Barbary Coast (A Searcher Western Book 12)

by Len Levinson

  Somebody tapped his shoulder. He turned around. An eighteen-year-old boy stood there, chewing a toothpick, cocky, too much hooch down the hatch.

  ‘You John Stone?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  The kid snorted. ‘How could you be the fastest gun alive? You don’t look like much to me.’

  Slipchuck stepped between them, held his hands out to the kid. ‘He’s recoverin’ from a gunshot. It ain’t fair to call him out when he’s sick. You wanna draw on somebody, draw on me.’

  ‘You look ready to fall on yer face, you old fart. Get the hell out of my way.’

  Stone placed his hand on Slipchuck’s shoulder. ‘Step back.’

  ‘You ain’t up to this, Johnny. Done lost enough Mood to float a canoe.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said another voice. ‘John Stone’s been wounded. Wouldn’t be a fair fight.’

  The kid spun around and pasted his gunsights on the intrepid speaker. ‘You wounded?’

  ‘Well... no...’

  ‘Then haul iron.’

  ‘I’m not aimed.’

  ‘Somebody give the son of a bitch a gun!’ The kid aimed at the stout gentleman next to the intrepid speaker.

  The stout gentleman found he couldn’t say no. Drawing his gun, he handed it to the intrepid speaker, who stepped backward.

  ‘Take it,’ said the kid, ‘or I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

  The kid heard a voice behind him. ‘If it’s me you want, here I am.’

  The kid turned around. John Stone stood with his legs spread apart, in his gunfighter crouch. With a cry of triumph, the kid went for his Colt.

  Stone’s hand dropped down. His muscles moved slowly, as in a nightmare. Before his fingers touched his gun grip, the kid’s gun cleared his holster. Stone saw the barrel come up, He’s got me.

  A dark furry projectile zoomed through the air. Shaped like an artillery shell baring teeth like steel spikes, Muggs fastened his jaws on the wrist of the kid. The faithful hound tugged hard, the hand nearly came off in his mouth. The kid howled, but Muggs wouldn't let go. He shook his head from side to side, to work the hand loose. The gun fell to the floor. Two hands scooped it up, the weapon disappeared into somebody’s shirt.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Stone hollered.

  Muggs let go. The kid sagged to his knees, hand hanging by a few mangled tendons, shrieking.

  Slipchuck led Stone to the street. ‘We’ll be home a-fore you know it.’

  Stone reached down and scratched Muggs’s ear. ‘You did a good job.’

  Muggs wagged his tail. They made their way to Russian Hill. Stone climbed the stairs, took a shot of laudanum, flopped onto his bed, closed his eyes, and was gone.

  ‘Pushed hisself too hard,’ said Slipchuck, standing with Rosie beside Stone’s bed. ‘I think he left the best part of his mind in the war.’

  ‘Messenger brought this.’

  Slipchuck placed the pink fragrant envelope on the dresser near Stone. A curl of French perfume arose to Stone’s nostrils.

  ~*~

  Amanda LaFollette evaluated a blue satin dress held aloft by the salesman. ‘I want something more, shall we say, revealing?’

  ‘Why didn't you say so before, madam?’ In a tiff, he waltzed away, plucked down a dress of pale green silk.

  She asked, ‘Could I wear it with a jacket, so I could keep myself covered until ….’

  ‘Of course, madam. I have just the thing.’ He showed a black lace garment. ‘Why don’t you try it on?’

  She slipped into the gown. Francois appeared at the appropriate moment and buttoned her up. She stood in front of the mirror. The outline of her nipples could be seen through the fabric. She looked like a harlot.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘He will not be able to resist you, madam.’

  ~*~

  Stone opened his eyes. He smelled like a woman. The pink envelope appeared beneath his gaze. He held it to his nose. No return address. He tore it open clumsily. A ticket. The Chamber Orchestra of San Francisco presenting an all-Beethoven program at the Olympia Theater, curtain at eight. The clock on the dresser said five o’clock.

  Stone shaved in front of the mirror. His shoulder wound resembled an angry purple flower. Tanned cheeks gradually came into view. A good meal and a night of Beethoven with a mysterious lady. Who could she be? A secret admirer.

