A lone pier extended some fifty-sixty feet out into the water. It was solidly built, rugged and foursquare, a wooden tongue thrust deep into rushing black waters. It was supported by pilings that rose ten feet above the water’s surface.
Sharkey’s saloon was a one-story rectangular-shaped building, its short ends parallel to the shoreline. It squatted at the end of the pier, solid and chunky. Sooty yellow-brown light fanned out of square-shaped windows. The place was alive with crowd noises.
“Sounds like a racing mill wheel when the river’s high,” Johnny said.
“Milling out money,” said St. George.
Roe Brand wielded the double-bladed paddle deftly, each blade knifing cleanly into the water without a splash. The pirogue closed on the pier. The river current was buffered here by the rows of upright columnar pier pilings.
A wooden raftlike float was chained to the pilings on the pier’s downstream side. A ladder hung down the side of the pier, ending a few feet above the side of the float nearest to it.
The pirogue glided alongside the float, nudging it with a gentle bump. Restless churning splashes sounded in the darkness under the pier.
“What’s making all that noise?” Johnny asked.
“Gators,” Roe Brand said.
“What I thought,” Johnny said dourly. Being on the river held both the risk of drowning and being eaten by alligators.
“The Dead Drunk tosses its garbage over the side. The gators hang around for the free meals,” George St. George said. “Every now and then a body goes over the side. The gators know it and wait for it.”
“That’s nice,” Johnny said.
“Helps keep the river clean,” said Roe Brand.
Johnny thought the pirogue seemed mighty frail, a lightweight wooden shell skimming atop the surface of the water. “Looks like it wouldn’t take much for a big ol’ gator to capsize this boat,” he said.
“Not much,” Roe Brand cheerfully agreed.
St. George uncoiled his folded legs from the bottom of the boat, rising to step nimbly onto the float.
He reached out a helping hand to assist Johnny in climbing out of the boat. The pirogue wallowed unsteadily despite Roe Brand holding on to the side of the float to maintain balance.
Johnny Cross had traded his boots for moccasins on this boat ride. The mocs were more practical for the lightweight, thin-shelled pirogue. He had feared that with boots on he was liable to accidentally step through the bottom of the hull.
He clambered up onto the float without mishap. He had good moves, sharp and catlike.
“I’ll be waiting on the upstream side of the pier,” Roe Brand said. “Can’t stay here without attracting attention.”
“We’ll be there later,” St. George said.
“Luck.” Roe Brand pushed off from the float to gain some way, back-paddled to turn the pirogue around, then cut a curving course into the river and around the end of the pier.
George and Johnny went to the far side of the float where the ladder was. George climbed first. Johnny waited for the other to reach the pier before starting up himself. That ladder looked none too sturdy.
Johnny climbed, testing each rung before trusting his weight to it. It was a relief to feel at last the solid deck planking of the pier underfoot.
The saloon’s out-shore end stood ten feet from the end of the pier. The ladder had put Johnny and George behind the back of the building.
Johnny tried the back door. “Locked. Reckon Sharkey don’t want nobody leaving without paying.”
“No one gets served without paying first. Not even the dead can leave without first settling up their bill,” said St. George.
The pier was wide, leaving six feet of clear space on both sides of the building’s long walls. The duo walked shoreward, going around to the saloon’s front where there was light and people coming and going.
Nailed to the cornice of the flat roof was a wooden painted signboard showing a crude cartoon of a man’s face with X’s for eyes and a cloud of little circles that were supposed to be bubbles floating over the top of his head. Placed around the face were painted clusters of whiskey barrels and kegs marked XXX. Some upright, others overturned.
No words were needed to identify the waterfront dive known far and wide as the Dead Drunk.
A man sat on the plank boards to one side of the front entrance, slumped against the wall, his face buried in his hands.
Johnny’s gaze scanned the scene on the mainland at the ratty western end of River Street. “No sign of Bill and the others yet,” he said.
“They’re coming by land, takes longer than the river route,” George St. George said.
“No Gun Dogs, either.”
