Barbary Coast (A Searcher Western Book 12)

by Len Levinson

  Mrs. Rosie Donahue’s on Russian Hill. Slipchuck touched the delicate egg bursting from his skull. Goddamn city slickers. Barefoot, naked, shivering in the cool autumn breeze, the old historian of the West made his way toward his hotel sanctuary.

  ~*~

  Gentlemen played cards in the light of gleaming brass lamps. A string quartet played Brahms. High-priced prostitutes in fabulous gowns adorned furniture. Nattily dressed men stood two deep at the bar.

  A bouncer, wearing formal evening clothes, stepped before Stone. ‘Looking fer somebody?’

  ‘Derek Canfield.’

  ‘Said he’d be back in an hour.’

  ‘Was his woman with him?’

  ‘Which one? There’s an empty table, you want to sit down.’

  Stone spotted it against the wall. A fire roared in the hearth on the far side of the room. Gentlemen fingered cards. At Fort Hays, a physician who examined Canfield said he didn’t have long to live. A tinhorn gambler with a smooth line of shit, and Marie fell for it.

  A prostitute with bright red hair sat opposite him, crossed her legs, leaned forward, major portion of bosom revealed. ‘Want some company?’ Magnolia blossoms in her accent, a daughter of the South, educated, almost certainly a former belle. They lined the road and cheered as the cavalry rode to war, but now, in the grim aftermath, too many ended on the frontier, selling their warm bones.

  ‘My name’s Louellen. You’re not dressed properly. I’m surprised they let you in.’

  ‘I’m looking for Derek Canfield.’

  ‘He was just here.’ She glanced at his hat. ‘What outfit were you with?’

  ‘Wade Hampton.’

  ‘My brother died at Petersburg.’

  Silence at the table as the tragedy of war caught up. Both felt embarrassed by how far they’d fallen since the good old days.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want to go upstairs with me?’ she asked.

  He reached into his pocket. ‘Let me give you something for your time.’

  ‘Save it for the Confederate Veterans Fund. I’d better get back to work. So long, soldier. Don’t let ’em get you down.’

  She walked away in a swish of skim. Stone felt saddened by the tragedy of her life. The war tore her from her beautiful world, and landed her in a whorehouse. But at least her customers were gentlemen. She could’ve done far worse, like the cribs at twenty-five cents a throw, and all the disease you could catch.

  The clock on the wall said eleven o’clock. The head of an antelope mounted over the fireplace gazed across the room at a painting of Venus on a clamshell above the bar. Canfield’ll tell me where Marie is. I’ll be with her tonight at last. We’ll pull our lives together and go to Texas.

  She told friends at Fort Hays that her first love died in the war, but she couldn’t forget him. Well, I didn’t then, and haven’t forgot her either.

  A lean man in a white suit and wide-brimmed hat spoke with the bartender, who pointed at John Stone. Wearing mustache and goatee, the man crossed the floor, heading for Stone’s table. Early forties, pale, severe, he looked like Mephistopheles. Stone knew who he was before he opened his mouth.

  ‘I’m Derek Canfield. Looking for a game?’

  ‘I want to find Marie Scanlon. I understand you know her ... quite well.’

  Canfield smiled cordially, his breath carrying the fragrance of cigars and whiskey. ‘Don’t know where she went, sonny.’

  ‘I thought you and she were ... together.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘John Stone.’

  Canfield became disconcerted for a few moments, then reasserted his calm. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be dead?’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘You’re her childhood sweetheart, the man who was supposed to many her?’

  ‘I’ve beat searching for her since the war.’

  Derek Canfield thoughtfully measured Stone. ‘Waitress; bring a bottle and some glasses.’ He sat opposite Stone. ‘So you’re the one. She spoke of you often.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘We had an argument, and she ran off.’

  ‘Didn’t you check to make sure she was all right?’

  ‘No time.’ Canfield covered his mouth with a white handkerchief and coughed. When he drew the handkerchief away, dots of red could be seen in the folds.

  ‘You have no idea where she went?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘You think she’s still in Frisco?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Stone’s voice grew angry. ‘She could be dead, for all you know.’

  ‘I saved her from a husband she couldn’t stand. Now it’s some other fellow’s turn.’

  ‘Where do you think I should start looking?’

