The Counterfeit Gunsmith

by J. R. Roberts

  “It never hurts,” Clint said.

  “What about Denim?”

  “I’m going to use him,” Clint said. “He’s been playing in the same poker game with me for a few days, so I know where he’ll be. I can use him to find the other man.”

  “What about Tom Colby?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” Clint said. “I’ll have to figure out a way to meet him without walking into his store.”

  “Well, he drinks at the Lulu Belle.”

  “The Lulu Belle?”

  “Have you been there?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but I’ve seen it, and I heard about it just yesterday.”

  “From who?”

  “A woman who came to my room to warn me.”

  He told Pike what had happened with Aurora Lane, leaving out the part about her spending the night in his bed.

  “You’re going to need somebody to watch your back,” Pike said.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Clint said. “I’ll go to the Lulu Belle and deal with these men, and then see about meeting Tom Colby.”

  “I wish I could get out of this bed,” Pike said.

  “Do that and you’ll do more harm than good,” Clint said. “Just sit there and finish your sandwich.”

  “You’ve got to bring these again,” Pike said. “And I’m going to start having my favorite restaurant in Washington make them.”

  “Be my guest,” Clint said. “Do you have a gun in this room with you?”

  “No,” Pike said, “they wouldn’t let me keep one.”

  “I’ll smuggle one in to you tomorrow,” Clint said. “We don’t want to depend on the police to protect you.”

  “I don’t know if anyone will come after me here,” Pike said, “but a gun under my pillow would make me feel a lot better.”

  “I’ll bring one,” Clint promised. “Along with some more biscuits.”

  Clint headed for the door and Pike called out, “If you can only carry one, bring the biscuits.”

  SIXTEEN

  Clint left the hospital, found a cab just letting some people off out front. It was a family, the parents walking a crying child—an eight- or nine-year-old girl, bleeding from the hand—into the building.

  “What was that about?” Clint asked.

  “Girl cut her hand playing with a knife,” the driver said.

  “Too bad,” Clint said.

  “Nah,” the driver said, “that’s how kids learn. Where ya headed, friend?”

  Clint was stumped for a moment. Where was he headed this early in the day? Too early to go to either the Blue Owl or the Lulu Belle.

  “I need to go to a farming equipment store,” Clint said, “but I don’t know where it is.”

  “Well,” the driver said, “it’s a big city and there are a few of them . . .”

  “The one I want is owned by a guy named . . . Colby?” Clint asked. He didn’t want anyone to know he was asking about Tom Colby, but he hadn’t gotten the address from Pike, and didn’t want to go back in.

  “Tom Colby?”

  “Is that him?”

  “Well, he’s a big man in town, sits on the town council, and he owns a farming equipment store.”

  “That’s the one, then,” Clint said.

  “Hop in,” the driver said. “That’s on Grand Street. Let’s go.”

  Clint climbed into the back of the cab, and they were off.

  * * *

  “It’s just up the street,” the driver called back a little while later.

  “Just drop me here, then,” Clint said.

  “Don’t you want me to drop you in front?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I want to make a quick stop first for some coffee.”

  “This café right here’s got some good coffee,” the driver said, pulling up in front.

  “Good, thanks.”

  Clint got out and paid the man.

  “Want me to stay around and wait?” the driver asked.

  “No, that’s okay,” Clint said. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Just thought you might be a stranger and need someone to show you around.”

  “I’ve been in town for a few days now,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  The driver pulled away quickly, so there was no need for Clint to actually go into the café. Instead, he walked the rest of the way to Tom Colby’s store.

  * * *

  Inside, Tom Colby was having a conversation with two men.

  “The Secret Service man is out of the way,” Jack Denim told Colby.

  “I didn’t want him out of the way,” Colby said. “I wanted him dead.”

  “Jesus,” the other man, Cole Roburt, said, “we shot him twice.”

  “Then you obviously should have shot him three times,” Colby said.

  “So whataya want us to do now?” Denim asked.

  “I want you to finish the job,” Colby said. “Get rid of him.”

  “When he gets out of the hospital?” Roburt asked.

  “No,” Colby said, “now, today, in the hospital!”

  They were in the back of Colby’s store, in the man’s office, where nobody could see them together.

  “Right in the hospital?” Denim asked.

  “Yes, damn it!” Colby said. “Look, Ninger is getting nervous, and the only way to calm him down is to get rid of the man. You got it?”

  “We got it,” Roburt said, “but we’ll have to watch the hospital, at least for a little while—”

  “Look,” Colby said, “do what you’ve got to do, but get it done, all right? I don’t want to see either one of you until you can tell me he’s dead.”