“They’ll be here. Crabshaw and Marston won’t be able to resist the bait. No doubt some dirty little Judas has already gone on the run to them to give them the word.”
A young man came slinking out of the saloon’s front entrance. He was skinny, shifty eyed and sunken faced, with greasy blue-black hair and a three-day beard. He seemed weighed down by the big-caliber pistol holstered at his side. The buckle was set at the tightest notch, but the gunbelt still seemed in danger of slipping down his scrawny hips.
“Speak of the devil!” George St. George said, stepping back into the shadows before the newcomer could see him.
“That’s Blue Fane, a mangy mutt who wants to run with the big dogs, the Gun Dogs,” the swamper said low voiced so only Johnny could hear. “He’s been sucking around them lately, trying to get in. He is also, I’m sorry to say, a cousin of mine.”
Approaching hoofbeats sounded. A band of nine riders appeared out of the darkness, pulling up opposite the pier.
Sharkey’s two guardsmen posted at the hitching rails stiffened, moving off to one side.
The men dismounted, one staying behind to hold the horses’ reins while the others took up a stance facing the saloon. They were heavy with six-guns. Grim, purposeful, they looked like they had a job to do.
“Enter the Gun Dogs,” George St. George said softly.
“Things are breaking faster than we figured on,” Johnny said, sounding like he relished the prospect of action.
“The big dogs are here, Crabshaw and Marston. The fat tub of guts is Pigfeet Crabshaw and the one tricked out like a medicine show barker is Tully Marston.
“They started out as gunrunners, believe it or not. Pigfeet Crabshaw was the ramrod and Tully Marston had the guns. They used to run them into the Hollow, among other places. They sold old junk guns—throwaways—for top prices. Tully’s the one they call ‘Miracle’ Marston. Like the saying goes, ‘If the gun works, it’s a miracle.’” George St. George paused a second before resuming.
“Barbaroux let them stay in business long after he cracked down on all the other gunrunners. We reckoned it was because they were spying for him, keeping an eye on the Hollow where he couldn’t reach.
“Now they’re his river police. They’ve got a steam-powered launch they use to cruise the Blacksnake. That’s the one that sank Belle’s boat. It’s moored now at a slip farther east on River Street.”
“Convenient,” Johnny Cross said.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said George St. George.
“Marston and Crabshaw are both awfully fond of their own skins,” he went on. “They let the lesser lights in the crowd do the real fighting. They won’t make a move until the rest of the outfit gets here. Which should be soon because we know they’re all in Halftown.”
“How many more?” Johnny asked.
“Ten, maybe,” George St. George said.
“Is that all? No sense waiting for Bill and the bunch, we might just as well clean up on them ourselves.”
“I believe you’d do it, too, Johnny,” George said, quirking a smile.
“And you!” Johnny replied.
“I will if I have to, but no sense in us hogging all the fun. Let’s see what jumps.”
Blue Fane started at the sight of the Gun Dogs. His face lit up like he was
glad to see them. He hitched up his gunbelt and took a few quick steps forward, a hand raised in greeting.
“Blue!” George St. George said sharply, stopping the other in his tracks.
Blue Fane’s hand hovered over his gun butt. George stepped into the light where the other could see him. Fane’s hand jerked away from the gun as if it had been scalded.
“Hey, Cousin George, I didn’t see you there.” Fane frowned. “Ain’t you taking a chance, coming out in the open like this?”
“No,” George said flatly. “A word of friendly advice, cousin. Think twice before pressing your luck tonight. I’d hate to have to go to your funeral and say nice things about you that I don’t mean.”
“Huh? You got me all wrong, George—”
“You’re all wrong for sure, but you got that way all by your own self. I said my piece. You can go, Blue—now.”
Blue Fane got, scuttling away down the pier, holding his gunbelt up with one hand to keep it from falling down as he hurried away.
“There he goes, straight to Crabshaw and Marston to tell them I’m here. I’m not trying to put on any big brag, but I do believe that’ll make them pull in their horns and sit tight until they’ve got more numbers,” George said.
