by Wesley Ellis
Jessie gnawed on her knuckles with pretended worry. “Damnit!” she swore. “I was hoping to get a stake here. At least a job!”
Billy shook his head sympathetically. “Honey, I couldn’t pay you ten cents to shine my boots. We’re that poor. As for a job, well, Pa and I have been laying off people instead of hiring them. I can’t help you a lick and neither will Pa when he comes back—if he comes back.”
“You mean your own pa might have skipped out and left you holding the bag?”
“Maybe. He would have if he was smart. But he ain’t smart, so I expect he’ll come draggin’ back in here one of these days to preside over the corpse of this failed business.”
Jessie snatched her hat off the floor and climbed to her feet. “No sense in my waiting around for the funeral.”
“Not when you see the lay of things, Vickie.”
She eyed him closely and hesitated at the door. “Even when a business goes under, there’s usually some stuff that’s auctioned off. That’d be worth plenty. Maybe I’ll stick around a while longer in case that happens or you get this show in gear.”
This decision did not please Billy. “You can wait until hell freezes over before you’ll get a thing outa this company! And you’ll have to stand in line behind everybody else we owe. If every horse, every damned coach and piece of harness this company owns was auctioned off tomorrow for debts, there wouldn’t be enough left to buy a damned licorice stick. So why don’t you get yourself outa here before I toss you out!”
Jessie stood up. “I think you’re lying to me, Billy. You got a sister, don’t you?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“What’s her name?”
“What business is it to you?”
“She’s my cousin!” Jessie stormed. “I got a right to at least know her name.”
“Roxy,” he said grudgingly. “But she ain’t worth any more than you appear to be worth. Hell, she’s even going out with some fella that I think owns some of the Sierra State Line. Can you believe that!”
“If he has money, why not?” Jessie tossed her head defiantly. “Money is all that matters. A man’s good looks don’t count for nothing but trouble. I’ll take a rich, homely man any day over someone like you, Billy. I’m glad I found out right away that you ain’t worth bothering with nohow.”
“Get out of this office!” he yelled, dropping his feet to the floor and coming around the desk.
Jessie got out. She had accomplished what she had wanted to accomplish. Her acting had been better than she had hoped for and she was sure that Billy had believed her story completely. He had her pegged as a worthless, scheming relative who was no better than her mother had been. Billy would have to tell his men about her designs. And Jessie would just bet the story would get to the Sierra Stage Line during the next twenty-four hours. After that, she would pay them a visit and see if they were interested in giving her a break. People out to destroy a common foe usually found an advantage in working together.
Jessie stepped out into the street and looked both ways. She wanted a hotel and a bath but it would have to be a run-down establishment befitting her supposed economic distress. And she was hungry, too.
The hell with it, Jessie thought, trudging back into the main part of Reno. I may have to settle for a fleabag hotel, but I’m going to eat steak while I’m doing it.
Chapter 4
Jessie ate well, but her night in the low-class hotel room was turning out to be much less satisfactory. Afraid that she might not be able to pay her bill, the hotel clerk had taken it upon himself to send her up some revenue in the form of a couple of men looking for a real good time. It was after midnight and the men outside her door were very persistent.
“Listen,” she said. “Go away! I am tired and I want to go to sleep!”
“Aw, c‘mon, Vickie! We got a little bottle here and we are ready to celebrate. You can sleep any old night.”
“Get lost, damnit!”
“We got money, Vickie! And we ain’t cheap if you show us a real good time in bed. Ain’t that right, Jim?”
The man named Jim belched loudly, then said, “That’s right, Vickie, honey. Open up and we’ll pay you five dollars each.”
Jessie pressed her body against the locked door and cursed silently. Damn these two and double-damn the hotel clerk for giving them her name. “If you two don’t get away from this door, I‘ll—”
“You’ll what? Call the sheriff? Call the hotel clerk?” They began to laugh uproariously. “Lady, you might as well—”
“That ties it!” Jessie said, moving across her room to yank out the special pistol her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday. It was a custom-built Colt .38 on a .44-caliber frame. Jessie had gotten so good with it that she could squeeze off five rounds before most men could accurately fire three with their heavier weapons.
She returned to the door to find it bouncing back and forth against the frame as the two men outside threw their shoulders to the wood. She had to give this pair credit for their determination.
“This is your last warning, gents! Get lost or I open fire!”
But right at that very moment, the door broke free from its hinges and slammed down flat with the pair sprawled out on top of it. Jessie just managed to leap back out of the way and then the two men were climbing to their feet and trying not to spill their whiskey. Jessie fired twice without seeming to take aim. The bottle in each man’s fist exploded in a shower of glass and liquor.
“Jesus Christ!” one of the men shrieked as he whirled for the gaping doorway. “She’s got a gun and she’s gonna kill us!”
The second man scrambled across the door, slipped, fell, and cut his hand badly on broken glass. He howled and then charged out of the room and down the hallway. The entire hotel shook when the two men tripped at the stair landing and tumbled down into the lobby.
Jessie scowled at the door and the mess. “The hell with it,” she said, grabbing her pants and pulling them on before shrugging into her heavy coat. She grabbed her threadbare valise and stomped out of the room.