  He dressed in blue trousers and red shirt, with a black bandanna around his neck. Then he strapped on his guns, tied holsters to his legs, faced the mirror, quick-drew. Fast, but not fast enough. He put on his fringed buckskin jacket, with its fragrance of leather, campfires, and the open range.

  Slipchuck carved a roast beef on a bed of carrots, potatoes, mushrooms, and gravy, while Rosie carried a loaf of bread to the table.

  ‘Goin’ someplace?’ Slipchuck asked Stone.

  ‘Somebody sent me a ticket to a conceit.’

  Rosie appraised him skeptically. ‘You’re too good-lookin’ fer yer own good.’

  ‘Not all women think so.’

  ‘A man like you, he don’t settle down, he’ll end up like this.’ She pointed her hand at Slipchuck.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with me?’ Slipchuck asked. ‘You never built nothin’ up. If it weren’t fer me, you’d be in the damn street.’

  Slipchuck pointed his callused finger at her. ‘I did all right a-fore I run into you. I’ll do all right when you’re gone, which is right now.’ He threw down his napkin and walked out of the dining room. A few moments later, the front door slammed.

  ‘Don’t know why I talk to him that way,’ Rosie said. ‘Guess I cain’t forgive him for what he did to me.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘None of yer business, but it was pretty bad.’

  ‘The ranch won’t work if both of you don’t pull together.’

  ‘You’re not comin’, so what difference does it make? You was supposed to ramrod.’

  ‘Slim could do it.’

  ‘Slipchuck said you was best.’

  ‘Got to disappear for a while.’

  She narrowed her left eye. ‘Law after you? Leave when it’s dark, and head fer the foothills. You can hole up in lots of spots. If the sheriff comes a-snoopin’, I never seen you in me life.’

  Chapter Ten

  Amanda LaFollette filled the ruby with white crystalline powder, using the end of a nail file as a small shovel. She closed the ring and put it on her finger. Everything was clean and in place, a bottle of wine and two glasses on file table.

  She placed the silver dagger beneath her pillow, in case file poison didn’t work. The gun was in her purse just in case. She stood before the mirror and applied cosmetics. Her sallow cheeks blushed with the passion of love, as layers of expensive print woe applied. Angry eyes became pools of hidden delight; her grim vengeful mouth, the warm lips of a passionate woman.

  Curtain time in half an hour. She took one last look at the room. This is where he'll die.

  ~*~

  A crowd of well-dressed San Franciscans gathered beneath the blazing marquee of the Olympia Theater. One carriage after another discharged concertgoers. Jewelry glittered on ladies, men wore stovepipe hats and black cutaway suits. Ordinary folks passed on the sidewalk and gawked at the swells.

  ‘Ain’t that the man what shot Frankie Bendigo?’

  John Stone stepped from his carriage, his cleanly shaven face illuminated by bright lights. His gun grips gleamed as he headed toward the door. Ladies’ perfume swept over him, with cigar smoke and the familiar bask San Francisco reek of wood stoves, garbage, and offal. Taller than everyone, he passed among them in quick firm strides. The usher took his ticket and handed him a program. He entered the thick-carpeted lobby, a bar against the wall.

  ‘Whiskey.’

  The bartender filled a glass. Stone knocked it back. A lady brushed against him. Their eyes met. Her husband pulled her away. Stone ordered another whiskey and carried it to the shadows beside a Corinthian column, to ob
serve San Francisco high society, vastly different from what a man saw in saloons.

  Well groomed, smooth, expensive, they paraded past the cowboy sipping whiskey in the shadows. He hadn’t seen women dressed so extravagantly since Old Dixie. The men moved with the dignity of Roman senators. I belonged to this world once, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

  He heard a commotion. Ushers made a path through the crowd. Well-dressed men and women gawked like children at a little old lady in a wheelchair. ‘Agatha Dunbar,’ the bartender whispered in Stone’s ear. ‘Richest family on Nob Hill.’

  The renowned dowager queen, imperious, disdainful, disapproving, rolled across the lobby, pushed by a uniformed servant. Stone’s eyes fell on the long-lashed beauty at her side.

  ‘Is that you, Captain Stone?’ inquired the old lady.

  Stone stepped out of the shadows and bent to kiss Agatha Dunbar’s hand.

