As they reached a desk, Donnelly turned and said, “Mmm, not yet. Have a seat.”
The Counterfeit Gunsmith Page 1