by Tabor Evans
Longarm grunted. He set his whiskey aside and took out a cheroot, nipped off the twist and spat it out, then struck a match and held the flame to the blunt end of the slender cigar.
“I might have thought it was all a terrible prank,” Helen said, “but whoever is writing these letters knows the girls’ real names. They use nicknames for their work, of course. All working girls do. But the person who is writing those letters knows the real names of my girls. Some of them are becoming afraid that this person will tell their families where they work.” Helen sighed. “It is one thing to be a whore, you see, but quite another thing for one’s mother to know. They would hate that, even the girls who have been thrown out of their homes, which is how I get a good many of my girls.”
“Have you done anything about the letters?” Longarm asked.
Helen managed a smile. “Aside from asking for your help, you mean? Well, yes. I have. I’ve started opening all the mail and throwing those letters away before the girls see them. That has helped, of course. But I’ve already lost some of my best girls because of it. Three from this house. Two from my middle-class house over on Buxton Avenue and four from my hog ranch down by the creek. It is easy enough to replace girls, but this whole thing has them rattled.”
“I would imagine so,” Longarm said. “I wish you’d saved some of them, but if they’re gone, they’re gone. Any more that come in, though, I want to see them.”
“Of course,” Helen said, nodding. She stood and began pacing back and forth across the room. After a few turns around the room she stopped, looked at him, and asked, “Is there anything you can do to help me, Custis?”
He smiled. “It just could be. And in the line o’ duty too. I’d think that this jasper using the United States Post Office to make his threats is cause enough for me to take a hand in the game as a deputy as well as as your friend. Now, tell me where I can get something to eat in this town. Then I’ll get started and see what, if anything, I can do to help you, darlin’.”
Chapter 4
“You can eat here, of course, Custis,” Helen said. “Sleep here too if you wish.”
“Thanks, but it might be a good idea if I don’t let folks in town know that we’re such good friends,” he told her. “If I come and go, no one will think a thing about it. After all, men do visit whorehouses. But if I were to move in and stay, well, that’d be a whole different kettle o’ fish.”
“Oh, I see,” Helen said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She came over to him, leaned down, and kissed him on the cheek. “You’ve grown, Custis. Not just gotten bigger, I mean. You’ve grown up. Matured. You were a lovely boy when I knew you. Now you are a man through and through.”
“I hope you don’t mind the changes,” he said, giving her a fond smile.
“I like everything about you.” Helen laughed. “Especially that magnificent dick. Oh, I remember that, all right. Biggest damn thing I ever had shoved up my twat.”
“Helen, you talk pretty slutty, but I bet you haven’t had half a dozen peckers stuck in you your whole life long. Now, fess up. Am I telling the truth there or not? Half a dozen tops,” he said.
“Why, Custis. A gentleman does not ask a lady such a thing.”
“Shit, Helen, I do. So tell me true. Half a dozen? Less?”
“I am not going to tell you any such thing, Custis Long,” she insisted. But he could see from her expression that she was more amused by his question than offended by it.
He stood and gave her a kiss. Considerably more of one than the little buss she had planted on his cheek. “Helen, you know you’re lady enough for me. Always have been. Now, tell me. Is there a halfway decent hotel in this town, and where can I find a good meal that doesn’t come out o’ your kitchen?”
“That is one benefit from being the madam of a whorehouse, Custis. I get to know almost everything about my town and the people who live here. So let me tell you what I would recommend . . .”
• • •
Half an hour later Longarm had checked into the railside Pickering Hotel and was seated on a stool at the counter of the Tisbury Café, which was across the street half a block from the hotel.
He ordered coffee—it was not half as good as what had come out of Helen’s kitchen—and a huge steak with all the trimmings.
Chapter 5
The most essential needs of the inner man satisfied, Longarm ambled along the street until he found a likely looking saloon. That was not a difficult feat in a railroad town. Half the buildings were either saloons or rooming houses.
He pushed through the batwings and inhaled the familiar scents of sawdust, beer, and tobacco smoke.
The place had five round poker tables, only one of them occupied, and an empty faro table at the back. Half a dozen men leaned on the bar. There were no working girls visible although this was what Longarm would have thought was prime time for whores to ply their trade.
“What will you have?” the barman said by way of greeting. The man was balding, probably middle-aged, wearing a sleeveless shirt beneath his apron.
Longarm wondered if the bare arms were because he did not want to get sleeves wet while washing up . . . or to show off muscles that were only beginning to sag and must once have been powerful indeed.
“Beer,” Longarm responded. After Helen’s superb rye whiskey, he did not want to settle for something less. And any whiskey found behind a public bar like this was bound to be considerably less. “And is that a box of cheroots I see over there by them bottles?”
The bartender nodded. “Aye, and they’re good and fresh.”
Which they would not remain, Longarm knew, if the man kept them out in an open box like that. They would quickly dry out in this climate. Better to keep them in a humidor. Or, if he wanted them on display, in a glass jar.
