I started running. Lights went on on the corners of the building. Men came outside, shouting. I heard a whine, then a crack. Rifle, firing at us!
Willie and I hurled ourselves to the ground. We moved on elbows and knees through the hole in the fence and across the sidewalk to the shelter of a van parked there. Shar and Mae huddled behind it. Willie and I collapsed beside them just as sirens began to go off.
“Like 'Nam, all over again,” he said.
I stared at him in astonishment. Willie had spent most of the war hanging out in a bar in Cam Ranh Bay.
Shar said, “Thank God you cut the hole in the fence!”
Modestly he replied, “Yeah, well, you gotta do something when you're bored out of your skull.”
Because a shot had been fired, the SFPAID had probable cause to search the building. Inside they found some sixty Asian women – most of them illegals – who had been imprisoned there, some as long as five years, as well as evidence of other sweatshops the owners were running, both here and in southern California. The INS was called in, statements were taken, and finally at around five that morning Mae Jones was permitted to go with us to be reunited with her son.
Darrin Boydston greeted us at the Cash Cow, wearing electric–blue pants and a western–style shirt with the bucking–bull emblem stitched over its pockets. A polyester cowboy. He stood watching as Tommy and Mae hugged and kissed, wiped a sentimental tear from his eye, and offered Mae a job. She accepted, and then he drove them to the house of a friend who would put them up until they found a place of their own. I waited around the pawnshop till he returned. When Boydston came through the door he looked
down in the mouth. He pulled up a stool next to the one I sat on and said, “Sure am gonna miss that boy.”
“Well, you'll probably be seeing a lot of him, with Mae working here.”
“Yeah.” He brightened some. “And I'm gonna help her get him into classes, stuff like that. After she lost her Navy benefits when that skunk of a husband walked out on her, she didn't know about all the other stuff that's available.” He paused, then added, “So what's the damage?”
“You mean, what do you owe us? We'll bill you.”
“Better be an honest accounting, little lady,” he said. “Ma'am, I mean,” he added in his twangiest Texas accent. And
smiled.
I smiled, too.
Bill Pronzini
(1943 – )
While professional women detectives proliferate in the 1990's and have inspired contemporary writers to create numerous fictional counterparts, such role models were few and far between in the nineteenth century. Those women who managed to defy the odds acquitted themselves admirably, a few so well that they have become historical footnotes; it is only fitting that they should also inspire modern fiction writers. For instance, Ed Gorman's 1990 novel, Night of Shadows, celebrates the achievements of Anna Tolan, the first uniformed policewoman, who began service with the Cedar Rapids, Iowa, police department in 1895. And Sabina Carpenter, one–half of the 1890's detective duo of Carpenter and Quincannon, is loosely based on the first woman private investigator, Kate Warne, who was a trusted employee of Allen Pinkerton in Baltimore in the years following the Civil War.
Sabina Carpenter and John Quincannon were introduced in Quincannon (1985), though each held a different job at that time – she as an undercover Pinkerton operative in Denver, he as a troubled U.S. Secret Service agent attached to the San Francisco office. The friendship that developed between them led, in the 1986 collaboration with Marcia Muller, Beyond the Grave, to the establishment of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services – something of a radical partnership for the Victorian era, and a platonic one despite Quincannon's best efforts to the contrary. Since then, the duo have been featured in a series of short stories, most of which deal with odd and seemingly impossible crimes; these are scheduled to be collected by Crippen and Landru in late 1998, under the title Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. Although Quincannon is the viewpoint character throughout the series and does much of the team's sleuthing, Sabina plays no small role and in fact provides the solution to more than one investigation, as she does in “The Desert Limited,” the tale of a wanted felon's baffling disappearance from a fast–moving train.
Bill Pronzini is best known as the creator of the “Nameless Detective,” a modern San Francisco private eye whose career began with The Snatch in 1971 and has continued to the present. The most recent “Nameless” novel, Illusions (1997), is his twenty–fourth full–length case; he also appears in numerous short stories, most of which have been collected in Casefile (1983) and Spadework (1996). Pronzini has also written virtually every other kind of popular fiction, including a mainstream political novel with columnist Jack Anderson, The Cambodia File (1981). Among his best work are two recent nonseries suspense novels, Blue Lonesome (1995), which was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and A Wasteland of Strangers (1997).
THE DESERT LIMITED
SABINA CARPENTER AND JOHN QUINCANNON
CALIFORNIA DESERT, 1890's
1995
Across the aisle and five seats ahead of where Quincannon and Sabina were sitting, Evan Gaunt sat looking out through the day coach's dusty window. There was little enough to see outside the fast–moving Desert Limited except sun–blasted wasteland, but Gaunt seemed to find the emptiness absorbing. He also seemed perfectly comfortable, his expression one of tolerable boredom: a prosperous businessman, for all outward appearances, without a care or worry, much less a past history that included grand larceny, murder, and fugitive warrants in three western states.
