"So, ah, did you ever make good with Spanish Kitty?"
"I did not," Riot said.
"Shit."
"Why do you think I asked you along?"
"For my amiable company?"
"And your charming friend, Mr. Bowie."
Tim cackled. "It just so happens I brought along another friend."
Riot glanced at him sidelong. "Please tell me you didn't bring dynamite?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth.
Tim only smiled.
The bouncer patted down Riot's hips and let him through. But his new No. 3 sat snuggly under his arm with a spare in an ankle holster. While Tim hadn't brought his customary shotgun, he had his bowie knife. The bouncer let them through.
The cramped entryway gave way to a hallway. Music and voices warred as Tim and Riot strolled down lit stairs into the dance hall. It was a large rectangular basement filled with crude tables and chairs, and billiard tables. A fiddler and pianist plied their craft in a corner beside a wooden stage, with a space cleared for dancing. The dancing involved men pawing "pretty waiter girls" who wore unbuttoned blouses and short red skirts.
Tim elbowed Riot in the ribs. "Remember, you're a soon-to-be married man." Before Riot could reply, Tim dipped into the crowd and disappeared.
A woman with a warm smile sidled up to him. "Beer and cigar?" she asked, her voice warm and sultry against his ear. He placed a twenty-five cent piece on her tray. "Have you seen an older Italian fellow by the name of Leonardo? He's a regular here."
The waitress eyed him. "Sweetie, I know lots of men by that name."
"It is unfortunately common," he agreed. "But he's a big fellow. Wide-set eyes, flat nose, harsh jaw, and rough hands."
She gave him an easy smile, trained and practiced, but it didn't touch her eyes.
"It's only business," he assured.
"Most men come for pleasure," she said, running a hand down his waistcoat. He could feel a tremor in those fingertips. Fear. Either Leonardo was a dangerous customer, or she recognized an infamous gunfighter who likely had a price or two on his head. Damn the newspapers, Riot thought.
"Yes, I am," he said.
She started in surprise. "I… You are, aren't you? That detective?" It was a breathless question.
Riot didn't bother smiling. It wouldn't put her at ease. Women of the underworld knew fake when they saw it, and they sensed danger long before.
She pressed against him. "I'm paid to get you soused, up those stairs, and—"
"Part me from my cash."
"The best money you'll ever spend…" Her hand drifted downwards.
Riot stopped her short, and placed her roving hand back on her tray. "Undoubtedly."
"If you change your mind…" Her eyes slid to a stairway. One that led upstairs to a honeycomb of small, partitioned rooms.
"I thank you kindly for the offer, but I'm here for business."
"We can't talk about our customers." She glanced at the billiards table.
Riot placed another coin on her tray.
"Clara has a loose tongue. You might pump her instead." Her eyes danced with amusement as she sauntered away. But the woman's good humor was far from reassuring.
Riot moved through the crowd, avoiding the billiard tables. He kept his brim low as he questioned two more waitresses, then ran into an old gunfighter who he'd put a bullet through twenty years before. The man bore him no ill feelings.
Cheers went up around the tables, and a man stomped through the crowd, while the audience jeered at him. A tall, dark-haired woman tucked her winnings in her bodice.
"Anyone else?" she challenged.
A fool stepped up, and the game began again.
Spanish Kitty hadn't changed in the past five years. Dark-haired and tall, she bent over the table, and caressed her cue stick. Her focus was absolute, and so was the focus of the men behind her. But the last man who'd put a hand up under her short skirt left The Strassburg a eunuch.
When Riot finally found Clara, the first waitress's amusement became clear. Clara was sitting on the lap of an inebriated man who was all hands and no class. The woman had a look Riot knew well—sickly sweet smile, a fake laugh, and eyes full of disdain for the man pawing at her.
Riot caught her eye. "Miss Clara?"
The man looked up. "Bugger off."
"Are you paying?" Riot asked.
"I'm sampling."
Riot held up a gold dollar between his fingers, and inclined his head towards the stairway. Clara whispered in the man's ear, and started to rise. But the man fished in his pocket and stuffed a dollar between her ample breasts. "Had her first," he said.
