by Len Levinson
He appears fascinated by musicians, Amanda thought. ‘Do you play an instrument?’
He shook his head.
‘Go to concerts often?’
‘Almost never.’
She looked to the stage. Just a conglomeration of musicians. Her eyes fell on Phyllis Redpath. Wait a minute. ‘Know the blonde with the violin?’
‘How’d you figure that?’
Amanda touched her hand to his cheek. ‘Is she my rival?’
‘One of them.’
‘I’ll be your friend. Give you the woman’s point of view. Have you confessed your feelings to her?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘You’ll see her again, for another try?’
‘As soon as the concert’s over. You and I can meet another time.’
‘Did she say where you fell short of her expectations?’
‘She doesn’t like fine men.’
‘Then you must be cruel.’
‘I can’t be cruel to a woman.’
‘Could you be cruel to a man?’
‘I’m not even sure about that.’
‘You are the famous John Stone, aren’t you? The man who shot Randy LaFollette and Frankie Bendigo?’
‘Was I supposed to run away?’
He has the cockiness of a gunfighter. Seems easygoing, but rises to the occasion. Her eyes softened against his weather beaten cheeks. An outdoorsman. Once, long ago, she wanted a man like John Stone, but then the famous Randy LaFollette came to town and earned her away.
Phyllis Redpath positioned her violin beneath her chin. The conductor sliced the air with his baton, the Emperor Concerto commenced. With high cheekbones and slanted eyes, she looked like a Valkyrie queen. Her female energy filled him with equally powerful masculine desire. But a tremendous gulf separated them. I must have this woman, no matter what it takes.
I'll tell her I know about Tommy Cullen. Maybe that'll shock her into awareness of how sick she is. She’ll turn to me for help, I'll comfort her. We'll go to Texas with Slipchuck and Rosie. Every evening after supper, a little concert. What more could a man want?
~*~
Cheers and wild applause filled the concert hall as the Emperor Concerto came to an end. Exuberant gentlemen shouted their appreciation in several languages. Stone felt cultured, cosmopolitan, off to a rendezvous with his lady, only she didn’t love him and probably never would. Amanda took his arm. They walked to the street, carriages lined in front of the theater.
‘I’ll see you home,’ said Stone. ‘And continue to my next stop.’
They stepped into a carriage driven by a man in a black cape and dented stovepipe hat. Hooves clip-clopped in the street
‘What do you think I should say to her?’ Stone asked.
‘Tell her you love her.’ Amanda reached into her purse. ‘Bring a gift.’
‘No place to buy flowers this time of night. What would impress a woman?’
‘The quality of your passion.’
With her thumb, she drew back the hammer. Click.
Stone’s hand leapt forward and clamped around the Smith & Wesson. ‘What’s that for?’
She let him take it. ‘Carriages often are held up by hoodlums. I want to be ready.’
He examined the weapon. ‘Know how to use it?’
‘My husband taught me.’
‘Good skill to know.’ He passed it back, butt first. ‘Don’t cock it unless you’re going to use it.’
‘Men become frightened when they see armed women. They think we’re idiots.’
‘Don’t point it at me.’ He pushed the barrel toward the window. ‘The hoodlums’re that away.’
‘You act as if I want to shoot you.’
‘Careful around guns.’
‘Sure you won’t come upstairs?’
‘Later.’
‘At least have tea with me.’
She leaned toward him, the swell of her breasts against his buckskin jacket. Her lips searched for his, they kissed, she squirmed against him, aimed the barrel of the gun into his back.
The carriage stopped. A man in crimson uniform opened the door. Amanda dropped the gun into her purse. I let myself be distracted. ‘When will I see you again?’ she asked.
‘Maybe an hour.’
‘Please don’t leave San Francisco without saying goodbye. Promise?’
‘You have my word.’
She stepped from the carriage. The doorman helped her to the ground. The carriage rolled away. She tasted him on her lips. At least he likes me. I think he’ll be back, in need of female understanding. She ran her thumb across the ruby ring. And I'll give it to him.
