Longarm 422 (4 page)

After dinner—a rather elegant affair indeed—Longarm walked Iris back to her shop. “Yes, I really live there. I can't afford to pay two rents out of what I make. Will you come inside?” she offered when they reached the front door.

“No, but I thank you. And I want to thank you for the pleasure of your company tonight.” He winked and added, “And earlier too.”

“Oh, that pleasure was mine,” Iris said.

“I won't kiss you good night,” Longarm told her. “Don't want folks to be gossiping.”

Iris's answer was to throw her arms around Longarm's neck and plant a huge kiss on him, probing his mouth with her tongue.

He was tempted to change his mind and accompany the lady inside for a while, perhaps for the night, but that would not be accomplishing anything for Helen. He settled for the kiss, saw Iris indoors, and waited until her door was locked before he turned and walked toward Front Street, along the railroad.

The saloons—and there were plenty of them—were ablaze with lights and music played on a piano. Longarm dropped in at several of the more likely-looking places and stayed only long enough to have a beer and eavesdrop on the conversations around him.

Most of the talk was uninteresting. Off-duty railroaders talked about bosses or coworkers. Cowhands talked about horses, both the good and the bad ones they had known. The miners seemed mostly to talk about the local whores.

Each group tended to gather in saloons that catered to their own sort. Longarm spent the bulk of his time sipping suds in the two saloons where the miners drank. He heard nothing there about the whorehouses, though, just the whores. He finished his brews and moved along.

In none of the saloons did he hear a word about Ira Collins. He did overhear one man grumbling about George Stepanek, but the man was drinking with a small group of friends and was disinclined to talk to a stranger.

Longarm made the rounds of all the town's watering holes until he was familiar with them and with their normal clientele. And until he was feeling more than a bit waterlogged by all the beer he had put behind his belt.

Time to head back to his hotel, he decided. While he could still navigate the way there.

He went outside, looked around a bit to get his bearings, then started walking back toward the Pickering and an empty hotel room.

He would have much preferred the acrobatics available in Iris's back room or the friendly company to be found in Helen's bedroom, but at the moment the Pickering seemed advisable.

He was a block away from the hotel when he heard a rush of feet coming fast behind him.

Coming much too fast.

There were three of them, and they had bad intentions. Trying to roll him for his wallet, he assumed.

It was not a plan he intended to comply with.

Longarm spun to his right, lashing out with his knuckles extended into the throat of the first son of a bitch.

The man gagged and clutched his throat, dropping to his knees and puking into the dust and cinders of the street.

Behind him the second man avoided Longarm's punch by tripping over his downed partner. He did not, however, avoid the next punch. Longarm's fist split the bastard's lips and may well have loosened some teeth.

But there was a third . . .

Longarm more heard than felt the crunching blow onto the back of his head. The sound was like that of a pumpkin being thumped. Hollow and deep.

Deep inside his own skull.

It was something he found mildly interesting.

Something he intended to examine. When he got time.

For now, though, he would just lie there next to the man who was retching his guts out.

Interesting how he had gotten down there on the ground without really noticing. But there he was.

Longarm found that to be mildly funny.

He thought about laughing.

Thought about crying.

Thought about joining that other guy by puking up all that beer he had had during the evening.

Thought about . . . Fuck it. Thought about just going to sleep right there and then.

Longarm closed his eyes and let himself drift away into the gray void that was coming down to claim him.

This hotel had one hard son-of-a-bitch of a bed. At the very least he wanted to change rooms. If all their beds were this lousy, he would change hotels.

Longarm cracked his eyes open.

And frowned.

The wall he was staring at was made of brick. He thought there was supposed to be wallpaper.

And in the other direction . . . there were bars.

He was in a jail cell. He could not remember why he would have been collared. He shook his head.

That was a mistake. The rapid motion made his head swim and his stomach do flip-flops. There was a distinct possibility that he was going to puke.

Longarm fought down that impulse and sat up on the edge of the jail bench. That helped. A little.