There were men standing in their doorways along the hall, some of them almost naked, but she paid them no attention as she marched to the stairs and down into the lobby.
“Miss Wilson!” the desk clerk shouted. “You can’t just leave without making restitution for the damages!”
Jessie yanked her sixgun out of her purse and her first bullet shattered a kerosene desk lamp. Her second ripped a furrow along the open desk register and slammed it into the man’s chest. He cried out in fright and pain, but Jessie didn’t even look back over her shoulder at the snake when she stalked out of the smelly old hotel. There was a good, clean place just up the street, but it was too expensive for a girl who was supposed to be down to her last few dollars. The hell with it, Jessie thought, everyone has to draw the line somewhere.
The next morning, Jessie thought things over and decided that she would have no hope at all of getting a job with the Sierra Stage Line dressed the way she was now. Besides, she was already sick of the baggy old clothes and the slouch hat. The thing to do, she decided, was to look lean and hungry, but good. With that in mind, she spent the rest of the morning buying herself a modest but appealing outfit. A couple of dresses, nice but inexpensive shoes, and a warm coat that was fashionable two years ago.
She threw out the hat and combed her hair until it shone. A green ribbon complimented her copperish hair and she even applied a touch of perfume. Standing before the mirror, she appraised herself carefully. Her clothes were quite modest but revealed enough of her lush figure to attract the attention of any man. Jessie wanted to go to work for Bonaday’s competitor because it would give her access to the Sierra Stage Line’s accounting system. If she had enough time to dig through the records, there was no doubt in her mind that she would discover who were the real powers behind the company. With any luck at all, perhaps she could also find out who was behind the assassination attempt that had almost succeeded in killi
ng Bonaday up near Donner Pass. Jessie knew that it was vitally important to learn everything possible; not only was the old stage-line owner’s life in grave jeopardy, but so was Ki’s life when it became known that he was a potential investor who might be able to save the ailing Bonaday Stage Line.
Jessie slipped her gun into the purse she had bought at a secondhand store. She left her hotel after asking directions to the Sierra Stage Line offices and moved purposefully down the street, aware once again of the admiring glances bestowed upon her. It was good to be desirable again. Maybe that was considered sinful by most clergy, but that didn’t change the way a woman felt about herself. Especially a woman trying to look her best and out to trick some unsuspecting man like Lee Ford into giving her a job.
In contrast to the poor and seedy appearance of the Bonaday Stage Line offices, those of the Sierra Stage Line were new and prosperous-looking. They were right downtown and near the Truckee River Bridge. The stage line had purchased several acres of land and the stables for their horses were neat. Jessie saw three new stages being readied for service. The Concord coaches were things of beauty during the first few years after they were received from the factory. Jessie had once visited the famous manufacturer in Concord, New Hampshire, and had come away more than impressed by the craftsmanship used to make these coaches. Not only were they built with the finest materials available, but every single coach was individually decorated by artists. The coaches she now saw were red and sported magnificent gold scrollwork. Each door was painted with a small but classic landscape, and even the spokes were pin-striped and polished to a high sheen. The entire coach was coated with many layers of varnish and the effect was dazzling. Jessie knew these coaches had cost the Sierra Stage Line about two thousand dollars each, plus shipping. That said a lot about the amount of money that was being pumped into this company.
Jessie had nothing against competition, and if this company was better operated and financed, then she believed it should eventually drive a weaker competitor out of business. Alex Starbuck had been the ruin of hundreds of competitors in various markets around the world. Today, Jessie hired the best managers and businessmen she could get to see that Starbuck empire remained sound and competitive. Sometimes, the very size of her operations left smaller companies with the advantage of speedier decision-making and, when that happened, Jessie lost business. It was all a game, really. The strongest, most innovative, and hungriest businesses forced out the weaker. In that way, the free-enterprise system was self-regulating to ensure that the consumer always got the best service or product at the best price.
But what the Sierra Stage Line was doing was perverting the rules of competition. You didn’t sabotage your opponent’s operation, frighten off his employees, and rob his clients. That was not only unlawful, but against all the rules that business played by. Price-cutting and even loss-taking measures to drive a weaker opponent under were acceptable. Hired assassins and sabotage were not.
A low whistle from one of the stage-line employees caught the attention of his peers, and suddenly work stopped completely as Jessie admired the shiny, new coaches and the men admired Jessie. Aware that she was supposed to be a harder person than she was, and slightly naughty, Jessie waved at them and smiled. The men hooted and started toward her. Slightly unnerved by what little provocation it required to start a stampede of lusting manhood, Jessie retreated out of the yard and into the company offices.
“Can I help you?” a smallish man who wore a pair of thick glasses and a cheap but clean and well-pressed suit asked.
Jessie correctly guessed him as an accountant, and therefore someone whose support she would like to cultivate. “Yes, thank you. I am looking for a Mr. Lee Ford. Is he in?”
