The Highbinders

by Matt Braun

  On the third sip, the farmer standing beside him abruptly pushed away from the bar. The movement jostled Tallman’s arm and rye sloshed out of his glass onto the counter. The farmer whirled on him with a bulldog scowl.

  “Watch who you’re shovin’!”

  The room went still and Tallman sensed an undercurrent of tension. The farmer was a bruiser, heavily muscled, with a thick neck and powerful shoulders. He reeked of whiskey and manure, and his eyes were bloodshot with drink. He glowered at Tallman with a look of animal ferocity.

  “No harm done,” Tallman said agreeably. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “In a pig’s ass! Nobody shoves me and gets away with it!”

  “I assure you, I intended no offense.”

  “Slick talker, ain’t you?” The farmer spat on his hands and rubbed them together. “Put up your dukes, sonnyboy. I’m gonna stunt your growth!”

  Tallman grinned ruefully. “You’re absolutely certain there’s no other way?”

  “Gawddamn certain!”

  The farmer launched a looping haymaker. Tallman sidestepped, landing a quick jab followed by a whistling left hook. Unfazed, the farmer snarled a murderous oath and threw a clubbing roundhouse. Slipping the blow, Tallman bobbed inside and buried his fist in the farmer’s underbelly. The farmer’s mouth popped open and he clutched his groin in agony. Tallman set himself and exploded a splintering combination, a left hook and a thunderbolt right cross. The farmer went down like a wet bag of sand. His head struck the brass rail and his jaws snapped shut with an audible click. He was out cold.

  A leaden silence enveloped the saloon. No one moved and all eyes were trained on Tallman with open amazement. Then, suddenly, one of the men at the rear table rose and walked forward. He was corded and lean, with a neatly trimmed beard and stern features. His whole bearing was charged with energy and he moved through the crowd with a commanding presence. He was attired in a somber frock coat and his overall appearance was one of prosperity and substance. Yet, upon closer inspection, there was a strangeness about him. His eyes were dull and marble-like, curiously without life or expression. He halted in front of Tallman.

  “Allow me to apologize, Mr. Fitzhugh.” He gestured at the fallen farmer. “Floyd Hull’s a hothead who can’t handle his liquor. You gave him no more than he deserved.”

  “No apology necessary, Mr.—”

  “Major Thomas McQuade.” He extended his hand in a firm grasp. “You’ll have to excuse our small-town ways. Bob Simpson, who owns the hotel, hasn’t stopped wagging his tongue since you arrived.”

  “McQuade?” Tallman paused with a quizzical look. “Of course, I remember now. Simpson mentioned that you’re chairman of the Settlers’ League. I was most impressed by your legal dispute with the railroad.”

  “Quite natural, considering your profession. I understand you’re a lawyer?”

  “Without a practice, I fear.” Tallman opened his hands and shrugged. “I’m looking for a place to hang my shingle.”

  “So I heard,” McQuade said. “According to Simpson, you’ve just come West. May I ask how you happened to pick Hanford? We’re somewhat off the beaten track.”

  “Process of elimination,” Tallman lied heartily. “I stopped off at Sacramento and checked the Bar Association records. I was looking for a town without a lawyer, and Hanford appeared the most promising of the lot. So here I am.”

  “Well, if your pugilistic skills are any indication, you must be a holy terror in the courtroom. How did a lawyer get so handy with his fists?”

  “Princeton,” Tallman said with a lopsided grin. “Class of ’69. I won the collegiate heavyweight championship—three years running.”

  “After tonight, no one will argue the point. You’ve certainly made your mark in Hanford, Mr. Fitzhugh. I wouldn’t doubt that folks will welcome a lawyer with your combative style.”

  “All I need now is a client.”

  McQuade studied him with deliberate appraisal. “How good are you in a courtroom?”

  “Better than most,” Tallman said with cocky pride. “Why, are you in need of legal advice?”

  “Perhaps,” McQuade said tentatively. “What do you know about our fight with the Southern Pacific?”

