“Top cop?”
“Captain Byrnes, sir,” Red said. “Chief of detectives. He don’t like pickpockets, not at all.”
“What does Captain Byrnes look like?”
“Kinda sad lookin’, with a big mustache,” Red said.
“You won’t be able to miss him, sir, because of his uniform.”
“Ah . . .” Clint said, but before he could say anything else the boy was gone.
Clint left the platform and entered the terminal. The man in uniform was not hard to find. It was as if he had a fence around him. People were giving him a wide berth.
“How did you know I’d find you?” Clint asked him.
Byrnes smiled. “How could you not, Mr. Adams?”
The two men shook hands.
“Are you wearing a gun?” Byrnes asked.
“Yes.”
“I don’t see a holster.”
“My holster is in my bag,” Clint said. “The gun is tucked into my belt, at the small of my back.”
“Your Peacemaker?”
“I carry a small New Line Colt in my belt,” Clint said. “My regular Colt is in my bag.”
“How long have you known Roper?”
“Many years.”
“Yes,” Byrnes said. “I, too, have known him many years.”
“So he said.”
“What else did he say about me?” Byrnes asked.
“You only come up when someone calls him the greatest detective in the country.”
“What does he say?”
“He says your name.”
Byrnes smiled.
“He says he’s the greatest private detective in the country, doesn’t he?”
“He says he may be the greatest private detective in the world,” Clint said, “but you are the greatest police detective.”
Byrnes extended his hand again, and this time they shook more firmly.
“Welcome to New York, Mr. Adams.”
TWELVE
Byrnes asked Clint what kind of a hotel he wanted to stay in. Clint told him something small and discreet.
“I don’t want to be noticed.”
Byrnes had his driver take them to a small hotel near Union Square.
“There’s no bar,” Byrnes said, “but there’s a small tavern next door there.” He pointed. “There’s never any trouble there.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I drink there.”
“Why don’t we go in and have a drink now?” Clint suggested.
“I’ll have my driver check you in, take your bag to your room, and then bring you the key.”
“That’s fine.”
Byrnes made those arrangements, then led the way into the tavern, which had no name above the door. It was warm inside, cozy. The bartender nodded to the captain, who did not seem concerned about being in the tavern while in uniform. Likewise, the patrons did not give him a second look.
“They expect me to come in and out of here,” Byrnes said, leading Clint to a table in the back. “No-body even blinks anymore, unless there’s a stranger here, and then he’s quickly advised to turn his head away.”
A barmaid came over and graced them with a smile and a pair of impressive breasts, which were threatening to leap from her peasant blouse. Her nipples seemed as big as a puppy dog’s nose.
“What can I get for you gents?” she asked.
“Two beers, Angie,” Byrnes said.
“Comin’ up, Captain,” she said, but before leaving she asked, “Who’s your handsome friend?”
“This is Clint . . .” Byrnes almost said the last name, but caught himself.
“Welcome to the tavern, Clint.”
“Angie, the beers?”
“Comin’ up, Captain.”
She turned and sashayed back to the bar so Clint could watch her round bottom.
“Roper didn’t say what he wanted me to help you with,” Byrnes said, “just that he wanted me to help you.”
“Roper had a client who was killed in Denver,” Clint said. “A lady. Seems she walked in on some men looting her home.”
“They killed her? How?”
“Hit her over the head with a lamp.”
“Why’s he not looking into this himself?”
“He had just taken a job he couldn’t get out of,” Clint said. “He asked me to come in his stead.”
“And you agreed?”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“What makes Roper think the killer came to New York?” Byrnes asked.
“He figures this is the best place for them to fence the goods they stole,” Clint said.
“What kind of goods are we talkin’ about?” Byrnes asked.
“Furniture, silverware, housewares,” Clint said. “They just about cleaned the house out.”
Byrnes rubbed his jaw.
“We got quite a few fences in Manhattan who can handle that kind of merchandise,” Byrnes said. “I’ll put the word out and see what I can find out.”
“I don’t guess they’d be here yet,” Clint said. “They’ve got to be pulling two, three wagons with them.”
“They’ll be days behind you, then,” Byrnes said. “I can still find out which fence is waitin’ for a haul that big.”
“I’d be much obliged, Captain.”
“Call me Tom,” Byrnes said. “Tell me, Mr. Adams—”
“Call me Clint, Tom.”
“Okay, Clint,” Byrnes said. “Knowing Tal Roper the way I do, he’s concerned with the merchandise second.”
“You’re right,” Clint said. “He’s more concerned with who killed Mrs. Wellington.”
“Seems to me you might have come here a little too quickly, Clint,” Byrnes said. “You probably should’ve snooped around a little more in Denver. Now you’ve got some days to kill.”
Clint sat back in his chair as Angie came back with their beers. She leaned over him and he could smell the sweet fragrance wafting up from between her breasts.
“You boys tell me if you need anything else.”
Clint could think of quite a few things, but not right at that moment.
“Thanks, Angie.”
