by Len Levinson
‘What about it?’ she replied, trying to steady her voice.
‘Ev’rybody thought Johnny was a dead quick, and I was a-thinkin’ ’bout where ter git the money fer a decent funeral. I seen Randy LaFollette draw on a man in a little Comanchero town near the Rio Grande, ’bout four years ago. You couldn’t see his hand. And after it was over, he went off with a bottle and a whore just like every other man.’
Amanda neatly fell on her face. A cotton ball stuck in her throat. Frankie Bendigo picked up the conversation. ‘Randy LaFollette seem slower the night he got shot?’
‘Not from where I was a-standin’. Johnny’s got the fastest hands I ever seen, and I seen the best You ever heard of Tod Buckalew?’
‘From somewhere in Kansas, wasn’t he?’
‘Johnny shot him too. Where’d you say you knew him from?’
‘Long time ago,’ Frankie Bendigo replied.
‘I ’spect he changed a lot.’ Slipchuck described the virtues and deficiencies of his pard to total strangers. Frankie Bendigo tried to digest what Slipchuck said about Stone’s speed. Better not take him lightly. Frankie Bendigo worked his shoulders nervously. No backing out now.
Amanda LaFollette rationalized what Slipchuck revealed about her husband. Little did they know what a good man he was. Impossible. Unthinkable. She brushed the notion from her mind.
Ahead was the light of the Green Lantern Saloon. ‘Might as well start here,’ Slipchuck said. ‘Looks like they had some trouble.’
Two front windows broken and covered with planks, door torn off the hinges, men with facial cuts and disjointed noses muttering, obviously a brawl.
Frankie Bendigo set his teeth as he approached the door. ‘You go first,’ he said to Slipchuck. ‘Point him out to me. I might not recognize him after all these years.’
~*~
A group of elderly ladies played cards in the parlor of 131 Ashford Street. Stone spotted the landlady among them. ‘Is Miss Redpath in?’
‘She’ll be home after eleven. But I hope you’re not a-gonna bother her then, ’cause she’ll be tired.’
‘Know where I can find her now?’
Nobody offered information, absorbed in their card game. He didn’t see chips on the table. What does Phyllis Redpath do every night? He headed for the door. Objective: Marie. Next step, the Dunbar residence. Sooner I find out what happened to her, sooner I can leave Frisco. He reoriented himself, headed toward Nob Hill rising high in the distance like a beacon in the night.
~*~
Slipchuck, Frankie Bendigo, and Amanda LaFollette entered the Gaiety, a huge well-appointed drinking and gambling establishment Slipchuck stood near the door and scanned faces. ‘If he’s here, I can’t see ’im.’ Amanda’s eyes fell on a sophisticated gentleman shuffling cards, wide Louisiana plantation ted tilted at a rakish angle. ‘Who’s that?’
Frankie Bendigo replied, ‘Derek Canfield the gambler.’ Slipchuck’s ears perked up. ‘Johnny knows ’im.’
Frankie Bendigo walked toward Canfield across a floor crowded with gamblers. Eyes turned to the renowned gunfighter. Canfield glanced up as Frankie Bendigo drew closer. Maybe I cheated somebody, and he’s here to even the score.
‘Know where I can find John Stone?’
‘Haven’t seen him in a few days.’
Frankie Bendigo smiled thinly. ‘I’m lookin’ fer ’im.’
‘Can I tell him why?’
‘Business.’
Canfield knew what Frankie Bendigo’s business was. ‘What’s he done?’
‘What’s it matter?’
Canfield’s eyes fell on Amanda LaFollette. Who the hell's that? ‘This is my last hand.’ He broke into a paroxysm of coughing, cheroot flying through the air. Reaching desperately for his handkerchief, he raised it to his mouth. Everyone saw red foam on his lips.
Muggs prowled the streets of Frisco. John Stone never came out the front door of the saloon where the fight took place. Must’ve left by the rear exit, now lost again in the big city.
So many lights, swarms of people, noise, smoke, confusion. A man aimed a kick at the ugly dog shuffling along the sidewalk, but Muggs leapt away in time, ducked into an alley. Somebody threw a bottle that crashed into the wall above his head. Whiskey spilled onto him, he ran across the street and dived beneath a porch. Hiding in the shadows, he watched two-leggeds pass. If I sit here long enough, he'll come by.
