Black must have known that for Martin it had started in San Francisco, but he chose to skip that part.
For Edge, the beginning of the trip to New York had been up in snow covered Wyoming where he first saw the three Orientals who he was later to discover worked for a New York crime boss named Black. The trio of Japanese were dead by then, and Silas Martin had only a few breaths left in his gangrene poisoned body.
Not until then did the half-breed realize just what he had gotten involved in when he agreed to be Martin’s bodyguard on the train trip from Denver to New York State. He had been lied to, but that was nothing new. And he got paid in full and survived, was able to walk away from the bloody slaughter that took place at the railroad depot of a small town in eastern Kansas. When a bunch of Emilio Marlon’s men thought they had won the prize of a bejewelled golden Buddha - only to be gunned down by an opposing force of Black’s men who rode off to New York City with the half-million dollar statuette.
Edge had headed in the same direction, but with no intention of involving himself further in the conflict between the two New York gang bosses. Simply because he had never been to the city before and thought he might as well take a look at it since he was so close.
Three days amid the bustle and noise and stink of the place had been enough for him and had he not arrived at the Grand Central depot too late to catch the first westbound train of the day, he would already be well advanced on the journey back to the vast open spaces beyond the Mississippi-Missouri which grew more appealing with each moment that elapsed. Out there in the big country he would have been aware that he was being trailed, would have spotted the blond haired kid with the crooked teeth long before the would-be assassin got close enough to try a revolver shot.
But the kid had done him a service. Here in the alien environment of the largest city in the country, the half-breed’s highly developed, almost animalistic instincts for sensing danger had not been functioning until the Frontier Colt blasted a misdirected bullet into the Carolina tobacco grower. But that brush with sudden death had jolted Edge out of whatever brand of city-soured carelessness had ailed him, honed him sharp and ready to meet the threat which trailed him into the alley.
‘If s as simple as that,’ Black concluded after giving a well-informed account of what had happened on the violent trip from Colorado to Kansas. ‘I owned that Buddha statue. Had it bought and paid for it in Frisco. First Martin stole it from me. Then Emilio Marlon had his men try to snatch it. I wanted it for my collection. That bastard just figured to make me look like a chump with egg on his face. And to rile me into startin’ a war here in New York. But I made him look the chump. Hit him hard out there in the back of beyond.’
‘And Marlon thinks Edge is to blame for what happened to his men?’ Dickens asked.
‘On the button, scribbler. When all the time the cowboy was just workin’ for old man Martin.’ Black had been staring at the front panel of the carriage as he told the story. Now he turned his head to rasp directly into the half-breed’s ear. ‘Now I want you to work for me, cowboy.’
‘Doing what, feller?’ Edge crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
‘A job you oughta enjoy, son. The guy that was shot in the hotel died by mistake. You were meant to get that bullet. On Marlon’s orders.’
‘He already knows that, Black,’ Dickens said.
The Negro raised a foot and stamped it hard to the floor. In response, the driver called to the horses and steered them to the curb. ‘Guess he did. And if he didn’t, what happened in the alley back there must have made it clear somebody doesn’t like havin’ him alive and kickin.’
‘You want me to kill Marlon, feller?’
The post chaise had come to a halt on what seemed to be a quiet side street. Hooves rattled on paving and then were silent. Saddle leather creaked as a man dismounted. Footfalls approached the vehicle, the nearside door was pulled open and Sheldon smiled in.
‘That ain’t for publication, of course, scribbler. Nothin’ Emilio Marlon would like better than for it to be known that Boss Black had hired a man to go after him. On account of he’s got a lot of big brass law in his pocket. But nobody has to know, do they? Nobody has to know that I’ve had ten thousand dollars put into the scribbler’s bank account which coincidentally he’ll pay to somebody called Edge after Marlon’s just a hunk of cold meat on a slab in the Bellevue Hospital morgue.’
‘In my account?’ Dickens croaked.
