Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Tossing the putty to the carpet, he swept up the woman he loved and carried her to the bed. He paused only long enough to fling aside a corner of the quilt. Then he was arranging Sadie's length on the mattress and smoothing her chemise around her ankles. She smiled softly, oblivious to his betrayal.

  At least for the moment.

  Hardening his heart, Cass reached behind her neck and slipped the hooks that latched her collar. A river of diamonds, emeralds, and gold-platinum spilled into his palm. He shoved the bait into the bag of loot swinging from his belt, beneath his poncho. The necklace clinked faintly against the peacock music box he'd discovered while poking through the false bottoms of her traveling trunks. Allan Pinkerton had gone to great lengths to accumulate the precious gems for Sadie's contessa disguise, gems that were supposed to lure the murderous jewel thief, Maestro, to her side. Cass figured the emeralds would fetch an especially handsome price from his criminal contacts in the Underground.

  "Whether you like it or not," he chided her softly, tucking the quilt around her voluptuous curves, "a female tin-star has limitations. I would rather have you learn that from me than a Pinkie Killer."

  He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the musky scent of woman, patchouli, and lavender-scented linen. He couldn't resist brushing a silken strand of chestnut from her breasts. Luscious, alabaster mounds rose high above the lace-covered whalebone of her corset. Wistfully, he watched the dance of darling, rose-gold freckles each time she took a breath.

  His throat worked.

  He forced himself to look away.

  Retrieving his hat, he turned down the lamp and slipped out the door.

  Shades of night spilled into the muted glow of the hall's crystal chandeliers. Hunkered down in a puddle of sawdust, a flinty-eyed, tow-headed youth sat whittling by the door. A portly raccoon, wearing a rawhide collar, snoozed by the boy's knee.

  "Is it done?" Collie demanded, never missing a stroke with his knife.

  Cass nodded curtly, tugging the door closed.

  The coon snorted awake. Spying nothing out of the ordinary, Vandy flopped over, waved his paws in the air, and promptly fell back to sleep.

  "Some watch dog," Cass muttered.

  "Don't go busting your spleen on Vandy. Pinkerton's the one you're pissed at for putting your woman at risk."

  "I got plenty of spleen to go around," Cass growled, envisioning the moment when he got his hands on Minx's killer. So help me God, Sadie will not suffer the same fate.

  Four months ago, when the Satin Siren Casino had burned to the ground, and Cass had thought he'd lost her forever, he'd blamed himself for not finding some way to save her. Now he couldn't bear the thought of reliving that hell. He had to make Sadie see sense, to stop her from dodging bullets. Then he could finally concentrate on his own job: making Texas a safe place for little kiddies to play.

  Maybe even our little kiddies.

  "I'll take these rocks to the fence," Cass said, patting the pouch of gems under his poncho. "Don't let Sadie out of your sight."

  "I ain't the push-over you are, Snake Bait."

  Cass glared at his seventeen-year-old sidekick.

  "Aw, lighten up," Collie said sheepishly. "You're Coyote Cass. Maestro's no match for you. You'll bait him. You'll trap him. He'll hang, and we'll all go home in plenty of time for Thanksgiving."

  Cass nodded grimly. Turning on his heel, he stepped over Vandy and headed for the elevator. He hoped Collie was right.

  Because Thanksgiving or no, Cass wasn't sure Sadie would ever forgive him.

  Chapter 3

  Cass pushed open the door of Porfirio Deinos's bakery. A yeasty warmth, scented with cinnamon and cloves, triggered an appreciative growl in his belly. Above the cheerful greeting of the bell, he could hear the muffled clanking of pans behind a blue and white curtain, resembling the Greek flag.

  Just about everything else in the café was purple, owing to Porfi's fondness for his first name. Lavender linens filled the pastry baskets; violet tiles formed geometric patterns on the floor; grapes were the focal piece of the still-life covering the ceiling.

  "Erre es korrakas!" the baker bellowed from his kitchen.

  Cass hiked an eyebrow. Porfi had fenced his loot for five years, so Cass had learned the translation of certain pet phrases. "Go to the crows" was a scurrilous insult in Greek.

  As if on cue, the kitchen's curtain whipped sideways, and an auburn-haired tenderfoot stomped past the counter. He looked like he'd done battle with a flour sack. Raccoon-eyes squinted from the only part of his face that wasn't white—no doubt thanks to the soiled spectacles peeking from his coat pocket. He kept cursing and bumping into tables as he zig-zagged across the café, a soiled pocket watch swinging from his fist. Flour flakes flurried in his wake.

