Barbary Coast (A Searcher Western Book 12)

by Len Levinson

  A mad thought came to mind. I’ll kiss her. She’ll melt in my arms. I’ll carry her to the bed. Maybe she likes the man who sweeps a woman off her feet

  He moved toward her, and she cringed. His heart split in two. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, lurching toward the door. It was locked. She came beside him and threw the latch. They stood inches apart in the vestibule. He felt excited and wild. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his cheek in a sisterly kiss.

  He turned into mush, sagged against the wall, stalwart cavalry officer demolished with one measly kiss. She stepped backward, alarmed by his strange reaction. He couldn’t forget the soft touch of her mouth against his face. If only.

  He dived on the doorknob, found himself in the hallway. She doesn’t love me, Marie’s gone, what’ll I do now? He fled the rooming house, his mind turbulent with erotic images of the golden goddess.

  ~*~

  The gunfighter and widow walked out of the Bedford Arms. The night cooler, she drew her shawl around her shoulders. Across the street, two men circled each other, broken bottles in their hands. She wondered if John Stone had returned to his room.

  ‘Maybe the old man warned him,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll find ’im if we keep at it.’

  She listened for the lie in his voice, but detected none. They came to the Red Rooster Saloon. The bartender recognized the famous gunfighter.

  ‘The usual?’

  ‘I’m a-lookin’ fer a cowboy named John Stone. Know who he is?’

  ‘’Fraid I don’t.’

  ‘He comes in here, tell ’im I want ’im. Pass the word around,’

  Time and motion stopped in the vicinity of Frankie Bendigo. Gamblers and boozers heard the special intonation in his voice. John Stone was a marked man.

  ~*~

  A uniformed railroad conductor threw an empty bottle at Muggs, who dodged out of the way. A boot flew from a bench and narrowly missed his haunch. The loyal mongrel dog trudged twenty paces in front of Slipchuck, searching for John Stone. He sniffed the sidewalk, gutters, doorways, windowsills, benches, no sign of him, his sense of smell impaired by strong unpleasant odors.

  Muggs loved tracking. A dog had to be attentive to small details. Persistence paid off. He crossed a street, dodging a wagon pulled by groping frothing horses. Halfway down the block, a towering figure wore a strange wide-brimmed hat. Muggs barked, Stone heard his voice. Muggs ran into the waiting hands of his friend. Stone scratched his ears.

  ‘Hungry?’ Stone leaned back and appraised his animal. Even fatter than last time. ‘Somebody’s feeding .you, at least.’

  Slipchuck came to a halt in front of John Stone. ‘You’d better get the hell out of town fast. Frankie Bendigo’s a-lookin’ fer you. Randy LaFollette’s widder woman paid him to kill you.’

  Stone barely heard his voice. He felt ugly, stupid, and worthless. ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Pull yerself together.’

  Stone saw the Mother Lode Saloon. One boot followed the other across the mud. On the far side of the street, a drunk stood staring at the moon floating above a chimney. Stone pushed him out of the way and entered the saloon.

  Slipchuck caught up. ‘Johnny, you nearly got kilt onc’t becuzz you was drunk.’

  Stone looked into his eyes. ‘If somebody killed me right now, be doing me a favor.’

  Stone made his way toward the crowded bar. He pulled somebody away and grabbed the passing bartender by the sleeve. ‘‘Whiskey right for me and my father.’

  The bartender felt the steel in Stone’s grip. He placed two glasses on the bar and poured. Stone lifted the glass and tossed it down in one gulp.

  ‘Hit me again.’

  The bartender refilled his glass. A few drinkers recognized the man who shot Randy LaFollette. Stone carried his drink to a table. Slipchuck sat beside him. ‘How come you’re so ornery?’

  Stone remembered Phyllis Redpath’s cruel words: You’re a fine man. He drained his glass and threw it against the wall. Shards of glass fell to the floor. A few pieces landed on the hat of a miner, who arose and headed for Stone.

  ‘You son of a bitch—you throw a glass at me, I’ll kill you.’

  Stone looked at him, extreme malevolence in his eyes. The miner stopped in his trades, turned, and scuffled back to his table.

  ‘Git it off’n yer chest,’ Slipchuck said. ‘Otherwise you’ll explode.’

  ‘She doesn’t love me,’ Stone said. ‘Most beautiful woman I ever saw. I asked her to marry me.’