  “Very little.” Tallman’s expression betrayed nothing. “Bob Simpson told me your case has been appealed to the Supreme Court. But he was rather vague on details.”

  “Small wonder,” McQuade growled. “Our own lawyer hasn’t been able to make heads nor tails of the decision.”

  “Who represented you?”

  “Ambrose Sloan,” McQuade said with a frown. “He has offices in Fresno. So far as we’re concerned, he lost an unlosable case. We held all the cards.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  McQuade eyed him keenly. “It occurs to me that you might be Johnny-on-the-spot, Mr. Fitzhugh. We could damn sure use a second opinion.”

  “Needless to say”—Tallman smiled crookedly—“I’m available. Of course, I would have to review the particulars. From what I’ve heard thus far, it’s a case of some complexity.”

  “Amen to that.” McQuade hesitated, thoughtful for a time. “Tell you what, Alex. You don’t mind me calling you Alex, do you?”

  “By no means.”

  “Good,” McQuade nodded briskly. “Folks around here generally call me Major.”

  “A privilege and an honor—Major.”

  “Well, anyway,” McQuade went on, “I started to say we’re having a League meeting tomorrow night. Why don’t you plan on attending and I’ll introduce you to the members. I’ve no doubt they’ll go along with the idea.”

  Floyd Hull groaned and rolled onto his side. He retched, coughing raggedly, and spit out a bloody molar. McQuade glanced down with a look of distaste and slowly shook his head. Then he turned smartly on his heel. “Come on, Alex. I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll hash out some of those particulars you mentioned.”

  Tallman dutifully trailed along. He suppressed a wild urge to laugh out loud; instead, he silently congratulated himself on a nifty piece of work. He’d played into luck and improvised as the situation unfolded. The upshot was that he’d gaffed a prize sucker fish. And if his information was correct, the next step would be simpler yet.

  FIVE

  Vivian’s hotel room was bleaker than a nun’s cell. The mattress on the bed sagged in the middle and the bed linen itself was dingy with age. The pitcher on the wash-stand was cracked and the wall mirror was faded to a ghostly blur. The sole stick of furniture was a rickety straightbacked chair.

  Stripped to her undergarments, Vivian stood peering into the mirror. She slowly colored her cheeks with a garish magenta shade of rouge. Next she darkened her eyelids with kohl, spreading it high and wide until the greenfire of her eyes seemed to blaze like emeralds set in dusky onyx. Then she dabbed her lips dry and methodically set about painting them into a vermilion beestung pucker.

  While she worked, Vivian mentally reviewed her role in the undercover operation. Her assignment, as outlined by Ash Tallman, was to pose as a down-on-her-luck saloon girl. Accordingly, she had spent yesterday scouring San Francisco for the paraphernalia necessary to her disguise. Late last evening, she had boarded the overnight southbound, carrying a carpetbag stuffed with clothes purchased at a second-hand store. Shortly before noon, she had detrained at Fresno and inquired directions to the sporting district. There she had selected a sleazy fleabag of a hotel and signed the register as Sally Randolph. Acting stony broke, she had taken a room for only one night. The desk clerk had been left with the impression that she was down to nickels and dimes.

  Thus far, Vivian found undercover work not all that different from a con game. The idea was to establish a phony identity and a plausible cover story, and thereafter assume all the little quirks of character that made the performance believable. During her month in Chicago, Tallman had discovered that her experience as a bunco artist enabled her to act a part with consummate skill. The balance of her training had been dev
oted to the art of subtle interrogation; she learned all the tricks and devices of extracting information without arousing suspicion. She had learned as well that Tallman was unlike any of her previous lovers. A look, even a casual touch, was enough to leave her knees weak and a wet sensation between her legs. She wanted him inside her all the time, and her dreams were filled with visions of his phallus standing stiff and erect.

  A realist, Vivian understood that Ash Tallman would never limit himself to one woman. He was no more monogamous than a bull in rutting season; women found him charming and irresistible, and it was his nature to play the field. Yet, while Vivian understood all that, the month in Chicago had nonetheless left her under his spell. For the first time in her life, she was jealous and possessive, and fairly burned with envy at the thought of his touching another woman. At the same time, she was reconciled to the fact that it would happen.