“Awake are you?” a voice came from the other side of the bars.

He thought, No, you asshole, I'm still sound asleep.

But aloud he said, “Yes, sir.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Yes, sir, a little, thank you.” Custis Long knew a bit about jailhouse etiquette and how a sensible man speaks to the fellow with the key. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“What am I in for?”

The turnkey laughed. “You don't know?”

“No, sir, I don't.” Longarm could learn to seriously dislike this son of a bitch. Wouldn't even have to work very hard at it. And, dammit, his head hurt.

“Drunk and disorderly. You was found passed out in the street. That's enough to earn you three days or three dollars, one or t'other.”

“I wasn't passed out. Somebody beat me up,” Longarm said.

“Sonny, do you have any idea how many times I've heard that one?” the jailer responded. The man walked into view and Longarm got a look at him. The turnkey was a scrawny little son of a bitch with a shaggy beard and nearly bald dome. His hair, both head and beard, had the washed-out sort of white that once had been red. He wore bib overalls and eyeglasses.

“Did I have my wallet when you picked me up?” Longarm asked.

“I didn't look into your pockets, sonny, but I noticed the right front in your britches was turned inside out,” the jailer said.

That was a relief, Longarm thought. The thieves had gotten some money from him, but his credentials as a deputy U.S. marshal were intact. The money could easily be replaced. The badge could not.

There would be no point in making a police report about the attack, he knew. This was a railroad town. Half a dozen trains could have come and gone while he lay unconscious in this jail cell, and the three men who jumped him could have gotten onto any one of them.

For that matter, dark as it had been, he was not really sure he could describe the trio. Or recognize them if he saw them again.

But he wished he could get his hands on the asshole who'd bashed him from behind. It was a favor he would be pleased to return.

“What about my Colt?” he asked.

“Yeah, you was wearing that. It's out here in the desk. You can have it back when you get out.”

Longarm blinked a little and took inventory of himself. The back of his head felt like it had been caved in. But he knew it hadn't been. There was some matted blood back there that he would wash out once he was free to do so. The damage could have been much worse. Likely his Stetson had cushioned some of the blow.

His wallet was in an inside coat pocket. That, including the badge it contained, would go into the hotel safe as soon as he got back there.

The leather also contained some currency. The thieves had missed finding that. But then hard money, coins, was the most common. A good many men simply did not trust paper money. The thieves had not been looking for paper, just for metal. Thank goodness.

“Mister. Sir. Did you say I can get out if I pay a fine of three dollars?”

“That's right. Three dollars or three days, whatever you like.”

“I'll pay the three dollars,” Longarm said.

“Cash money? We don't take no jawbone here.”

“Cash money,” Longarm assured him.

“Give me a minute to get my keys then, and I'll let you out.”

Longarm stood. He felt wobbly and a little nauseous, but that would pass. Right now what he wanted was to get out of this cell, get back to the hotel, and clean up. He needed to send his clothes out to be cleaned too.

And he needed to see Helen again.

Come to think of it, his wallet would probably be safer with her than with some hotel clerk who might very well have sticky fingers to finish the job those robbers had started.

The jailer reappeared, carrying a steel ring with half a dozen keys attached. The only key Longarm was interested in was the one to this cell. The man found it on the second try, and Longarm was a free man again.

“Send a boy up to my room, would you. I need to have some clothes dry cleaned.”

The desk clerk at the Pickering nodded and yawned.

“And if you don't mind, what time is it?” Longarm asked.

The clerk pointed toward the wall-hung regulator clock to the right of the hotel desk. It was only nine-thirty in the morning, much too early to be seen calling on Helen.

“Thanks.” Longarm wearily climbed the stairs and let himself into his room. He barely had time to strip off his clothes before the boy showed up at his door to collect them.

“I'm sorry, but I forgot to mention to the clerk, I need a tub and some bathwater too. And soap. I didn't bring my own.”