  ‘May I present my granddaughter?’

  Stone recognized her from the photograph. She curtsied in perfect finishing school form.

  ‘Mr. Stone is a connoisseur of fine art. We must have him for dinner sometime.’

  The Dunbars moved toward the searing area, accompanied by bodyguards. John Stone became the center of attention in the lobby. He finished his glass of whiskey and placed it on the bar.

  Time to go in. A four-hundred-pound woman waddled past, huge globules of fat swinging from her arms. What if it's her? The dream burst in his mind. A lady with a nose like a finger advanced into his line of vision. I'd better get out of here.

  ‘Johnny, is it you?’ Tobias Moffitt, with his sedate wife and several members of his entourage, advanced across the lobby. ‘Good to see you up and around. Read about your little escapade in the paper.’ He leaned toward Stone’s ear. ‘Take care of that little matter for me yet?’

  ‘Working on it.’

  A bell went off. Moffitt and his guests proceeded to the seating area. A woman with teeth like a rabbit walked past Stone. He wondered whether to run out the front door. I’ll see it through.

  He handed his ticket to the usher, an old man with a dyed mustache, who led him to the tenth row. Stone sidestepped past ladies, gentlemen, and a child. The number on his ticket matched the empty seat on the left He placed his old Confederate cavalry hat on his lap.

  Agatha Dunbar and her granddaughter sat in a parterre box, with several empty chairs. Heads bobbed in the darkness of the balcony. An immense chandelier hung over the audience. Stone turned to the stage, chairs for the orchestra positioned in a semicircle before the podium. He looked at the program. The Fifth Symphony of Beethoven followed by the Emperor Concerto.

  The usher appeared at the end of the row with an attractive woman in black lace jacket and pale green gown. Concert goers pulled in their knees to let her pass. She dropped to the seat next to Stone. Pretty smile. Her jacket moved, revealing rambunctious breasts. Stone scoured his memory, but found no recollection of her. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘Not till now.’ She held out her hand. ‘I am Delphine. If I see something I want, I try to get it. You may think me atrocious, but we only live once. Are you disappointed?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said truthfully.

  ‘Perhaps you hoped for someone younger and prettier?’

  ‘Age has nothing to do with it, and no one could he prettier than you.’

  Their knees touched. A thrill passed up Stone’s leg. Her eyes shone strangely, the shape of her body visible beneath the clinging gown. Amethyst earrings caught sparkling light from lamps on the wads. She can afford to indulge whims. Anything goes in Frisco. Marie’s blouse, carrying the essence of her body, lay in his dresser drawer.

  ‘I hope you like Beethoven,’ she said.

  ‘Been a long time since I attended a concert.’

  He felt strangely uncomfortable. She appeared to be acting. Or maybe she felt awkward in the situation too. Wasn't easy for her to invite me here. No telling how many illicit meetings took place in this hall. In Frisco, they played by different rules.

  The lights dimmed. Musicians emerged from the wings, carrying their instruments. A stout man with glasses sat behind the piano and touched the keys with stubby fingers. Tine conductor had long gray hair to his shoulders, white baton in hand as he mounted the podium. Everyone wore black, including three women musicians.

  Stone’s heart tripped. A tall blond violinist, hair tied into a bun behind her head, sat on a chair. She wore no cosmetics, stage light cast shadows beneath her prominent cheekbones. He gasped as she placed the violin beneath her chin and worked the bow. A low mournful sound blended with other instruments practicing.

  So this is what she does every night. He felt ashamed for thinking she was a prostitute. He forgot Marie’s blouse and the woman sitting next to him. Phyllis Redpath truly is the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life. He drank her body as she tuned her violin. Maybe if I speak with her again, she’ll see me differently. He wanted to press his tongue against her.

  Amanda gazed at his profile. Not a bad-looking man. Hair curled over his collar. Solid chin. Good nose. Beautiful eyes. Warmth spread through her as she undressed him with her eyes.

  Then she caught herself. Cold terrible revenge swamped her mind. This is the man who killed my husband! Desire vanished, replaced by naked hatred. I could kill him right now. She reached toward her purse. The lights dimmed. Every musician poised his instrument. The conductor raised his baton. The concert hall fell silent. Fashionable ladies and gentlemen leaned forward to hear the famous opening notes.