  Once out of her sight, she knew he would dip into the first set of drawers that sparked his interest. So she warned herself to curb her feelings and accept the inevitable. She was also honest enough to admit that she wasn’t exactly enthralled with the straight and narrow herself. She liked men and the idea of playing around still had a certain appeal. She was no alleycat, but she too had needs, and out of sight out of mind worked both ways. A fling here and there might very well do her a world of good. And since he was no celibate, her own diddling would simply even the score.

  Today, though, Vivian’s thoughts were on the job at hand. Her makeup complete, she inspected herself critically in the mirror. She looked brazen and tough, slightly vulgar, and yet compellingly attractive in a bawdy sort of way. Satisfied, she doused herself with cheap perfume and turned to her carpetbag. The dress she took out was wine colored and cut so skimpy it left little to the imagination. When she stepped into it, her breasts rose like melons out of the low-cut bodice and her tiny waist accentuated the round swell of her hips. She preened, watching herself in the mirror, and a vulpine smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. She had no doubt it would work like catnip on the sporting crowd.

  With the derringer in her purse, she sailed out of the room and made her way downstairs. The desk clerk practically swallowed his teeth when he got a look at her tartish outfit. To her questions, his stuttered answers were delivered with an expression of pop-eyed lust. All of which convinced her that the overhaul job had indeed produced the desired effect. Five minutes later she walked from the hotel with the name of the town’s swankiest dive and some small insight into the proprietor’s taste in women. Outside, swinging her hips, she strolled off down Broadway.

  Fresno was a hub of trade and commerce. Located in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, it had something of a boomtown atmosphere. Its four banks underwrote crop loans to farmers and provided mortgage money for anyone with a deed to a quarter-section. Of still greater significance, the Southern Pacific had selected Fresno as its midway terminus in the state. The railroad’s switching yards and warehouses were situated on the edge of town, and the sheer volume of traffic made it an around the clock operation. Not surprisingly, then, Fresno was the final marketplace for produce and livestock from throughout the central basin. Civic boosters touted it as the capital of the San Joaquin Valley.

  The sporting district was an offshoot of Fresno’s boomtown prosperity. Railroad men on layovers and farmers with money to burn were interested in diversion and entertainment. From the lower end of Broadway, several streets branched off to the outskirts of town. There, within a three-block radius, were to be found most of the gamier pursuits known to man. Saloons and dance halls, variety theaters and gambling dens all vied with one another for the nightly trade. Only one vice was missing within the town limits proper. The city council, drawing the line at the wages of sin, had exiled the kingdom of whores. County officials, however, displayed greater tolerance and a somewhat more receptive attitude toward bribes. A couple of feet across the town line was a collection of cribs and cathouses, staffed by ladies of negotiable virtue. The locals jestingly referred to it as Poonville.

  A short walk from the hotel, Vivian turned off Broadway onto Elm. She proceeded halfway down the block and entered the Palace Variety Theater. The front end was a barroom and at the rear tables and chairs were clustered before a curtained stage. The interior was decorated in whorehouse red, with a large French mirror and several nude paintings lining the backbar wall. The establishment’s chief attraction was a nightly card of burlesque acts, interspersed with a chorus line of buxom highsteppers. No cover charge was imposed on the clientele, but whiskey was a dollar a shot and loafers were unceremoniously treated to the bum’s rush. The Palace catered to those who liked their entertainment and booze in equal parts.

  A barkeep with a sweeping handlebar mustache pointed Vivian in the right direction. She went backstage and entered an office that was utilitarian by any standards. Apart from a desk and a chair, the furnishings consisted of a filing cabinet and a leather reclining sofa. The sofa was worn from use, and the man behind the desk looked like he used it most often when casting for chorus girls. He was thickset, almost brutish in appearance, with a bullet head and sagging jowls. His eyes were shifty and alert, and his expression was like that of a panting jackal. Vivian immediately tagged him as a horny old lech.

