Bad Business

by J. R. Roberts

  “Thank you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excuse me, but the owner of the hotel noticed your name in our register?”

  “And he wants to charge me double?”

  The clerk gave Clint a small smile.

  “She,” the clerk said, “was wondering if you would have breakfast with her tomorrow morning.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She didn’t tell me that, sir,” the clerk said. “She just told me to pass on the message.”

  “Well . . . don’t know . . .”

  “She did say she would forgo the cost of your first two days’ stay here.”

  Clint smiled.

  “In that case, tell her I’ll be glad to meet her at . . .”

  “Eight a.m.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “Eight a.m. it is.”

  EIGHT

  The Diamond Palace was a smaller version of the Parker House, the Exchange, and the other hotels that were closer to Portsmouth Square. It did not have gambling, but it did have many of the hotel amenities the larger establishments had, and it also had a smaller version of their opulent dining rooms.

  Clint came downstairs the next morning and saw the same clerk at the front desk. The man beckoned at him to come over to the desk.

  “Sir, I just wanted you to know that your message has been hand delivered, as you requested.”

  “Thank you. Was there a response?”

  “No, sir. Did you expect one?”

  “No, that’s fine,” Clint said. “Thank you. Is your boss in the dining room?”

  “Yes, sir. She has a regular table, every morning at eight.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “She is Mrs. Lillian Kingsforth, sir.”

  “Missus?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “She is a widow.”

  “I see. Thanks.”

  “The maître d’ will seat you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint walked to the entrance of the dining room and saw that the room was very full, most tables taken. A small, balding man in a tuxedo approached him.

  “Sir?”

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  “Yes, sir. Follow me, please.”

  The man walked across the floor with an erect back and the carriage of a much larger man. Clint followed him to a table where a woman sat alone. As he approached, he appraised her. As she was seated, he judged that she’d probably be tall—five-eight or -nine—when she stood. As he got closer, he saw that she was older than she had looked from across the room, probably between forty and forty-five. She had a mane of fiery red hair, pale skin, wide, green eyes. When she saw the smaller man leading him to her table, she removed the cloth napkin from her lap, set it down on the table, and stood up. As he reached the table, he saw that she was even taller than he had predicted.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you, Harmon,” she said to the other man.

  “Yes, Mrs. Kingsforth.”

  As the maître d’ walked away, she looked at Clint and said, “My name is Lillian Kingsforth. Would you have a seat? I took the liberty of ordering steak and eggs for breakfast.”

  “That’s fine, thank you,” he said. He waited for her to reseat herself before seating himself.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  She picked up the pot off the table and poured him a cup. From the smell he knew it would be strong enough for him. She apparently knew how he took his coffee and what he liked for breakfast. He didn’t like being at a disadvantage, but he was willing to let her go at her own pace. After all, she was paying for the privilege.

  As he tasted the coffee she asked, “Is it to your liking?”

  “It’s excellent.” Not trail coffee, which was his favorite, but good. “I’m sure the breakfast will be the same.”

  “Yes, I’m very proud of my chef.”

  “Your clerk said you wanted to buy me breakfast and give me two complimentary nights in your hotel.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But he didn’t know why.”

  “No,” she said, “I didn’t tell him.”

  “But I assume you’ll tell me?”

  “Yes, I will,” she said, “but why don’t we talk about that after breakfast?”

  “Okay,” he said, “but while we’re eating you’ll have to tell me all about yourself.”

  “Maybe not all,” she said, with a smile, “but a little.”

  NINE

  “How was your breakfast?” Lillian Kingsforth asked.

  “It was excellent, as promised,” he said. “Now, as promised, I’d like to get to the point of your invitation. I’m curious.”

  During breakfast he found out that her husband was the owner of the hotel, had owned it for many years. She had married him when he was sixty and she was thirty. He had died at seventy, leaving the hotel to her. She had been the sole owner for four years, now.

  “Very well,” she said. “I have a problem—in fact, I have had this problem for some time now. It was only when I saw your name in the registration book—well, I thought you were the man to help me.”

  “With what?” he asked. “You’re still being very vague.”

  “Are you in San Francisco on business or for pleasure, Mr. Adams?”

  “A little of both, I suppose,” he said. “I came here on business, but it didn’t happen. So now I’m on to pleasure.”

  “So you’re in no hurry to leave San Francisco?”

  “No hurry,” he said. He didn’t bother telling her that he wasn’t allowed to leave San Francisco, not for a while.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m under pressure to sell my hotel, Mr. Adams. I don’t want to sell.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Well, when I said I was under pressure I meant that literally,” she said. “I’ve been threatened. Some of my suppliers have refused to sell to me.”