Black showed his big, white teeth in a broad, menacing grin. ‘You gotta live here in the city, scribbler. And I guess you’re smart enough to know it wouldn’t be for very long if one penny of that bounty money was spent before it was earned. All right, you can both get off now. I want to be at Booth’s Theatre before the curtain goes up.’ He laughed. ‘They’re doin’ Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Funniest damn play I ever did see!’
Dickens climbed out of the carriage hurriedly.
‘No deal,’ Edge said evenly.
‘Kill him, Sheldon,’ Black countered in the same level tone of voice.
The weakly handsome man on the sidewalk carried his Frontier Colt in the waistband of his pants. But he had not even started to delve a hand between the plunging lapels of his coat before Edge had slid along the seat to make room, drawn the Remington, cocked it and pressed the muzzle into the folds of fat that were the Negro’s series of chins. Black did not quake. Showed fear only in a widening of his eyes.
‘I already warned your boy that if he points a gun at me a second time, I’ll kill him,’ the half-breed rasped. ‘If he’s fast enough, maybe I won’t make it. You sure won’t.’
The exchange had been heard by the liveried driver and the second bodyguard. The post chaise rocked and creaked as both men leapt down to the sidewalk.
‘This is stupid!’ Black accused, and his fear also sounded in his voice. The many chins wobbled as he forced the words out around his Adam’s apple. ‘What’ll it gain either of us if we both get dead, son?’
‘I ain’t in this for gain, feller,’ the narrow-eyed half-breed replied. ‘This gun ain’t for hire. Unless you count me having to use it against people getting in the way of a job I’m paid to do. And right now I’m working for nothing. For me.’
‘Doing what, you crazy sonofabitch?’ Sheldon snarled.
‘Looking for a blond haired kid who tried to kill me.’
‘His name’s Kirkby, son. Hangs out at a ritzy cat house called the Silver Lady Bar in Park Avenue. But he’s a prick. Marlon is the one who pees through him. He’s the one you oughta go gunnin’ for.’
‘Do my work my way, feller.’
‘All right, all right! You’ve made your point. Appreciate it if you’d take the damn gun out of my neck.’
‘What then?’
‘I’ll go to the play and you’ll get on with your work.’
‘Easy as that?’
‘Sure.’ Black was no longer afraid. Looked and sounded as full of confidence as he was before Edge pulled the Remington. ‘You don’t want my money, I’m happy. But I figure I’ll still get what I want. If you’re as good as a lot that I’ve heard and the little I’ve seen.’
‘Come on, Edge,’ Dickens urged nervously. ‘You know what he means. Marlon won’t let it rest until either you or he’s dead. Especially after what happened in the alley and if you try to kill another of his men.’
‘Sure he knows that,’ Black said, easing his head back, away from the gun muzzle, so that he could turn full face and grin at the half-breed. ‘So we don’t have a deal, son. Makes it an even better deal for me.’
Edge continued to grip the gun, but without noticeably aiming it at the big man as he slid further along the seat and stepped down from the carriage. Sheldon, the second bodyguard and the driver had their hands under their coats but had not pulled their guns. The post chaise had come to a halt on a deserted residential cross street between two brightly lit avenues. A few lighted, curtained windows broke up the shadowed facades of some of the brownstone hous
es. It was very quiet, the city’s rumble sounding much as it had back in the alley where two men now lay dead.
Black nodded his wish that no one was to die here, for Sheldon and the other two men took the gesture as a signal: Sheldon to mount his black gelding which was hitched to the rear of the carriage, the others to climb up to their respective seats.
‘Couple of things, son,’ Black said as he reached out to hook a hand over the door.
Edge pushed the Remington into the holster and waited in silence.
‘Money stays in the scribbler’s account until this thing is over, one way or the other. In case you come out on top and figure you deserve gettin’ paid for tanglin’ with Marlon. Second, I hear that one word gets out about this talk we had, you won’t be no problem for Marlon. On account of you’ll be dead. When it comes to carryin’ a grudge, Emilio Marlon ain’t in my league.’
The door banged closed, the foot thudded on the floor and the carriage jerked forward. The two men riding outside ignored Edge and Dickens. Sheldon scowled down from his horse at the half-breed.