Not that it was any of his business. “I’ll take six.” Longarm accepted the beer, slipped five of the cheroots into a pocket, and bit the twist off the sixth before striking a match and lighting the slender cigar.
The barman was right about the cheroots being fresh. The tobacco was moist and tasty, and Longarm drew the smoke deep into his lungs, let it out in a series of smoke rings that hung in the air overhead before dissipating, then reached for his mug of foaming beer.
“Do you have a deck o’ cards I could have?” he asked.
Again the barman nodded. “For a nickel,” the burly man said. “Hand them in when you’re done, you get two cents back.”
“All right.” Longarm used a forefinger to shove a nickel from his change across the bar to the apron. The man pocketed the coin and bent to get a deck of pasteboards from somewhere below the bar.
The cards had been used before, but they were in decent condition, none of them marked or with corners bent.
“All right?” the barman asked.
“Fine,” Longarm said. He stuck the cheroot between his teeth, picked up his beer, and carried the beer and the deck of cards to one of the empty tables.
If someone came along who wanted to play a little low-stakes poker, that would be a fine way to pass the evening. Otherwise he would be content to play solitaire instead.
And either way he intended to keep his eyes and ears open.
Chapter 6
Longarm yawned and dealt five cards to each of the two gents who had joined him at the table and five to himself. The game was penny ante poker, something to pass the time, not to rake in any money.
“If you don’t mind me askin’,” he said as he studied the truly lousy hand he had dealt himself, “I’m new in town. What’s it like here? Is there anybody a newcomer should walk soft around?”
The wheezing, red-faced man to his left acted annoyed by the questions. Apparently he wanted to concentrate on his hand. But the nicely dressed gentleman to Longarm’s right tugged two cards out of the fan in his hand and pushed them to the center of the table.
&nb
sp; “Two names you want to know,” that gentleman said.
“Anything you need?” Longarm asked of the wheezer. That fellow was still studying what he had been dealt. Longarm turned his attention back to the fellow at his right. “Two names?”
The gent nodded. “Ira Collins and George Stepanek.”
“An’ they would be?” Longarm asked.
“Ira, he’s the big he-coon around here. Owns half the buildings on Front Street and is working toward pulling in the other half. George is his . . . I suppose you would say that George is Ira’s regulator. If you know the term.”
“If you mean it like they use the word over in Wyoming,” Longarm said, “then yeah. I know the term. It means George is a man to steer clear of if you want to stay outa trouble.”
The gentleman nodded. “You have it right.”
“One card,” the wheezer said, finally deciding what he wanted to do with his hand. One card. Which meant that he had shit for cards and was relying on sheer luck. If he had asked for the lone card right away, it might have meant something, but the procrastination suggested he was on a fishing trip and had nothing to start with.
Longarm dealt the man his one card and two for the gentleman to his right. “Dealer stands pat,” he said. He had nothing in his hand, but the stakes were agreeably low and the conversation was already paying off.
“Open for a quarter,” the wheezer said, tossing a coin into the center of the table.
Trying to buy the tiny pot, Longarm thought. A quarter was a large bet in this game.
“I’ll see your quarter and raise you fifty cents,” the well-dressed gentleman returned.
“Too rich for me,” Longarm said, tossing his cards into the discard pile.
“Your fifty cents and up a dollar,” Wheezer said.
“And a dollar more,” the gent responded.
Longarm sat back and watched while the two locals went at each other, building the pot until it was a respectable amount. When they finally got around to showing their hands, Wheezer turned out to have four treys, which he likely had had to begin with. The man had simply been bluffing with that act of taking so much time to consider his cards. Longarm gave Wheezer a closer look.
He had underestimated the man to begin with. That was not a good way to begin this quest to help Helen.
Longarm waited until Wheezer had collected his winnings, then he raked the cards toward himself, made sure there was nothing but backs showing, and began to shuffle.
“Still straight draw poker,” he mumbled as he shuffled. “Nothing wild. Penny to play.”
He pushed his penny into the middle of the table and waited for the others to ante up before he once again began to deal.
Chapter 7
“Ira Collins. What can you tell me about him?” Longarm asked the waiter/cook and presumably the owner of the Tisbury Café the next morning.
“And who would you be?” the Tisbury counterman asked in return.
“Just a newcomer in town,” Longarm said. “I heard the name last night over a friendly game of cards. Heard he was a big shot. So who is he? What does he do to swing such a wide loop?”
The local man polished some freshly washed platters but said nothing.
“Are you Tisbury?” Longarm asked.
“I am.”
“An’ this is your place.”
Tisbury grunted. The man set a plate aside and threw his towel across a shoulder. “There’s not much I can tell you. Mr. Collins, he owns this place.”
“But I thought . . .”
“I started the business. Opened it six years ago when the rails got here. Mr. Collins made me a generous offer. And I can still run the place. Mr. Collins pays me a nice salary too. It . . . it works out fine.”