  “Mr. Logan?” she simpered. “Mr. Horace Logan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d like to talk with you . . . if you can spare a minute.”

  “Time’s money,” Logan said curtly. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was told you run the classiest place in town.”

  “Who by?”

  “The desk clerk at the Broadway Hotel.”

  “You must be on your uppers.” Logan grunted sharply. “Nobody stays in that dump except streetwalkers and rumpots.”

  “I know,” Vivian said with a theatrical shudder. “But a working girl can’t always pick and choose. You know how it is, Mr. Logan.”

  “Lemme guess,” Logan said stolidly. “Your money give out and you got yourself stranded in Fresno?”

  “Well . . .” Vivian hesitated, her eyes downcast. “I could use a job, Mr. Logan. I thought maybe you’d have an opening.”

  “What’s your specialty?”

  “Uh—I dance a little and I carry a tune pretty good.”

  “Sing something.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Go on.” Logan waved a hand. “Lemme hear your voice. Show me a few dance steps.”

  “Tell you the truth,” Vivian replied with a charming little shrug, “I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. But you can’t blame me for trying, Mr. Logan.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m a floor girl.” Vivian graced him with a dazzling smile. “I hustle drinks like nobody you ever saw before.”

  Logan squinted at her. “I got all the girls I need. Why should I hire you?”

  “Because I’m good.” Vivian lifted her chin slightly. “I’ll outhustle any two girls on the floor. You just try me and see!”

  “Where’ve you worked before?”

  “Frisco.” Vivian’s eyes were round and guileless. “I was one of the top girls on the Barbary Coast. Worked the last year at the Bella Union.”

  “That a fact?” Logan sounded impressed. “The Bella Union’s a high-class joint. Why’d you leave?”

  “Personal troubles.” Vivian paused, met his gaze with an amused expression. “I got in too thick with a fellow and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So it was tie the knot or scram. I scrammed.”

  “You’re not in dutch with the law, are you?”

  Vivian threw back her head and laughed. “Not me. I’m on the up and up, Mr. Logan. Strictly legit.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sally Randolph.”

  Logan hooked his thumbs in his vest and examined her sumptuous figure. His eyes narrowed and a lewd smirk settled over his mouth. Vivian could scarcely mistake the nature of his look. Horace Logan was mentally undressing her and he obvio
usly liked what he saw. The smirk widened into a smug grin.

  “Close the door.” He gestured to the reclining sofa. “Have a seat and we’ll talk about it.”

  Vivian shook a roguish finger at him. “No monkey business, Mr. Logan. All I want is a job and a chance to prove myself.”

  Logan’s grin turned oily. “All my girls put out before they get the job. It’s a rule of the house.”

  “I’m not saying no”—Vivian’s lips curved in a teasing smile—“but I’m not the screw-around type, Mr. Logan. I like to get to know a fellow first.”

  “Why should I make an exception?”

  “Tell you what,” Vivian bubbled. “Forget about paying me a salary. I’ll work for half the bar tab I hustle and nothing else. What could be fairer than that?”

  Logan gave her a jaundiced look. “No after-hours tricks. Whores aren’t allowed inside the city limits, and I won’t risk getting closed down. So don’t try peddling pussy on the side, you understand?”

  “I don’t sell it,” Vivian assured him earnestly. “I’d rather push drinks and pick my own bed partner.”

  “Speaking of which,” Logan grumbled, “how long do I wait till you come across?”

  “Not long.” Vivian’s voice was filled with promise. “I feel like I know you better already.”

  “You play me for a sucker and I’ll fix it so you don’t fuck nobody—ever again.”

  Vivian laughed an exhilarated laugh. “I always gave better blow jobs anyway.”

  Logan’s mouth twisted in an ugly grin. “You just make sure you bob my apple first—got it?”

  “Got it,” Vivian said with a puckish smile. “When do I start work?”

  “Tonight soon enough for you?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Vivian left him to contemplate his rocklike hard-on. She figured a week at the most before he demanded payment on her promise. She thought it time enough to complete the assignment.