"And last night, Brett," she nibbled on his ear.
"I'll only be a few minutes," Riot said.
"Find another whore," the man growled.
Riot didn't take his suggestion.
"Gentlemen, please,” Clara said into the mounting tension. But Brett ignored her plea. He stood, knocking her off his lap.
"Do you know who I am?" Brett asked.
"Should I?" Riot countered.
Brett bristled. "Are you aiming for a fight?"
"If you swing, you'll be kicked out."
Brett grinned wildly. "They don't kick me out."
Riot cocked his head. "You must be the local copper with a greased palm."
"You cocky little—" Brett swung.
Riot ducked under the drunken fist, and took a step back. He held up his hands, walking stick loosely dangling from his fingers. "I don't want trouble."
Brett charged. What Riot lacked in size, he made up in speed. Riot sidestepped the drunken attack and tripped Brett up with his walking stick. Brett fell to his knees. But the scuffle had attracted attention. The crowd had cleared a space, and large toughs were coming their way.
Riot stepped up to Clara, and calmly asked, "Do you know an Italian named Leonardo? A big fellow, about sixty, wide eyes and rough hands?"
She blinked at him, her gaze sliding over his shoulder. "He's a bouncer here."
It was Riot's turn for surprise.
"Back off. He's mine!" Brett growled.
Four men surrounded Riot, from dark to light, to young and old, but all similarly large.
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Brewer. Miss Kitty wants to see him," said a bouncer with a scarred smile etched onto his cheeks.
Brett fumed, but kept his mouth shut. A second bouncer locked a hand over Riot's shoulder. He was missing two fingers. With little choice in the matter, Riot was escorted towards a billiards table.
The five men stopped a few feet from the table. Spanish Kitty was bent over, her long body stretched on the green mat, arms poised. She didn't look up. The cue stick slid between her fingers. White hit black, and the eight ball rolled into a pocket. Her opponent slapped a stack of cash on the table.
"Search him," Kitty said without looking up.
The bouncers did a more thorough search of Riot's person than the doorman. In a matter of seconds, he was freed of his No. 3 and his Shopkeeper.
Kitty plucked the black ball from its pocket. "The last time you visited my establishment you brought the police, cost me two nights of business, and left a man bleeding on my dance floor."
"Not the first blood to stain these floors."
"Cocky as ever." Spanish Kitty took her time looking him up and down. "The white hair looks good on you. Nice touch." She made a slashing gesture across her temple. "You know there's a bounty on your head."
"There usually is," he said. "But most are smart enough to realize the money isn't worth crossing me."
Kitty laughed. "Life is cheap. Men kill for pennies in this part of the world."
"So I've noticed."
"I should shoot you myself," mused Kitty.
"And ruin your floors?"
"It would be worth it."
"Have you been dreaming of killing me for the past five years?"
A bouncer hit him in the lower back. Riot grunted, and his knees buckled, but he managed to stay upright.
<
br /> "Easy, boys," Kitty said. She pointed the cue stick at him. "I haven't given you a single thought since that night. Not until you walked into my turf with your same song and dance."
"Trouble wasn't my aim tonight. Mr. Brewer swung at me."
Kitty tossed the cue ball on the table. "Set up another round," she said to a nearby gentleman. He jumped to obey, gathering the balls in a wooden triangle.
"You owe me money, Atticus Riot."
At the sound of his name, conversation died. The music stopped, but the women on stage kept dancing. A desperate kind of pantomime of scuffing and high kicks. Not a single eye was on their exhibition.
"I'm looking for one of your bouncers. Leonardo. He's been spooking a client of mine."
Kitty's hands tightened on her cue stick. "You. Owe. Me. Money."
"The man bleeding on your floor was responsible for that trouble five years before."
"He's dead."
"Hung, if I recall. By the Justice Department."
"I don't give a damn. You owe me six hundred dollars."
"Not as I see it."
Kitty arched a brow, and positioned the cue ball. The triangle was removed. "How do you see this ending?"
Riot glanced around the dance hall. "At this point?" He removed his spectacles and tucked them away. "I see it ending in blood. But I warn you, Kate, I'll cost you a great deal more if you make an issue out of this. I only came to talk to one of your bouncers."
