by Len Levinson
‘Lots of others to pay off. You don’t think I’m alone in this, do you?’ He glanced significantly at the other guards.
The lawyer paid the money. A guard opened the cell door. Tilford and Stone passed through portals of freedom. The producer wagged his finger in Tilford’s face. ‘One of these days you’ll go too far, and I’ll leave you in jail!’
They climbed the murky stairwell of the police station. Law enforcement officials looked the other way as funds and other personal belongings were returned to the prisoners. The first glimmer of dawn appeared over the distant mountains. Muggs sat beneath a streetlamp, wagging his tail.
‘Time for breakfast,’ Tilford announced, patting his flat stomach. He turned his hawk eyes on the producer. ‘Where do you propose we dine?’
‘I... well...’
‘There’s a place over there.’
They crossed the street. The sign said JOE’S restaurant.
In the small, clean, rough-hewn room with long communal tables, men wolfed down platters of eggs, bacon, grits, home-baked bread. A Negro cook worked at the stove on the other side of the counter.
Stone, Tilford, the producer, and the lawyer sat at a table in the middle of the restaurant. The friendly overworked waiter brought a pot of coffee, then took their food order. Stone salivated at the fragrance that filled the tiny room. He turned to the lawyer. ‘When’ll I go to court?’
‘All taken care of. Enjoy your coffee.’
‘There’s a man named Ronnie Dossick down there a year for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his children.’
‘He needs a good lawyer.’
‘How much to get him out.’
‘Fifty dollars.’
Stone counted out the money and handed it over. ‘Deal?’ They shook hands. The waiter brought heaps of delicious rich food. They feasted, knives and forks clicking. Stone felt his strength return. He took out the picture of Marie. ‘Anybody see this woman?’
The lawyer stared at it through his eyeglasses. ‘Isn’t she one of Derek Canfield’s friends?’
‘Seen her the last few days?’
‘Most of my recent efforts have been directed at keeping a certain drunken actor out of jail.’
‘Police won’t let a man live in peace,’ declared Tilford. ‘Don’t they know who I am?’ He struck a histrionic pose, laughed at his own foolishness, then touched the back of his hand to Stone’s arm. ‘I owe you one, for last night. You ever need anything. I’m at the Versailles Hotel. You want a place to stay, you can flop with me.’ He pointed his thumb at the producer. ‘That fool’s given me a suite of rooms, more than I’ll ever need.’
‘That’s because,’ the producer hissed, ’you insisted on it in your contract, you destroyer of my tranquility!’ Tilford raised his hand. ‘Waiter—do you serve whiskey?’
The producer grabbed the front of Tilford’s suit. ‘Now listen to me, you big ham. I’ve had just about enough of your shenanigans. If you get arrested once more, I’ll let you die in jail!’
‘My admirers will bail me out, and I’ll sign with another company, while you’ll revert to your usual businessman status, because that’s all you are without me!’
‘This is too much,’ the producer shouted. He slammed his fist on the table, stormed out the door.
The lawyer frowned. ‘I never saw him leave food before. You’ve made him very angry.’
‘He’ll get over it. The truth hurts, but it’s good for him.’
Stone turned to the lawyer. ‘Did you ever speak with Canfield’s woman, by any chance?’
‘What I remember most were her eyes. I had the impression she was much smarter than she let on. Derek Canfield would’ve made a good lawyer. I told him once, and he laughed. “I’m a crook,” he said. “But not a thief.” I wasn’t aware of the difference, but who’d know better than a rogue like Derek Canfield?’
Rosie Donahue stood at the stove, flipping flapjacks. Slipchuck strolled into the kitchen, wearing clothing left behind by other male guests, everything a few sizes too big, including the miner’s boots without spurs.
‘Should never’ve let ’im go out alone,’ Slipchuck said. ‘You don’t wander alone in this town, especially not the Barbary Coast. Maybe you should check the coroner’s office for yer friend.’
‘Seen him come through scrapes you wouldn’t believe. Once he was nearly kilt in a fight with a bear. John Stone’s more likely in jail, or some lady’s bed. They sure do go fer him. Never seen anythin’ like it.’
‘Sounds like when you was young.’
