by Matt Braun
Starbuck by no means felt sanguine. Alvina might prove an asset, and then again her efforts might very well come to nothing. Yet, from his standpoint, there was everything to gain, with little or no risk of exposing his hand. She was an unwitting operative—undercover in every sense of the word-and more valuable for it. Should she prove ineffective, then it would have cost him nothing more than six nights of ardent lovemaking. And in all truth, the expenditure had required no labour. He’d thoroughly enjoyed himself.
“See!” Alvina suddenly hissed out of the corner of her mouth. “I told you he couldn’t stay away!”
She popped off the sofa and hurried towards the door. As Starbuck watched, she greeted Jim Younger with an exuberant laugh and a teasing peck on the mouth. Behind him, crowding through the doorway, were Cole and two other men. One of them, not unlike the third pea in a pod, was clearly Bob Younger. The other newcomer was slimmer of build, somewhat gangling, with a determined jaw and a neatly trimmed beard. Something about him bothered Starbuck. A wisp of recognition that was at once familiar and elusive.
The men walked to the bar, with Alvina hanging on Jim Younger’s arm. None of them so much as glanced at Starbuck, and he pretended to mind his own business. After a couple of drinks, Jim ordered a bottle from the barkeep; with Alvina in tow, he excused himself and led her towards the hallway. Cole, his voice loud and boisterous, subjected them to a coarse ribbing as they crossed the parlour. Arm in arm, ignoring his jibes, they disappeared up the stairs. Cole laughed uproariously and turned back to his companions. He whacked the bar, ordering a fresh round of drinks.
Several minutes later, the bearded man abruptly shoved away from the bar. He walked directly to the sofa and halted. His eyes were friendly but sharp, very sharp. He nodded to Starbuck.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Help yourself, cousin. It’s a free country.”
Starbuck had a feral instinct for the truth. His every sense alerted, and he warned himself to play it loose. For some reason as yet unrevealed, he was about to be put to the test. He knew he dare not fail.
“I’m told,” the man said tentatively, “you go by the name of Floyd Hunnewell?”
“You’re told right,” Starbuck said with a raffish smile.
“Appears you’ve got the advantage on me.”
“Most folks call me Frank.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Starbuck gave him a look of unalloyed amazement. “I ain’t no mental wizard, but my ma didn’t raise no dimdots neither. Something tells me you got a brother named Jesse.”
Frank gazed at him for a long, speculative moment. “Let’s talk about you. I understand you’re from Kansas?”
“Now and then,” Starbuck said, grinning. “The rest of the time I’m a Texican—and damn proud of it!”
“Strayed a mite far north, haven’t you?”
Starbuck regarded him with an expression of amusement. “Women shore do talk, don’t they?”
“How so?”
“Why don’t we skip the guessin’ game? Seems pretty clear Alvina spilled the beans to Jim Younger, and now he’s put the bee in your ear. So it boils down to you askin’ questions when you already know the answers.”
“You’re right.” Frank smiled genially. “Your ma didn’t raise any dimdots.”
“Only one thing troubles me.” Starbuck leaned back, legs casually stretched out before him. “Why’re you askin’ me any questions at all?”
“You could be a Pinkerton.” Frank let the idea percolate a few moments. “A stranger appears out of nowhere and passes himself off as a horse thief. If you were in my boots—wouldn’t that tend to make you leery?”
“Pinkerton!” Starbuck said wonderingly. “I been called lots of things in my time, but never nothin’ that lowdown. Course, you wasn’t exactly accusin’ me”—he paused for effect—“or was you?”
Frank smiled in spite of himself. “Fast as you are with a gun, that’d be pushing my luck pretty far, wouldn’t it?”
“Shore do regret that.” Starbuck chuckled, stealing a glance at the bar. “Guess the Youngers was some put out, huh?”
“No harm done. Jim has a habit of crowding people when he shouldn’t. Nobody faults you for pulling a gun
… so long as you don’t do it again.”
