The Death List
Page 7
Clint followed Dirker to his table, and sat across from him.
“Okay,” Dirker said, “I got your telegram. Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s a long story, and kind of hard to believe,” Clint said.
“Don’t worry,” Dirker said, “I’ll keep the beer coming.”
And he did…
TWENTY-FIVE
Clint gave Dirker the whole story, removing the folded papers from his pocket and handing them over.
“This sounds too incredible,” he said when Clint had finished.
“I know it.”
“I think you did the right thing bringin’ in Roper and Bat,” Dirker said.
“I’m waiting to hear from Luke Short if he can help,” Clint said. “Otherwise I’ll have to find somebody else.”
“To go where?”
“Arizona.”
“I’ve got somebody,” Dirker said. “I’ll get ahold of him today.” Dirker checked the list. “I’ll put him on this guy Kevin Lockerby.”
“Do you know any of the other names on that list?” Clint asked.
Dirker looked again. As Clint watched him read, he saw a flash of recognition spread across his face.
“Jesus,” he said, “what is she doin’ on this list?”
“You know the woman?”
“Everybody in San Francisco knows this woman. It’s Amanda Tolliver.”
“You mean I could have sent her a telegram from Denver and it would have reached her?”
“Maybe,” Dirker said. “She has bodyguards, people you have to go through before you can see her. No telling how long it would have taken for a telegram to get to her.”
“Can I get to her personally?”
“Maybe…if she finds you interesting.”
“Who is she?”
“The wife of a very powerful man,” Dirker said, “and he doesn’t let just anyone see her.”
“How do I get to her, then? Through him? Wouldn’t he like to know that his wife’s life is in danger?”
“I’m thinkin’…”
“What?”
“He probably would want to know, unless…”
“Unless what?” Clint asked. “Come on, King, spit it out.”
“Well, her husband is Ben Tolliver. He’s a powerful man in publishing and politics in San Francisco. He’s also been known to…get rid of people who go against him.”
“Are you telling me he’d arrange to have his own wife killed?”
Dirker shrugged. “If she was in his way, he might.”
“So I can’t go to him,” Clint said. “I’ve got to get right to her.”
“That’d be your best bet.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Well,” Dirker said, “you two have somethin’ in common.”
“What’s that?”
“Gambling.”
“What does she play?”
“A little of everything, but she likes cards. Blackjack, faro…and poker.”
“Have you played her?”
“No.”
“Has she played here?”
“No, we’re too new,” Dirker said. “She plays at the more established houses in the Square.”
“When?”
“Every night.”
“Then I guess I’m going to Portsmouth Square tonight.”
“You’ll have to get past her bodyguards.”
“I don’t mean her any harm.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dirker said. “Her husband pays them to keep men away from her.”
Clint considered the problem.
“What were you saying about getting her interested?” he asked.
“Well,” Dirker said, “I guess if you were to beat her at her own game…she hates to lose.”
“And would that get her interested, or mad at me?” Clint asked.
Dirker shrugged.
“Maybe they’re the same.”
“Is she any good?”
“She’s very good.”
“At which game?”
“All of them.”
“What does she like the best?”
“Well…like I said, cards, and she’s also said to like…men.”
“She’s married to a powerful man, and cheats on him?” Clint asked.
“Like I said,” Dirker replied, “the lady likes to gamble.”
TWENTY-SIX
Clint and Dirker split up in the lobby. Dirker told him he’d telegraph his man in Arizona, and get back to Clint as soon as he knew something.
Meanwhile, Clint needed some clothes that would keep him from standing out in Portsmouth Square. He did not want to attract anyone’s attention but that of Amanda Tolliver.
Clint thought about going out shopping, but then got a better idea. He went to the desk, where the same desk clerk watched him nervously.
“What’s your name?”
“Laurence, sir.”
“I’m going to call you Larry,” Clint said.
The man looked pained but said, “Very well, sir.”
“Larry, I need a good tailor to come to my room, measure me for a suit, and have it done by tonight.”
“Sir, that’s almost…impossible.”
“But I heard your boss tell you to get me anything I want.”
“Well, yes, sir, but—”
“Do you know a good tailor?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“That’s the first step. Can you get him here?”
“Yes.”
“Step two. Do that, and I’ll take it from there.”
“Yessir.”
“I’ll be in my room…waiting.”
“Yes, sir.”
Half an hour later there was a knock at his door. He opened it, hand on his gun, to find a man in a white shirt with a measuring tape around his neck. There was another man with him, younger, his arms loaded with bolts of cloth.
“You needed a suit, sir?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “tonight.”
“Then we should get started, sir.”
Clint hesitated, looking the two men over. “Come on in,” he said finally, backing away.
The tailor and his assistant entered.
“Stop there.”
They stopped.