  ‘Could be anywhere, but friends of mine are waiting for a game, and I can’t disappoint them.’ Canfield beckoned toward the bar. ‘See you some other time, Stone. You’re an interesting example of something that never was.’

  ‘Did she say anything about leaving San Francisco?’

  ‘She talked about all sorts of things. Maybe she returned to South Carolina. Or sailed to China. How should I know?’

  ‘Doesn't sound like you took very good care of her.’

  ‘Time she grew up like the rest of us. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to earn a living.’

  A group of men pulled up chairs and sat at the table. Canfield skillfully shuffled his deck as Stone headed for the door. A woman needs a man to protect her in Frisco. He saw an image of her lying dead in a ramshackle hotel room and wanted to shoot Derek Canfield.

  Check every hotel in town. The Plaisanee across the street, small, genteel, lamp in the front window. Stone waited for a carriage to roll past, then ran across the muck, foul as any frontier town.

  He entered a small room with frilly white curtains, everything spotless. A well-dressed man with white hair sat behind the desk, reading a Bible.

  ‘Ever see this woman?’ Stone handed him the picture.

  ‘Don’t believe I know her. What’s her name?’

  ‘Marie Scanlon. She’s Derek Canfield’s woman.’

  ‘Never heard of him either.’

  ‘He’s a gambler.’

  ‘Don’t believe in gambling.’

  Stone returned to the sidewalk. Just keep going to hotels. Don't even think about it.

  Chapter Two

  Slipchuck’s feet bled by the time he reached Russian Hill. He wore rags he found in a garbage pile, but no boots, and stepped on a broken bottle. Limping, he wondered what kind of reception to expect at Miss Rosie Donahue’s.

  Won't let me in, prob’ty. Have to wait fer Johnny outside, catch my death from the cold. Johnny might not be back for days. At my age, I should know better. Maybe she’ll take pity on a pore old cowboy, but I ’spect she’ll call the sheriff.

  He turned the knob, the door opened, he entered the vestibule. A lamp burned on the desk in the next room. Should be a register with Johnny’s room number. He advanced into the parlor, a portrait of Andrew Jackson hung over the fireplace. The leather-bound register lay on a corner of the desk. Slipchuck opened it with filthy fingers.

  ‘Lookin’ fer somethin’?’

  He spun around, faced a gray-haired lady in a flower- print dress and apron, with a double-barreled shotgun in her hands. She gazed at his ragged, nearly naked body and dried blood on his face.

  ‘You must be Mr. Slipchuck.’

  ‘Matter of fact I am. Mr. Stone took a room here fer both of us.’

  ‘I been ’spectin’ you. Git cold-conked on the Barbary Coast? Happens to folks who don’t know their way around. You’d better come with me, I’ll look at that head.’ Something familiar about her, but a man runs into many women in his life, they all look alike after a while. He followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Sit down right over there.’

  He dropped onto a chair next to the stove. She threw a few sticks of wood into the firebox, drew water from the pump at the s
ink, took a bottle of whiskey out of the cupboard, set it on the table.

  ‘You don’t reckernize me?’ she asked.

  ‘Come to think of it, you remind me of somebody, but cain’t remember who. Our paths ever cross?’

  ‘You used to say you loved me, Ray Slipchuck!’

  He stared at her. Faded gray hair became jet-black, she stood at the door of a Nebraska stagecoach stop as her father shook the hand of the dashing sun-burnished driver who’d just pulled up in his Concord.

  Young Slipchuck, lean as a whiplash, fire in his eyes, saw the cutie-pie in apron strings, tried not to pay attention. The proprietor led his distinguished guest to a table in the small dark restaurant. The girl brought a bottle of whiskey and a glass, their eyes met, fireworks exploded. An Army officer introduced himself. ‘Apaches up ahead. Hole up a few days, I was you.’

  Slipchuck poured whiskey into his glass. ‘I’m a-goin’ on through, one way or t’other. All the Apaches in the world can’t stop Pitkin Overland. I got eight good horses. Give ’em a run for their money.’

  The girl gazed at him in awe. A real blood-and-guts swashbuckling Indian fighter, wild as the desert itself, he glowed from fires burning deep in his soul. Later, on his way back from the privy, he passed her near the water bucket. ‘Meet me in back of the barn,’ he whispered, ‘after the lights go out.’