“Let’s step inside for a minute,” Johnny said, “I’ve got a hankering to see the famous Mr. Sharkey before the fireworks start.”
They went into the saloon. Stepping through the doorway was like walking into a fifth wall: noise. The place roared, sounding like a riot in a boiler factory. Everybody was shouting at the top of their lungs, it seemed.
The big main room was crammed with tough waterfront denizens: riverboat men, fishermen, crabbers, dock workers, and warehouse strongbacks.
There was no shortage of women, either, most of them professionals ranging from hard-bitten slatternly harridans to comely fresh young things new on the market.
Despite the crush of bodies, folks made way for a burly dockworker type, a hulking brute with bulging muscles and an arm-swinging swagger. He elbowed aside those too slow to get out of the way, and if any of those so roughly handled was minded to take offense they thought twice about it and swallowed their protests. He kicked a cripple aside and knocked an embracing couple sprawling.
“If that ain’t the limit!” Johnny Cross said, disgust showing plain on his face.
It must have been Johnny’s expression of hostile contempt that caught the brute’s eye, for the latter was too far away to have heard his comment. He changed course, bearing down toward Johnny.
“Bigger Wright, bully brawler of the docks,” St. George said, identifying the oncomer fast closing on them.
Collision was imminent, but Johnny was not minded to step aside.
“Gangway, runt!” Bigger’s gruff growl was silenced and his progress immediately arrested by the sight of a gun leaping into Johnny’s hand and leveling on his belly.
Bigger was a brawler, not a gunfighter. He realized he was out of his league in a county now swarming with killer gunmen who would rather shoot than punch. His eyes widened in a face suddenly oozing cold sweat.
“Next time be polite,” Johnny said loud enough for Bigger to hear.
Pistol-whipping was widespread among gun-toters of the day, but Johnny generally disapproved of the practice, holding that a gun was a complex mechanism with a lot of moving parts that could be knocked out of line when used as a club.
But he reckoned that it would do no harm to use the pistol not to hammer but to thrust. That’s what he did, jabbing the gun barrel hard and straight on into Bigger’s belly just below the rib cage, into the solar plexus.
“Whoof!” Bigger went slack, folding at the knees, eyes bulging, mouth vainly sucking for air in a face suddenly ashen gray.
He dropped to his knees but it was only a way station en route to the sawdust-covered floor. He flopped around like a fresh-landed fish, holding himself. He rolled on his side, curled up, legs together, knees bent.
Johnny holstered his piece. In the space now opened by Bigger’s downing, he caught sight of those he had come here to meet:
Belle Nyad, Gator Al, and Wake Spindrift, all seated together at a nearby table. The table was against the downstream-side long wall. The trio was positioned around the table so that Gator Al faced front, Belle Nyad viewed the middle ground, and Spindrift kept an eye on the rear of the saloon. Nobody was sneaking up on them.
“Over there, George,” Johnny said, indicating the trio with a slight nod.
“I see them.”
The two went around Bigger, angling toward the table where their cohorts waited.
From a vantage point near the bar from which he directed operations, Niahll Sharkey motioned to some nearby staffers.
“He’s drunk!” Sharkey shouted, grinning wolfishly: “No place here for a man who can’t hold his liquor!—Throw him out, lads!”
A pair of grimly efficient toughs hopped to it, hurrying to carry out the boss’s orders.
At a hefty two hundred and fifty pounds, Bigger was not dead but surely dead weight. The bouncers each grabbed one of his arms and dragged him across the floor and out the front door to the accompaniment of ragged cheers, catcalls, and whistles from various members of the crowd.
The bouncers returned presently, rubbing their hands together with the air of men who have performed a task well done.
Johnny and George St. George took seats at the table. A handful of bottles and some wooden tumblers were laid out on the tabletop.
“Nicely done, sir! You got that gun out fast,” Wake Spindrift said to Johnny. A small wisp of a man with prematurely gray hair and a long sensitive face, he was one of George St. George’s most trusted henchmen.
Johnny waved a hand in modesty.