~*~
The Dunbar mansion sprawled on top of Nob Hill, four immense pillars in front, three stories high, surrounded by a fence with two suited gentlemen in a small shed near the entrance. ‘Help you?’ asked one, wearing a handlebar mustache.
‘I’d like to speak to someone in the Dunbar family.’
‘Are you expected?’
‘Just want to ask a few questions.’
‘If you’re not expected, you can’t go in.’
Stone walked around the fence. Behind the mansion was another shed with two men. Most lights extinguished, good folks retire early. Maybe I should get a drink and think this through. He descended the hill.
Clip-clop of horses straight ahead. A fancy carriage rolled toward him, pulled by two horses. He ducked into the shadows. The carriage passed, he perceived the silhouette of a man in the back seat, headed for the mansion. Stone ran after the vehicle, horses’ hooves drowning the sound of his spurs. He leapt onto the rear boot, climbed over the top, dropped inside. No luggage carried. The carriage stopped. A gate creaked open. When a soldier keeps his eyes on his objective, he always succeeds.
~*~
Slipchuck, Frankie Bendigo, and Amanda LaFollette headed toward the next saloon. ‘Ev’rybody knowed you in there,’ Slipchuck said to Frankie. ‘What you say yer last name was?’
‘Din’t say.’
‘It a secret?’ -
The gunfighter looked him in the eye. ‘I’m Frankie Bendigo.’
Slipchuck knew the name, if not the face. A rising star. He turned to the veiled lady. ‘Where’d you meet Johnny?’
‘My husband knew him.’
‘Who was your husband, ma’am?’
‘Randy LaFollette.’
Slipchuck nearly fell through the sidewalk. He swallowed hard as the pieces fell together. Frankie Bendigo laughed softly. ‘Go find your friend. Tell ’im I want to gunfight. They say he’s the fastest hand goin’? Well, he ain’t.’
Slipchuck turned to Amanda. He wanted to say something, but no words came. He stopped walking; they kept going as though he didn’t exist. Pedestrians made way for gunfighter and widow. Got to warn Johnny.
A dog’s bark sounded like a gunshot on the other side of the street. Something appeared underneath a porch. Muggs dodged a wagonload of miners on their way to the Barbary Coast.
Slipchuck scratched the dog’s ear. ‘Know where Johnny is? Figured you might know. Frankie Bendigo’s out for his blood. We’d check every saloon.’
~*~
The carriage came to a stop inside a small building. A gentleman climbed to the ground and disappeared through a door. The driver and shotgun guard unhitched the horses. Stone hunkered in the boot and waited till they woe gone, then approached the door, opened it silently. A long dark corridor smelling of expensive leather and wood. He came to a vestibule with a light on the wall. Ahead was a parlor filled with paintings and sculpture, like a museum.
He moved toward the nearest painting. It showed George Washington, spyglass in hand, standing in front of a horse.
The signature: John Trumbell. One of America’s foremost artists.
He looked at the painting next to it, a vast landscape of a river snaking through verdant farmland, smooth-crested mountains in the distance. Signature: Thomas Cole. Another famous American artist. He looked at the sofa, tall-backed, ornately carved rosewood, covered with red satin. Everything smelled like money. On the table, a handworked silver urn engraved on the bottom, in majestic letters: TIFFANY & CO. MAKERS.
He scrutinized the dark living room. The way some people live. He felt
dirty, afraid to touch anything, like a rat who crawled out of the sewer. Another painting showed a young man and woman playing the flute together. Signature: John G. Brown. A fortune in American art before his eyes. He stood with his hands behind his back, gazing in awe at the products of America’s finest creative minds.
‘Do you approve?’ asked the crackling voice of an old lady.
Stone spun around and drew both Colts.
‘I’ ve got a double-barreled shotgun aimed at your heart, and I can’t miss at this range. I asked if you approved.’ She spoke with a southern accent.
‘Beautiful work ma’am.’
‘Light the lamp on the wall and take another look. I know you’re not a thief.’
Stone struck a match on the seat of his pants. A chubby gray-haired lady, wrapped in a blanket like a cocoon, sat in an upholstered wheelchair. No double-barreled shotgun. ‘How’d you get in?’
‘Tagged a ride on a carriage. I’m looking for a woman named Marie Scanlon, and I understand she knows Josiah Dunbar.’