  ‘What happened to Marie?’

  ‘Isn’t there a waitress in this pigsty? I need a drink.’

  ‘You take another drink, you’ll fall on your face. We can buy a couple horses. I got Rosie convinced to set us up in the ranchin’ business. But if you fight Frankie Bendigo the way you are now, he’ll kill you.’

  ‘The hell he will.’ Stone thought of Phyllis Redpath gazing at him disapprovingly. Should’ve taken her to a nice restaurant. Popped the question in romantic surroundings. He looked at his stained shirt and pants. No wonder she threw me out. Maybe if I take a bath and buy new clothes, she’ll change her mind I'll have her name tattooed on my chest. ‘Where can I get a tattoo this time of night?’

  ‘Frankie Bendigo’s a-gonna shoot you, and you want to git a tattoo?’ Slipchuck scratched his bald head in dismay. Never seen him like this afore.

  A waitress brought a bottle and two glasses. Stone filled his to the brim and slurped off a quarter inch. He felt like screaming. A terrible pressure built up in his head. He rolled another cigarette, forgetting the one in the ashtray. What kind of man am I? Drink all night and sleep all day. Chase women who don’t want me, and forget the one who loved me all my life.

  A tall, sinister figure in a white suit appeared in the doorway, Derek Canfield the gambler. Aloof, serious, Canfield stopped at the edge of Stone’s table.

  ‘You’d better get out of here. Frankie Bendigo’s looking for you.’

  ‘I don’t run from anybody.’ Stone angrily reached for the bottle. Canfield turned to Slipchuck for help.

  ‘Won’t listen to me,’ the old historian said. ‘Maybe you can talk sense into him.’

  Stone was anxious to get it over with. He lurched to his feet and headed for the door.

  ‘Where the hell you goin’ now?’ Slipchuck asked.

  Stone pushed it open, Slipchuck and Derek Canfield followed him to the sidewalk. ‘I’m looking for Frankie Bendigo!’ hollered Stone. ‘If anybody sees him, tell him I’m here!’

  ~*~

  Frankie Bendigo entered the Shamrock Saloon. Amanda searched faces. No tall man in a cavalry hat, but maybe he wore something else. Her feet hurt Frankie Bendigo leaned his elbow on the bar. ‘Galoot name of John Stone been hoe tonight?’

  ‘Heard you was a-lookin’ fer him’ said the man in the apron, ‘but he ain’t been here.’

  ‘Got to be around someplace,’ Frankie muttered. ‘I ain’t quittin’ now.’

  They turned to the door as three men entered. ‘He’s headed this way,’ one said to Frankie Bendigo. ‘Wants to call you out.’

  Frankie Bendigo smiled thinly. ‘I’m easy to find.’

  ~*~

  A small coterie of curious morbid onlookers followed Stone down Kearney Street The news spread like prairie fire through the Barbary Coast. A shootout between Frankie Bendigo and die fastest gun dive.

  Slipchuck tugged Stone’s sleeve. ‘You’re in no condition ...’

  The ex-soldier pulled away from him. Canfield caught up to his other side. ‘I urge you to take stock of yourself. If you want to die, do it for a reason. I can rent a carriage. There’s one over there!’

  Canfield ran toward it. A crowd turned the corner, led by Frankie Bendigo and the lady in black. Too late, Canfield thought He stopped in the middle of the sheet and looked back at John Stone. Should’ve run while you had the chance.

  ~*~

  ‘That’s him,’ said a voice behind Frankie Bendigo.

  The gunfight
er stared down the street at the tall, wide shouldered cowboy. The crowd angled toward the sidewalks and got low behind trash barrels and water troughs. Only two men and a dog stood in the middle of the street. Combat madness held the ex-cavalry officer in its thrall. He flashed on Phyllis Redpath and her brutal lover. You’ re a fine man, but I don ‘t love you.

  Frankie Bendigo saw a filthy cowboy with the glaze of too much whiskey in his eyes. ‘John Stone?’

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘To kill you.’

  Stone looked into Frankie Bendigo’s eyes and saw a coiled rattlesnake. Frankie turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘So you’re the man who shot Randy LaFollette. How’d you do it?’

  ‘You’ll find out if you don’t turn around and walk the hell out of here.’

  ‘You want to go first, or should I?’