“I’m disappointed,” Belle Nyad said. “I thought you were going to shoot him.”
“Bloodthirsty wench, ain’t she?” Gator Al said, grinning hugely.
“That’s why I’m here,” Belle said.
“I didn’t want to jump the gun and start the party too soon. And I don’t want to waste any rounds. Ammunition is liable to be at a premium directly,” Johnny said. “The Gun Dogs are here.”
“Ahh,” Belle said with a shiver of sensual pleasure.
Johnny Cross was always a gentleman or at least he tried, but he couldn’t help stealing a peek at Belle’s tight red satin blouse whose open V-neck revealed a deep plunging cleavage.
“About time those pups got here. We’ve been showing ourselves long enough,” Gator Al said, strong horse teeth chomping down on a foul-smelling cigar butt.
“All their crowd isn’t here yet, or at least they weren’t a few minutes ago,” George St. George said. “They’re most likely still being rounded up out of the whiskey bars, gambling hells, and brothels of River Street.”
“What about our people? Are they in place?” Wake Spindrift asked.
“Not yet,” George had to admit.
“Bill Longley won’t let us down,” Johnny said.
“But he’s just one man of a dozen,” Spindrift said.
“Crawdad Kate is driving the wagon, and she’ll get through,” Belle said.
“You women always stick together, don’t you?” Gator Al laughed.
“We have to—there’s no depending on you men,” Belle retorted.
Gator Al laughed louder.
“We all have to depend on each other or Cullen Baker ain’t the only one liable to hang,” Johnny said.
A young-old man, slight with thinning hair, eased his way through the press of the crowd toward their table.
“Here comes Slip Rooney, one of Sharkey’s people . . . Wonder what he wants?” Spindrift said.
Slip Rooney set an unopened bottle of whiskey and two tumblers down on the table . . . “Compliments of the management,” he said. “Sharkey liked the way you handled Bigger.”
“Much obliged. Tell Mr. Sharkey we said thanks,” Johnny Cross said.
“Why don’t you tell him yourself, Mr. Cross?”
“You know who I am?” Johnny was a bit surprised.
“Sharkey does.” Slip Rooney grinned. “That’s him over at the end of the bar.” He indicated a feisty-looking bantamweight with a jet-black pompadour and blue eyes.
Johnny caught Sharkey’s eye from across the room and mouthed the word, “Thanks.”
Sharkey nodded, giving Johnny a jaunty two-finger salute.
“Sharkey would appreciate a word with you—at your convenience, Mr. Cross,” Slip Rooney said.
“Tell him I’ll be over there in a minute, soon as I wet my whistle with some of this whiskey he sent us,” Johnny said.
“I’ll do that,” Slip Rooney said, withdrawing and making his way to Sharkey to give him the word.
Johnny uncorked the bottle, filling a tumbler first for George St. George and then one for himself. “Red whiskey,” he said. He raised the tumbler. “Mud in your eye.”
He tossed back his drink and George St. George did the same.
“Damned good, too,” Johnny said, smacking his lips. He refilled the tumblers and threw back a second drink.
“Ahh,” he said, pushing back his chair and rising. “Reckon I’ll have that talk with Sharkey now.”
“This could be good,” George said, “or nothing at all. You never know which way Sharkey’s going to jump.”
“Help yourself to some of that red whiskey, y’all,” Johnny told the other three at the table.
“We already had a pretty good start on you,” Wake Spindrift said, declining with a wave of his hand.
“Speak for yourself, son—I don’t mind if I do,” Gator Al said, reaching eagerly for the bottle.
“Ladies first,” Belle said, snatching it up first. She raised the bottle to her ripe red mouth, taking a long pull of the contents.
“Who said you’re a lady?” Gator Al groused.
Belle set the bottle down, red lips glistening. “I’m sure you wouldn’t call me anything but a lady,” she said, casting a cold hard look from her lone eye at Gator Al.
Gator Al hefted the bottle, dubiously examining its fluid level. “A lady would have left more for me.”
Seven Days to Hell Page 24