“In that case—” Starbuck raised an uncertain eyebrow. “How come you and me are sittin’ here playing ring-around-the-rosy?”
Frank cocked his head and studied Starbuck thoughtfully. “Jim was naturally curious, especially after you threw down on him so quick. He twisted Alvina’s arm and she let it drop that you’re on the run. Any truth to it?”
Starbuck wormed around on the sofa and flexed his shoulders. “I’ll have to have m’self a talk with Alvina. Her arm twists a little too easy—regular goddamn blabbermouth!”
“She also said you’re on the scout for a new line of work.”
“So?”
“Wondered why,” Frank said almost idly. “You seem to have done fairly well in the horse business.”
“Simple enough,” Starbuck said lightly. “I don’t aim to scratch a poor man’s ass all my life. There’s ways to make lots more money—and lots faster, too!”
Frank gave him a swift, appraising glance. “Got anything particular in mind?”
“Why?” Starbuck asked, deadpan. “You offerin’ me a job?”
“What if I was?”
“I’d still ask why. You don’t know me from a hole in the ground, and I ain’t exactly in your league. See what I mean?”
“Everybody has to start somewhere.”
“That’s a fact,” Starbuck said slowly. “Howsoever, not everybody starts at the top. Sort of makes me wonder whether you’re testin’ the water—or what?”
The shadow of a question clouded Frank’s eyes, then moved on. “Why don’t you sit tight for a minute? I want to have a word with Cole.”
Starbuck’s expression revealed nothing. Yet he was astonished by the turn of events, searching for a reason where none seemed to exist. Frank rose, nodding to him, and walked to the bar. The conversation with Cole Younger was short, and heated.
“I sounded him out,” Frank commenced guardedly, “and he strikes me as being on the level.”
Cole nailed him with a sharp, sidelong look. “You’re not serious—are you?”
“Why not?” Frank temporised. “He’s smart and he’s had experience dodging the law. And you saw for yourself, he’s no tyro with a gun.”
“Come off it!” Cole demanded churlishly. “The bastard’s an outsider! I don’t want no part of it.”
“Then why are we here?”
“’Cause I didn’t want no trouble with Jesse! Besides, it gimme me a chance to get my wick dipped.”
Frank’s face grew overcast. “I think you’re being shortsighted, Cole. We could use a good man on this job, and Hunnewell seems to fit the ticket.”
“No sale!” Cole’s headshake was emphatic. “I won’t work with a stranger. You give him the nod and you can count me out! That goes for the boys, too.”
Cole turned away, ending the discussion. He signalled Bob, and in short order they had each selected a girl. Without another word to Frank, they stalked from the parlour, trailed by a couple of blowzy whores, and mounted the stairs. Frank appeared slightly bemused, staring after them for several seconds. Then, with a hopeless shrug, he walked back to the sofa.
“Sorry, Hunnewell.” He rocked his head from side to side. “‘The nature of bad news infects the teller.’”
“Come again?”
“A line from Shakespeare.” Frank lifted his hands with a sallow smile. “I thought we could find a spot for you, but it seems I was mistaken. Maybe next time.”
“Next time?” Starbuck repeated, genuinely confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A figure of speech,” Frank said evasively. “There’s always a next time and a time after that. See you around.”
On that cryptic note, Frank moved into
the hallway and out the door. Starbuck simply sat there, stunned. He hadn’t the least notion of what had transpired or why. Yet there was one thing about which he was utterly certain. He’d just been blackballed for membership in the James-Younger gang.
Late that night Alvina joined him in the parlour. The Younger brothers, drunk and raucous, had departed only a short while before. She looked some the worse for wear, sombre and somehow distracted. With a heavy sigh, she dropped beside him on the sofa.
“Well, lover.” She smiled wanly. “How’s things with you?”
“Slow.” Starbuck’s smile was equally bleak. “Mighty slow.”