The carriage turned the corner. Stone’s mind returned to beautiful, delicate, talented Phyllis Redpath. What's she doing with the boss of the Sydney Ducks?
Puffed with the confidence a woman’s attention can provide, Stone imagined himself holding Phyllis Redpath’s adorable body. Ah ecstatic thrill passed through him at the mere thought. I'll do anything to have her. We'll lead normal lives for a change.
The carriage stopped in front of 131 Ashford Sheet. Stone jumped down and made his way to the front door. The parlor empty, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on her door. No answer .Probably hasn't come home yet. He returned to the porch, sat on the cane sofa beneath the eaves, rolled a cigarette, fretted, scratched. I can't live without her. Wish I never met her. Might have to kill myself.
A carriage turned the corner. He sat straighter on the sofa. The carriage inclined toward the curb. She climbed down, wearing an ankle-length white coat encrusted with pearls and precious stones.
She moved on sinuous legs toward the porch, eyes downcast, still lost in the performance. Stone rose and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. ‘Could I have a word with you?’ His voice sounded tweety and strange to his ears.
She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘I’ve got to speak with you. Only take a few minutes. Could you give me a cup of tea?’
She considered the request from Marie’s old boyfriend. ‘You can’t stay long. I have to do something later.’
‘Five minutes is all I ask.’
‘I assume it’s about Marie?’
They climbed the stairs to her room. She lit the stove and put on the kettle. They sat at the table. She glanced at the clock on the dresser.
‘I saw you perform tonight,’ he said, his voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a whiskey keg. ‘I had to speak with you once more. I’m not exaggerating when I say you’ve affected me more than any other woman. I’m here to make an honest proposal of marriage. We’ll go to Texas together and raise a family.’
She stared as though he were a kangaroo. Then she became serious. Finally she smiled, as if sunlight filled the shuttered room. ‘We can always be friends.’
He felt himself the slowly. Roaring silence filled the room. He gazed at perfectly symmetrical bone structure. What's the point of life, if I can't...? Overcome with sadness and self-loathing, he sank more deeply into the chair.
The whistle on the kettle blew stridently. She arose and prepared tea. He feasted his eyes on her superb slender figure. Impossibly tall, her every movement bespoke good breeding and sound education. He flashed on her with Tommy, his heart constricted with pain.
She placed the teapot and cups on the table. He looked at her shapely rear end, his brain paralyzed with desire. She sat opposite him and crossed her long, incredible legs. A terrible, frightening thought came to his mind. Just grab her and do it. It's probably what she wants anyway. He took a deep breath, then saw his failure. She finds me repulsive. He became a hideous grotesque abnormality before the golden goddess.
She tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Don’t take it so hard. You don’t really love me anyway. It’s Marie you want.’
He gazed into her eyes. ‘I’m hopelessly in love with you. I think of you constantly. Maybe I’m crazy. At night I dream of you.’
She replied with a co
nfused shrug. About to place his hand on her knee, he caught himself and pulled back jerkily. ‘I’m haunted by your beauty. But I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.’ In his overheated imagination, he tore off her clothes and licked her naked breasts. Show her the quality of your passion. But hew? ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re a perfectly fine specimen of a man, and very good-looking too. But I can’t help it I’m ... well ... in love with somebody else.’
‘Tommy Cullen.’
Her eyes widened and jaw dropped open. For a moment the golden goddess became a blithering idiot. Then she regained control. Her mood changed drastically for the worse. ‘How do you know about him?’
He tried to think of a plausible lie, but none came to mind. Let it rip, what the hell. ‘I followed you to the Barbary Coast one night.’
She swallowed in embarrassment. ‘Didn’t’ know you were a sneak.’
‘Had to see where you were going. Come to Texas with me. We can be happy together.’
‘Were you peeking through the keyhole, or hiding in the tree outside the window?’
‘Keyhole.’
Her body went rigid, her voice cold as a winter night in the arctic. ‘Please leave.’
‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘If you’re not gone by the time I count to ten, I’m calling the landlady.’
He held up his hand. ‘Please don’t call the landlady.’
‘One.’