“Hell and damn,” Quincannon muttered. “He's been lounging there nice as you please for nearly forty minutes. What the devil is he planning?”
Sabina said, “He may not be planning anything, John.”
“Faugh. He's trapped on this iron horse and he knows it.”
“He does if he recognized you, too. You're positive he did?”
“I am, and no mistake. He caught me by surprise while I was talking to the conductor; I couldn't turn away in time.”
“Still, you said it was eight years ago that you had your only run–in with him. And at that, you saw each other for less than two hours.”
“He's changed little enough and so have I. A hard case like Gaunt never forgets a lawman's face, any more than I do a felon's. It's one of the reasons he's managed to evade capture as long as he has.”
“Well, what can he be planning?” Sabina said. She was leaning close, her mouth only a few inches from Quincannon's ear, so their voices wouldn't carry to nearby passengers. Ordinarily the nearness of her fine body and the warmth of her breath on his skin would have been a powerful distraction; such intimacy was all too seldom permitted. But the combination of desert heat, the noisy coach, and Evan Gaunt made him only peripherally aware of her charms.
“There are no stops between Needles and Barstow; Gaunt must know that. And if he tries to jump for it while we're traveling at this speed, his chances of survival are slim to none. The only sensible thing he can do is to wait until we slow for Barstow and then jump and run.”
“Is it? He can't hope to escape that way. Barstow is too small and the surroundings too open. He saw me talking to Mr. Bridges; it's likely he also saw the Needles station agent running for his office. If so, it's plain to him that a wire has been sent to Barstow and the sheriff and a complement of deputies will be waiting. I was afraid he'd hopped back off then and there, those few minutes I lost track of him shortly afterward, but it would've been a foolish move and he isn't the sort to panic. Even if he'd gotten clear of the train and the Needles yards, there are too many soldiers and Indian trackers at FortMojave.”
“I don't see that Barstow is a much better choice for him. Unless ....”
“Unless what?”
“Is he the kind to take a hostage?”
Quincannon shifted position on his seat. Even though this was October, usually one
of the cooler months in the Mojave Desert, it was near–stifling in the coach; sweat oiled his skin, trickled through the brush of his freebooter's beard. It was crowded, too, with nearly every seat occupied in this car and the other coaches. He noted again, as he had earlier, that at least a third of the passengers here were women and children.
He said slowly, “I wouldn't put anything past Evan Gaunt. He might take a hostage, if he believed it was his only hope of freedom. But it's more likely that he'll try some sort of trick first. Tricks are the man's stock–in–trade.”
“Does Mr. Bridges know how potentially dangerous he is?”
“There wasn't time to discuss Gaunt or his past in detail. If I'd had my way, the train would've been held in Needles and Gaunt arrested there. Bridges might've agreed to that if the Needles sheriff hadn't been away in Yuma and only a part–time deputy left in charge. When the station agent told him the deputy is an unreliable drunkard, and that it would take more than an hour to summon soldiers from the fort, Bridges balked. He's more concerned about railroad timetables than he is about the capture of a fugitive.”
Sabina said, “Here he comes again. Mr. Bridges. From the look of him, I'd say he's very much concerned about Gaunt.”
“It's his own blasted fault.”
The conductor was a spare, sallow–faced man in his forties who wore his uniform and cap as if they were badges of honor. The brass buttons shone, as did the heavy gold watch chain and its polished elk's–tooth fob; his tie was tightly knotted and his vest buttoned in spite of the heat. He glanced nervously at Evan Gaunt as he passed, and then mournfully and a little accusingly at Quincannon, as if he and not Gaunt was to blame for this dilemma. Bridges was not a man who dealt well with either a crisis or a disruption of his precise routine.
When he'd left the car again, Sabina said, “You and I could arrest Gaunt ourselves, John. Catch him by surprise, get the drop on him ...”
“He won't be caught by surprise – not now that he knows we're onto him. You can be sure he has a weapon close to hand and won't hesitate to use it. Bracing him in these surroundings would be risking harm to an innocent bystander.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?”
“Nothing, for the present, except to keep a sharp eye on him. And be ready to act when he does.”
Quincannon dried his forehead and beard with his handkerchief, wishing this was one of Southern Pacific's luxury trains – the Golden State Limited, for instance, on the San Francisco–Chicago run. The Golden State was ventilated by a new process that renewed the air inside several times every hour, instead of having it circulated only slightly and cooled not at all by sluggish fans. It was also brightly lighted by electricity generated from the axles of moving cars, instead of murkily lit by oil lamps; and its seats and berths were more comfortable, its food better by half than the fare served on this southwestern desert run.
He said rhetorically, “Where did Gaunt disappear to after he spied me with Bridges? He gave me the slip on purpose, I'm sure of it. Whatever he's scheming, that's part of the game.”
“It was no more than fifteen minutes before he showed up here and took his seat.”
“Fifteen minutes is plenty of time for mischief. He has more gall than a roomful of senators.” Quincannon consulted his turnip watch; it was nearly two o'clock. “Four, is it, that we're due in Barstow?”