The old lady narrowed an eye. ‘What do you want her for?’
‘We’re supposed to get married.’ Stone told his story in abbreviated form. ‘Major Evelington said Mr. Dunbar helped her leave town.’
‘Not only did he help her leave, he went with her.’
‘Where’d they go?’
‘We don’t know, and don’t care. If Josiah wants to squander his fortune on a young adventuress, that’s his lookout. What’d you say your name was?’
‘John Stone.’
‘Agatha Dunbar. I’m afraid that’s what your fine young lady is, an adventuress. All she wants is a rich man to take care of her, and she’s found one in Josiah. Nothing more stupid than an older man and younger woman. He thinks he’s a knight in sinning armor, when he’s just a blooming idiot.’ She appeared a hundred years old, face shriveled like an ancient onion.
‘Marie’s not an adventuress,’ Stone said. ‘I think she was desperate. Do you know what happens to women without money?’
‘They become prostitutes. But Josiah wants platonic love. He writes poetry and plays the cello.’
She raised an arm and pulled a thick braided cord with a tassel on the end. A man in a maroon uniform entered the room. ‘Madam?’
‘Bring me the packet on top of my desk, and cognac for my guest.’
The servant backed out of the room. Agatha turned toward Stone. ‘Josiah squanders wealth on women with pretty faces, and I suspect he’ll squander more on your Marie. One day she’ll leave him for a younger man. I apologize for being frank, but we are adults, aren’t we?’
The servant placed a bottle of cognac and two glasses on the table, then handed Agatha a package of documents. She lay them on her lap, thumbed through, pulled out a sheet of paper, handed it to Stone. ‘This is what the Pinkertons told us about Marie Scanlon.’
Stone read the dossier, more comprehensive than the one he bought. She had a mental breakdown and spent time in an asylum in Columbia. She’d been arrested for prostitution in St. Louis, released foe insufficient evidence. Had more alleged lovers than Stone thought, including a law clerk in Philadelphia, a flimflam man in Chicago, a few Army officers, definite weakness for men in uniform. Unfaithful to her husband on numerous occasions, she probably drove him to drink and an early grave.
Stone tossed down his cognac, waited for the kick that mercifully would help him forget, but it never came. The liquor slid down his throat like silk. It matched the quality of the paintings. The servant refilled his glass.
‘You must love her very much,’ said Agatha. ‘What do you plan to do now?’
‘Find somebody who knows where they went’
‘You could hire the Pinkertons, but I don’t suppose you can afford it. What do you do for a living?’
‘Odd jobs.’
‘You seem to be an enterprising young man. Everybody in San Francisco wants an invitation to this residence, and you just walked in. When you saw my paintings, you were enchanted by them. I like you. Perhaps you can work for me. I own stocks, bonds, real estate, part of the railroad, gold and silver mines, slaughterhouses, fishing boats. A man of distinction is hard to find. Name your price?’
‘How’d you like to invest in a ranch in Texas?’
‘We already own several. Would you like to manage one? In time you could own a percentage, or buy your own place. Charles, would you show the picture of Diane to Mr. Stone?’ The servant held a picture in a filigreed silver frame. A girl with medium dark hair gazed at him innocently. Couldn’t be more than sixteen.
‘My granddaughter,’ said Agatha. ‘Sweet child. Attends a girls’ school here in the city. Plays the piano like an angel. Deserves a man of sensitivity. You work for me, you’ll live art and culture, with your beautiful young wife.’
‘Who’ll run off with a younger man.’
‘I were young again, I’d certainly set my cap for you.’ A warm glow came to her eyes. ‘Any woman would be happy to have you. You’re obviously a gentleman, beneath your rather rough and ready exterior.’
~*~
Frankie Bendigo and Amanda LaFollette examined the patrons in the lounge of the Bedford Arms, but couldn’t find the tall man in a Confederate cavalry hat.
‘Let’s have a drink,’ Frankie Bendigo said. ‘I’m gittin’ died.’ He headed for a booth against the back wall, took off his hat, ran his long fingers through greasy black hair. ‘Maybe he left town.’
Amanda ground her teeth anxiously, a knot of tension in her stomach. Frankie Bendigo lit a cigarette, sharp shadows on his vulpine features. ‘If he ain’t in town, you don’t git your money back. You tell me where he is, I’ll finish the job.’
