Barbary Coast (A Searcher Western Book 12)

by Len Levinson

  The ex-soldier’s face flushed with embarrassment Canfield leaned back in his chair and laughed. Keep your eyes on the objective, Stone told himself. ‘If I wanted to meet the elderly gentlemen who crowded around Marie, where would I go?’

  ‘The best-known families are the Crockers, Ralstons, Stanfords, and Hopkins. You’d have to be invited to their homes. I have old suits, but doubt they’d fit you.’

  ‘I know you hate my guts, Canfield, and I hate yours too, but if you hear anything about Marie, I’d appreciate knowing about it.’

  ‘I don’t have time to listen for news. Care to sit in on a few hands of cards?’

  ‘I don’t gamble with tinhorns.’

  ‘Another ex-soldier with a sad story. I’ve run into a million of them.’

  ‘At least I don’t cheat at cards.’

  ‘I don’t shoot people because I’m dying to prove what a big man I am.’

  Stone stared malevolently at the gambler. He looks like a corpse, but he’s sharp. Stone left the saloon. Whenever his mind wasn’t busy, it produced spontaneous images of the golden goddess. He wanted to touch his tongue to her nipples. Her magnificent face floated before him. He yearned to get her naked on a bed.

  Stone approached the Bedford Arms, its bright lights shooting golden rays out the windows into the street. A crowd gathered, staring at the opulent edifice, one of the fanciest and most expensive hotels in San Francisco. In the lobby, well-dressed men and women spoke in polite tones. Stone continued resolutely to the desk. ‘Where might I find Mr. Tobias Moffitt?’

  ‘At the Harvest Moon Ball. On the top floor. Do you have an invitation?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll see me, if he knows I’m here.’

  Stone headed for the stairs. In the distance, he heard an orchestra. Ladies and gentlemen in formal attire gazed at him curiously as he ascended. He came to the top floor. Two rough-looking men in formal suits stood beside doors opening on an immense gaily decorated ballroom with chandeliers and a cathedral like ceiling.

  ‘Could you tell Mr. Moffitt that John Stone is here?’

  The two guards looked at each other doubtfully.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Stone said, ‘but Mr. Moffitt and I are friends. He’ll be angry if he finds out you didn’t let me see him.’

  The two guards conferred. One departed for the interior of the ballroom, where dancers swirled gracefully across the floor. Stone hadn’t seen an affair like this since the great parties before the war. His mind swam with memories of Marie. We danced together in rooms like that.

  He wished he could find her, so he could forget Phyllis Redpath, but the golden goddess intruded herself once more into his mind, kissing her cat. Stone loved her lips, expressive and alive. She was a tall woman, he a tall man, obviously built for each other. Tobias Moffitt, a beetle in black formal clothing, approached, a concerned expression on his face. ‘Johnny—what’s the emergency?’

  ‘Do you remember that woman I told you I’m searching for? Found out she ran off with an elderly southern gentleman, and I was hoping you could introduce me to someone who might help me find out who he is.’

  ‘Colonel Evelington’s your man. Knows everybody in Frisco’s southern contingent. Right this way.’

  Stone followed Moffitt into the ballroom. Bejeweled and begowned ladies, held by gentlemen in black evening clothes, floated past on their toes. No one shouted, threw anything, cursed. Stone tried to remember his good manners. Moffitt stopped beside a gentleman with long white mustaches. ‘May I present Captain John Stone of South Carolina?’

  Stone and Evelington shook hands. The colonel invited Stone to sit beside him at a round table with several other people. He asked the expected question. ‘What outfit were you with?’

  ‘Hampton Brigade.’

  ‘I commanded the Twenty-third Georgia.’

  Stone saw a tough old warhorse. The colonel observed a junior officer who’d seen too much frontline action. They took an instant liking to each other.

  ‘What brings you to Frisco, Captain Stone?’

  ‘I’m looking for a woman.’ He took the picture of Marie out of his shirt pocket. ‘Ever see her?’

  Colonel Evelington studied the picture. ‘Isn’t this Marie Scanlon?’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Seen her at a few parties.’

  ‘I understand she left San Francisco with a certain elderly southern gentleman. You know who he was?’

  ‘Josiah Dunbar.’

  ‘Where’d they go?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask someone in the Dunbar family. Their home is at the top of Nob Hill. You can’t miss it. Biggest one there.’