“Drop that stuff on the floor,” he told the younger man.
“On the floor?” the boy asked.
“Yes.”
The assistant looked at the tailor, who nodded. He dropped the bolts to the ground. Clint poked at them with his foot, spreading them all out. No weapons.
“Either of you carrying a gun?” he asked.
“I’m a tailor,” the man said, “not a gunfighter.”
The young man said, “Not me.”
Clint looked them both up and down, saw that there was no point in searching them.
“Okay. Go ahead, pick them up.”
The boy picked up the cloth and stood there holding them again.
“We need to get started,” the tailor said, “if you want to have that suit by tonight.”
“That’s right.”
“It won’t be cheap.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll have to measure you.”
“I understand.”
“Without the gun.”
Clint removed his holster, hung it on the back of a chair, then stood next to the chair.
“What’s your name?” he asked the tailor.
“John.”
“John, I need a suit to go to Portsmouth Square with, and I don’t want to stand out.”
“Understood. What color?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “Whatever you got there. Blue? Gray? Black?”
“Let’s go with blue,” the tailor said. “Spread your legs, sir.”
“Clint,” Clint said, “my name’s Clint.”
He spread his legs.
The tailor knew his job, quickly took Clint’s measurements, and left with them.
“I’ll hav
e the suit delivered this evening,” he said.
“Thanks.”
As the tailor was leaving with his assistant, Dirker showed up.
“Mr. Dirker,” the tailor said.
“John.”
Dirker came in and closed the door behind him.
“You get that telegram sent to Arizona?” Clint asked.
“I did,” Dirker said. “My man is on his way.”
“Any telegrams for me?”
“No.”
“I guess that’s good, and bad.”
“How so?”
“If Roper had any news about those other names, he would’ve telegraphed me. That’d be bad, so it’s good. And if Luke Short had gotten any of my telegrams, he would’ve answered. That would’ve been good, so that’s bad.”
Dirker shook his head and said, “I don’t know what you just said, but my man’s on the way, so you won’t need Short.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Dirker changed the subject.
“John’s a good tailor. You’ll have a suit to go gamblin’ in tonight.”
“Well, then, I guess I better get myself some rest,” Clint said. “I’ll want to be at my best when I meet the lady.”
“Don’t forget what I said,” Dirker told him. “You’ll have to make her interested in you.”
“Well, when it comes to women, I haven’t ever had much trouble.”
“My friend,” Dirker said, “you ain’t never met a woman like this before.”
“Well, King,” Clint said, “now you’ve made me interested.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next time Clint answered the door, the tailor’s assistant was standing there, holding a suit.
“The tailor didn’t come?”
“H-He said it’d fit. There was no need for him to come.”
“Come on in.”
“Y-You want me to wait?”
“I do.”
The boy entered, stood there nervously.
“Let me have the suit. I’ll go in the other room and try it on.”
The boy handed it over.
“Now just wait there until I come out.”
“Yessir.”
“If it fits, I’ll pay you and you can take the money to your boss.”
“Yessir.”
Clint went into the bedroom to try the suit on. When he came out, the boy was still standing there.
“It fits,” Clint said. “You got a bill for me?”
“Yessir.”
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Clint.
“Well,” Clint said, looking at it, “he was right.”
“About w-what?”
“It sure ain’t cheap.”
Clint sent the boy back to the tailor with his money. He grabbed up his Colt New Line, stuck it in the back of his belt, then put on his hat. Briefly, he wished he’d taken the time to buy a new one, one that matched the suit. He’d just have to take this one off when he got to the casino.
He went downstairs to have a beer in the hotel’s saloon first, and to check out Dirker’s gambling setup before he went to Portsmouth Square.
“Well, look at you,” Dirker said in the lobby. “Ain’t you pretty.”
“Cost a pretty penny, so I better be pretty in it,” Clint said.
“Wait for me in the bar,” Dirker said.
“What for?”
“Just do it. Have a beer in the house.”
“That I’ll do.”
Clint went into the saloon, and up to the bar.
“Beer,” he said to the bartender, “and your boss is on the way, so you better make it two.”
“Comin’ up.”
When Dirker appeared, there was a beer waiting for him on the bar.
“Here,” he said, handing Clint a brand-new black Stetson.
“The suit’s blue,” Clint said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dirker said. “This one goes better with the suit than that worn-out thing. Give it to the bartender. He’ll hold it for you, in case you want it back.”
Clint handed the bartender his hat and tried on the new one. He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar.
“Not bad.”
“Yeah,” Dirker said, “you’re real pretty now. Look like you belong in the Alhambra.”
“Hell,” Clint said, “the Bella Union, the Empire, the Arcade…which one does she gamble at?”
“You’ll have to hit them all until you find her,” Dirker said. “Start at Sam Dennison’s Exchange and the Parker House. And there’s no guarantee you’ll run into her the first night.”
