Bad Business

by J. R. Roberts

  “Sorry, Mr. Ellington,” Kenny’s voice said, timidly, “but there’s a man downstairs to see you.”

  “Who the hell is it?”

  “He says he’s a friend of Rick Hartman,” Kenny said. “His name’s Clint Adams.”

  He looked down at the girl, felt himself nearing climax.

  “Tell him I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked down at the girl again, and she was looking up at him, her little tongue tickling the spongy head of his cock.

  “You’ve got five minutes to get this job,” he told her.

  She practically swallowed him then, going back to work in earnest.

  Six minutes later Ellington came down the stairs and entered the saloon through a doorway behind the bar. The girl had gotten the job.

  “Here he is,” the bartender said. “Hey, Boss, this is Clint—”

  “Clint Adams,” Ellington said, sticking out his hand. “Go back to what you were doin’, Wesley. How are ya, Adams?”

  Ellington was a big man gone to fat but still had a lot of strength in his grip. If he was the same man Rick Hartman had spoken of many times, he had gained about forty or fifty pounds since Rick last saw him.

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “What are you doing in San Francisco?”

  “If we can go somewhere we can talk,” Clint said, “I’ll tell you.”

  “Sure,” Ellington said, figuring the girl was gone by now. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  Before they left, though, he said to the bartender, “Damn it, two beers over here, Wesley. What the hell are ya doin’?”

  “You told me to go back—”

  “Never mind what I told you, gimme what I want!” Ellington shouted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The bartender put two beers on the bar top. Ellington picked them both up.

  “Follow me.”

  He led Clint through the doorway behind the bar and up a flight of stairs. They went through a door into a large office with the biggest desk Clint had ever seen. Ellington put one beer down on the desk, then walked around it and sat down.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “Let’s talk. How’s Rick?”

  “Rick’s fine,” Clint said, picking up the beer. “If he knew I was here, I’m sure he would have sent his regards.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “As it turns out,” Clint said, “I’m here for a very different reason than the one that originally brought me here.”

  “What was that?”

  “That’s not important,” Clint said. “I’m doing something else, now. It involves these people.” He placed the list Lily had given him on the desk and pushed it to Ellington’s side of the desk.

  Ellington picked it up and read it.

  “You know any of those people?” Clint asked.

  “I know all of these people,” Ellington said. “What’s your interest in them?”

  “I want to know which of them wants a woman named Lillian Kingsforth dead.”

  “Ah, the lovely Lily Kingsforth,” Ellington said, putting the list down. “I heard some of these people were trying to buy her out, but I hadn’t heard that anyone tried to kill her.”

  “I need to know as much as I can about these people,” Clint said, picking the list up again. “Can you help me with that?”

  “Sure,” Ellington said. “How soon do you want the information?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Ellington nodded.

  “Come back here this evening and I’ll have it for you.”

  “That soon?”

  “I just need to get it all written down,” Ellington said.

  “By this evening?”

  “Come back at nine,” Ellington said. “Have some drinks, do some gambling. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

  “Should I leave the list?” Clint asked, standing up.

  “No,” Ellington said. “I’ll remember.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Ellington said. “Any friend of Rick’s ...”

  Ellington walked Clint back down to the saloon.

  “Another beer?”

  “No, thanks,” Clint said. “I’ve had enough for now.”

  “I assume you’re staying with the lady?” Ellington asked. “I mean, at her hotel?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If I find out anything urgent I’ll send word,” the other man said.

  “Thanks, Ellington.”

  “Just call me Frank, Clint.”

  As Clint left, Ellington was berating the bartender about something. Clint hoped there was enough left of the man Rick Hartman used to know to get the job done for him.

  THIRTEEN

  When Clint got back to the Diamond Palace, there was a message at the front desk for him. Clint read it right there and then. It said: “Meet me at seven p.m. tonight, outside the Alhambra.” It wasn’t signed.

  “How did this get here?” he asked the clerk.

  “I found it on the desk, sir.”

  “How did it get on your desk without you seeing someone put it there?”

  “Honest, sir, I was only away from the desk for a minute,” the clerk said. “I could get fired if you—”

  “Forget it,” Clint said. “Just keep a sharp eye out from now on. I want to know if any strangers are hanging around.”

  “Strangers?”

  “Anybody you don’t recognize. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint put the note in his pocket and went up to his room. Whoever had sent the message had picked one of the busiest places in Portsmouth Square to meet, and he was sure it was no accident.

  He went to his window and stared out at the street below. There wasn’t much for him to do until seven, when he would keep his meeting despite not knowing who it was with, and then nine, when he was to go back to the House of Cards.