  ~*~

  Slipchuck sat in a chair beside a window, staring at the lights of San Francisco. Nearly midnight, saloons going full blast, what the hell am I doin’ here? He glanced around the darkened bedroom, Rosie wheezing softly in her sleep. I feel like an old fart. But when I rode with Johnny, we had a good time.

  He remembered brawls and shootouts, the night Johnny took on the Last Chance Saloon in San Antone. Them was the days. His fingers gingerly touched the bump on his head. Me own damn fault. I’d been smart, nawthin’ would’ve happened.

  He yearned for saloons and dancing girls until he couldn’t control himself anymore. The bottom drawer of the dresser contained his old cowboy clothes. New boots and spurs occupied a box in the closet. He dressed in the darkness.

  ‘Where you goin’?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Need a drink.’

  ‘Whiskey in the cupboard, but it ain’t drink you want. I should’ve knowed you couldn’t settle down.’

  ‘A man needs excitement. Startin’ to feel like a house pet.’

  ‘This time they might kill you. Old geezers don’t last long against the hoodlums that prowl the streets of this city.’ Slipchuck strapped on his Colt. ‘I can take care of myself, don’t you worry none about me,’ The knot throbbed on his head, reminding him otherwise, but he put on his cowboy hat and sauntered toward the door. ‘I’II see ya when I see ya.’ Youthful and sprightly, Slipchuck sauntered toward the Barbary Coast.

  ~*~

  Stone in Chinatown passing storefronts closed for the night, incomprehensible Chinese writing everywhere, the omnipresent fragrance of opium. A team of horses’ clip-clopped in the street, pulling an expensive carriage. Three Chinese men approached, hands lost in sleeves of their strange loose clothing, funny little hats, pigtails down their backs.

  A man in strange Oriental garb beckoned. ‘Young girls show you good time, cowboy. You come in here, you be fine.’

  The image of Phyllis Redpath assailed his mind, cheekbones like a Mongol warrior’s woman. He felt deep visceral longing. Got to see her again. Maybe we can work something out. Remember the objective. He turned once again toward Nob Hill when the sound of running footsteps came to his ears.

  ‘Help!’

  A Chinese man sped toward him, followed by hoodlums carrying clubs, barrel staves, knives, brass knuckles. The Chinese man veered to avoid Stone, who found himself moving into the gap between the rapidly departing Oriental and oncoming hoodlums. Hands flicked down, he drew both Colts. ‘Hold it right there, boys!’

  Their leader, barrel-chested, scar on his chin, stepped forward truculently. ‘Why you standin’ up fer the chink?’

  ‘Don’t like the odds.’

  Stone glanced backward, the Chinese man had disappeared. The hoodlums glared malevolently as Stone walked around them, holding his guns leveled.

  ‘We’ll meet again someday,’ barrel chest said. ‘But we’ll see you before you see us.’

  Stone walked away, cut into an alley, ran toward its end, crossed the backyard, found himself on the next street, working his way toward Nob Hill. A man needs all the sobriety he can get, if he wants to survive Frisco.

  Shadows moved in an alley. Mead, four sailors reeled drunkenly. Stone wondered if Phyllis Redpath were home yet. Is she a prostitute, or am I insulting her by even thinking such a thing?r />
  He moved through a dark passageway gleaming with wet stones. A man lay crumpled against a wall, sleeping or maybe dead. Something creaked in a doorway. A man swung a barrel stave at his skull. Stone saw stars, wobbled from side to side, the hoodlum raised the stave for another blow.

  Stone fell to the side, rolled over, somebody kicked him in the ribs. Another boot dug into his kidney. The barrel stave landed on his shoulder. A club struck his butt, somebody shrieked for joy.

  ‘Beat the shit out of ’im!’

  With a superhuman concentration of energy, Stone bounded to his feet, threw a punch at the face in front of him, blocked a barrel stave with his left arm, kicked the groin of a hoodlum, smashed another in the nose, elbowed a third in the throat, picked up a discarded club, slammed it in the mouth of the next hoodlum.

  One alley criminal went for his gun. Stone let go of the club and drew both Colts. Before the hoodlum could aim, Stone opened fire. The alley resounded with gunshots. Two bullets struck the hoodlum on his chest nearly simultaneously and knocked him off his feet His legs became macaroni, he tumbled toward the ground.