  Stone’s eyes were fixed on the sublime tension in the body of the golden goddess. The conductor brought his baton down. Five blaring musical statements reverberated through the concert hall. Then the string section launched a strange fortissimo. Phyllis Redpath swayed back and forth while stroking her bow over stretched catgut. The conductor whipped the air with his baton like a cavalry officer leading a charge. The drummer pounded thunder on cattle skins. Trumpets sounded the attack.

  She threw the passion of her life into the violin, and Stone desired her more than ever. A raging fire linked beneath the placid surface of the golden goddess, which she let out in music and strange diversions. I'll bring flowers and a book of poetry. Maybe I'll memorize a few lines to impress her. Make her think I'm artistic too.

  Amanda’s finger closed around the trigger. No one saw her remove the Smith & Wesson from her purse. She aimed it in the general direction of his chest. Behind her, somebody snored. But John Stone, enraptured by the concert, leaned forward eagerly to catch every note from the string section.

  A girl of eight sat on the other side of Stone. Amanda wondered if the bullet would strike her. Guns have tremendous power. Pandemonium. People trampled. They’ll throw me in jail. Men sometimes recovered from gunshot wounds. Be patient. The poison can kill a horse.

  She dropped the Smith & Wesson back into her purse. Don't be overanxious. Keep to your plan. It won't be long now. With great pleasure, she imagined his death agony. But he doesn’t seem to like me.

  She hadn’t counted on that. Men usually paid attention to hex. Maybe I'm not his type? She wasn’t sure how to proceed. How do prostitutes do it? Smiles and bare skin, a saucy remark, plenty of flattery. If there's anything the pigs like, it's that

  The first movement hit its stride, romantic chords reverberated from the walls. Stone stared at the golden goddess playing her violin without inhibition, her potential as a bed partner exposed to Ins lustful eyes. If she held me the way she's holding that violin, I'd go right through the goddamned roof.

  ~*~

  Applause filled the hall. The conductor took his intermission bow. Then he motioned for the orchestra to stand. Hands pounded, but none more fervently than the ex-cavalry officer. Violin in one hand, bow in the other, the golden goddess curtsied, face flushed with passion. The audience wouldn’t let the musicians leave. Somebody hollered, ‘Bravo!’

  Musicians bowed again. Stone’s wounded shoulder hurt from clapping. Concertgoers
headed toward the exits. ‘You love music very much,’ Amanda said. ‘You must have a deep soul.’

  ‘Could we get a drink?’

  A crowd gathered around a bar. Stone ordered whiskey for himself and sarsaparilla for the lady. They stood near a curtain and watched distinguished San Franciscans bask in the glow of the blind German composer. Maybe I can poison him right now.

  ‘Is that the mayor over there?’

  He turned his head. She moved toward his glass. But he looked back. ‘Don’t know who he is.’

  ‘This sarsaparilla tastes strange. Could you get me something else? I’ll hold your glass.’

  ‘Time for a refill any way.’

  He swallowed the remainder of his whiskey, returned to the bar, bought another for himself and lemonade for his hostess.

  They stood together against the wall. Might as well come out and say it, she thought. ‘You don’t find me attractive.’

  ‘On the contrary, you’re very beautiful.’

  ‘You don’t act that way.’

  ‘I’m engaged to marry one woman, in love with another, and here with you. A man can only handle so much trouble. Maybe some other time.’

  Through clever manipulation of her jacket, she revealed a dangerously low glimpse of her bosom. His eyes widened. She smiled faintly at his fatal masculine weakness. ‘Don’t worry,’ she cooed, pressing against him. ‘I’ll take good care of you.’

  Stone felt the warmth of her body through layers of clothing. Marie's gone, and Phyllis Redpath might throw me on my ass again. A bird in the hand is worth two on 131 Ashford Street. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Versailles Hotel.’

  ‘You’re an actress?’

  ‘I like you. What more do I have to say?’

  A bell rang, announcing resumption of the concert. Stone extended his arm, they walked to their seats and settled in. Musicians filtered through the wings. She stepped forward, long svelte figure, erect posture, perched on her chair. The pesky artery in his throat throbbed.