  The meeting, he was sure, was going to be about William Pinkerton’s business. There was no one else who would send him that kind of note. No one except for Ellington knew that he was working for Lily Kingsforth, so the meet had to be about his original business. Someone had probably gone to the Market Street hotel looking for him and been directed to the Diamond Palace by the clerk there.

  Suddenly, he remembered the telegram he’d sent to Pinkerton in Chicago. Apparently, there had been no response from William, yet. That didn’t sit right with him. He had been sure the man would send back a reply as soon as he read Clint’s telegram.

  He went back down to the front desk. Not only did he want to check on the telegram but he also decided to check on that building Lily had walked him to, the one the crate had fallen from.

  “I haven’t seen anyone yet, sir,” the clerk said, hurriedly.

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t expect you to this soon. I just wanted to ask if a telegram came for me?”

  “No, sir,” the clerk said. “I would have given it to you as soon as you came in, sir.”

  “Okay, look, if a telegram does come for me while I’m out, I want you to put it in my room. Better yet, just slip it under the door so it’s there when I get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “You can count on me, Mr. Adams, sir.”

  “I know I can.”

  “And sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, thank you for not telling Mrs. Kingsforth about me, uh, being away from the desk—”

  “That’ll be our little secret, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And we won’t mention it again, right?”

  “Right, sir,” the clerk said. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “I’ll be on the lookout, sir,” the clerk said, “for everything.”

  FOURTEEN

  Clint retraced his steps from that afternoon, when Lily took him to the building. It was a large
two-story warehouse, with several doors, all of which were locked. He knocked on all of them, banged on them, but nobody answered. There was a hardware store across the street, so he went over there.

  He entered and waited for the man behind the desk to finish with a customer.

  “Can I help ya?” the man asked.

  “I’m interested in that building across the street,” Clint said.

  “Interested?”

  “Do you know who owns it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Do you see people going in and out?”

  “Well, sure, sometimes.”

  “A while ago a crate fell from a window, almost hit a woman. You know anything about that?”

  “What would I know?”

  “Well, for instance, did you even know that it happened?”

  “Well, sure, I was here, I heard the crash, but I didn’t see no woman.”

  “From here?” Clint turned, to see what he could see out the window from where he was standing.

  “Well, no,” the man said. “I walked to the door and looked out.”

  “And you didn’t see a woman who was almost hit by the crate?”

  “No.”

  “And after the crate hit the ground did anyone come out of the building?”

  “No, not that I saw, and I stood there a few minutes,” the man said.

  “So a crate fell and nobody did anything about it?”

  “Well, they musta, ’cause when I went home it was gone.”

  “And did the police come?”

  “If they did, they didn’t talk to me,” the clerk said, “and I never saw them.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Sure is,” the man said. “I got storage on my second floor, and if somethin’ fell outta my window, the police would be on me right away, I can tell you that!”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “thanks.”

  “You gonna try to get inside that building?” the man asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Should be interestin’,” the clerk said. “I ain’t never even seen any of their doors open. I always wondered who owned it.”

  “If I find out,” Clint said, “I’ll let you know.”

  Back across the street Clint again pounded on the door, but no one answered. He tried to see inside some windows, but they were apparently blocked from the inside. He backed up and just about stepped into the path of a passing buckboard in an attempt to see some of the upper window. For a moment he thought he saw someone looking out one of them, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He decided this was something else Frank Ellington could help him with, finding out who owned this building and what was inside.

  He turned and headed back toward his hotel.

  Across the street the hardware store clerk watched as Clint pounded on doors and tried to see through windows, then gave up and left.

  The clerk looked up and was sure he saw someone looking out one of the second-floor windows.

  Harry Dean heard the pounding on the door the first time and ignored it. Those were his instructions. Ignore any knocking at the door, and never open them. He had also been told never to go to the windows, but when the pounding started again his curiosity got the better of him. He left his station at a small desk and walked to the front windows, which—for the most part—had been painted over, although from outside it just looked like they were covered with dirt.

  He looked down at the street and, as a man backed into the street and looked up, he suddenly jerked back, hoping he hadn’t been seen.

  As the man on the street walked away, Harry chanced another look. This time, though, he also looked across the street and saw the clerk standing in the doorway of the hardware store. For a split second he thought they locked eyes, but then he pulled back again and stayed away from the window after that.

  FIFTEEN

  When Clint got back to the Diamond House, he went to his room to rest. At quarter to seven he went back down, and the desk clerk waved him over.

  “You got something for me?” he asked.

  “No, sir, but Mrs. Kingsforth would like you to go to her office.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Do you remember the way, sir?”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  Clint went down the hall to Lily’s door and knocked.

  “Come in,” her voice said.

  He opened the door and entered. Immediately, his arms were pinned behind his back by someone whose strength was immense. He tried hard, but couldn’t break free.