‘Let me help you break your bad habits.’
‘Three.’
‘But I’m in love with you!’
‘Seven.’
He headed toward the door. She followed, scowling. He tried to kiss her. She slapped his face, opened the door, and pushed him into the corridor.
He stood with his cheek smarting as the door closed behind him. Glumly he trudged down the hall, feeling loathsome and unworthy. He paused at the top of the stairs and thought about going back, to try one more time. She thinks I'm disgusting. And I probably am.
He shuffled toward the nearest saloon. Life lost its flavor. It reminded him of the fight for Yellow Tavern, when his closest boyhood Mend was killed in action. He wanted to become someone else. Or fall unconscious for six months. I’m leaving this city. Nothing but trouble here.
He came to the Mayflower Saloon. A crowd in front of the door split apart to make room for the man who shot Frankie Bendigo. Stone entered, a hush fell. Space opened at the bar. ‘Whiskey,’ said Stone.
The bartender poured a double shot. ‘On the house.’ Stone carried the glass to a vacant table and sat heavily. She doesn't love me. He felt despondent. Maybe I should go to bed. A figure approached out of the darkness, and Stone reached for his gun. Slim Simpson pulled up a chair. ‘Looks like you just ate a rattler.’
‘Where can I buy a horse and saddle this time of night?’
‘A place on Montgomery Street. Where you goin’? Maybe you should stay in bed a few more days.’
‘It’s a woman,’ Stone admitted. ‘She thinks I’m a rat.’
‘Best way to get rid of one woman is find another. They got a real cheap deal in the cribs down the street. Twenty cents. The girls’re a little old, but they try harder.’ Slim winked.
Stone remembered Delphine, the strange lady in the Versailles Hotel. A perfect antidote to the deeply troubled and probably insane golden goddess. A hug and kiss from Delphine might make everything right.
He threw the dregs of his glass down his throat and arose from the table. The whiskey landed in his stomach, a wave of vertigo passed over him. He staggered toward the door. Men got out of his way. A few cocky young gunfighters observed his distress, but no one dared challenge. The word was out: John Stone was lethal even when drunk.
He landed on the sidewalk. A group of men stood beside the door. Someone held out a silver flask. Stone accepted it, leaned back his head, swallowed twice. Then he handed the flask back. ‘Much obliged.’
‘Could I have your autograph, sir?’
Somebody held out a scrap of paper. Stone pushed it away. He ambled toward the Versailles Hotel, thinking of Phyllis Redpath. What's wrong with me? He remembered her remarkable lips, unblemished cheeks, pink earlobes, fantastic long legs. He imagined them wrapped around his waist, and nearly swooned with desire.
A figure like a pig waddled out of an alley. Stone dropped to one knee, to greet his faithful dog. ‘You lead a mysterious life. Wish I knew who was feeding you.’
They walked down the street. Stone tried to forget Phyllis by conjuring full-bodied and compliant Delphine. Just what I need to restore my balance, He heard rustling in an alley, yanked both Colts simultaneously. Muggs growled deep in his throat.
Ronnie Dossick stood at the entrance, knife in his hand. He and Stone stared at each other, then Dossick returned the knife to his boot. ‘Thanks to you, here I am. I’ll do the same fer you someday.’
‘You never stole a loaf of bread to feed your children?’
‘What children?’ Dossick laughed. ‘I was after the cash box, but bread was a better story, no? I knew someday a bleeding heart like you’d come along and hire the right lawyer.’
Everybody in this city’s a liar. Stone crossed the street, accompanied by his hound. I need a safe place to rest for a while and make plans.
~*~
Amanda LaFollette paced the floor of her hotel room, grumbling angrily. ‘I let him get away.’ She thought of all the times she could have shot him. ‘I didn’t even try.’
She sipped a glass of wine, while the ruby of her poison ring gleamed in the light of the brass lamp. Back and forth she wait over the oriental rug. I'll go to his hotel in the morning. But what if he's moved. Maybe he left San Francisco altogether. What a fool I’ve been.