‘You double cross him and there won’t be any place you can hide in, cowboy. All he has to do is put out the word and...’
Edge spat a globule of saliva into the street. ‘I already heard the words, feller. And seen that your boss carries a lot the weight’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE Silver Lady Bar was on the east side of Park Avenue, between 54th and 55th Streets, in the basement of a smart looking five storey apartment block. Mason Dickens had given Edge the precise address with some reluctance, since the reporter wanted to go along but first had to get to the Globe building to file his account on the killing of Vincent G. Powell at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
The half-breed was in no mood to waste time. ‘All right, Mase. I’ll find it myself. Then you will have to find me.’
Sullenly, Dickens revealed the address. Then added the warning: ‘Be careful there, Edge. The madam is Fancy Fay and she’s the private property of Luigi Orlando, Marlon’s godson.’
‘Ain’t the madam that interests me, feller.’
Dickens sighed. ‘What that means is that the place has a lot of protection. And I don’t mean it’s guarded by a bunch of Seventh Cavalry troopers. Police protection, Edge. Any disturbance at the Silver Lady, it’s the customers who get in trouble.’
‘The whores take precautions, uh?’
Edge had moved away before the reporter could get started on emphasizing his warning, heard from a distance as Dickens yelled his own address which was down on the lower east side of Manhattan Island. One of the lighted windows was flung open and a man snarled for the loud mouth drunk to be quiet.
The half-breed emerged on to Fifth Avenue and hailed a cab to take him to the address on Park.
That’s high price merchandise they sell in there, mister,’ the cab driver warned as Edge paid him off in front of the pillared porchway of the granite building. ‘Just thought I’d tell you since you look like you’re a stranger in town.’
‘Obliged, feller.’
The elderly driver grimaced at the coins he was given, which totaled the exact fare he had asked for. ‘Hey, this all?’ he called.
Edge halted before he started down the flight of steps under two gaslamps which illuminated the name of the cat house. ‘What else?’
‘Most people give me a little extra.’ He replaced the grimace with a condescending smile. ‘A tip.’
The half-breed nodded. ‘Never draw to an inside straight.’
He started down the steps.
‘Mean bastard!’ the cabbie snarled as he flicked the reins to spur the horse into sullen, protesting movement.
‘Sure am feeling like one,’ Edge muttered as he reached the foot of the stone stairway and pushed open two swing doors with circular panes of colored glass in them.
The air beyond the doors smelled richly of expensive perfume and the smoke of high priced cigars, trapped between wood panelled walls, a plushly carpeted floor and an ornately carved ceiling. It was a big room, enlarged by knocking down the walls of several smaller ones. A dozen square pillars hung with many oil paintings now kept the apartment building above from collapsing into the basement. All the pictures were nudes, showing smiling, big-breasted women cavorting in idyllic pastoral settings. The bar was a circular arrangement in the centre of the room, built around a large piece of stone sculpture which was also a fountain, the sound of splashing water providing a pleasant counterpoint to the soothing music being made by a slim young man seated at a grand piano at the rear of the room. Two other slim young men, similarly dressed in tight-fitting light blue pants and white shirts opened to the waist, tended the bar. There were no tables out in the open, apparently they were in the curtained booths that ran along each side of the room.
‘Good evening, sir,’ one of the bartenders greeted warmly, lisping slightly. ‘Are you meeting anyone here?’
Like the piano player, the men behind the circular counter were blond haired. But they all had straight teeth and delicate bone structures: and foppish mannerisms which suggested they might scream or even pass out if any of them found it necessary to fire a handgun.
As Edge advanced on the bar he glanced with apparent indifference to left and right, noted that outside each draped booth there was a slot with a card fitted into it. Most of the cards were colored green. Low-voiced talk and an occasional laugh or giggle came from some of the booths with a red card in the slot.
‘John means do you have an appointment with someone special, sir,’ the other bartender explained when the half-breed failed to answer. ‘Or do you wish Madam Fay to call the ladies who are free?’
‘Feller who brought me here said they were all high priced,’ Edge said as he reached a curve of the bar and eyed the water run statue. ‘You’ve got bourbon?’