  The final two hoodlums held their hands high, one the barrel-chested bully who’d circled around and bushwhacked him. Stone aimed both smoking Colts at barrel chest’s head. ‘I ought to shoot you.’

  Barrel chest smiled nervously, trying to dream up something that could save his life.

  ‘Go ahead, draw on me,’ Stone challenged.

  ‘Ain’t got a gun,’ barrel chest replied.

  ‘Take one of mine.’’ Stone tossed a Colt onto the boardwalk before barrel chest. ‘Pick it up.’

  ‘Not me.’

  Stone raised his empty hands in the air and turned his back to barrel chest. ‘How about now?’

  Tempted, barrel chest decided not to take the chance. He just witnessed a spirited display of shooting, didn’t think he could top it. Stone turned toward him again.

  ‘I ever see you again, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.’

  Stone heard a police whistle. Two uniformed law enforcement officers ran toward him, waving clubs. Barrel chest and his compatriot took off into the nearest alley. Stone headed across the street, but his foot caught in the muck, and he fell on his hands and knees. ‘Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.’

  Stone made a run for it. A gun fired, bullet whistled over his hat. He barreled toward the end of the alley and ended in a backyard. A woman in a fur coat and a man carrying a club fished the pockets of their unlucky unconscious victim. Everyone fled in a different direction as whistles blew around them.

  ‘That’s him over there!’

  Stone spotted the back door to a building and prayed it was open. He ran toward it, twisted the knob. Locked. He dived into the next alley, but policemen appeared at the far end.

  ‘Here he is!’

  Stone found a window. He ran toward it, leapt into the air, and held his arms over his face to protect himself from broken glass. But the window had bars around it, and he saw them too late. Skin scraped from his elbows as he crashed, and then fell to the ground.

  ‘Hold it right there, bub!’

  Stone turned and careened in the opposite direction. More policemen poured into the alley, brandishing guns and clubs. The old soldier placed his back against the wall.

  ‘Get his guns,’ a sergeant ordered.

  ‘Git ’em yerself,’ replied a cautious policeman.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Stone told them.

  ‘That’s what they all say. Cover me, boys.’

  The sergeant reached for Stone’s guns, and Stone, without thinking, hurled a left hook at the sergeant’s jaw. It landed on target, with Stone’s full weight behind it, the sergeant went down for the long count.

  Stone dodged a club speeding at his head. He blocked a blow from a pistol butt. But he didn’t see the club zooming toward his left ear, on his blind side. It cracked sickeningly, Stone suddenly felt as if the world dropped onto him. Buildings turned into rubber, he felt nauseous in the pit of his stomach, but the flames in his warrior heart burned brightly. He slammed his right fist into the teeth of a policeman, the teeth dug into his knuckles. His left fist struck another policeman on the nose, cracking cartilage and bone. He threw an uppercut, caught a policeman coming in, then ducked under another club, trying to find fighting room.

  Police whistles blew, the alley filled with defenders of public decency. Like a blue ocean wave, they rolled over the gallant ex-soldier and beat him slowly but steadily to the ground.

  Chapter Six

  Slipchuck’s hand hovered over his gun as he entered the Red Parrot Saloon. He felt like a man again, instead of a lady’s home companion. Likes a good time. He stepped out of the backlight and surveyed the establishment with watery eyes.

  No John Stone. Slipchuck walked out of the Red Parrot, heading for the saloon across the sheet. Sooner or later I'll find ’im. He stepped out of the way of three big tough-looking sailors. A drunk lurched into Slipchuck and nearly knocked him over. He entered Mike’s Saloon and scanned faces. Not here either.

  Next block, a three-story building was brightly lit, with men passing back and forth through the door. No sign hung in front. ‘What kind of place is that?’ Slipchuck asked a passing drunk.

  ‘Chinese whorehouse.’

  Slipchuck scratched his beard. Never slept with a Chinese girl. He examined the contents of his pockets, found seventeen dollars. Never know when this chance might come again.

  He climbed the steps and entered the whorehouse. The hall led to a series of rooms where men sat and conversed with young Chinese women in short dresses. Couples departed for the back door. A China doll swooped toward Slipchuck. ‘You want fickety-fick, Daddy?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five dollar.’