  “How many times have you been threatened?”

  The question seemed to surprise her.

  “How many times would I need to be?” she asked. “I was threatened once, and then . . .”

  “And then?”

  “And then someone tried to kill me.”

  “How and when did that happen?”

  “I was walking down the street and a crate fell from a window and almost hit me.”

  “There’s no way that was an accident?”

  “There was no reason for that crate to be near that window.”

  “I see.”

  “I think someone is going to try to kill me again.”

  “Have you gone to the police?”

  “I don’t have a good relationship with the law.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I believe they suspect me of killing my husband.”

  “That’s not unusual,” Clint said. “I’ve run into that before.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “When you ran into it before, did the woman kill her husband?”

  “Yes,” he said. “In fact, I think it was right here in San Francisco.”

  “Well, that’s not the case this time,” she said. “I didn’t have to kill my husband. He managed to die all by himself.”

  “Leaving you this hotel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the hotel worth a lot of money?”

  “Because of the proximity to Portsmouth Square,” she said, “yes.”

  “And you’ve had offers to buy?”

  “I believe I said I was being pressured to sell,” she reminded him.

  “Pressure from how many people?”

  “One, I assume.”

  “And how many offers to buy have you had?”

  “Several.”

  “So,” Clint said, “you believe that the pressure, and the attempt, are coming from one of the people who made those offers.”

  “It seems logical.”

>   “Why don’t you hire a private detective, Mrs. Kingsforth?” he asked.

  “I was going to,” she said. “I’ve been looking for a reliable man, but when I saw your name in the registration book . . .” She shrugged.

  “I’m not a detective,” he said.

  “You,” she said, “are better. You are the Gunsmith.”

  “And you think having me in your employ will stop the pressures, and the attempts?”

  “I hope so.”

  “But you can’t employ me forever,” he said. “Once I leave, they may very well start up again. What you need is someone to find out who is behind these attempts.”

  “I believe you’re the man for that, too, Mr. Adams,” she said. “And since you appear not to have anything else to do—but gamble, I assume—I’m willing to pay you well for your help.”

  “How well?”

  She told him.

  “That’s very well,” he said. He’d be able to gamble for quite a while on what she was offering him.

  “And you can stay here indefinitely, for free,” she added.

  The offer was getting better and better, and he really didn’t have anything better to do.

  “All right.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I’ll try to help,” he said.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Shall I give you some money first—”

  “I don’t need any money yet,” he said. “We’ll save that for later. I’ll take this excellent meal as a down payment.”

  “But that doesn’t sound fair—”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well . . . what do we do first?”

  “I’ll want a list of anyone who’s made an offer to buy this place from you, anyone who’s tried to pressure you, and then I’ll want to see the place where the crate almost hit you.”

  “If we go to my office,” she said, “I can give you a list now, and then we can walk to the place where the crate fell.”

  “Okay then,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go.”

  TEN

  They walked from the dining room to her office, where she sat at her desk and wrote out a list from memory.

  “Six names,” she said, pushing the slip of paper across the desk to him. Five men, and one woman, but two of the men are partners, so it represents five offers.”

  “I get it,” he said, pocketing the list. “How far is the site of the murder attempt?”

  “A few blocks,” she said. “I was walking down a side street toward a warehouse that we use.”

  “Did the crate fall from your building?”

  “No, from another.”

  “Owned by who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll find out,” he said. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  They walked together and he was under no illusion that the looks they were drawing were because of him. Lillian’s red hair shone in the sunlight, and she was a tall, full-bodied woman. She matched his stride easily and walked with her chin up. She was quite a sight and he doubted anyone even saw him next to her.

  “Here,” she said, stopping in front of the building.

  He looked up. It was two stories high, with large windows on the second floor. It wouldn’t be hard to push a crate out one of them.

  “Who was around when it fell?” he asked.

  “There were some people on the street, but no one would admit to seeing anything.”

  “Did you see anyone when you looked up?”

  “I was so frightened I didn’t look up for a few moments. By that time if anyone had been there, they were gone.”

  “I can’t blame you for that. All right, let’s go back.”

  “You’re not going in?”

  “Not now,” he said. “I’ll come back and do it myself. I don’t want you around when I do.”

  “I’m not frightened,” she said, then added, “not now, anyway.”

  “I understand,” he said, “but I’d still like to come back alone.”

  “All right,” she said. “I have some work to do, anyway.”

  He took her arm, turned her, and they walked back.

  When they got back to the hotel, she brought him into her office again and insisted on giving him some money.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m a businesswoman. This is how I do business.”

  “Okay,” he said and accepted a small down payment from her.