“If you say so,” Longarm said. “But what can you tell me about Collins? Who is he? Where’d he come from?”
“I wouldn’t know about any of that,” Tisbury said, “and if I was you, I wouldn’t be asking too many questions. You don’t want to come to the attention of his man.”
“That would be Stepanek,” Longarm guessed.
“You’ve heard about him then.”
“Only the name,” Longarm said. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Mister, if you run into the man, you’ll know it. He is . . . I probably could get in trouble myself for saying this, but he is one rough customer. Quick with his fists; quicker with his gun.”
Longarm dragged his coffee cup closer and idly stirred the dark contents. “Maybe I should stay away from the gentleman then.”
Tisbury grunted again. “Stepanek is no gentleman, but if you’re lucky you won’t ever find that out for yourself. And if anybody asks, you heard nothing from me. All right?”
“Agreed,” Longarm said. “Anyway, it’s true. I’ve heard nothing much from you about either fellow.”
He laid a silver cartwheel down and said, “Thanks for the breakfast, Mr. Tisbury. Keep the change.”
Longarm slid off the counter stool, hitched his britches up, and headed for the street.
Chapter 8
He wandered the streets to get acquainted with Helen’s town. He thought of talking with her about Collins and Stepanek. She was really the person he needed to ask about them; she would not hold back in either her opinions or her descriptions. But this was not an appropriate hour to go visiting in a whorehouse.
At this early time of day only an employee or a very good friend was likely to be knocking at that particular door.
Better, he thought, to wait until this evening before he spoke with Helen again.
The time could be well spent, though, simply by walking. Later he could listen in on conversations in a saloon or two.
And of course this evening he would head for Helen’s main whorehouse, where his comings or goings would simply be regarded as those of a horny traveler.
In the meantime he would . . .
“Bitch!”
The voice came from across the side street Longarm found himself on at the moment.
It seemed to be coming from inside a tailor’s small shop. It was followed by the sound of a loud slap and a woman’s voice crying out in pain.
Longarm was not fond of the idea of ladies being abused. Not even whores. And any lady in a tailor shop at this hour was not likely to be a whore.
He had not checked with Helen about the local habit—or laws—regarding when her girls were allowed to shop, but it was unlikely that any of the local whores would be up and about at this hour of the day anyway.
Curious, he angled across the street and entered the tailor shop, a bell rigged at the top of the door announcing his visit.
Inside he found a woman—he guessed her to be somewhere in her late thirties or early forties—behind the counter.
A tall, very lean man wearing a leather vest, black gloves, and a wide-brimmed pearl-gray hat stood at the end of the counter. The ivory grips of a pistol hung beneath his left armpit.
The left side of the woman’s face was bright red and beginning to swell. A small trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.
And the man, who had obviously just hit the lady, had his hand drawn back ready to smack her again.
“Hello,” Longarm said. He was smiling. Or at least his teeth were exposed. His eyes, however, had turned flinty, and any sensible human being would have known not to cross him right then. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” the man growled.
“No, not at all,” the lady said at the same moment.
“Get the fuck out of here,” the man said.
“How may I help you, sir?” the lady asked.
Longarm approached the counter, still smiling. He took his hat off and bobbed his head, just a customer ignorant of the tensions in the room, or so it seemed.
“I was thi
nking ’bout getting me some shirts made,” Longarm said. “Nothin’ fancy. Just one or two if the price ain’t too dear.”
“I said you’d best get the fuck out of here,” the tall man snarled.
Longarm smiled at him. “And you’d best watch your mouth around this lady. You two aren’t married, are you?”
The man just glared at him.
“No, sir, we are most definitely not married,” the lady said.
“Mind what I said, sir,” Longarm warned.
“Or what, asshole?”
“Or you and me will have us a learnin’ session about how a man should act around ladies,” Longarm answered.
“Do you know who I am?” the tall fellow snapped.
Longarm’s phony smile became all the wider. “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t care.”
“Get out, asshole, or we’ll have that lesson for sure, right here and now.”
Longarm bowed toward the lady. “My apologies, ma’am.”
Then he turned and whipped his Stetson across the eyes of the tall and belligerent fellow.
Chapter 9
That got the ball rolling to a fare-thee-well. Before the tall man could react, Longarm dropped his hat and delivered a rapid-fire pair of blows to the fellow’s gut.
The man doubled over, placing his face quite conveniently for an uppercut that pulped his nose and sent blood spraying onto some bolts of cloth stacked on a table nearby.
He staggered back, took a deep breath, and got himself set to enter the fray.
The fellow was quick. Longarm had to give him that. He came in like he knew what he was doing, light on his toes and moving from side to side. Longarm guessed the man had done some prizefighting somewhere in his past.
He feinted with a left but threw his right hand, hard and straight and quick. Longarm’s forearm flicked it aside, and he hit the tall man in the face. Twice. Hard, quick, short jabs that did more damage to the already flattened nose and split the fellow’s upper lip as well.