  A moment later, Porfi huffed into view, brandishing a rolling pin and bellowing at the top of his lungs, "A pox on your willy! May you never have sons! May your daughters be hag-faced!"

  Cass cleared his throat, politely stepping aside so Flour Man could flip the bird and slam out the door.

  "Trouble, Porfi?"

  "Cass!" A cherubic grin of welcome stretched the Greek's pudgy cheeks. "Why would you think that?"

  Draped in a purple apron and the traditional, baggy trousers of "the Motherland," Porfi was a mountain of a man—if you imagined the mountain had toppled sideways. Despite his girth and temperament, the blustery Greek was well-liked, even respected among the Italian, German, and Irish immigrants who dominated the Highlands. He never had less than three sloe-eyed beauties competing for his affection. At 68-years-old, Porfi's libido would have put a younger man's to shame. Cass knew this for a fact. He'd first met Porfi in the brothel owned by Denver's infamous, pistol-packing madam, Mattie Silks.

  "That gent sure lit out of here in a hurry," Cass drawled, strolling to the counter and sniffing cooling racks of crispy, golden honey puffs. Porfi called the treats loukounades and described them as a doughnut, "minus the American waste of a hole."

  "Bah. Good riddance. " Porfi sneered. "A professor should not have custard for brains. Vlacas!" He hurled this insult at the door's frosty window panes. Then he grinned, a sickle-shaped slash of white in his charcoal beard. "Amusing, no? The goat calls himself Baines. As in, 'bane-up-my-ass.'"

  "Uh... the term is pain-in-my-ass, Porfi."

  The rascal winked. "Think about it."

  Cass chuckled.

  "Help yourself to some loukounades, boyo. Or whatever you like. Then lock the door and pull the shade. I'll meet you out back."

  Minutes later, Cass's mouth was watering as he entered Porfi's cluttered office. He couldn't wait to dig into the booty he'd heaped on his plate: ergolavi (almond cookies,) baklava (pistachio layer cake,) and kataifi (chopped walnuts wrapped in dough and glazed with lemon syrup.) To a poor kid, who'd stolen rags from scarecrows to stay warm, an invitation to help himself in a bakery was a dream come true.

  Porfi shot an amused glance at Cass's cache and banged a platter of fish, olives, and feta cheese onto his desk. Next, he uncorked an anise-flavored liquor, called ouzo. Cass grinned. Ouzo usually led to dancing, dish-smashing, and jolly shrieks of "Opa!"

  "Ya mas!" Porfi toasted solemnly. "May your days be merry, your women be willing, and your pockets be plentiful with pretties for me."

  "Ya mas," Cass repeated affectionately. "And may your enterprises flourish in the Land of the Free."

  They tossed back their shots.

  Porfi grunted, settling his bulk across two chairs. As he spooned fish onto his plate, he groused about his flour-faced customer. Apparently, this Mendel Baines had been traveling from university to university, lecturing about hypnotism. Baines was trying to convince some academic board to fund a research project. He claimed he could hide a series of commands in a friendly conversation, and thereby induce a subject to do whatever he wanted, without raising the subject's suspicions.

  Porfi snorted. "If the malaka was any good at his own research, he'd have rich folks hy
pnotized and forking over fortunes. Instead, he comes skulking around here, selling trifles to pay for gambling debts."

  "Is that why you slugged him with a flour sack?"

  Porfi widened roguish, blue eyes. "What, you think I waste perfectly good flour, pelting goats?"

  "Baines sure didn't walk in your door looking like a ghost."

  The Greek chuckled, pouring another round of ouzo. "He said Soapy Smith would give him a better price for his musical timepiece. The nerve! Vlacas!" Porfi spit on the floor for good measure. "I told him to kiss Soapy's kolos and never darken my door again."

  "If you liked the pocket watch so much, why didn't you give him a fair offer?"

  Porfi shot Cass a withering glare. "Shut up and drink."

  Cass grinned. No one knew a fence's game better than he did. He'd been hocking marbles, slingshots, and tin soldiers since the age of six. As the years passed, he'd graduated to robbing stages and rustling steers.

  The great irony, of course, was that he'd finally achieved his lifelong dream, the right to wear a Ranger badge, only to stuff the star inside his pocket five days later. Ranger jurisdiction was limited to Texas, and the special commission he needed to arrest Colorado felons had yet to be approved by the U.S. Marshal's Office.

