Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
Teaser chapter
Security Check
“I assure you, we have a very efficient police department, Mr. Adams,” Chief Dent said. “Efficient and modern. I’m sure Mr. Clemens already knows this, since he still has family in town.”
“What Sam knows and what I know are two different things, Chief,” Clint said. “If I decide Hannibal isn’t safe for him, he won’t be coming.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a lynch mob,” Clint said. “We can’t have Sam Clemens on the street when a lynching is going on.”
Dent sat forward in his chair.
“Look, I don’t know what you heard, but there’s no lynching going on in this town. That black boy is in my jail, and that’s where he’s gonna stay.”
“And where is your jail?”
“In this building,” Dent said. “Downstairs, with a guard on him. And you’ve seen this building, Adams. It’s solid brick.”
“Are you saying nobody could get in here and take him out?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
Clint drew his gun and pointed it at the chief’s forehead.
“Bang,” he said, “you’re dead.”
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CLINT ADAMS, DETECTIVE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Jove edition / August 2007
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ONE
KEOKUK, IOWA
Clint Adams had never heard Mark Twain speak before. He’d read his books—was even now reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He’d met him once, some years ago in Boston when they were both guests of the same wealthy publisher. At that time the publisher had wanted Clint to write a book about his own adventures. He had entertained the possibility, but in the end he’d declined the offer. The Life and Times of Clint Adams had never been written.
But when he was in the town of Quincy, Illinois, right on the Mississippi, and heard that Twain would be speaking in Keokuk, and then again in Hannibal, he’d made a point of attending.
Twain was a brilliant speaker. His wit was cutting, but funny. It made people laugh at themselves. By the end of the evening Clint didn’t know whom he enjoyed more, Twain the writer or Twain the speaker.
He was staying in Keokuk for one night only and had taken a room at a small hotel on Main Street. He was reading about Huck Finn’s adventures when there was a knock at his door. Even in a town as small as Keokuk he was still cautious, and he brought his gun to the door with him, holding it behind his back.
Her name w
as Angela Hall. They had met in the lobby of the theater where Twain was speaking. He had bought her a drink; they had talked, flirted; he found himself captivated by her violet eyes, smiling mouth, and large breasts set on a petite frame. And then her escort appeared and whisked her off.
Now she was at his door.
“We didn’t finish our discussion,” she said.
“How did you find me?”
“I’m . . . resourceful.”
When he didn’t budge, she said, “Well, all right. There aren’t that many hotels in this town where a man like you would stay. Just so happens I’m in this same hotel. So . . . a few dollars to the desk clerk, and . . .”
“Yep,” he said, “that’s resourceful, all right.”
“Well, are you going to let me in,” she asked, “or are you going to make love to me in the hall?”
She allowed her wrap to drop to her waist. The dress she was wearing was cut very low, revealing a deep, shadowy cleavage between her breasts. Her hair was light brown and piled atop her head. He found himself wanting to see it undone, so he backed away and said, “Come in, please.”
“Thank you.”
She walked in. He closed the door and turned. She already had the dress down to her waist. Her breasts were breathtaking—too large for her body, but that would not be a problem until she was older. Right now they were round, pale, slightly pendulous, with dark brown nipples that were already hardened. She could not have been more than five foot one.
“What about your . . . escort?” he asked.
“That’s all he was,” she said, “an escort. As soon as I saw you, I knew you were . . . more.”
She pushed the dress farther down, stepped out of it, and then she was naked, except for her shoes. The scent of her filled the room. It was perfume, and sex, a heady combination that had him swollen and ready.
“My God, are you going to kiss me—”
He stopped her by swooping her up and kissing her soundly, thrusting his tongue into her hot, avid mouth. She wrapped her legs around him, and he could feel the heat of her vagina pressed against him.
She moaned into his mouth, wrapped her fingers in his hair, and then she gasped and started.
“What?” he asked. “I didn’t hurt you.”
“Your gun,” she said. “It’s cold. Do you need it?”
He realized then he was still holding it. Carrying her with him to the bed, he shoved the gun into the holster hanging on the bedpost.
Her mouth pressed against his ear and she whispered, “You have too many clothes on.”
“That can be fixed.”
He deposited her on the bed and stood back. She watched as she took off his shirt and slipped out of his pants. His boots had already been removed. When his engorged erection came into sight, she smiled and almost clapped her small hands.
“Bring that here,” she said eagerly, and he did. She took him in her hands and began to lovingly stroke him with one hand and fondle his testicles with the other. At one point she ran one hand down between his legs and through to the back so she could stroke him there.
“I’m very . . . experimental in my approach to sex,” she told him. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’ll try to do my part.”
He started to get on the bed with her, but she pushed him away with surprising strength.
“Wait.”
She got to her knees in front of him then, held him in her hands, and began to rub him against her face, then lick him, and finally, she took the head of his penis in her mouth and wet it thoroughly. She swirled her tongue around it, then used just the tip of her tongue to touch him just underneath the head. He jumped, as if hit by lightning. She laughed and suddenly engulfed him, taking him deep into her mouth. She held him there, her throat seeming to massage him, and then began to bob her head up and down, sucking him. She reached around and clutched his buttocks with both hands, pulling her to him as she suckled him. He felt his legs beginning to go weak, felt a rush that seemed to be building, coming up from his legs.