A knock at the door. Could it be? She made sure everything was perfect, turned the knob, and smiled in gratitude at the sight of John Stone. He stood in the hall, hat crooked on his head, eyes half-closed, the fragrance of fine whiskey and tobacco emanating from his being.
‘Hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said thickly.
‘Of course not. I’ve been hoping you’d come. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll take your hat.’
She plucked it off his head and hung it on a peg. His eyes roved over her rump. Nothing like a woman to take your mind off another woman. She looked at him with lewd eyes as she poured crimson liquid into the glass. ‘Would you look at the fire, please?’
He stoked the flames, she turned the ruby. Poison fed into the wine, disappeared. Not even a bubble on the surface. He threw another log and turned down the dampers, preferring to sleep in a cool room.
His broad back toward her, he trusted her. She felt a wince of guilt, but swept it away with the memory of her husband. The most wonderful man in the world killed by a fool.
‘I’m glad you’re awake,’ Stone said as he returned to the table. ‘It’s a comfort to be here.’
She sipped her wine, hoping he’d take the hint. He gazed at her, his eyes glittering unnaturally due to excessive whiskey consumption. Not a great beauty like the golden goddess, but nonetheless inviting. Her nose perhaps a little too long and pointed, a double chin coming in, but her mouth full of sensual promise, nicely rounded figure, with wonderful breasts. His eyes drank in her good points, minor shortcomings easily overlooked in view of the overall package, eyes intelligent, even calculating, but no, not her, it must be the wine. He raised the glass. Something popped in the fireplace. A cinder fell on the rug. He stomped it out with his boot.
John Stone reminded her of a wild bull. A strange twisted thought emerged from the dark hidden depths of her mind. She saw herself in his naked embrace. He returned to the table, a fiery halo around his head. She permitted her jacket to slip a few inches; he gazed at her smooth white shoulders. ‘So glad I met you,’ he said. ‘Wish I could’ve brought flowers, but all the stores were closed.’
She raised her glass. ‘It’s an excellent vintage.’
&
nbsp; ‘Never cared much for wine. You wouldn’t have whiskey?’
‘Roll it gently over your palate. It’s not to usual sugared vinegar you find in your average saloon.’
He gazed at her cleavage. Well proportioned, a few pounds on to heavy side. He took the stem of his glass between tomb and forefinger. The aroma of luscious grapes in to Loire Valley struck his nostrils. The rim of the glass touched his mouth;
The lamp on the mantel flickered wildly. Stone set his glass down and arose to adjust the wick. Suddenly the lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness. Disoriented, half-drunk, standing in the middle of a strange hotel room, he reached blindly toward the mantel.
She slipped through the night, fumbled for the lamp. His arms closed around her. For a moment both were surprised. She was soft, warm, he pulled her closer. Confused, she let him hug her, excited by his strength. He ran his lips across her cheek. She felt unwanted desire bordering dangerously on mad lust. He's good-looking, but as the wife of Randy LaFollette, I’ll let myself go so far, and no further.
Their lips touched. He grabbed a handful of her derriere. She melted into his powerful arms. He swept her off her feet and carried her toward the bed. They crashed into a dresser. Both laughed at the bedroom comedy, kissed, touched the tips of their tongues. He's handsome, and built so well.
They found the bed. He lowered her onto it and fell beside her. They tore at each other’s clothes. She wondered how much she was acting. Something overpoweringly masculine about him, shaving lather and saddle soap, clean outdoor fragrance, boots and spurs.
He pulled away her underclothes. She lay naked before him, floating spectrally in the dimness. He leapt out of his pants and crawled on top of her. First my husband, then Frankie Bendigo, now John Stone. She lay with her eyes closed as he covered her body with kisses. Her fingernails dug into his back as she pulled him closer.
The bed creaked, sounds of gentle struggle, a sigh. They submerged private torments and pain into each other, escaping demons of the night. Gone were the homicidal widow and soldier-cowboy. In a tiny room of a San Francisco hotel, man and woman struggled to recreate the universe in the joy of their union. He clutched her firm body and she undulated uncontrollably beneath him.