“All right, sir. I won't be long with your water. The tub is in the closet just down the hall there.” The boy pointed and left, carrying Longarm's filthy clothes wadded into a bundle.

Longarm wrapped a towel around his waist and trudged down the hall to locate the copper tub and drag it back to his room. By the time he was done with that, the boy was back with the first two buckets of water hot from a reservoir downstairs.

There was barely enough to cover his butt, but he sank down into it with a loud sigh. The heat felt mighty good on his battered body. He scooped some water up with his hands and spilled it over his head. He used a dab of soft soap to cleanse the dried blood that was caked in the hair on the back of his head, then used more to bathe his face and wash under his arms and in his crotch.

The kid came back with two more buckets.

“Just pour those over me, boy.”

“The water is pretty hot, sir.”

“That's all right. It feels good.”

“Yes, sir.”

Damn kid was right. The water felt like surely it must be close to boiling. No matter. Longarm let the heat soak into his bones. If this kept up, he thought, he might get to feeling human in another half hour or so.

“Boy, hand me that wallet you see laying on the bureau there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Longarm took the wallet and extracted a dollar bill. He handed it to the kid.

“I don't have any change, sir, but I can run downstairs and get some.”

“I don't want no change back, son. You earned it.”

The boy's eyes went wide. “The whole dollar, sir?”

Longarm nodded and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “One more thing before you go, please.”

“Yes, sir. Anything you want, sir.”

“Hand me one o' them cigars you'll see over there. And a match.”

Longarm fired up a cheroot, thanked the kid again, then slid as far down in the warm water as he could get, his cigar leaving a stream of smoke hanging above the tub.

He relaxed and let the warmth soothe his aching muscles. He had forgotten to grab the towel out of the wardrobe and would likely half freeze when he got out of the tub and the air reached his wet skin, but no matter. There would be time enough to worry about that when it happened.

Right now all he wanted was to stay where he was and soak. Later on he could think about something to eat. Maybe a shot or two of rye whiskey.

And this evening he would be like any customer with a hard-on and a little money to spend and go visit with Helen at her place.

Longarm slept the afternoon away, then got up and dressed in his spare clothing. It was good to feel clean and dry and reasonably well rested again. He went downstairs and turned his key in at the desk, then walked over to Tisbury's for a steak, fried, and potatoes, also fried, and a slab of dried apple pie, all of it very good stuff.

After supper he made his way over to Helen's whorehouse. Her ladies were pretty, but they were not tempting. Given the choice he would have rather been with Iris than with any of these working girls, no matter how pretty they were.

If, that is, Iris would have him. She had made it abundantly clear that one romp in her bed did not give a gent a free pass for future pleasures.

Right now, though . . .

“Is Miss Helen here?” he asked the girl who answered the door. He had forgotten to ask Helen if she was using her real name, so he was not sure if he should ask for Helen Morrow or . . . who knew what else.

“Have a seat in the parlor, sir. I'll see if she is available. Your name, please?”

“Custis,” Longarm said. “She knows me.”

“Yes, sir.” The girl bobbed her head and headed for the back of the house. Longarm entered the parlor and settled onto an overstuffed chair.

The bevy of whores preened and postured, vying in their own fashion to be the one the tall gentleman chose. The room smelled of perfume and powders. The girls were pink and many of them plump, with plenty of tit for a man to play with, and their gowns made the most of what they had to offer, barely covering the essentials.

The girl who had greeted him returned quickly. “Miss Helen said you are to go right back, sir. Do you know the way?”

“Yes, thank you.” Longarm headed down the hallway toward the back of the house. He stopped at Helen's door and knocked.

“Custis? I'm glad to see you, dear,” Helen said, opening the door and ushering him inside. “Can I get you something? Are you hungry?”

“I'm fine. Just ate, thanks. But about that rye . . . ?”

She laughed and took him by the elbow, leading him into her office and living quarters and seating him in a comfortable armchair. That was followed with a generous measure of her excellent rye whiskey. “Now,” she said. “Tell me what you have learned.”