‘Had any brains, would’ve married you in Nebrasky. Still ain’t too late.’
‘What the hell I need you fer? You ain’t never loved me noways. You just want me to take care of you, but I’d like me a younger man, with a little bounce left in his stride.’
Slipchuck walked back and forth behind the stove. ‘I still got my bounce, Rosie.’
‘You broke my heart onc’t, but you’ll never do it again.’
An office building five floors high, Stone climbed the stairs. Lamps barely illuminated long corridors where men wearing cravats and vests scurried about with sheaves of paper under their arms. On the third floor a door was stenciled with Pinkerton Agency.
He entered a small office. A sallow man with a thin mustache looked up from the square of paper he scratched with a pen. ‘Sir?’
‘I’d like to hire you to find somebody.’
‘Let me see if Inspector Richardson is in.’
The clerk walked toward the door at the rear of his office. A painting of General Grant dominated the room. Allan Pinkerton, founder of the agency, was a former Yankee spy. The clerk returned.
‘Last door on the left.’
Stone made his way down the corridor. The atmosphere reminded him of a church. He knocked on the door at its end.
‘Come in!’
A broad-shouldered man of forty sat at a desk, wearing glasses and a light brown mustache, suit cut perfectly to his body. Sharp eyes appraised Stone quickly. ‘You want us to find somebody?’
Stone handed him the photograph of Marie.
Richardson nodded solemnly. ‘Derek Canfield’s woman.’
‘You know her?’
‘Let’s just say she’s been under observation.’
‘For what?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that. Our fee is one hundred dollars, half in advance. Come back in forty-eight hours, should have something for you.’
Stone dragged his feet out of the office building. No sleep last night, couldn’t rest comfortably on the train, bones needed a soft bed. He turned the corner and headed for Russian Hill.
Why did the Pinkertons observe Marie? Could they really find her now? Allan Pinkerton produced little accurate intelligence on the South during the war and bungled many operations.
Got to sleep. He felt like collapsing in the nearest alley. All these goddamned hills. What kind of minds would build a city in such a spot? Across the street he saw a sign for the Versailles Hotel.
He nearly was run down by two horses pulling a wagon. ‘Get of the way !’ The driver cracked his whip over Stone’s head. Stone vaulted through the door of the hotel. The lobby was filled with expensive heavy furniture, thick maroon drapes pulled back from the windows. A portrait of Louis XIV hung above the fireplace.
‘May I help you, sir?’
‘I’m here to see Benjamin Tilford.’
‘You must be with the Stratford Players. Didn’t recognize your costume, sir. Fourth floor, the Blue Room.’
Stone didn’t think he could make it up the stairs. He found the sign for the Blue Room.
Laughter and conversation filtered through the door. Stone rapped his knuckles. The door was opened by an auburn-tressed beauty, her eyes half closed. A strange sweet Chinatown fragrance came to his nostrils. People in disheveled evening dress sat on the floor, passing around a long-stemmed pipe. Benjamin Tilford rose unsteadily to his feet and shook Stone’s hand. ‘Good to see you!’ He in
troduced his former jail mate to the cast of tomorrow’s Richard III.
‘Need to lie down,’ Stone said. ‘Do you have a spare bed?’
Tilford pointed vaguely to a door. Stone stumbled into a pitch-black room, drapes covering the windows. He undressed and groped for the bed. His hand fell on something soft and pleasant to touch.
A woman moaned sleepily. Stone quickly removed his hand from her breast. He lit the lamp. She was young, nicely shaped, naked, fast asleep. Should I take the floor? He blew out the lamp and crawled into bed with her. Mumbling dreamily, she rolled over and embraced him. He drifted off to slumber, in a strange woman’s arms.
~*~
‘All aboard for Carson City, Lodestone, Kansas City, St Louis, and points east. Aboooarrrrdddd!’
The conductor helped Amanda up the stairs. She entered the parlor car and sat alone at a booth near the window. The Negro porter brought a pot of coffee and a slice of pound cake.
Amanda gazed at Denver falling behind her, buildings blurring as the engine gathered speed. Now she was a vagabond on the face of the earth, no man to protect her, only the Smith & Wesson in her purse, her wits, and hatred for someone she’d never seen.