“Sorry,” Alvina apologised. “I couldn’t get rid of him. Usually he doesn’t drink all that much; but there wasn’t anything usual about tonight. He damn near killed that whole bottle.”
“Forget it,” Starbuck said darkly. “You got a job to do, and nobody’s blamin’ you for that.”
Alvina studied his downcast face. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”
“Happened with what?”
“With Jim Younger,” Alvina reminded him. “I was supposed to talk to him … remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Starbuck seemed to lose interest. “How’d it go?”
“It didn’t! The bastard got drunk as a skunk and I never had a chance to sound him out.”
“Don’t matter,” Starbuck said miserably. “Too late anyway.”
“Too late?” Alvina parroted. “Too late for what?”
“Too late for me!” Starbuck’s tone suddenly turned indignant. “Frank James halfway gave me an invite to join up with ’em. Then Cole Younger put the quietus on it so fast it’d make your head swim. I was in and out before I knew what hit me!”
“Jeezus!” Alvina murmured. “You’ve had yourself some night, honeybun!”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Well, at least I know why Cole nixed you.”
“You do?”
Alvina gave him a bright nod. “They’re planning a job. That’s why I couldn’t get a word in edgewise with Jim. He got drunk and bragged himself blue in the face.” She hesitated, put a hand on his arm. “Don’t blame yourself, lover. As big as this job sounds, Cole wouldn’t risk breaking in a new man.”
“Just my luck.” Starbuck suppressed a sudden jolt of excitement. “How big … or didn’t he say?”
“Oh, he said all right! To hear him tell it, they’ll all retire when this one’s over.”
“Sounds like an express-car job.”
“No, it’s a bank. A real big bank.”
“Wouldn’t you know it!” Starbuck cursed, slumped back on the sofa. “Whereabouts? Not that it matters a whole helluva lot.”
An indirection came into Alvina’s eyes. “North-something-or-other. I think he said Northfield. Or maybe Northville. Tell you the truth, I wasn’t listening too close. What a girl don’t know can’t hurt her.”
Starbuck chanced one last question. “Northfield? Hell, that don’t sound so big to me. Where’s it at?”
“Search me, lover. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask! All night he just kept saying it was going to surprise the living bejesus out of the Pinkertons.”
“Wonder what he meant by that?”
“Who knows?” Alvina murmured wearily. “You’ll pardon my French … but I really don’t give a fuck anyhow.”
Starbuck knew then he would learn no more. Yet, with luck, he thought perhaps he’d learned enough. The germ of an idea took shape in his mind, and his pulse quickened. A bank, more so than most places, would make a fitting stage. And a final curtain for Jesse James.
He wondered if there was a morning train to St. Louis.
CHAPTER 12
Starbuck revised his plan. After sleeping on it overnight, he decided the delay of another day was of no great consequence. Speed, in the overall scheme of things, was less essential than maintaining his cover story.
He had no clear idea when the robbery would occur. Yet it seemed unlikely the gang would ride out within the next couple of days. The Youngers, after their binge of last night, would need time to recuperate. Then, too, Frank James had evidenced no sense of urgency in either his attitude or his curious offer. All that indicated the holdup would not take place for at least three days, perhaps more. And since Starbuck’s own plan was based largely on guesswork, he felt the need to copper his bet.
For Floyd Hunnewell to disappear mysteriously would almost certainly arouse suspicion. All the more so in the light of Alvina’s thoughtless revelations the night before. A bit of insurance seemed in order, and for the simplest of reasons. There was an outside possibility that Floyd Hunnewell would, by necessity, return to Ma Ferguson’s. To do so—without getting killed in the process—would require that his credentials as a horse thief withstand scrutiny. On balance, then, it seemed wise to enlarge the original cover story with still another tapestry of lies.