And, abruptly, she released him. She stared up at him from her knees, her mouth wet and glistening, her eyes shining.
“This was all I could think about while Mr. Twain was speaking,” she told him. “Isn’t that bad? I had my hand on my escort’s leg, but it was you I was thinking about.”
“He must have been disappointed when you sent him home alone.”
“Oh, he was,” she said. “He was limping when he left. I’m sure he went straight to a whorehouse.” She slid her hands up and down his thighs. “But you’re going to get more tonight than any man could pay a whore for. I’m going to be your own personal whore.”
“I like the sound of that.”
She kissed his penis and said, “I’ll do anything you like. You just have to tell me.”
“Get on the bed, on your back,” he said, “and draw your knees up.”
“Like this?”
She got on the bed and drew up her knees.
“Now take hold of your ankles. I want you to spread yourself wide for me—as wide as you can.”
“Ooh,” she said, “I like the sound of that.”
She did as she was told, opening herself to him. He got down on his knees and looked at her. The folds of her vagina were wet and shiny, as was the hair around it, slightly darker than the hair on her head. He touched her with his index finger and she jumped. This time it was she who had been struck by the imaginary lightning. He stroked her then with his fingers, then slid his hands beneath her to cup her ass, leaned in, and touched her with his tongue. She gasped and, if possible, spread herself even wider. That was when he went to work on her with his tongue, licking her, lapping at her, then sucking her until she was crying out, but never once did she release her ankles.
When both his face and the bedsheet beneath her were soaked with her juices, he got on the bed with her and, while she still clutched her ankles, drove himself deeply into her.
What came after that was complete, mindless fucking . . .
TWO
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Adams?” a thin, reedy voice asked. “My name is Augustus Honeywell. I’m traveling with Mr. Clemens? I mean, with Mark Twain?”
Clint knew that Twain’s real name was Samuel Clemens. What he didn’t know was who this Honeywell was, and whether or not he was really traveling with Twain/ Clemens.
He looked around him, surprised to find himself alone in bed. Sometime during the night Angela had let herself out. Was it without waking him? Or did he simply not remember?
He pulled on his pants and walked to the door on shaky legs. The man in the hall matched his voice. He was small in stature, probably not five and a half feet tall, very slender, but well turned out. The suit he was wearing was very expensive, as was his haircut. He looked like what he was, an Easterner. He also looked like someone who would be traveling with a writer.
“Mr. Adams?” He stared at Clint from behind wire-framed glasses.
“That’s right.”
Honeywell straightened his glasses, even though, to Clint’s eyes, they didn’t appear to need it.
“I’m here on behalf of Mr. Clemens—I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Clint said. “Why did Sam send you?”
“He saw you in the audience.”
“How did he know where I was staying?”
“He didn’t,” the man admitted. “There are several of us out checking hotels and rooming houses.”
“Well, come on in,” Clint said, backing away so the man could enter. As he closed the door Honeywell spotted the gun he was holding.
“Oh . . . ,” he said.
“Don’t mind this,” Clint said, tucking the gun into his belt for the moment. “You’d be surprised how many people come to my door wanting to shoot me.”
“T-that must be terrible for you.”
“You get used to it,” Clint said. “So, you work for Sam Clemens?”
“I work for the peopl
e who are sending him around the country on speaking engagements.”
“Then you work for him.” Clint didn’t want to waste time trying to figure out the logistics of Twain’s tour. It didn’t matter to him.
“No, actually I work—”
“Never mind, Honeywell. Is that your real name?”
The young man seemed taken aback by the question.
“Of course. Why would I—”
“Hey, Twain’s got two names,” Clint said. “I didn’t mean any insult.”
“Uh, oh, I see—”
“I don’t have anything to offer you to drink, Mr. Honeywell—Augustus. Can I call you that? Your parents really hung you with that name?”
“Uh, my name is—”
“How about I call you Gus?”
“I suppose there’s not harm—”
“Good, then it’s Gus,” Clint said. “What’s on your mind, Gus? Or on Sam’s mind?”
“He would like you to come to Hannibal.”
“For his engagement there? I really wasn’t planning on it. I mean, he was brilliant, but won’t it be the same?”
“No, you misunderstand. He doesn’t want you to come to his talk; he wants you to meet him in Hannibal, personally.”
“Personally?”
“You do know him, don’t you?”
“We met years ago,” Clint said, “but haven’t seen each other since then. What would he want with me?”
“He did not confide that to me, sir,” Honeywell said. “If I was the one who found you, I was simply to deliver his message.”
“Well . . . where in Hannibal?”
“He’d like you to take a room at the Hannibal House Hotel,” Honeywell said.
“Will he have a room there?”
“He will be staying with family.”
“Of course.”
Clint Adams, Detective Page 1