  “All right,” Denim said.

  “Yes, sir,” Roburt said.

  “Now get out,” Colby said. “Use the back door and make sure nobody sees you.”

  The two men shuffled to the rear wall of the office and out the door. Colby immediately locked it behind them.

  Goddamnit, he thought, if they didn’t manage to get the job done, he was going to have to hire somebody who could. And he was going to have to spend more money. Real money, because he couldn’t risk using any of the counterfeit stuff. The release of that money into the system had to be very closely monitored.

  He was going to have to talk to his contact in the Saint Louis Police Department about this, see what they managed to learn from “Joshua Jones.” He had to know if there was anybody else in Saint Louis that the man was working with.

  He left his office and went back to work He had a new shipment of machine parts to inventory.

  * * *

  What are we gonna do?” Roburt asked Denim.

  “I don’t know about you,” Denim said, “but I’m gonna play poker tonight.”

  “But the boss wants this man dead by tonight.”

  “Well, he’s not out here doin’ it, is he?” Denim asked. “We’ll go and look at the hospital, see if this Secret Service guy is being watched.”

  “Watched?”

  “Guarded.”

  “You think they got a guard on him?” Roburt asked. “How we gonna kill him, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Denim said. “We’ll see.”

  “We better get over there,” Roburt said. “I gotta get to my game.”

  “Where are you gettin’ all this money to play poker with?” Roburt asked.

  Denim looked at him and asked, “Where do you think?”

  Roburt grabbed his arm. “You’re playin’ with the counterfeit?”

  “Why not?” Denim asked. “Nobody can tell the difference.”

  “If Colby ever finds out—”

  “He won’t,” Denim said. “Not unless you tell him.”

  “I’m not gonna tell him,” Roburt said.

  “Then there’s no p
roblem,” Denim said. “Let’s get to that hospital.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint stood outside the building for a little while, watching people go in and out. Several times he saw someone pull a buckboard up to a loading bay and offload some supplies. He’d seen several employees, but didn’t know if any of them was Tom Colby.

  There was no way he could go inside. Nobody would ever believe he was a farmer, looking for new equipment. He was going to have to depend on eyeballing Colby at the Lulu Belle, and he knew just who to press into service to help him do that.

  He walked down the street a couple of blocks before stopping to find himself a cab, and then he told the driver to take him to the Lulu Belle.

  * * *

  The Lulu Belle was a large and lavish establishment, with a saloon and gambling hall, a theater, and a restaurant. It reminded him of the White Elephant Saloon in Fort Worth, Texas.

  Because the restaurant opened early, so did the saloon, so he was able to go inside and order himself a beer at the bar.

  “There ya go,” the six-foot bartender said, setting it in front of him. “Ain’t seen you in here before.” The man had dark hair—lots of it, even sticking out from his collar and covering his forearms—and was in his mid-thirties.

  Clint sipped the cold beer and said, “I’ve been in town for a while, and a friend of mine said I should check this place out.”

  “A friend?”

  “Her name’s Aurora Lane.”

  “Aurora, yeah,” the bartender said. “She works here.”

  “Is she around?”

  “She’s probably in the building, but she won’t be down here until later this evening.”

  “Ah,” Clint said, “I suppose I’ll just have to wait until then to see her.”

  “I could probably find her and tell her you’re here.”

  “That’d be great,” Clint said. “I could have a quiet beer with her before the rush.”

  “Yeah, she is a pretty popular gal,” the bartender said. “Just wait here a minute and I’ll see what I can do. Who should I tell her is here?”

  “Clint,” he said. “Clint Adams.”

  The bartender froze for a minute, then said, “Clint Adams?” as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  “That’s right.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “Right again.”

  “Well,” the man said, “this is a pleasure.” The bartender stuck his hand out. “My name is Blake.”

  “Nice to meet you, Blake.”

  “I’ll, uh, go and find her for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Blake moved around from behind the bar and went to the rear of the large room. Clint turned, beer in hand, and looked the room over. High chandeliers, mahogany and gold, the place could have been in the center of Portsmouth Square, in San Francisco.

  There was literally no one else in the place, although he could hear the clink of glasses and dishes from the restaurant next door. There was a large open doorway that would lead to the theater and the restaurant.

  He turned back to the bar and leaned over his beer.

  * * *

  Blake, the bartender, found Aurora in an office in the back, seated at a large oak desk, and asked, “What are you tryin’ to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Clint Adams is in at the bar, looking for you,” Blake said. “When did you become friends with him?”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “Last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Relax, darling,” she said, putting her hand on Blake’s hand. “It’s all part of a plan.”

  “What plan?” he asked. “We didn’t discuss a plan.”