‘We’ve only been to a few places. You’re the one who wants to rest, not me.’
‘Just a drink,’ Frankie said. ‘Then we’ll keep on.’
The waitress served coffee to Amanda and whiskey to Frankie Bendigo, his cool, smooth facade coming apart at the seams. Why must I depend on other people? The tangle in her gut tied tighter. Maybe I should dispose of John Stone myself Just walk behind him and pull the trigger.
~*~
Eleven-thirty at night, Stone headed for 131 Ashford Street. I must have Phyllis Redpath, and nothing else matters. Marie seemed distant and strange. I'll never find her: If Phyllis Redpath won't marry me, I'll get hitched to the sixteen-year-old. Don't give a damn anymore. I'm losing my mind in Frisco. He wanted to run his hands along Phyllis Redpath’s long slim legs, then visualized her in bed with Tommy. No compassion or tenderness, far beyond lust, strange demented animal cruelty. I've got to save her.
He came to 131 Ashford Street. A light shone in her window. He stepped lightly across the porch and eased open the front door. Through the dark parlor, he mark his way to the stairs and went up three at a time. Marie’s door on the left, Phyllis Redpath to the right. He felt Marie’s emanations, but Phyllis was stronger. He squared his shoulders, took off his hat, smoothed his hair. Important to make a good first impression. Whiskey stained his shirt and pants, lending earthy fragrance to the air. He tucked in his shirt, wished he shaved. It reminded him of First Manassas, where the Hampton Legion suffered fifty percent casualties in their baptism of fire, but never retreated and left no prisoners in enemy hands. He rapped his knuckles on the door.
‘Who is it?’ asked the surprised voice of Phyllis Redpath.
He replied through a constricted throat: ‘John Stone.’
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Had to speak with you.’
The golden goddess opened the door. In the shadows, her cheekbones were even more dramatic than usual, solicitude in her strange slanted eyes. ‘You look terrible. Can I get you some tea?’
The black cat peered at Stone from underneath the dresser. Phyllis lit a small stove. ‘Have you been in a fight?’
‘A man walks into a Frisco saloon, he takes his life in his hands.’
She measured spoonfuls of tea. He scrutinized her with desperately
passionate eyes. Demure, refined, no hint of the bitch who’d writhed gleefully in the arms of a cruel satyr. Stone felt light-headed and strange. An artery throbbed in his throat
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked, placing the pot of tea on the table.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m not well at all.’
‘Let me get you some medicine.’
She poured two stiff doses of laudanum. They guzzled together. She sat opposite him and crossed long heavenly legs. A rash broke out on his forehead. She dumped two teaspoons of black buckwheat honey into her tea. He gazed at her fine symmetrical features. Nobody could have lips like that .She's waiting for me to say why I'm here.
He dropped suddenly to his knees before her. She stared at him in alarm. He gazed soulfully into her eyes. ‘I know this sounds strange, but I’ve fallen in love with you. Do you feel any ... ah... feelings like that... for me?’
She appeared shocked. Their eyes met. Her jaw dropped open, revealing her pink tongue. Then she looked away. ‘I’m very touched, but I’m sorry.’ He returned to his chair, feeling like a fool. She reached forward and touched his shoulder. ‘I thought you were in love with Marie ‘
‘Something stronger between you and me.’
‘You don’t even know who I am .’
‘We’ll get married and go to Texas. I’ll work as a cowboy and take care of you. You’ll never have to worry again in your life.’
Her eyelashes fluttered, taken by surprise again. She placed her hand on her breast.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he continued. ‘But I’ve never felt about any woman the way I feel toward you, not even Marie.’
She glanced away, with a faint Mona Lisa smile. ‘I just don’t feel anything for you. But please don’t be hurt. You’re a very fine man.’
He threw one of his Colts onto the table. ‘I’d rather you shot me than say I’m a fine man.’
‘A woman could rely on you.’
He grabbed for a straw, feeling like a pathetic idiot. ‘Do you think ... somehow ... you might change your mind?’
‘Impossible.’
He swallowed more laudanum. She appeared confused. The cat meowed beneath the dresser. Stone wanted to tell her he knew about Tommy, but couldn’t find the words. Get out of here before you say something you’ll regret the rest of your life,