“He’s busy at the moment. Did you . . .” The man could not keep his myopic eyes from dropping to stare at the proud swell of Jessie’s bosom. He swallowed nervously, a thin, frail sort in his early thirties whom Jessie noticed wore a wedding band on his bony finger. “Did you have an appointment, Miss . . . ?”
“Wilson. Vickie Wilson,” she said with a warm smile, despite the fact that she was angry with this married man for his stupid gawking at her figure. “May I wait to see him?”
“Oh, yes,” he almost whispered. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Miss Wilson?”
“That would be nice. Thank you. Black is fine.”
He dashed into another room and was back in a moment with a cup. When he presented it to her they touched, and he almost spilled the hot coffee all over himself. He looked faint.
Jessie took the coffee thinking that she would have to go very easy with this man. He looked all too frail and excitable to be able to take much flirting from her. He was the kind of fool who could get her into a corner if she were not extremely careful.
“My name is Peter Bakemore, Miss Wilson. I am the head accountant for the Sierra Stage Line.” He smiled self deprecatingly. “Actually, I am the only accountant.”
“Then you must be a very important man.”
He filled his narrow chest and bounced a little on the balls of his feet. “Well, it is quite a responsibility. I do need help, though. I am, quite frankly, overworked and underpaid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. My father was a businessman and I learned very early the importance of keeping good records. If the record system of a growing company is weak, the entire company will suffer. Don’t you agree, Mr. Bakemore?”
“Absolutely! How I wish you could convince Mr. Ford of your words. He thinks that record-keeping is . . .”
“Superfluous?”
“Yes, exactly! How did you guess?”
Jessie shrugged modestly. “They don’t understand people like us. Because we understand figures and they only understand the day-to-day operations, they mistrust us just a little. Being an accountant can be very lonely and unrewarding.”
The man was beside himself with joy. “Miss Wilson,” he breathed, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your rare insight and understanding! You are a remarkable young lady. I would give anything if . . .”
“If what?”
He shook his head. “I was just fantasizing about how well we would work together. It would be so ... so nice.”
Jessie batted her eyelashes demurely. “As a matter of fact, I have come looking for employment, Mr. Bakemore. Though I dare not hope for something so lofty as to become your personal assistant.”
“I need you!” he blurted. “And I will do everything in my power to influence Mr. Lee to hire you.”
“Thank you,” Jessie said with deep gratitude in her voice.
Bakemore was gazing into her eyes almost transfixed when a short, heavyset man in his twenties stomped into the room and bellowed, “Bakemore, goddamnit, what are you doin’ moonin’ over this woman when you are two weeks behind on the books!”
Bakemore jumped in fright. But to Jessie’s surprise, he did summon up the nerve to hiss, “This is Miss Vickie Wilson and she is seeking employment. Her credentials in bookkeeping and records are impeccable. I think you should hire her on the spot, Mr. Ford. I need her!”
“Jesus Christ,” the man growled. “She looks like she could do a whole lot better using her looks rather than her brains.”
He waddled forward, a really obese man with a red face, bald head, and bulging chipmunk cheeks. His belly was enormous and hung far over his belt. His blue eyes were bloodshot, deep-set but very probing, and gave evidence of high intelligence. Jessie saw a native cunning in Ford that warned her she needed to be very careful indeed. This was not a man who could be easily charmed or deceived. Flirting with him was out of the question—Jessie knew with certainty that no woman had ever flirted with Lee Ford except to gain something. He was a very repulsive man.
“I ain’t hiring no bookkeepers today,” he grunted. “What else can you do for money?”
The insinuation was insulting and Jessie chose to ignore the question. “I think I can help your company destroy the Bonaday Stage Line,” she said, l
ooking right into those crafty little eyes. “Interested?”
“Maybe,” he said after a long pause. “Come into my office, Miss . . . ?”
“Wilson. Vickie Wilson.”
“Yeah. Bring your coffee along. I want to hear your angle.” His fat lips curled in disdain. “Bakemore, get your ass to the chair and start adding and subtracting your goddamn numbers!”
Bakemore jumped to work and began working so furiously that Jessie felt sorry for the pathetic little accountant. He certainly did need some help. She wondered how much he really knew about this company. Somehow, she thought that he was too delicate in nature to be trusted with knowledge that would imply wrongdoing. But he would know where the money was coming from and going to, and Jessie could find out the rest.
“Sit down,” Ford ordered, squeezing behind his littered desk. The room was a pigsty and suited Ford perfectly.
“Now,” the man said. “Tell me how the hell someone like you can help someone like me break Bonaday any faster than we already are.”
Jessie had not expected to be confronted so directly. She had expected this meeting to be influenced by her womanhood, but now she could clearly see that was not going to be the case. It meant that she would have to use her intelligence against his, and she was prepared to do so without hesitation.
“I’m Bonaday’s niece,” she said. “I figure that he owes me something and I mean to collect.”
“Shit,” the man growled. “Do you know Bonaday is almost bankrupt?”
“Yes. His son told me that yesterday. He also said that his father is seeking financial backing and may have found it.”
Ford blinked. “Who the hell would help him? They’d have to be crazy given what the Bonaday Stage Line is up against right now. The man hasn’t any credit!”