  Dizziness came over Stone, as laudanum and whiskey coursed through his brain. Frankie Bendigo saw the change on his face. ‘I think the fool just realized what a pile of shit he fell into. Well, there ain’t no walkin’ away now, cowboy. Shoot you in the front, shoot you in the back, don’t give a damn, get paid any ways.’

  Stone remembered the day he met Robert E. Lee personally. The great man shook his hand and praised his valor. “Keep up the good work.” Warrior spirit surged through Stone’s veins once again. His hand dived toward his gun, the lethal weapon leapt into his hand. He took quick aim at Frankie Bendigo and pulled the trigger. Gunfire exploded in the sheet, something bright and terrible shuck Stone’s left shoulder. The impact spun him around and sent him reeling to the dirt.

  He rolled over, grit his teeth, and aimed the gun in his right hand at Frankie Bendigo standing crooked before him, spine twisted one way, legs the other, gun hanging from his finger, red blotch in the middle of his white shirt. Frankie Bendigo coughed, the gun fell from his hand. Blood soaked Stone’s shirt as he struggled to aim. Before he could pull the trigger, Frankie Bendigo collapsed in the middle of the street.

  Stone’s shoulder felt torn out by the roots, shirt soaked with blood that dripped onto his pants. A wave of dizziness came over him. He dropped to one knee. Amanda LaFollette, standing in a darkened doorway, reached into her pocketbook and pulled out the Smith & Wesson. She righted down the barrel at the man who’d just shot the fastest gun in Frisco.

  The street spun around John Stone. But his fighting spirit wouldn’t go away. He tried to rise. The crowd closed around him. Slipchuck took his elbow. They laid him in the middle of the sheet. ‘Somebody better get the sawbones,’ said Derek Canfield.

  ‘He won’t make it,’ said a voice. ‘Too much blood.’

  Police whistles rent the stillness. Stone saw Bobby Lee floating above him, bedraggled, old, outnumbered, outgunned, fighting for the glory of his name. The general’s face blurred, transmogrified into the high cheekbones and curvaceous lips of Phyllis Redpath. You’re a fine man but I don’t love you.

  Everything went deep black Stone was gone.

  ~*~

  Amanda dropped the Smith & Wesson into her purse. She couldn’t get a clear shot, but maybe he’ll die anyway. The crowd grew larger, police entered the street from both ends, swinging clubs. ‘Break it up! Clear it out! You’re all under arrest!’

  Pandemonium broke as the mob poured into saloons, spilled through alleys, dripped through gaps in police cordons. Amanda remained motionless in the alley, a black veil covering her face.

  Frankie Bendigo lay face down in the street. Slipchuck and Derek Canfield tried to make John Stone comfortable. A mongrel dog whined at his feet. Stone didn’t appear to be breathing. A Black Maria turned the corner, pulled by galloping horses.

  Amanda evaluated the duel. Frankie Bendigo a split second quicker, John Stone more accurate, their hands moved like lightning. An impressive performance by John Stone, who’d been inebriated.

  They loaded John Stone and Frankie Bendigo into the Black Maria. Amanda moved silently past storefronts and cut into the first alley. Somethings you have to do yourself. He’ll not leave this city alive.

  Chapter Nine

  Stone opened his eyes. It was night again. He didn’t know where he was. Deep dull ache in his shoulder. Shootout on Kearney Street. An ocean of pain overwhelmed him. The Frisco gunfighter fell on his face. But Frankie fired first, and nearly got me.

  One of these days, somebody'll kill me. He was astonished by the enormity of his deed. I put my life on the line, for what? He tried to move his head, muscles on his left side tortured strands of agonizing pain. He lost his grip on reality and fell back into the night.

  ~*~

  Attired in black, a veil covering her features, Amanda entered the restaurant Connoisseurs noticed her narrow waist and nicely turned ankle as she sat opposite the retired white-haired ex-gunfighter.

  ‘He’s alive,’ Chauncy said in a low voice, ‘but not by much. Recuperating at Miss Rosie Donahue’s on Russian Hill. It’s touch and go. What you intend to do now?’

  Her eyes glinted. ‘What do you think?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t be a fool. He outgunned the fastest hand in Frisco. This is a dangerous man. But maybe he won’t survive,’

  ‘He definitely won’t, if I have anything to say about it.’

