The records themselves were sometimes scribbled in such small handwriting that she had to squint to see them. But slowly – after about a month – she began to see a pattern. Sitting in that forgotten room, something slowly began to become clear to her. Bill Gaston, here and there, was stealing from DeBell and the Savilles. The fat man was much slyer than he seemed. He would cheat them on inconsequential things, like shipping costs, which DeBell and Saville senior had clearly not paid attention to. But over the years it had added up to a sizable sum. Alma knew Wallace well enough to know that he would be outraged.
But as she went through the records, she took out pages that incriminated Gaston and kept them for herself in a folder she found in the office, tucking the folder in her trousers every day and walking – bow-legged – back to the hotel before Wallace returned. By the end of the month she had organized the records and had stored every incriminating page in her hotel room, under her mattress with her wages.
She had the ammunition for Bill Gaston now. The only thing she had to decide was how and when she would use it.
* * *
Despite the progress she had made with Gaston, there was a hole in Alma’s life. Solomon had stopped meeting with her in the stables. Alma and Solomon had met so regularly that Alma had started to take it for granted that she could unload on him at the end of each day, that she did not have to hold the weight of her schemes alone. It was more than that, though. She missed the way he smelt after a long day of work and his rough hands on her body and his surprisingly soft lips on her cheek and neck. She missed the sound of his breath and the way it tickled her skin. She had never missed a man before – had never dream she was capable of missing a man – but she missed Solomon.
Seeing him every day was the worst part. He cleaned the tables, poured the drinks, carried the food, all in the same building as Alma. Sometimes, at night, she would wake up to a creaking noise and assume it was Solomon creeping into her bedroom, but then she would hear a whore grunt and would mutter, “Damn it,” before rolling over and trying to get back to sleep.
Once, she tried to talk to him. It was late at night, almost early morning, and he had fallen asleep at the bar, his head resting against the wood. He looked so peaceful when he slept, his lips curled into a small smile. She watched him for a long time – she didn’t know how long – and he must’ve sensed something in his dreams. Perhaps he had been dreaming of a wide open field, stretching to the horizon. Perhaps he had been dreaming of complete freedom. And then Alma’s face had entered his dream. His small smile vanished; his eyes opened.
The look he gave her could have punctured her stone-clad heart: could have penetrated through years and years of hardening. It was a look loving and resentful, hateful and beckoning, soft and hard. It was unlike any expression she had seen or would ever see again. “You,” he whispered.
“Me,” Alma said, the first words they had spoken to each other for a month. She floundered, then, because she had not planned what she was going to say. Alma Abrams, Grand Planner, Schemer of Everything, had neglected to plan or scheme. She watched him, waited for words to come, and when they didn’t she reached out her hand and tried to place it upon his, which rested on the bar.
He moved his hand away. “Why do you do that?” he said. “Why do you try and be close to me? I respect you too much, Alma, to call you names. But I will say this. Why do you want me when you have so many others?”
“I do not have anybody else,” she insisted, removing her hand from the bar. “I do not have them and they do not have me. I have a plan, Solomon, and I have trusted you enough to tell you that—”
“I never asked for that trust!” Solomon growled, jumping from his seat. He paced up and down in front of her. “I never asked to enter your trust, did I? If I did, I am sorry for it, but I cannot remember a time I said, ‘Alma, please, tell me your secrets.’ I never planned to feel this way about a woman, any woman, especially a white woman.” He stopped pacing, stared at her with his shoulders wide. “What do you want from me, Alma? Please, tell me that. I have nothing. Look.” He showed her the palms of his hands, which were calloused from working his entire life. “Go back to England. Find a lord or a duke or whatever they are called; find a man in a fine jacket and fine trousers and fine shoes who has never had to wake before sunrise to lift an axe. Find a place far away from here with trees and flowers and . . . gardens. I have nothing to offer you.”
“You are wrong,” Alma croaked, real emotion cracking her voice, real tears sliding down her cheeks. “You are the only person in this town who can offer me anything real. One day, Solomon, you will see that.”
She did not wait for his reply. It would be too painful if he rebuked her. Instead, she pushed past him, into the street, and into the dark.
She walked until her legs ached, and then slumped down in the sand. She emptied her mind, completely emptied it, like a jug of dirty water pouring down a drain. Part of her wished she could push Solomon away, could end her affection for him, but he was the only man in a long, long time who had showed her aught but lust or hatred or both. Even when he was angry with her, at least it was real. At least it wasn’t make-believe.
But she had to stay focused. Alma Abrams, Rebecca Hardy, Charlotte Hart, Isabella Stock—whoever she was, she had to stay focused. She had fought her entire life. She would keep fighting.
She picked up a bunch of sand and let it trickled through her fingers. This would be hers. The whole thing would be hers.
She stood up, wiped her cheeks, and made her way back to the town. The sky was tinged pale red as she walked through the hotel doors. The sun would rise soon. It was time to get to work.