As she walked away, he looked at Byrnes.
“Roper was right. You are smart,” Clint said.
“Guess I should’ve looked into it a bit in Denver.”
“Roper probably would’ve thought of it himself if he wasn’t upset about the woman,” Byrnes said.
“You’re right,” Clint said.
“Is there somebody else in Denver who might look into it for you?” Byrnes asked.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Clint said. “I’ll send a telegram as soon as I can.”
“Who we talking about?”
“Bat Masterson.”
Byrnes raised his eyebrows over his beer mug.
“Sounds like you have some pretty impressive friends, Clint.”
“Bat was going to hang around Denver for a while,” Clint said. “He should still be there.”
“There’s a telegraph office right down the street,” Byrnes said. “We can finish these beers and I’ll take you over there. Then I better get back to work.”
“And I’ll get settled at the hotel.”
“Which hotel?” Angie asked, coming up on them. “Just thought I’d check on you boys, and I overheard you.”
“I’m staying next door,” Clint said.
“Well,” she said, “that’ll be pretty handy. I mean, we’ve got some good food here. Come on over when you get hungry.”
“I will,” Clint promised.
She smiled and hip-switched away again.
THIRTEEN
Bethany and Ben entered their boardinghouse together. Neither of them lived with Fredericka Mandelbaum. She had put them both out before they were of age. They each had their own room in the boardinghouse, which was owned by a widow in her eighties.
In the hall Bethany asked, “Ben, why do you put up with her?”
“She’s my ma
, Bethany,” he said. “Yours, too.”
“She ain’t my ma,” Bethany said with feeling.
Ben laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You got your ain’t back.”
“You and me, Ben,” she said. “We’ve got to go out on our own.”
“Bethany—”
“I’m goin’ in my room,” she said. “Let me know when you want to get something to eat.”
“Bethany—” Ben said again, but she went into her room and closed the door behind her.
Clint walked down to the telegraph office with Byrnes, then told the captain he’d be okay on his own.
“That’s right,” Byrnes said. “You’ve been to New York a time or two, haven’t you?”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “I know my way around pretty well.”
“Well, my office is on Mulberry Street,” Byrnes said. “You come and see me if you need anything. Meanwhile, I’ll be looking into those fences.”
“Thanks, Tom. I appreciate it. I’m sure Tal will, too.”
“Let me know if you hear from him, will you?” Byrnes asked.
“I’ll let you know.”
Byrnes went off to do his job while Clint went into the telegraph office and sent a missive off to Bat Masterson in Denver.
“Where will you be, sir, for a reply?” the clerk asked.
“I’m at the hotel down the street,” Clint said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know the name of it yet.”
“That’s the Belvedere,” the clerk said. “I’ll leave any reply at the desk. I know the clerks there.”
“Thanks.”
Clint left the office and walked back to his hotel to get settled. Then he realized he hadn’t gotten the room key from Captain Byrnes’s driver. Well, maybe they’d left it at the front desk for him.
As he was walking past the tavern, the door opened and Angie came running out. Her breasts were bobbing and Clint couldn’t take his eyes off them.
“The captain’s driver brought your key, Clint, but you were gone, so I kept it for you.”
“Thanks a lot, Angie.”
She smiled at him, then reached between her breasts and came out with the key.
“Thought I’d keep it there for safekeeping.”
She put it in his hand.
“It’s warm,” he said. “Real warm. Thanks again, Angie.”
“You come back real soon, Clint. I’ll make sure you get the best meal in the house.”
“I’ll make a point of it, Angie.”
He held the door for her, catching the fragrance of her again as she went inside.
Clint introduced himself to the desk clerk and waved the key to show that he had it.
“The captain’s man put your bag in your room, mister, ” the clerk said. “My name’s Owen. If you need anything, you let me know.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Clint went up to his room, which was on the second of three floors. When he entered, he found it small but neat and clean. His bag was on the bed. He decided to unpack it and make some use of the dresser drawers. Byrnes had been very right. Roper or Clint should have thought to do some investigating in Denver before he hopped on a train. He just hoped too much time hadn’t gone by, and maybe Bat would be able to find out something helpful.
When he finished, he poured some water from the pitcher into the basin on top of the dresser. He washed his hands and face and, while drying, realized he was hungry. Or maybe he just wanted to go back to the tavern and talk to Angie some more. Or see what else she kept in her cleavage besides hotel keys.
FOURTEEN
When George Appo spotted the boy Red on the street, he called him over.
“How’d you do today, young man?”
“Not so good, George,” Red said. “I went to Grand Central Station, but wouldn’t ya know it, the cap’n was there.”
“Byrnes? What was he doin’ at the train station?” Appo asked.
“Meetin’ somebody, I guess,” Red said. “I tried pickin’ this gent’s pocket, but he weren’t no sucker.”
“He caught you?”
“Slick as you please.”
“And let you go?”
“Yup.”>
“And then what?”