  ~*~

  Somebody touched John Stone’s shoulder. He opened his eyes. A man wearing glasses and a gray mustache leaned over him. Daylight streamed through the curtains.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  Stone made an inarticulate sound.

  ‘I’m Dr. Terry. I removed the bullet from your shoulder three days ago.’ He held up a mangled lump of lead. ‘Did substantial damage. Eat as much as possible, to build up your blood. But you have a strong constitution. You survived bullet wounds before, I see. Understand you were in the war. You’d be surprised at the amount of business a doctor can get from a saloon. Three shootings so far this week. Eight knifings.’ The physician jammed a needle into Store’s left hand, and Stone grunted. ‘Still got feeling there, I see. We won’t have to amputate after all.’

  ~*~

  Ladies’ dresses and coats hung from the walls. Three-way mirrors, potted plants, crystal chandelier. A gentleman with a mustache, wearing an impeccable gray suit, approached with a dazzling smile. ‘How may I help madam today?’

  ‘I’d like to buy some dresses,’ said Amanda LaFollette.

  ‘Madam is out of mourning?’

  ‘Madam will always be mourning, but I want something more appropriate for everyday wear, that will complement my figure.’

  He took a step backward and appraised her professionally through his pince-nez. ‘Your figure is perfect, madam. You could wear anything, or nothing at all, and still be a great beauty.’

  She wanted dignity, style, refinement. Her eyes fell on a blue dress with yellow and white flowers and a medium bodice, pleated skirt. ‘Could I try that?’

  ‘Your taste is flawless. The dress has only just arrived from Paris.’ With a graceful swoop, he lifted it from its peg and carried it into a private dressing room. ‘I’ll have the maid bring you tea.’

  Amanda changed clothes in front of the mirror. It was big around the waist, but they could take it in. It made her appear younger, less severe. She smiled flirtatiously at herself. He won’t be able to resist.

  ~*~

  John Stone opened his eyes. It was night, a lamp burned on the dresser. He heard the voice of his pard.

  ‘The sawbones said you should eat whether you want to or not, Johnny. Here’s some stew. Rosie made it herself.’

  Stone looked up at the old ex-stagecoach driver of the plains. He winced.

  ‘Just open yer mouth. ’at’s all you got to do.’

  Stone whispered hoarsely, ‘Don’t let ’em cut off my arm.’

  ‘They’ll have to shoot me first.’

  Warm nutritious stew rolled over Stone’s tongue and trickled down his throat. Each chew provoked pain on his left side, neck bone connected to the shoulder bone, hear the word of the Lord.<
br />
  ‘I got to say it, Johnny. I been around some, and onc’t I even seen a white buffalo, but you’re hell with a Colt. Dead on target, and you was half in the bag.’

  ‘Lucky shot,’ Stone croaked.

  ‘I’d say mebbe so, if Frankie Bendigo was the only one.’

  Stone chewed a hunk of prime beef, its savory goodness filling him with hope. His soul cried for a campfire on the open range. I’ve got to get back to that. The longer I stay in Frisco, the closer I come to death.

  ~*~

  Amanda stood in front of her mirror, attired only in her underwear. She pulled the pin from the gleaming black bun at the back of her head, a profusion of hair fell to her shoulders. She brushed it out from crown to end in automatic motions practiced over a lifetime, while her mind drifted back to Kearney Street.

  John Stone wasn’t the drunken fool she expected. A former officer in one of the Confederate Army’s elite fighting units. She flailed his animal like reflexes, keen piercing eyes. Struck like a cobra, his aim hue. One moment he appeared out on his feet, then snapped suddenly awake and killed his man.

  She raised scissors and snipped unruly ends of hair. Then she applied cosmetics to cover her deathly pallor. A ravishing beauty came to life before her eyes. She donned earrings, a necklace and bracelet. Then she placed her hands on her hips and gazed into her eyes.

  Underneath it all, he is a man. I'll lure him here. He’ll be at his ultimate moment of pleasure. She reached under her billow, removed a silver dagger, blade sharp as a razor, so much more personal, intimate, and satisfying than a bullet at long range. He'll never escape me.

  Next day she checked into the Versailles Hotel under a false name. The staff believed she was an actress. She came and went in a variety of costumes, and nobody paid any attention.

  ~*~

  Inspector Richardson sat at his desk, studying dossiers. He knew dirty secrets and strange linkages, the hidden movements of power, foibles of the rich, minor infidelities, grand betrayals.