  “What will your first move be?” she asked.

  “Probably to have a drink and give my next move some thought,” he said.

  “But I thought—”

  “I won’t be reporting every move to you, Lillian,” he said. “Let me see what kind of progress I can make and then we’ll talk.”

  “Very well, Mr. Adams.”

  “And you’ll have to call me Clint from now on.”

  “All right,” she said. “My friends call me Lily.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon, Lily,” he said. “Just give me some time to start asking questions.”

  “Very well.”

  “And don’t go for any walks.”

  “I can’t just hide inside,” she said. “I have a business to run.”

  “All right, but keep your excursions to a minimum,” he said. “Do you have someone who can go with you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I have Jesse.”

  “Jesse?”

  “He’s my . . . well, I don’t want to say manservant. He was my husband’s right hand and was left to me with the hotel.”

  “Is Jesse a capable man?”

  “Yes, he’s very capable.”

  “I’d like to meet him later,” Clint said, “but for now, try to take Jesse with you wherever you go.”

  “All right,” she said. “Perhaps you can meet him tonight?”

  “That might be a good idea,” Clint said. “Ask him to stop by my room.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “For now I’m going to talk to some people I know and see what I can find out about the people on your list.”

  As he left her office, she was opening a ledger book on her desk.

  ELEVEN

  Frank Ellington was a friend of Rick Hartman and had come to San Francisco two years before to put in a bid to buy the Faro House Saloon and Gaming Hall. Ellington had successfully made the buy, renamed the hall the House of Cards, and was now the owner of one of the most successful gaming establishments outside Portsmouth Square.

  Clint had older friends in town, but he had the feeling that Ellington—fairly new in San Francisco compared to some of the other gambling barons—would have his finger on the pulse of the gaming community more firmly.

  Clint walked to Kearny Street, where the House of Cards was located, and entered. If the building could have been moved ten feet, it would have been inside the square.

  It was early, and only a few tables were in action. But as long as there were any gamblers on the floor, he knew the bar would be open.

  “Help ya?” the bartender asked.

  “Beer.”

  “Kinda early, ain’t it?”

  “What are you, the temperance police? I’m washing down a big breakfast.”

  “No need to get testy, friend,” the bartender said. “You want a beer, then one beer comin’ up.”

  The bartender drew a cold beer with a good head and set it down in front of Clint.

  “Sorry,” he said to the barman, “I’m kind of stuck here in town unwillingly. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “No problem,” the man said. “I’m a bartender. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Anyway,” Clint said, “I’m looking for Frank.”

  “Frank?”

  “Frank Ellington,” Clint said. “Doesn’t he own this place?”

  “Oh, Mr. Ellington,” the bartender said. “Sure. He has an office upstairs.”

  “Is he in there?”

  “I
don’t know,” the man said. “He pretty much comes and goes. Sometimes in and out the back door. The only time I know he’s there is at night, when business is really booming.”

  “How can I find out if he’s there?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t recommend going up and knocking on the door,” the man said. “Unless you’re a really good, old friend of his.”

  “I can’t say I am,” Clint said, “but I know someone who is.”

  “Well then, let’s send him upstairs,” the bartender suggested.

  “Unfortunately, he’s in Texas.”

  “Oh,” the bartender said, “then I better send Kenny.”

  “Who’s Kenny?”

  “Kenny’s the guy around here we’ll all miss the least,” the man said. “Who should Kenny say wants him?”

  “Tell Kenny it’s Clint Adams.”

  The bartender nodded, started away, then stopped short and looked at Clint.

  “Adams?”

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “Tell him I’m a friend of Rick Hartman.”

  “Rick Hartman,” the bartender repeated, still looking at Clint funny. “I’ll tell him.”

  The bartender went off to deliver the message. Clint had never met Ellington before, but had heard a lot about him from Rick Hartman. He had never heard that the man was a harsh boss or a man other men would be afraid of.

  He drank his beer and waited.

  TWELVE

  Frank Ellington held the girl’s head in his hands lovingly as she continued to suck on him. This was one of the little pleasures of running his own place, interviewing the girls who wanted jobs in the House of Cards. All they had to do was satisfy him, and they got hired.

  This one was very good. A little brunette with a bee-stung mouth you never would have thought could accommodate the entire length and width of his penis. Ellington was a well-endowed man, which is why he had chosen this particular test for the women. If they could please him, they’d be able to please anyone.

  The girl’s head bobbed up and down on him. His cock, glistening with her saliva, slid in and out of her mouth and, occasionally, bumped the back of her throat so that she gagged.

  When the knock came at his door he was immediately livid.

  “What the hell—” he roared.