“Four oh five.”
“More than two hours. Damnation!”
“Try not to fret, John. Remember your blood pressure.”
Another ten minutes crept away. Sabina sat quietly, repairing one of the grosgrain ribbons that had come undone on her traveling hat. Quincannon fidgeted, not remembering his blood pressure, barely noticing the way light caught Sabina's dark auburn hair and made it shine like burnished copper. And still Evan Gaunt peered out at the unchanging panorama of sagebrush, greasewood, and barren, tawny hills. No sweat or sign of worry on his face, Quincannon thought with rising irritation. A bland and unmemorable countenance it was, too, to the point where Gaunt would all but become invisible in a crowd of more noteworthy men. He was thirty–five, of average height, lean and wiry; and although he had grown a thin mustache and sideburns since their previous encounter, the facial hair did little to individualize him. His lightweight sack suit and derby hat were likewise undistinguished. A human chameleon, by God.
That was another reason Gaunt had avoided the law for so long. There was no telling what had brought him to Needles, a settlement on the Colorado River, or where he was headed from there. Evan Gaunt seldom remained in one place for any length of time – he was a predator constantly on the prowl for any illegal enterprise that required his particular brand of guile. Extortion, confidence swindles, counterfeiting, bank robbery – Gaunt had done them all and more, and served not a day in prison for his transgressions. The closest he'd come was that day eight years ago when Quincannon, still affiliated with the U.S. Secret Service, had led a raid on the headquarters of a Los Angeles–based counterfeiting ring. Gaunt was one of the koniakers taken prisoner after a brief skirmish and personally questioned by Quincannon. Later, while being taken to jail by local authorities, Gaunt had wounded a deputy and made a daring escape in a stolen milk wagon – an act that had fixed the man firmly in Quincannon's memory.
When he'd spied Gaunt on the station platform in Needles, it had been a much–needed uplift to his spirits: he'd been feeling less than pleased with his current lot. He and Sabina had spent a week in Tombstone investigating a bogus mining operation, and the case hadn't turned out as well as they'd hoped. And after more than twenty–four hours on the Desert Limited, they were still two long days from San Francisco. Even in the company of a beautiful woman, train travel was monotonous – unless, of course, you were sequestered with her in the privacy of a drawing room. But there were no drawing rooms to be had on the Desert Limited, and even if there were, he couldn't have had Sabina in one. Not on a train, not in their Tombstone hotel, not in San Francisco – not anywhere, it seemed, past, present, or future. Unrequited desire was a maddening thing, especially when you were in such close proximity to the object of your desire. His passion for his partner was exceeded only by his passion for profitable detective work; Carpenter and Quincannon, Lovers, as an adjunct to Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, would have made him a truly happy man. Evan Gaunt had taken his mind off that subject by offering a prize almost as inviting. Not only were there fugitive warrants on Gaunt, but two rewards totaling five thousand dollars. See to it that he was taken into custody and the reward money would belong to Carpenter and Quincannon. Simple enough task, on the surface; most of the proper things had been done in Needles and it seemed that Gaunt was indeed trapped on this clattering, swaying iron horse. And yet the man's audacity, combined with those blasted fifteen minutes – Quincannon tensed. Gaunt had turned away from the window, was getting slowly to his feet. He yawned, stretched, and then stepped into the aisle; in his right hand was the carpetbag he'd carried on board in Needles. Without hurry, and without so much as an eye flick in their direction, he sauntered past where Quincannon and Sabina were sitting and opened the
rear door.
Close to Sabina's ear Quincannon murmured, “I'll shadow him. You wait here.”
He adjusted the Navy Colt he wore holstered under his coat before he slipped out into the aisle.
The next car back was the second–class Pullman. Gaunt went through it, through the first–class Pullman, through the dining car and the observation lounge, into the smoker. Quincannon paused outside the smoker door; through the glass he watched Gaunt sit down, produce a cigar from his coat pocket, and snip off the end with a pair of gold cutters. Settling in here, evidently as he'd settled into the day coach. Damn the man's coolness! He entered as Gaunt was applying a lucifer's flame to the cigar end. Both pretended the other didn't exist.
In a seat halfway back Quincannon fiddled with pipe and shag–cut tobacco, listening to the steady, throbbing rhythm of steel on
steel, while Gaunt smoked his cigar with obvious pleasure. The process took more than ten minutes, at the end of which time the fugitive got leisurely to this feet and started forward again. A return to his seat in the coach? No, not yet. Instead he entered the gentlemen's lavatory and closed himself inside.
Quincannon stayed where he was, waiting, his eye on the lavatory door. His pipe went out; he relighted it. Two more men – a rough–garbed miner and a gaudily outfitted drummer – came into the smoker. Couplings banged and the car lurched slightly as its wheels passed over a rough section of track. Outside the windows a lake shimmered into view on the southern desert flats, then abruptly vanished: heat mirage.
Detective Duos Page 56