  Slipchuck spent the rest of the evening eating, drinking, and swapping injun stories with the officer and local sheriff, as passengers and lone travelers listened and watched respectfully from a distance. At midnight, everyone retired to their rooms.

  Slipchuck climbed out his window and made his way to the barn. She wasn’t there when he arrived. He sat on his heels, waited a half hour, decided she wasn’t coming. About to leave, he heard footsteps, she appeared around the corner, wearing a muslin cloak. Her eyes sparkled with fear and desire. He took her hand and led her toward the open desert.

  Rosie Donahue banged her fist on the table. ‘You said you’d marry me!’

  Slipchuck glanced at beans and flour in the cupboard, another cold winter on the way. ‘Ain’t too late, Rosie.’

  ‘You fergot about me, but I couldn’t ferget you, though I wanted to. I had yer son.’

  Slipchuck blanched. ‘Din’t know that, Rosie.’

  ‘Don’t ask where he is. Maw and Paw threw me out when they found me in a motherly way. All I had was a horse, a blanket, and some clothes. Some church folk helped me, and two of ’em, what couldn’t have children, took in yer son. That’s the last I seen of him, when he was two weeks old.’

  ‘He look like me?’ Slipchuck inquired.

  ‘Ought to throw you out of here, for what you did to me. Takin’ advantage of a poor simple girl to satisfy yer animal lust.’

  ‘I was jest a young kid in them days. Din’t know no better.’

  ‘Came to Frisco in ’49, invested in real estate. Everything’s been goin’ all right and then one night in walks the man who ruined my life.’

  ‘Don’t sound so ruined to me. You did all right Rosie. Hadn’t been fer me, you’d still be in that stagecoach stop, frying steaks in bear grease.’

  She dipped a washcloth into warm water, wrung it out pressed it to the side of his head. Warmth radiated through his brain, he closed his eyes. ‘I din’t mean you no harm, Rosie. But I couldn’t afford a wife. I had nothin’ but a job that could go sour at any moment, an’ finally it did. Then me hair fell out. Them teeth yours?’

  ‘Come from a store in town.’

  ‘Fit all right?’

  ‘Got no complaints.’

  ‘You know, Rosie, you could use a man around here, help you run the place.’

  ~*~

  At the Jolly Whaler Hotel on the Barbary Coast, drunken sailors weaved across the lobby, and an immense wooden anchor was mounted above the fireplace. Stone leaned against the desk, and the gorilla behind it looked up from his newspaper. ‘Room for the night?’

  ‘I’m looking for somebody.’ Stone showed the picture of Marie. ‘She ever stay here?’

  ‘We get mostly seafarin’ men. What’s she to you?’

  ‘Friend of mine.’

  ‘Why don’t you hire a Pinkerton man? Be a lot faster. The Pinkertons don’t find her, she ain’t alive.’

  ‘How much you think it’d cost?’

  ‘Hundred dollars.’

  As Stone turned toward the door, something huge and incredible crashed into him, rocking him back three steps.

  ‘Watch where you’re goin’, mate!’ yelled a barrel-chested sailor in a green and white striped sweater with mountainous shoulders and fists big as cuspidors.

  Stone stepped to the side. ‘After you.’

  The sailor swaggered past, eyeing Stone contemptuously. Stone wanted to hammer him between the eyes. Muggs waited impatiently on the sidewalk. Across the street Ned’s Saloon called to him. A bust-out, dark and dingy, crowded with unwashed humanity, was just what he needed. Have a whiskey and settle down. You’ll find her if you’re persistent.

  ‘What’s yer pleasure?’ asked the bartender, a tall string bean with long black sideburns and a nose like a spoon.

  ‘Whiskey,’ Stone said, holding out the photograph of Marie. ‘Ever see this woman?’

  ‘Ain’t she Derek Canfield’s old lady?’

  ‘Know where she is?’

  He pointed across the room. ‘You see that feller over there? He was a friend of hers.’

  Stone spun around. A man with a strange circular black cloth cap sat in a booth, drawing on a pad of paper. He had swarthy features in need of a shave, on the chubby side. The lapel of his suit had a food stain, his black hair wild and unruly.

  ‘I understand you know Marie Scanlon.’