* * *
When she opened her bedroom door, meaning to change and leave for the offices, she was greeted by a man whose thumbs looped through his belt. He was a tall man, taller than any other man in the town, with a thick oak-brown beard and short oak-brown hair. He was well-built and his eyes were the same pale brown as his hair. Alma did not need the glint of his badge to tell her who he was. She had seen him around time many times. His name was Carson Gill and he was the town’s sheriff.
“Sheriff Gill,” Alma said, bowing her head. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Her voice filled the room with its calm and melodious tones. Yes, I am the calmest woman in Calico. That’s me, Sheriff! Please, pay no mind to my drum-beat heart and my sweaty palms and my overwhelming urge to vomit in your face. She looked into his eyes and waited for him to talk.
He was enjoying this, Alma could tell, and despite herself she kept thinking, He is a handsome man. He is a handsome man. There is no denying that.
“I need you to come to the sheriff’s office with me,” he said. “I have some questions for you.”
“Concerning what, if you do not mind me asking?”
Sherriff Gill shifted from foot to foot. “Concerning events that took place in a town called Mastiff.” The events flooded back into Alma’s mind like they were happening: the smell of the whisky and the man’s breath and his fumbling hands; the bottle breaking over his skull.
“I will come with you, Sheriff,” Alma said, knowing there was no way out. She had to remain calm, reasonable. She had to appear, above all things, like she was a decent human being.
Maybe she could even trick herself into believing it.
Chapter 10
She was led into an office reminiscent of Wallace’s, only with a smaller chair. The sheriff sat behind the desk and gestured for Alma to sit opposite him. Alma sat with as much serenity as she could muster. I am a calm woman, she told herself, over and over, and I have nothing to fear.
Then the sheriff opened a drawer in his desk and took out a piece of paper. He pushed it across the table. Alma, hand shaking, picked it up and read:
WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
AURORA SIMMONS
$500 REWARD
The drawing of Alma was poorly done, but a description followed which matched Alma’s ap
pearance almost exactly. It also had a brief description of the ‘heinous and ungodly’ crime she had committed: killing an honest and lawful man. An honest and lawful man who raped his wife every night and tried to do the same to me. Alma swallowed, and hoped that the sheriff did not notice the sweat that pricked her forehead.
She laid the poster down and faced the sheriff. “I do not know how this relates to me,” she said.
“You don’t?” The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “It is strange, don’t you think, that the description on this poster so closely matches you, Miss Abrams? And let us not forget that you have been here just over a year, and nobody knows anything much about you.”
“I am a widow—”
“Yes, I know that, but where have you been? Who are you? Are you a killer? We don’t want killers in this town.” He leaned forward as he said this and laid his hand on the desk. His shirt shifted and Alma caught a glimpse of his shoulder muscle, which was round and hard. His pistol hung from a strap on the wall. Alma felt a shiver go through her: a shiver equal parts pleasure and fear.
The mood was coming over her in which she did not question her own desires, her own motives. It was a mood that had served her well and she would use it here.
She locked eyes with him. “I would no more kill someone, sir,” she said, “than you would take advantage of a poor widowed woman in your office.” She felt her clit warm up at her own words, and warm up even more when his eyes widened. She tugged at her shirt, pulling it down and showing the tops of her breasts. The sheriff gulped.
“Miss Abrams . . .”
“Alma, please.”
“Alma, this is not appropriate.”
“Do not worry about what is appropriate,” Alma said, unbuttoning her shirt. She unbuttoned it all the way down to her belly and opened it, showing him glimpses of her pert breasts. She saw in his face that he was hard – she could always tell when men were hard – and felt an answering call in her body, an urging, animalistic and primordial. She stood up and let her shirt flow to the floor. “Do you want me, sir?” she said, in her sweetest voice.
She walked around the desk, just as she had done with Wallace, and fell to her knees. Looking up at him under her eyelashes, she said: “I can bring you more pleasure than you have ever experienced, sir, if you will let me.”
Sheriff Carson Gill was trembling by now, his whole body trembling. He breathed out the words: “And what would you want from me, Alma?”
“Oh, nothing much,” she said. “Just destroy that pesky, nasty poster. Never mention it again. Is that so much to ask?”
She grabbed the front of his trousers. His cock was hard and pressed through the fabric of his trousers in a clear outline. She rubbed, up and down, up and down, and felt her body ache when he moaned. “Yes,” he said, and grabbed her wrist. “It’s a stupid poster, anyway.”
“It is,” she agreed.
He lifted her to her feet and onto his lap. Alma opened her legs and split them either side of him, sitting opposite him on the chair, their groins touching.
* * *
Maybe she should have felt ashamed as she left the office. She did not. She rarely felt shame and she would not feel it now. She had done was necessary. The poster was embers now, and Sheriff Gill would keep his mouth shut. Alma could not be absolutely certain of that, but she felt confident. She had left a good impression.
When she entered Beryl’s the sun was a half-inch over the horizon. She went upstairs, splashed some water in her face, changed, and made her way to the offices. Going to her room in the back, she began to sort through the papers. Events, she felt, would soon come to an impasse. Never again would she be in a position to be threatened by a poster. She would be too rich, too powerful. Alma Abrams would make her mark on this world, and nobody – not her father, not the sheriff, not the miners, no man – would stop her.