  He followed her up a flight of stairs and gazed longingly at her little round buns directly in front of his nose. God protects an honest cowboy. They entered a small dark bedroom, drapes covering the windows. She lit a candle in an ornate pewter holder on the dresser. ‘Take off clothes, Daddy.’

  With trembling hands, he ripped away his shirt and pants, showing bony elbows and bowed legs.

  ‘Give me a kiss, Daddy.’

  He walked toward her, feeling like a young stagecoach driver again, and took her into his bony arms. Their lips touched, electricity shot through his innards. Overcome with passion, he didn’t hear the closet door open behind him. A man with a club stepped into the bedroom. The whore pulled back from Slipchuck.

  ‘Playing hard to git, you li’l rascal?’ Slipchuck said happily, reaching for her again.

  The club crashed onto his head.

  ~*~

  Stone opened his eyes and groaned. Vague shadows and globs of light, pain everywhere, his head felt cracked in two.

  ‘Have some water,’ said a voice above him.

  Stone struggled to roll onto his back, but couldn’t make it. Two hands assisted, he tumbled and found himself staring at the murky ceiling of the same jail he’d visited previously. Someone held a canteen to his lips. Painfully he swallowed. Every cubic inch of his body hurt, ribs surely broken. His teeth felt loose in his head. Left eye wouldn’t open. Taste of blood on his tongue. I need a doctor.

  No doctors in jail, no justice, no mercy. Dizziness engulfed him, he fell back into the darkness. The golden goddess floated before him. A hand held the canteen near his mouth. He took another sip.

  ‘Git some sleep, I’ll watch fer you.’

  Stone tried to focus on the face. Slim Simpson, the cowboy from Texas, held the canteen. ‘How’d you get in here?’ Stone asked weakly.

  ‘Punched a bartender. You look like you got caught in a stompede. What the hell happened?’

  Stone tried to remember, but his mind wouldn’t function. He closed his eyes and saw the face of the golden goddess. She bent forward and kissed his lips, the sting and ache fell away like clods of earth in a warm flowing stream.

  ~*~

  Slipc
huck opened his eyes. He lay naked on a pile of garbage behind a restaurant. A cold autumn night, he felt like a block of ice. He raised his eyes. A rat, its mouth full of carrot, gazed at him from a few inches away. Slipchuck jumped to his feet.

  His knees oscillated and head felt cleaved in two. Wrapping his arms around himself for warmth, he stepped gingerly away from the garbage. The reek overpowering, he nearly gagged, embarrassed without clothes. Maybe I’ll git arrested. Something throbbed mercilessly atop his head. He touched a huge lump. Women be the ruination of me yet

  A breeze blew through the alley, carrying yesterday’s newspaper. Slipchuck caught pages and wrapped them around his waist. On tiptoes, he made his way toward Russian Hill.

  The first glimmer of dawn appeared over the rooftops of San Francisco. A lone wagon rumbled over the street horse still loggy with sleep, the driver slouched on his seat, eyes half-closed. Slipchuck came to the rooming house, unlocked the room he shared with Johnny, whose bed hadn’t been slept in either. He gathered clothes, carried them downstairs, started a fire in the stove, worked the pump, and drew water.

  He sat on a chair, waiting for the water to heat Rosie walked into the kitchen, wrapped in a robe. She took one look at Slipchuck and burst into laughter. Slipchuck blushed to the roots of his remaining hairs. She prepared breakfast, while his bathwater heated slowly. ‘I ain’t cut out fer home life,’ he muttered.

  ‘Then how come this is the first place you run after gittin’ yer tail kicked again?’

  ‘Need a bath,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You never loved me then, you don’t love me now. You’re nothin’ more’n a ramblin’ stagecoach man, you got low habits.’

  ‘A man needs to raise hell onc’t in a while. Wouldn’t’ve happened if’n I was with Johnny. We watch each other’s back real good. Wonder where the hell he is?’

  ~*~

  Amanda LaFollette rode in a carriage, her valise on the seat opposite her. Morning crowds of shoppers and businessmen filled the sidewalks, the special aura of San Francisco crackling the air like electricity.

  She’d previously visited the great seaport city with Randy. They’d gone to the opera and ballet, dined every night in a wonderful restaurant. Special respect and adulation were showered upon her husband, because of his reputation.