‘Sure thing,’ John replied, and crouched to bring a bottle and shot glass from under the counter. He poured the drink.
‘How much?’
‘Oh, you don’t know the arrangements at the Silver Lady, sir?’
‘Gentleman’s an out-of-towner, John.’
‘Yes, that’s obvious, Philip. The drinks are free, sir. But this is not a drinking establishment, as such. If you wish merely to drink without benefit of pleasant feminine company, you should not be here, sir.’
Edge emptied the glass at a single swallow, apparently ignoring the two now anxious looking faggots as he continued to survey the centerpiece of the fountain. He poured himself another without needing to look at what he was doing as a door opened in back of where the pianist played.
‘Was told a feller named Kirkby would be here.’
‘Rod’s out right now,’ the woman who had entered the room announced as she came around from behind the piano and moved smoothly and sensuously toward Edge. ‘No telling when he’ll be back. But we have some fine ways of filling time here.’
‘This is Madam Fay,’ Philip introduced as he placed a stemmed glass and a bottle of wine on the counter top when the woman halted, two feet away from Edge.
‘Our clients get to call me Fancy,’ she offered with a bright, friendly smile that did not quite take all the hardness out of her eyes.
They were brown eyes, matching the color of her elaborately styled hair. Her skin was very pale, a quality she encouraged by the use of a lot of powder. Her mouth was full, like the curves of her body which were emphasized by the contoured stiffness and tightness of the bodice of her flame red gown: high neck and long-sleeved, wasp-waisted and sweeping full length to the floor. In the low level of light supplied by two gaslit crystal chandeliers she looked to be in her mid-twenties. All woman and proud of it.
‘I see you’re admiring our fountain. It really is quite something, isn’t it?’
The sculpture showed two figures. A man and a woman locked in passionate embrace, caressing each other toward blatant arousal.
‘It was carved from a solid block of marble by a local New York sculptor. A regular client of the h
ouse. We consider him a very fine artist.’
‘Seems to me he’s a dirty chiseller, ma’am,’ Edge muttered.
Philip had uncorked the bottle and poured red wine into the glass. He and John expressed shock at the half-breed’s terse response to the enthusiastic remarks about the sculpture. But the woman almost sprayed a mouthful of wine over the bar counter as she laughed, the sound of her enjoyment and the way she threw her head back an incongruous switch from the decorous attitude she had adopted before. She curtailed the laughter and glanced anxiously along the two lines of draped booths, then grinned and moved closer to Edge, clutching the glass and sliding the bottle along the bar-top. The half-breed did a double take at her and even before he smelled her breath he realized she was drunk. The wine was going down on top of rye whisky.
‘You’re right, stranger. That carving is just plain obscene, isn’t it?’
Edge saw an exchange of worried looks between John and Philip. Then snapped his head around as metal rings rattled along a wooden rail. He saw curtains part and a red-headed whore in a low cut dress emerge from one of the booths on the left. She giggled and took a short leap forward as the man rising from the seat behind her slapped her hard on the rear.
‘Hey, not in public, honey,’ the whore chided good naturedly, and evaded the hands of the short, fat, drunken man as he made a grab for her waist.
‘Now, now, senator,’ Fancy Fay rebuked with mock sternness. ‘Everything comes to he who waits.’
‘You got no idea how long I have to wait for Kirkby?’ Edge asked as the whore took hold of the politician’s hand and led him toward the door at the back of the room. After closing off the booth and turning the card in the slot to show the green side.
The madam took another sip at the wine, grimaced her distaste for it and set down the glass. ‘He could walk in through the door any moment or be gone all night. Best you come back tomorrow, unless you want to make use of the services we supply here.’
She was a woman of many moods, likely to change at any moment. The taste of the wine after rye had seemed to jolt her into realization that she was drunk. This fact annoyed her and she directed her displeasure toward Edge, having to make an effort to be civil in case he could be persuaded to stay.
EDGE: WAITING FOR A TRAIN (Edge series Book 30) Page 4