She was formulating and reformulating her plans when a scream sounded from down the hallway. It was a girlish scream, but when she reached the source of it she saw Wallace, hands clasped on his face.
“What is it, my love?” Alma said, removing his hands.
He nodded. Alma followed the trajectory of his nod. Abraham Saville lay upon the floor, hand clutched to his heart, his body frozen in death. One side of his face looked as though it had melted, slack. Alma took Wallace to her office and made him sit down. Then she found the doctor, who came at once to the offices.
It was all over in around half an hour. Abraham Saville had suffered a massive stroke and died.
Maybe, somewhere deep down, Alma was a good person. Maybe she would one day repent for what she had done in her life.
But she was not sad for his Abraham’s death. It furthered her cause, after all.
Chapter 11
Though Wallace had screamed when he first saw the misshapen corpse of his father, he seemed remarkably calm when Alma returned to him in his office. He sat in his chair, back straight, hands on knees, and stared directly ahead. When Alma entered he looked up at her briefly and then looked back down at the desk. “We were never close,” he said, and shrugged. “I think he loved me, but we were never close. He was busy. And after Mother died . . . He never hurt me, but he never showed his love for me.”
Alma sat opposite him and waited. “Tell me, should I cry?” he said. “I do not feel like crying, but that’s the proper thing at a time like this, isn’t it? I shouldn’t be able to sit here, calmly, with Father dead. That makes me a monster.”
“Feel how you feel, my love,” Alma said. “You do not have to weep if you do not feel like weeping. But . . .” She let the but hang, saw the interest tug at his features; his eyebrows raised, his lips twitched. She folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs.
“But?” he said.
“It pains me greatly,” she sighed. “I hardly want to talk about it. I can’t stand it, but I can see that it will pain you more. I wish there was a way I could keep it from you, but I fear that would be as unjust as revealing it to you.”
“Tell me, Alma.”
Am I a snake? A wolf? A bat? Perhaps all three.
“Bill Gaston, your father’s friend, was stealing from him—stealing from all of you. While going over the records I found the evidence for these thefts. He did it slyly and intelligently as to not arouse suspicion. A little here, a little there, but over time it has added up. He—”
“Son of a cunt!” Wallace leapt to his feet and paced up and down the office, fists thumping his thighs. “Damn it, damn it!” he growled, pacing, cheeks flushed red, breathing through gritted teeth. “He was like an uncle to me. He was. My Uncle Bill, and this is how he treats me!” He walked to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a revolver. “I’ll blow his goddam head off,” he spat, thumbing the hammer. “I’ll blow his head off and piss on his goddam brains!”
“You have every reason to want that,” Alma said, in her most soothing voice. She went to him and put her hands on his hands which clasped the gun. “Of course you have every right to do that. I would never argue with you over that. But, think about it, my love. What is the most important thing? It is the business. It is your father’s legacy.”
His face was a wall of rage, but her words somehow penetrated. His features softened. He sighed, turned to her. “What do you mean?” he said.
“We should confront him with the facts and make him sell his portion of the company to you. You will, then, be two-thirds owner of the Silver King Mining Corporation. He has no way to refuse the sale. You have all the leverage. He has nothing. He either sells it to you and leaves Calico or we take our evidence to the sheriff. Do you see? This is the smarter choice, my love.”
“I would prefer to kill him,” Wallace grumbled.
Alma grabbed the barrel of the revolver and slowly removed it from his hand. He relaxed his grip and did not fight her as she put it back in the drawer. “I know,” Alma said. “But this is the better choice. I only have your best interests in mind, Wallace.”
Has there
ever been a larger lie? Has there ever been a more wicked deceit?
“I know,” Wallace said, lapping up her lies like a cat lapping milk. “I am afraid that if I confront him, I will throttle him.”
“I will do it,” Alma said quickly.
“Good,” Wallace said, and slumped back into his chair. “Don’t pay what it’s worth. Pay less than half. Even less if you can. That’s more than the bastard deserves.”
“Of course,” Alma said. “I will be back in an hour or less.”
She left the offices and went to her hotel rooms to collect the folder. When she had it, she returned to the offices and went to Bill Gaston’s room. Of course, he was not there. He was in, appropriately, the Round Belly, one of Calico’s three restaurants. Alma made her way to the Round Belly. When she entered, she was accosted by an old man, all loose teeth and wispy hairs, who leaned heavily on a wooden crutch.
“What’re you doing in here?” he said, looking her up and down. “I know you. You’re that girl who came here a year ago, the one what’s so close with the mining fellas.”
“That’s me,” Alma agreed, looking around the room.
“You ought to be careful with them,” the man said. “They’re a snakelike bunch, they are.”
“You’re wrong, old man,” Alma said, as her gaze settled on a fat man stuffing bread into his maw. “There’s only one snake in this town.”
* * *
Romance: Pummel Me: A Boxing Romance Page 85