  The artist glanced up at the tall muscular cowboy. ‘What’s she to you?’

  ‘I’m an old friend of hers. My name’s John Stone.’

  The artist spelled the name with his lips. ‘I believe she mentioned you to me. Aren’t you dead?’

  ‘That’s what everybody keeps telling me, but unfortunately I’m not. Do you know where Marie is now?’

  ‘She left town. Worked for me to earn extra money.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘She modeled for a painting.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  The artist sketched Stone’s high cheekbones, the cleft in his chin. ‘She was unhappy when Canfield threw her out. I was in love with her, I admit it. She was an incredible creature.’

  ‘Canfield didn’t think so.’

  ‘What’s a gambler know of love?’

  ‘I wonder what she saw in him?’

  ‘The painting’s in my studio around the corner. Just let me put the finishing touches on this chawing.’

  The artist scratched pencil across paper, Stone glanced at the bar. A group of men gawked openly at him.

  ‘That’s the man what shot Randy LaFollette,’ somebody said.

  Stone watched for telltale fast-draw movements as he headed for the door. On the sidewalk, he breathed cold night air. Something collided into his back, smashing him against the side of the saloon.

  ‘You still in my way?’ asked the deep-chested sailor in the striped green and white sweater. ‘I think it’s ’bout time you left Frisco.’ He swaggered toward Stone and punched his forefinger into the southerner’s breastbone. ‘I ever see you again, I’ll kick yer ass.’

  A night filled with disappointment and bad news readied the critical point in Stone’s troubled mind. ‘Like hell you will.’

  The sailor’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Go git ’im, Pete,’ said a voice in the crowd.

  Pete’s massive chest looked like the prow of a ship. ‘I’ll feed you to the dogs.’

  Muggs growled at the edge of the crowd as Stone raised his fists, Pete dug in his heels and chopped a right to Stone’s ear, but Stone danced to the side and slammed his fist into Pete’s face. Pete backed up a step, shook his head in surprise. He touched a finger to the end of h
is bloody nose. ‘Chew ’im up,’ somebody goaded.

  Pete threw an overhand right hook to Sterne’s head, but Stone counterpunched with a stiff jab, knocking Pete’s head back, then threw a crunching right hook to Pete’s kidney. Pete emitted a thin squeak of pain, and then the night grew dark around him as Stone’s knuckles ripped into his forehead. Pete went flying backward, landed in the street, and didn’t move.

  Sterne felt the old combat madness. Flexing his bloodied, bruised knuckles, he turned to the sailors who’d been with Pete. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Settle down, mister.’ The voice behind Stone crackled with authority only a gun can provide. Stone turned and saw the weapon in a sailor’s fist.

  ‘Put it away,’ Stone said, ‘or I’ll kill you.’

  The sailor squeezed his trigger. Stone threw himself to the ground and rolled. A bullet smacked into the dirt a few inches from his hip. He quick-drew a Colt and fired.

  A quizzical expression came over the sailor’s face. Blood dribbled from a hole in the middle of his chest. He took an unsteady step toward Stone, then his legs gave out.

  Stone headed toward the nearest alley, bolstering his gun. Police whistles ripped the night ‘Halt!’ He ran across the backyard and dived into an alley, crossed the next street, dropped behind a can of garbage. I made it, he thought.

  ‘He’s over here!’

  A shot rang out, splintering wood on the side of a building near his head. He sped to the end of the alley and peered into the street. ‘There he is.’

  Stone ran to the other end of the alley. Policemen appeared, choking off his retreat He spotted a window. Leg muscles like springs hurled him through the air, he tucked in his head and crashed through glass and the panes, sailed through the air, and landed in bed with two deeply involved people. Both shrieked at the tops of their lungs, bounced three feet with a strange man in an old Confederate cavalry hat. Stone rushed out the door.

  He came to a flight of stairs and ascended four steps at a time. A ladder led to the skylight. He climbed to the top, pushed open the hinges, breathed cool salty night air. He scrambled onto the slippery clapboard roof. Peering over the peak, the rooftops and chimneys of San Francisco stretched before him.

  He slid silently toward the gutter and glanced into the alley below, full of policemen. On the other side of the alley was a large solid stone structure. He crawled toward it as commotion increased in the street. ‘He’s in one of these buildings!’