“I watched him,” Red said. “He met up with the cap’n, they shook hands, and then the cap’n drove him away.”
“To where?”
“Didn’t see,” Red said. “I thought once the cap’n was gone I’d get some work done, but the terminal was emptying out and there weren’t another train for another couple of hours.”
“You should have waited.”
“I thought I’d go over to Times Square and do some business but it was slim pickins.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I sure am.”
“Well, come on,” Appo said. “I’m goin’ over to the Metropole for some supper.”
“Metropole?” Red said, shaking his head. “They ain’t gonna let me in there, George.”
“They will if you’re with me,” Appo said.
“You’re the best, George.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
And, indeed, Appo—the son of the notorious Quimbo Appo, thief and murderer—was the best pickpocket in all of Manhattan. Quimbo was Asian, and Appo’s mother was Irish. Like his father, Appo was not a large man. He had even been described as diminutive, but unlike his father, he was a dapper dresser who kept himself well-appointed. When he wasn’t picking pockets, he was running cons. But he had never killed anyone, and so was not “notorious” like his father. Rather, he was “infamous” among the lowlifes of Manhattan, who pretty much all looked up to him.
Among those was Bethany, who was a protégé of Appo. She was waiting on the steps of the Metropole when Appo arrived with Red in tow. At nineteen she was less than ten years younger than George, but there was nothing romantic between them. Rather he saw her as someone he could pass his experiences on to, and she had the best set of hands he’d ever seen on a pickpocket, man or woman. She truly had “the touch.”
“Where’s Ben?” Appo asked.
“Oh, he’s sulkin’ in his room,” Bethany said.
“About what?”
“I’ll tell you over supper. Hello, Red.”
“Miss Bethany.”
Red blushed furiously every time Bethany spoke to him, because his ten-year-old heart belonged to her. She ruffled his hair and said, “You could use a face washin’.”
“Aw, Miss Bethany . . .”
“Well, work on him at our table,” Appo said. “A napkin and a glass of water and we’ll spruce the boy up. Come on, I’m starved. You have to tell me and Red all about your trip out West.”
“Did you see any Indians, Miss Bethany?” Red asked.
“No,” Bethany said, “but I saw a real-life gunfighter. ”
“Wow.”
“Inside, children,” Appo said. “Let’s take this inside. ”
Ben heard Bethany leave her room, walk down the hall, and knock on his door, but he didn’t answer. He was doing just what Bethany said he was doing, sulking.
He hated when Ma slapped him, and he hated it when she did it in front of Bethany. But there was nothing he could do about it. She was his ma.
And despite what Bethany said, she was the only ma she had ever known. Ben didn’t know how Bethany could disrespect her so. Ma was a strong woman who ran her own business, and was successful at it. She knew what she was doing. He wished she and Bethany got along better, so Bethany could learn more from her.
And Ma was right about one thing: Despite the fact that she was his half sister, Ben loved Bethany. He was in love with her, but he knew Bethany would never look at him the same way.
Maybe Ma was right.
Maybe he was sick.
FIFTEEN
True to her word, Angie made sure Clint had the best dish in the house—beef stew. And she kept the cold beer coming, too.
“Ready for dessert?” sh
e said when she picked up his clean plate.
“I’m ready for some pie.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay, pie first, and then dessert.”
He wasn’t sure if she was just flirting with him, or if she really wanted something more. He watched her with the other patrons, and while they all seemed to be following her cleavage, she did not seem to be giving them the attention she was giving him. Not that this was something new to him. He’d had connections with many women right from their first meeting, and often it ended up with them in bed.
He was hoping that this was one of those times.
“Wait a minute,” Red said when Bethany was in the middle of her story. “Tall with a scar on his cheek— here?” He touched his own face.
“That’s right.”
“That’s the Gunsmith?”
“Well, yeah . . .”
Red looked at Appo.
“The man I told you about in the station? The one who caught me? That was him.”
“He caught you?” Bethany asked, eyes widening.
“Now wait,” Appo said. “You can’t be sure it was the same man.”
“He had a gun on him,” Red said. “He had it in his belt in the back. I felt it.”
Appo looked at Bethany, who was staring back with frightened eyes.
“Did you have any contact with this man?”
“No!” she said. “I wanted to try . . . but I didn’t have time.”
“Could he be connected with this woman who was killed?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
Appo rubbed his jaw.
“That’d be one hell of a coincidence.”
“Red’s gotta be wrong,” Bethany said.
“Why would Captain Byrnes be meeting this man at the station?” Appo asked. He was talking to himself more than to the two young people with him. “The man would have to be someone of substance. ”
“Like the Gunsmith!” Red said.
“Red,” Appo said, “you put the word out on the street. I want to know what hotel the captain has put this man up at.”
“I can do that.”
“George,” Bethany said, “if it is the Gunsmith—”
“It may just be a coincidence that he’s here, Bethany.”
“But you don’t believe in coincidences, George.”
“No, you’re right, girl,” Appo said. “I don’t.”
Five Points Page 4