"You can talk to four of them."
The cue stick slid through her fingers. The ball struck, and so did the first blow. Only it wasn't the fist aimed at Riot. He had leaned back and dodged the swing. Scar Face rushed in, and Riot twisted, thrusting his walking stick. The tip caught Scar Face in the solar plexus. Another blink, and the weighted stick slammed against Eight Finger's throat.
Number Three lunged for the stick, and the fourth bouncer attacked simultaneously. Riot moved into the blow. The fist connected with his face, but the blow lacked power. Riot drove his shoulder into Number Four's gut. The bouncer staggered back. Riot wrenched free his stick, gave it a quick twirl, and the heavy silver knob connected with the man's head.
Number Four dropped to the floor.
Scar Face slammed into him from the side. Riot hit the billiards table, and a large dark fist pounded his face. Riot grabbed a smooth ball and drove it into the side of Scar Face's skull. Scar Face reeled to the side. A hiss insinuated itself into the buzz of combat. Smoke came next, and burning.
Screams erupted, feet rushed, and a stampede headed for the exits. Riot was blind, his eyes full of fire. But he was well used to the lack of sight. Wheezing, he wrenched his revolver from Scar Face's waistband and rolled off the table. Riot coughed and gagged, slipping on rolling billiard balls. Blinking past the sting in his eyes, he stumbled to his feet and joined the surge.
A hand clapped his back, and Riot spun. Bright blue eyes stilled his fist. Tim had a handkerchief tied over his nose. "Git goin', boy." He gave Riot a shove, and goaded him into the street, and then into the mouth of an alley.
Riot doubled over, and coughed up the burn in his throat. He tried to wipe his eyes, but it only made the sting worse.
"Stay still."
Riot did as ordered. Tim grabbed him by his hair and bent back his head. Water splashed over his eyes. It lessened the sting. "What the hell did you do?" Riot wheezed.
Tim cackled. "I made a slight improvement to those smoke bombs. I added cayenne and pepper. Though I may have added a mite too much."
Riot wiped the blood from his nose. "Couldn't you have come to my rescue before the beating?"
"I was reacquainting myself with an old friend. You were fine."
"Until I wasn't." Riot eased his spectacles back on. No cracks in the lens. Small blessings. He smoothed his hair and glanced back at the street. Drunks were convinced they were dying, whores were retching, and the fire brigade bells were ringing like mad.
"Our man is a bouncer upstairs."
"Gawd dammit," Tim said, slapping his hat on his knee.
Riot narrowed his eyes at the hat. His own had fallen off in the fight.
"Why'd you have to go and antagonize Miss Kitty?"
"I did not antagonize her, Tim." Riot put a hand to his lower back. There'd be a bruise in the morning, and he'd likely be pissing blood.
"Yer losin' that smooth tongue of yours."
"We seem to have different memories of the past twenty years. Have you been drunk all these years?"
"Maybe so. Not near as amusing as it used to be."
Riot checked his revolver, and clicked the chamber shut before holstering it. Determined, he strode back towards The Strassburg with stick in hand.
Tim hurried after. "Where you going?"
"To get my hat."
"Look here, boy. I aim to keep you alive long enough to make Miss Bel a widow."
"I don't plan on making her a widow for a good long while," Riot said as he pushed his way into the crowd. He grabbed a beer from a gawking man, and poured it over a handkerchief. Before Tim could argue, he tied the handkerchief around his face, and slipped back inside the dance hall.
The dance hall was in ruins from the stampede, but it was generally left that way nightly. A stinging smoke lingered. Scar Face was slumped in a far corner, he appeared to be breathing. Riot picked up his hat, knocked it back into shape, and placed it on his head. Just so. A gunshot barked, and his hat flew off again.
"I'll kill you, Riot!" Kitty screamed.
Riot drew and fired. A bullet splintered the bar that Kitty hid behind. Two bandana-wearing toughs came through a side door and Riot bolted for the stairs, taking them two at a time. A rush of footsteps followed. He ran through the first open door with a window, and climbed straight out onto a fire escape. Another bark bit the metal near his head, and a ping sparked by his hand. Riot didn't stop. He rushed down the escape, gripped the last rung, and dropped to the ground.