  “Jesse, let him go!” Lily said. “That’s Mr. Adams.”

  Clint’s arms were freed, and Jesse turned him around. He had to look up to see the man’s smile.

  “Sorry,” Jesse said. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “Clint, this is Jesse, the man I told you about,” Lily said. “Jesse, Clint Adams.”

  “Glad to meet ya,” Jesse said, sticking out a hand the size of a ham. He was six and a half feet tall, almost that wide, dark-haired, about forty.

  “Lily,” Clint said, “with Jesse around to protect you why do you need me?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I feel safe with Jesse around, but he doesn’t carry a gun, and he’s not a detective.”

  “No gun?” Clint asked, looking at Jesse.

  “I’d just shoot myself in the foot,” Jesse said.

  “I see.” Clint turned to Lily. “I’m not a detective, either.”

  “I think I should keep Jesse around me while you find out who’s behind all of this,” she said. “The pressure, the attempt on my life.”

  “Yes, about that,” Clint said. “I talked to somebody across the street from that building. He heard the crate fall, saw it, but didn’t see you.”

  “Well, as soon as it hit the ground I got away from there as fast as I could. I was hoping no one saw me.”

  “Looks like you got your wish,” Clint said.

  “Have you found out anything else?”

  “No,” Clint said, “not yet, but I’m working on those names you gave me.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to meet Jesse,” she said. “If you need him for anything, he’ll be available.”

  “Be my pleasure to help, Mr. Adams,” Jesse said, still smiling.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Jesse,” Clint said. “I have an appointment at seven, and it looks like I’m going to be late. We’ll talk again, soon.”

  “Yes,” Lily said, “soon.”

  “Jesse,” Clint said, with a nod, and left the office.

  Clint left the hotel and walked toward Portsmouth Square. As he was approaching the Alhambra, he saw a crowd assembled out in front. He moved to the fringe of the crowd and asked somebody, “What’s going on?”

  “Some man got run down by a buckboard,” a man answered.

  “Is he dead?” Clint asked.

  “Dead as can be,” the man said.

  “Anybody know who he is?”

  The man shrugged and said, “Can’t see a thing from back here.”

  Well, he was right about that.

  Clint started pushing through the crowd until he got near the front. From there he could see the mangled body of a man lying in the street. He was obviously dead. There was one policeman standing near the body, while another tried to hold back the crowd.

  “Anybody call for a doctor?” he asked.

  “Doctor’s on the way,” the policeman said, “and more police.”

  “More police,” Clint said. “That’s good.”

  “Do you know this man, sir?” the policeman asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “I don’t know him, at all.”

  But he had the uncomfortable feeling that this was the man he was supposed to be meeting. If he hadn’t been about ten minutes late, maybe he would have.

  “Do you know his name?” Clint asked.

  “Why would you be interested in his name,” the policeman asked, “if you don’t know him?”

  “Well,” Clint
said, “I really can’t tell all that much from what I can see, but if you told me his name—”

  “We don’t know his name yet, sir,” the young policeman admitted. “We’re waiting for a superior officer to come.”

  “I see.”

  “If you like,” the man said, “you can wait and talk with Lieutenant Hargrove when he gets here.”

  “Lieutenant Hargrove?”

  “Yes,” the man said, “he’s going to come with Inspectors Burns and Logan. At least, that’s what we were told.”

  SIXTEEN

  In the end Clint decided to stay around, even though it might create trouble for him. He wanted to at least find out the dead man’s name. Maybe if he could find out what he was doing there, he’d know whether or not it was the man he was supposed to meet.

  So he waited . . .

  Inspectors Burns and Logan finally appeared, with Lieutenant Hargrove behind them. There were also several other uniformed policemen who set about helping the other man hold back the crowd.

  “What happened?” Burns asked the two policemen.

  “Not sure,” the first policeman said. “Witnesses said a buckboard ran this guy down.”

  “That sounds like it was accidental,” Hargrove said. “Why are we here?”

  “Witnesses also said it was done deliberately.”

  “Great,” Logan said, “now we’re gonna have to question everybody.”

  “Including me,” Clint said, loudly.

  The two inspectors and the lieutenant looked over at Clint.

  “Adams?” Burns asked. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “I was in the area, saw the commotion,” Clint said.

  “Let him through,” Hargrove said.

  The policeman let Clint pass, and he joined the others, looking down at the body.

  “Did you see this happen?” Hargrove asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “I only saw the crowd.”

  “Do you know him?” Burns asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Clint said. “I haven’t gotten a clear look at him.”

  “Okay, well, take one,” Logan said. He leaned down and rolled the dead man over so they could all see his face. “Know ’im?”