To that end, Starbuck improvised a tale designed to touch a whore’s heart. He appeared disgruntled, thoroughly crestfallen that he’d muffed his chance to join the James-Younger gang. A change of scenery, he explained, along with a little action, was needed to restore his spirits. He’d decided to return to his old haunts—a horse-stealing foray into Kansas which would last a week, perhaps longer, depending on circumstances. Then, with his funds replenished, he would hightail it straightaway back to Ma Ferguson’s. It wasn’t goodbye, he told Alvina, but merely a pause in the festivities. Upon his return, the party would resume right where they’d left off.
Alvina accepted the story at face value. She was sad, even a bit misty-eyed, but not without hope. When he departed around midmorning, she was convinced their separation would be of short duration. She peppered him with kisses, hugging him fiercely, and let go only when he stepped through the front door. Waving, bravely snuffling back her tears, she watched as he rode away. For a whore, whose memories were generally bereft of sentiment, it was a moment to be treasured. She was overcome by the old sensation of a woman sending her man off to battle.
Starbuck turned his attention to the task ahead. Kansas City was less than twenty miles from Ma Ferguson’s, and he arrived there early that afternoon. He left the gelding at a livery stable, paying a week’s charges in advance, and emerged onto the street. For the next hour he circled through the downtown area, frequently doubling back, always looking over his shoulder. At last, satisfied he hadn’t been followed, he went to the train station and collected a suitcase he’d checked the week before. A short while later he stepped into one of the town’s busier hotels. There, registering under a false name, he took a room.
Upstairs, Starbuck paused only long enough to deposit the suitcase in his room. Then he quickly took possession of the bathroom at the end of the hall. With all the modern conveniences, including hot and cold running water, he set to work. Standing before the lavatory mirror, he peeled off the fake moustache and carefully scrubbed spirit gum from his upper lip. After undressing, he drew a scalding bath and lowered himself into the tub. The water slowly turned dark brown as he alternately lathered and rinsed his hair. A final washing, with his head directly under the tap, removed the last of the dye. When he inspected himself in the mirror, the transformation was complete. Floyd Hunnewell had been laid to rest.
Late that afternoon, Starbuck emerged from the hotel by a side exit. He caught a hansom cab and went straight to the train station. After dropping his bag at the checkroom, he purchased a ticket; then he swiftly mingled with the crowd. Only by a fluke would he have been recognised by anyone from Clay County; he was attired in his Denver clothes, and his hair was once again light chestnut in colour. Still, there was always that off chance, and he’d learned long ago that too much caution was far healthier than too little. By train time, he felt reasonably confident he was in the clear. On the stroke of six he boarded the evening eastbound for St. Louis.
At the first stop, an hour or so down the line, Starbuck hopped off the train. He collared the station agent, handin
g him a scribbled message and a ten-dollar bill. The agent, impressed by his generosity, promised to send the wire the moment the train was under way.
The message was addressed to Otis Tilford.
Not long after sunrise the train pulled into St. Louis. Starbuck left the depot on foot and headed uptown. A walk in the brisk morning air took the kinks out of his muscles and revived him from a long night in the chair car. By the time he reached the corner of Olive and Fourth, he’d worked up an appetite.
A café catering for the early-morning breakfast trade caught his attention. He first used the washroom to splash sleep out of his eyes and scrub his teeth with soap and a thorny forefinger. Then he sat down to a plate of ham and eggs, with a side order of flapjacks. He topped off the meal with a cigarette and a steaming mug of black coffee. On the street again, he went looking for a barbershop.
By half past eight, he’d had a trim and a shave. He reeked of talcum powder and bay rum, and he felt positively chipper as he walked along Fourth towards Delmar. At the corner, he entered the Merchants & Farmers Bank Building. The elevator deposited him on the third floor, and a moment later he pushed through the door of the International Bankers Association. The receptionist, still masquerading as a drill sergeant, evidenced no surprise at his arrival. His wire had been slipped under the door early that morning and he was expected. She escorted him directly into Otis Tilford’s office.