  “That’s because I don’t discuss my plans with you,” she said.

  “What? You don’t think I’m smart enough to get it?” he demanded.

  She scratched the back of his hand and said, “I don’t keep you around for your brain, darling, remember? Just go out and tell Mr. Adams I’ll be right out.”

  Blake pulled his hand away and started for the door.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “What?”

  “What did you tell him? About me, I mean?”

  “Nothin’,” he said. “Just that you worked here, and you probably wouldn’t be down until evening.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “You didn’t tell him you own the place?”

  “I did not.”

  “Okay,” he said, flapping his arms. “It’s your plan.”

  “That’s right, baby,” she said. “It’s my plan.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Clint was half finished with his beer by the time Blake came back.

  “Find her?” he asked.

  “I did,” Blake said. “She said she’ll be out in a minute. You want me to top that off? On the house?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, pushing the mug across to the man. “Thanks.”

  Clint was working on the second beer when Aurora appeared. She was wearing a more modest gown than she’d had on when she came to his room. Still lots of flesh on display, but her shoulders were covered.

  “Well, hello,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you here this early.”

  “I wanted to come and see your operation.”

  “My operation?”

  He smiled.

  “You do own the place, don’t you, Aurora?”

  She looked at Blake, who threw his hands up.

  “I didn’t say a thing.”

  “Give me a glass of wine, will you, Blake?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “Yes,” she said to Clint, “I own the place.”

  “Why play games?”

  She shrugged.

  “A girl’s got to have a few secrets.” She accepted a glass of red wine from the bartender.

  “And the warning?”

  “Oh, that was real,” she said. “I did hear that. I can probably show you the three men later tonight.”

  “You think they’ll come in again?”

  “They’ve been here every night for four nights,” she said. “Why would tonight be different?”

  “Sounds like they’re trying to drink up some courage,” Clint said. “They might have left town.”

  “Without trying for you after four nights of talking about it?”

  “Maybe there ain’t enough booze in the place to give them enough courage,” Blake said.

  Aurora looked at him.

  “Don’t you have a puddle to clean off the other end of the bar?” she asked.

  He frowned, but moved away.

  “You talk to all your employees that way?” Clint asked. “Or just the ones who are in love with you?”

  “Blake likes to be treated that way,” Aurora said. “Trust me.”

  Clint looked over at the big man, shook his head. What makes a man enjoy it when a woman mistreats him? Or the other way around?

  “What brings you here so early?” she asked. “Really?”

  “Just getting the lay of the land,” Clint said. “When those three men come in, where do they sit? Same table every time?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Come with me.”

  They took their drinks and he followed her to a table against the far wall, away from the gaming tables.

  “Here,” she said.

  “Three, every time?”

  “Every time.”

  He looked around, then looked back at the table.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back in tonight.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll have the girls take special care of you.”

  “No,” Clint said, “that’s the one thing I don’t want. Just have them ignore me.”

  “That’ll be hard,” she said, �
��but okay. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “Yes,” he said, “when I come in tonight, you can point out Tom Colby to me.”

  “Tom Colby?” She frowned. “He’s on the town council. He will probably be the next mayor of Saint Louis. What’s your business with him?”

  “I don’t really know that I have any business with him,” Clint said. “But for now, I just need to know what he looks like.”

  “Well, okay,” she said. “I can do that.”

  “Good. Does he come in every night?”

  “A few nights a week,” she said.

  “Tonight?”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s not a regular thing,” she said. “He may be here, he may not.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll be here.”

  They walked back to the bar, and he set his empty mug on it.

  “Come by about eight, if you can,” she said. “We’ll be in full swing by then.”

  “All right.”

  She walked him to the front door, stepped outside with him.

  “How did you come to own such a place?” he asked. “It must have cost a fortune.”

  “It did,” she said, “but I saved my pennies.”

  “A lot of pennies,” he said, and walked away.

  NINETEEN

  When Aurora walked back into the saloon, Blake asked, “What’s goin’ on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on,” he said. “You and the Gunsmith? What use do you have for a gunfighter?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’m going to find out.”

  * * *

  Denim and Roburt came out of the hospital.

  “I told you,” Denim said. “There’s a guard.”

  “We gotta get rid of him.”

  “Right there in the hallway?”

  “What else can we do?”

  “We’ve got to see when they change the guard,” Denim said. “You’re gonna have to stay here and watch.”

  “Me?” Roburt asked. “Why me?”

  “Because this is your fault.”

  “How is it my fault?” Roburt demanded.

  “If you could shoot straight, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Denim told him.

  “Then why didn’t you shoot him?”