A gentleman removed his hat. ‘Are you alone, madam? May I join you?’
She glanced around, other booths filled. ‘If you like.’
‘My name’s Smith. How do you do?’ Gawky, he wore a plaid suit, had sandy hair parted in the middle, buck teeth, and was as different from Randy LaFollette as a man could get. ‘Where’re you headed?’ he asked.
‘Lodestone.’
‘Isn’t that where they had the big shootout? I see you’re in mourning. I’m a widower myself. Wife died about two years ago, while I was in Cincinnati on business. I sell machinery to factories, didn’t go home until I closed the deal. What did your husband do?’
‘Funeral business.’
‘Good money if there’s not much competition. May I buy you a drink?’
‘The coffee is fine.’
‘You’re a mighty good-looking woman. Ever think of getting married again?’ He passed her his business card. ‘I’m not much to look at, but I know how to sell, and the woman who marries me’ll never worry about a roof over her head or food in the cupboard. Interested?’
‘You do this often?’ she asked.
‘As a matter of fact I do, and nobody ever took me up on it yet. You see, women don’t know what’s good for them. They want the big handsome fellow, instead of the reliable decent Joe such as myself.’ He smiled, front teeth like two shovels.
‘You can be sure,’ Amanda replied, ‘I’ll give your offer the serious consideration it deserves.’
~*~
Stone opened his eyes. A woman lay on top of him, kissing his throat. He wondered if he were dreaming. ‘Are you awake?’ she murmured. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘I don’t even know you,’ he protested weakly.
‘I don’t know you either.’ She ran her lips through the hair on his chest. ‘What does it matter?’
Stone hated to make a fuss. He leaned back and closed his eyes. All those wild stories I heard about Frisco are true. Her lips roved down his body. ‘You’re sweet as sugar,’ she murmured.
He didn’t know what she looked like as they performed the most intimate rites of men and women in love.
~*~
Barrels overflowing with garbage gleamed in the light of the full moon. A rat poked his head out of a hole in the ground and stared at a chunk of rotten meat entwined with rotten cheese. Saliva chipping from his needlelike teeth, he crawled into the open and waddled toward the rare delicacy, fat belly dragging on the ground. No shortage of food in the big city, the rat population immense, thriving, growing by leaps and bounds.
The rat bent over the intoxicating stench. He took one lode behind him, nothing but shadows and moonlight. Returning to the object of his desire, he sank his teeth into it.
At the same moment, fangs pierced his scalp and crushed his skull like an egg. The rat passed into the spirit world with a delicious unsatisfied taste on his tongue. Muggs sucked blood out of the limp creature as he carried him into the shadows. The rat disappeared in three mighty gulps.
Muggs thrust his head in a water trough, then shook himself vigorously. He’d never go hungry in Frisco town.
~*~
The trip to Lodestone took only a few hours. Amanda hated the dirty little mining town from the moment she arrived. A ragged Negro boy carried her valise to the Sheffield Hotel. She splashed water on her face, didn’t bother unpacking, and returned outdoors.
The sidewalks were crowded with rowdy drunken miners; some made way for her, others forced her to step aside. This is where Randy lived and breathed on the last night of his life.
She saw the sign MARSHAL.
Horses were hitched to the rail, deputies chatting on the sidewalk. A heavyset man in black beard and badge sat behind the desk.
‘Are you Marshal John Stone?’ she asked.
‘John Stone ain’t the marshal here anymore, ma’am. He left about a week ago. I’m the new marshal, but I knowed him real well. My name’s Kevin McGeachy. Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around here before.’
‘I received a telegram from the previous marshal, notifying me of my husband’s death. I wanted to hear how it happened.’
‘Who was your husband, ma’am?’
‘Randy LaFollette.’
McGeachy’d been in front of the Grand Palace Saloon on the night John Stone shot the famous gunfighter. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it happened like so. Yer husband called John Stone out, and Johnny beat him by a hair. It was self-defense all the way.’
‘Where’s John Stone now?’
‘Went to San Francisco. What you want to know fer?’
‘Curious about the way my husband died, that’s all. As you can see, I’m in mourning. Please don’t tell anybody I’m in town, Marshal. I’d like to be alone with my grief. You understand?’