“Damn it, King,” Clint said, “I need to see her right away to warn her. And to find out if she knows anything.”
“Well, you could go to her house.”
“You know where that is?”
“I do.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that in the beginning?” Clint demanded.
“Well, about the only people who actually get to go into that house are the mayor, some other politicians, and some businessmen—and I mean the men who run things.”
“Damn it,” Clint said. “Okay, I’ll try the Square first tonight, but if I don’t see her, I’m going to have to try the house tomorrow. What about her husband’s office?”
“Market Street,” Dirker said, “but same problem. Ya got to be somebody to get in.”
“Well,” the bartender said, speaking for the first time, “he’s the Gunsmith, ain’t he? Don’t that make him somebody?”
Dirker scratched his cheek and said to Clint, “He might have a point, you know.”
Clint headed for the door, then turned and asked, “What does she look like?”
“Oh,” Dirker said, “you’ll know her when you see her.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Clint did as King Dirker suggested, he started at the Parker House, then moved on to the Exchange. After that the Bella Union, the Verandah, the Aguila de Oro, the Varsouvienne, and the Mazourka.
It was late, and he was about to quit when he got to the Alhambra, one of the oldest establishments in San Francisco. If he didn’t find her there, there were still plenty of places to try the next night. That is, if he couldn’t get to her or her husband during the day.
The Alhambra was in full swing, with only one of the tables showing any room at the moment. But that one seemed to have attracted more attention than the others.
Women who gambled usually attracted some attention. Clint had known more than one. Poker Alice, Lottie Deno, Big Nosed Kate, Kitty Leroy. But a beautiful woman who gambled—well, she attracted crowds. He had the feeling that when Dirker said he’d know Amanda Tolliver, he meant that she was beautiful.
Maybe he was about to find out.
* * *
The dealer had never had this many people watch him deal before. His hands were sweating.
“Goddamn it, dealer,” one of the gamblers said, “you’re makin’ the cards clammy. Get a new deck.”
“Yes, sir,” the dealer said.
On top of all the people making him nervous, he also had Amanda Tolliver at his table. That really made him nervous.
“What’s your name?”
He looked up. She was actually speaking to him.
“Ma’am?”
“Your name.”
“Billy.”
“What’s making you so nervous, Billy?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am,” he said as he opened a new deck, “I ain’t never had this many people watch me deal, and I sure as hel—heck ain’t never had no woman as pretty as you at my table.”
“Oh, Billy,” she said, fluttering her eyes at him, “you flatter me.”
The dealer blushed.
“Don’t be talkin’ to the lady like that,” one of the men standing behind her told him.
She looked up at her two bodyguards.
“Oh, shut up, Hawkins,” she told the speaker. “He’s just stating a fact, not trying to bed the boss’s wife.”
> “Ma’am, I’m just—”
“Be quiet, I said.” She looked at Billy. “Just concentrate on dealing the cards, Billy. Forget the people, and forget about me, and your hands won’t sweat so much.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try.”
There were four other players at the table, all men, and none of them had spoken to her all night, unless it had to do with their cards. They all knew who she was, and while their hands weren’t sweating as much as the dealer’s, her presence made them nervous.
There was still one empty seat at the table, where a player had busted out earlier.
“Cards are comin’ out,” the dealer said. “Five-card stud.”
“Hell, sonny,” one of the players said, “that’s what we been playin’ all night. Just deal ’em.”
“Yes, sir,” Billy said. “Comin’ out.”
TWENTY-NINE
Clint moved to the fringes of the crowd and started working his way in. Finally, he got close enough that he could see who was at the table. There were four men and a woman playing, and a dealer.
And an empty seat.
The woman had red hair piled high on her head and a long, graceful, pale neck that swooped down into an impressive bosom. He couldn’t see her eyes, because she was looking down at her cards.
He also saw the two broad-shouldered men standing behind her, their eyes looking everywhere but at her. Hell, if he had been standing where they were, he would have been looking right down the front of her dress.
One of them caught his eyes and stared at him hard. Clint smiled at him.
He watched the hand play out, was impressed with how cool she was, even though she lost it.
“Is that chair open?” he asked.
All eyes turned to him, including those of the lady. They were green and he caught his breath when he saw her face.
“It certainly is,” she said, “and we could use some new blood.”
“Ma’am—” her bodyguard said.
“Shut up, Hawkins,” she said again. “The man just wants to play cards.”
Hawkins closed his mouth, but he wasn’t happy. He glared at Clint as he worked his way around the table and sat down.
“This is a high-stakes game, sir,” the dealer said.
“I think my marker will be good.”
“I’ll have to call my boss.”
“Do it.”
“Can I tell him your name?”
“Clint Adams.”