  But Cass couldn't sit around waiting for the bureaucrats if he wanted to protect Sadie from Minx's killer—or more aptly, from Pinkerton's harebrained scheme to use a woman as bait. Cass needed to weasel his way back into the good graces of Denver's crime bosses. And fast.

  "So." Porfi lit a cigar and tossed Cass his matchsafe. "Another good meal with a good friend has come to an end."

  Cass lit his self-rolled quirley, while Porfi swept dirty dishes to the side, using a massive forearm with purple porpoise tattoos.

  "What pretties have you brought for Porfi to buy?"

  Cass reached beneath his poncho and removed one of several, carefully organized pouches from his belt. When he tossed it into the space Porfi had cleaned, the Greek pasted on a bland expression and began pawing through the contents.

  "Eh." Porfi shrugged at a charming broach mosaic, depicting a caged parrot inlaid with tourmaline, garnet, and citrine. "Humph." He pushed aside a butterfly-pendant with silver, gold, and copper wings. He shook his head over a black opal bracelet that glittered with rainbows. When he found Cass's personal favorite—a diamond-and-topaz ring that flashed with the fire of Sadie's eyes—Porfi snorted.

  "Something wrong?" Cass asked dryly. He knew the topaz, alone, was worth five grand.

  "I invite you to my table," the Greek said in wounded tones. "I call you my friend. And yet, you bring me trifles?"

  Cass did a masterful job of keeping a straight face.

  "Well... there is this."

  He produced the music box. Inside, he'd hidden a triple strand of pearls with an enormous, cushion-shaped sapphire. He'd "borrowed" the necklace from his friend, Mattie Silks, whose fancy man had stolen it from parts unknown. Mattie would hit the roof if she ever guessed Cass had relieved her of her favorite hot pearls—for her own good, of course.

  Porfi cocked his head. He was studying the cloisonné peacock on the music box's black lid. Cass happened to know Porfi's favorite mistress had been begging him to procure such a novelty—which could be ordered from the Sears and Roebucks catalog for $1.98. But Porfi had his pride. He never paid retail.

  "And what is this?" the fence inquired archly.

  "A jewelry box. It plays a tune. I think it's the Greek National Anthem."

  Porfi's eyes lit up. He flipped open the lid, and the tinny strains of a popular waltz, Farewell My Darling, reverberated through the cluttered, fish-scented quarters.

  "Bah." Porfi slammed down the lid. "You think I traffic in girl's toys?"

  "Look again."

  "Eh?"

  Cass gestured with his smoking quirley. "Under the false bottom."

  Warily, Porfi dug his pudgy fingers inside the box. When he found the hidden latch and freed the necklace, Cass imagined he could hear the beads of an abacus clicking in the old scoundrel's head. If Porfi recognized Mattie's pearls, he didn't say. He never questioned where merchandise was procured. He'd explained to Cass, once, that curiosity was bad for business.

  "The sapphire is something," the fence conceded grudgingly.

  "Keep it," Cass said magnanimously. "Keep all of it. Consider these trinkets tokens of my esteem—in appreciation for all the favors you do me."

  Porfi hiked a bushy eyebrow. "What favors?"

  And now, the real game begins.

  "I want you to spread the word on the street." Cass adopted a cheeky tone. "Denver has a new prince of thieves."

  "You mean Maestro?"

  Cass blinked, playing dumb. "Who?"

  "The upstart from nowhere, who hit Tabor's place."

  Cass frowned, tapping ash into an empty olive jar. "So what you're saying is, I have competition."

  Amusement flickered over Porfi's craggy features. "You steal penny candy, boyo. Maestro steals the Heart of Fire."

  Cass pretended to consider this disparity. "Is that why they call him Maestro? 'Cause he goes after loot no other thief has the balls to snatch?"

  Porfi shrugged. "I call him Goat Stink. 'Cause whatever he steals, he doesn't trade with me. Or to any other local fence, as far as I can tell."

  "Now that doesn't sound right."

  Porfi agreed with a sneer. "He targets the grandest pieces—the Mother Lode of all rocks—and disdains the easy pickings. He is credited with stealing the Namdaran Emeralds two nights ago from the Museum of Antiquities, but he ignored the jewel-encrusted tankard in the same display case!"

  "Maybe he's a teetotaler."

  "Maybe's he's a vlacas with the brains of a sheep!"