‘Sure ’nough, ma’am. You have any trouble, you just call fer Kevin McGeachy.’
~*~
Slone opened his eyes. He had no idea what time it was. A woman kissed him. ‘Are you awake?’ she cooed.
He didn’t recognize her voice. ‘Who are you?’
Another woman rubbed her breast against his arm and nibbled his earlobe. How can you make love to two women you don’t know? One climbed on top of him. The other squirmed her tongue into his ear. Not polite to refuse a lady. The bed creaked. He tried not to think of moral implications. The bed creaked louder. One of the women cut loose a strangled scream of joy. She tossed her long black curls into the air and dug her fingernails into Stone’s shoulder as the door opened behind them.
‘Curtain time—one hour!’
The door slammed, plunging the room into darkness. The women lay against Stone, breathing like horses after a long ride. Then they peeled off, groped for their belongings in the gloom. One lit the lamp on the dresser. In golden effulgence, they put on their underclothes. Stone fell back asleep.
‘Never saw him before,’ said a woman, adjusting her bloomers. ‘Hope he’s still here when we get back.’
~*~
Amanda saw a sign shrouded in darkness: GRAND PALACE.
Windows nailed shut, doors boarded over, biggest building in town, former whorehouse and saloon, where her husband tracked down a cowboy drifter named John Stone.
Randy and John Stone faced off right here, with half the town on the sidelines. The deserted street faded, she imagined crowds and bright lights illuminating two men. Was his last thought of me, or his pain so overwhelming he couldn’t think at all?
She felt the sudden shock of a bullet in the heart, gasped, saw herself as Randy staggering mortally wounded, vomiting blood in the middle of the street.
Her head cleared. Most stores and saloons were boarded up, the town on its way to extinction, mines petered out. She took one last look at the spot her husband died. I’ll find him, Randy. Your death won’t go una
venged, I swear it.
~*~
Derek Canfield stood in front of a mirror, tying his cravat. Eleven o’clock at night, soon the gambling tables would be frill. He coughed into his handkerchief, then looked at the blood. More than usual lately. So fucking what?
He lived with Death all his life. Even as a boy, they said he wouldn’t last long. Pale, cadaverous, he possessed a brilliant mind embittered by pain and the tragedy of the Rebellion.
He donned his carefully tailored frock coat and studied the effect in the mirror. Severe, deadly, charming, sinister, he smiled, then frowned, could project convincingly any mood he wanted. He reached to his waist, pulled his derringer out of its pocket, made sure it was loaded, reinserted the weapon into its holster.
Almost a shootout yesterday with John Stone. Canfield’s hand had been near the grip of his derringer. He recalled the earnest expression on Stone’s face. Typical military idiot. Thinks it was an honor to hack people to death. Canfield laughed darkly as he headed for the door.
Chapter Five
Stone opened his eyes. A woman's arm lay across his chest. He felt starved. What time is it? He rolled out of bed, walked naked to the window, pulled back the curtain, a bright ray of sunlight spiked into his brain.
He closed the curtain and stepped backward, stunned by the brightness. He’d been unconscious a long time, dreamed of dragons and long-fanged monsters. He found his pants lying on the floor, took out a match, lit a lamp. A chubby woman he’d never seen lay naked on her stomach. The clock struck three.
He lit a cigarette, the first puff nearly floated him. Four men played cards at a square table in the parlor. Tilford glanced at Stone. ‘We thought you died in there.’
‘What day is it?’
‘Thursday.’
Stone scratched his head. In bed two days. Something I’m supposed to do. He felt loggy from so much sleep interspersed with strenuous romantic activity. How many were there? He peered out the window at the busy street. A pall of smoke hung over the city. Do I have an appointment today? Then he remembered the Pinkerton man. He returned to the bedroom and finished dressing. If I don't eat something pretty soon, I’ll fall in my tracks. He placed his cavalry hat on his head, and said good-bye to the actors. Two hotel employees carried a drunk from the front door. Stone headed toward the Pinkerton office, feeling sick and debauched. He thought of Slipchuck. Where’s Muggs? Got to eat. He walked into a saloon and angled toward the bar. ‘You got food?’