Riot hit the muck of the alleyway, and fell to his knees. Half-dressed women and men crowded around him. A rough hand reached out, and Riot took it. "Thank you kindly." He looked up to find a large man with wide-set eyes and a flat nose looking down at him. The last time Riot had seen the man he had been wearing a police uniform.
"Kill 'im, Leo!" Kitty yelled from the upstairs window.
Recognition lit Leonardo's eyes. The man clamped down on Riot's hand, and reached for the knife on his hip. Riot jabbed upwards with his stick. The knob caught Leonardo under the jaw, and he staggered back a step. A gunshot ricocheted through the alleyway. The crowd fled, pushing towards wider streets, and Leonardo bolted with them. The big man scattered whores and johns, shoving them out of his way.
Riot gave chase. The two men broke free of the crowd, and Riot shot down the boardwalk in pursuit: through a narrow lane with huddled forms, past a dozen brothels and saloons, and into a crowded street. Electric lights blinded him, and everywhere he looked, rough men stared back.
"Damn." Riot leaned against the closest wall to catch his breath. He ripped off his handkerchief and dabbed at the blood on his nose. He was glad he couldn't smell the cheap beer soaking it.
"You look worse for wear."
Riot glanced at a woman who shared his wall. Makeup caked her wrinkled face, her bodice was unlaced, and her skirts tucked up to the hip.
"I've had worse nights."
She smiled, displaying a mouth of swollen gums. "So have I."
"Did you happen to see the man who ran out of this alleyway before me?"
"I've survived this long on the streets by being blind." She spat out a wad of tobacco.
He waited, meeting her gaze.
"It comes and goes. The blindness."
"I understand." Riot went to tip his hat, but found only air. He sighed faintly. He had been partial to that hat.
"Buy me a drink?" she asked.
Riot cocked his head, and offered his arm. "I'd be honored." She tucked his arm close, and nudged him towards a corner saloon.
"Oh, a real gentleman." She pressed against him. "Most call me Angel. I'm the closest you'll get to heaven. But you can call me Fran MacIntyre."
"A pleasure, Miss MacIntyre. Atticus Riot. Friends call me A.J."
She raised her brows. "I've heard of you, haven't I?"
"Likely so. Although depending on who's doing the telling, it may be bad."
"Mostly bad. For you. You need to be careful 'round these parts."
"I'm a careful sort."
They walked into the Rusty Rose. It was a proper saloon, with a pianist tapping out a playful tune, a long bar, and a buffet. A few working girls sat with patrons, but it was more conversation than business.
As was his habit, Riot surveyed the saloon. A big man with hunched shoulders caught his eye in the corner. Miss MacIntyre had led him true. Riot placed a dollar on the bar. "Lady's choice." He pressed a five dollar bill into her palm. "Take care of yourself, Miss MacIntyre."
"You too, sweetie."
Riot walked to the back of the saloon and stopped at Leonardo's table. The man's shoulders were hunched as he nursed a drink. He didn't react when Riot slid into the chair opposite. "Can I buy you another drink?" Riot asked.
Leonardo glanced up at him, and downed his whiskey. "Why not."
Riot gestured to the bar keep. A bottle and two glasses were set down. Riot poured a draught into each, and raised his glass to Leonardo, who returned the gesture. The bite slid down his throat, washing away the last of Tim's pepper concoction.
"I'm curious," Riot said.
"About what?"
"Do you intend to harm Mr. Nicholas?"
Leonardo shook his head. And then sighed. "I could have if I wanted to."
"I surmised as much." Riot poured another whiskey. "But that doesn't exclude the future. Desperate men do desperate things."
"Do I strike you as desperate, Mr. Riot?"
Riot held his gaze. "No," he said slowly. "You do not. You strike me as careful, patient, and intelligent."
Leonardo chuckled. "If only the ladies thought the same. Nicholas is…a strange boy. I may have sunk low in my life, but I wouldn't harm a boy like that. I'm an honorable man."
"Who doesn't mind a bit of stealing."
The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5) Page 23