  Cass was careful to hide his amusement. Porfi wasn't the only criminal in Denver's underworld who carried a grudge against Maestro. Soapy Smith, the King of Con, resented him because the jewel thief left a trail of blood. Porfi and Soapy were both gentleman rogues at heart and adamantly against murder. They were also adamantly against interlopers, who muscled in on their turf.

  "Maestro may be working for a collector," Cass said.

  "Stingy bastards. That's what collectors are." Tossing back another shot, Porfi hurled the glass at the brick wall behind him. "May their balls rot off!"

  Cass watched glass trickle from the stain on the bricks. The colorful mess was at least two feet wider than it had been five years ago. Porfi threw a lot of crockery at that wall. Cass suspected the Greek preferred smashing dishes to cleaning them.

  "Seems like Maestro needs to learn his lesson, all right." Cass blew a leisurely stream of smoke. "What do you think he'll snatch next? I'm not afraid to run a little horse race. Tell you what: I'll beat Maestro to the loot and bring it to you."

  Porfi grunted. Translation: he was interested.

  "Well, there's this contessa, newly arrived in town," the Greek hedged.

  "I've already won that round, pard."

  At long last, Cass pulled out the booty he'd stolen from Sadie—or rather, the Pinkertons. Gold collars, platinum bracelets, ruby broaches, and emerald pendants tumbled from his pouch. At the sight of so many one-of-a-kind showpieces, never before seen by local fences, the pulse quickened in Porfi's throat.

  "All this from one female?" he said in dubious tones.

  "Yep."

  "Her old man, he must be worth something."

  "That's why I'm calling dibs on his widow," Cass said. "Comprendé? Tell your associates the Devil has come, and Maestro's reign is over."

  Porfi uncorked the ouzo and reached toward a stack of clean shot glasses on his liquor cabinet. Cass suspected the fence was stalling for time, weighing the pros and cons of siding against an emerging power, like Maestro.

  "So what's your beef with this kolos?" Porfi demanded, pouring another round.

  "The truth?"

  The Greek inclined his head.

  "He killed a mark. A girl mark."

  Porfi
frowned, setting the bottle between them. "A lover?"

  "Does it matter? Maestro kills women, Porfi. That means he's capable of any depravity."

  Porfi's jaw hardened. He fingered Sadie's emerald collar. On the street, it was worth at least 20 grand.

  "So you stole this candy to protect the high-stepper?"

  "That's right. She's off limits even to Soapy."

  Porfi blinked. "You told Soapy not to touch your candy dish?"

  "Damned straight."

  The fence threw back his head and loosed a hearty laugh. "I like you more and more, boyo."

  Leaning across the desk, Porfi drilled Cass with a cagey, alpha-wolf stare. "But if you really wish to make chins wag in the street, you must strike fast. You must beat Maestro to Mephistopheles' jewels."

  "Whose jewels?"

  "Mephistopheles. " At Cass's blank expression, Porfi added wryly, "The demon who serves the devil in Faust. In the opera, the ingénue is sung by Dolce LaRocca, a celebrated Italian soprano. Her American tour arrived in Denver last week. In Act Three, the demon gives a box of jewels to Dolce's character. The Prop Master must have outdone himself, because Dolce was smitten by the paste baubles. Tabor got the bright idea to commission Tiffany's, in New York, to make a copy from real rocks. Last night, he presented Dolce with the necklace to commemorate her debut at his opera house. It's worth $50 grand, at least."

  A rascally grin stole across Cass's face. He didn't know the first thing about opera, except that Sadie liked it, and she'd dreamed of singing someday on a stage as grand as Tabor's.

  Porfi's scheme was ripe with possibilities.

  "I'll make you a deal, Porfi. You keep my dish's candy safe—" he waved a hand at the Pinkerton jewelry—"and I'll make Maestro sorry he didn't pay you the homage you deserve."

  A barn-sized grin split Porfi's face. "Deal."

  They drank to their new partnership. Cass hurled his glass; Porfi followed suit. Shards tinkled to the unswept pile beneath the bricks. Fueled by ouzo and way too much sugar, Cass was ready to take on Maestro, Soapy, and the whole damned secret, Pinkerton army.

  Outside the office, a broad-shouldered man with a hawk-like nose stood in the November night. Sheltered from blustery winds by the alley, he was smoking a Cleopatra Federal cigar and watching man-sized shadows stomp dishes behind the bakery's window shade. Between muffled shouts of laughter, the voyeur could hear lusty cries of, "Opa!"