by Matt Braun
Vivian turned and he took her in his arms. She kissed him long and hungrily, performing a variation of bumps and grinds against his groin. Finally, with a low chuckle, he broke her hold and swatted her smartly on the rump. She laughed and moved to the washstand, tossing her cape on the bed. A match flared and she lit a lamp, adjusting the wick to a dim glow. She pirouetted around and spread her arms in a grandiose gesture.
“However humble, there’s no place like home!”
“Christ,” Tallman muttered, eyeballing the stark furnishings. “I told you to pick a fleabag, not a flophouse.”
“All part of the charade,” Vivian said cheerily. “Even the girls at the Palace think I’m busted flat. One of them offered to loan me ten dollars till payday. How’s that for acting the part?”
Tallman inspected the room closely. “Offhand, I’d say this dump would convince anyone.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” Vivian hooted. “Wait till the cockroaches start their parade.”
“Spare me the details.” Tallman sat down in the single straight-backed chair. “We’ve got work to do and damned little time. I have to be back in Hanford before daylight.”
Vivian’s expression turned serious. She took a seat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap. “I’m all ears. You talk and I’ll listen.”
Tallman related the events of the past two days. He skipped over nothing and he dwelled at length on the more salient points. He briefed her on McQuade and the Settlers’ League meeting, and outlined details of the Southern Pacific sales contract. Only one omission was made in his recounting. He neglected to mention his bruising tryst with the widow Pryor.
“In a nutshell,” he concluded, “the railroad’s out to screw the settlers. Which means we were conned from the very beginning. Our assignment has nothing whatever to do with squatters. We were hired to make sure those people got screwed six ways to Sunday.”
“So it appears,” Vivian allowed. “Of course, we’re in no position to make any judgments. We’re private detectives for hire, not idealists.”
“Once before I told you the Southern Pacific has the law on its side, and nothing has happened to change that. We’re still the mercenaries and we’ll earn our pay. But I’m starting to think it’s a helluva way to make a living.”
“Unless I missed something”—Vivian paused for emphasis—“the Southern Pacific isn’t the only villain in the piece. From what you say, there are other forces at work.”
“No doubt about it,” Tallman growled. “And it’s dirty work of the lowest kind. I’m convinced someone is using those farmers as a stalking horse. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a sacrificial goat.”
“To what purpose?” Vivian asked. “Who would benefit by sabotaging bridges and trains?”
“Good question,” Tallman said grumpily. “I haven’t the foggiest notion.”
“But you suspect McQuade?”
“So far as I can determine, he’s the only candidate.”
“And his motive?”
“One big blank,” Tallman said, troubled. “For all Angela Pryor told me, the man’s still an absolute cipher.”
“Not entirely,” Vivian reminded him. “You know McQuade organized the Settlers’ League, and without him it would fall apart. I gather he’s not the Good Samaritan type, and that tells us a great deal in itself. He has to have a reason, some way he’ll benefit. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“I admit I’m stumped,” Tallman conceded. “For a moment it occurred to me that he might be an agent for the railroad. Wrecking trains and blowing bridges certainly casts the settlers in a bad light. But on second thought, I decided the theory won’t hold water. That’s just a little too smooth, even for the Southern Pacific.”
“If not the railroad, then who?”
“Try asking me a simple question.”
“All right,” Vivian replied with a wave of her hand. “Why did he move from Bakersfield to Hanford? All the more important, why did he make the move at the exact time the Southern Pacific served eviction notice on the settlers?”
“I’ll go you one better,” Tallman countered. “Why would he buy a farm when he knew he wouldn’t receive a valid deed? To compound matters, he must have known that the sales contract with the railroad wasn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
“Coincidence?” Vivian offered. “Poor judgment?”
“Some coincidence.” Tallman scoffed. “And it goddamn sure wasn’t poor judgment. McQuade’s no fool, and only an imbecile would have bought into that kind of fight. His move there was planned—premeditated.”
“You’re saying he bought into the fight for a purpose?”
“I see no other explanation.”
“Which means we’ve come full circle.”
Tallman stared at her a long time, finally he drew a deep breath. “It’s like a Chinese puzzle. A box within a box within a box.”
“Why not ask McQuade himself—point-blank?”
“Ask him what?”
“Why he moved to Hanford and bought the farm.”
“I already have,” Tallman remarked. “I got him talking, and he told me he’d come west from Ohio. Went into a song and dance about California being the land of opportunity. He very pointedly said nothing—zero—about having settled first in Bakersfield.”
Vivian whistled softly under her breath. “He’s a man of many secrets, our Major McQuade.”
“Well, as some poet so aptly penned—‘O what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.’ Our job is to find a strand and unravel the Major’s web.”
“Where do you suggest we start?”
“Here.” Tallman gestured out the window. “That’s why I busted my arse getting to Fresno tonight.”
“Fresno?” Vivian repeated blankly. “You think we’ll find the answer in Fresno?”
“You’ll recall I mentioned a Fresno lawyer who represents the Settlers’ League. His name is Sloan.”
“Sloan?” Vivian looked astounded. “Not Ambrose Sloan?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Call it dumb luck,” Vivian said honestly. “The two gents I was sitting with tonight, when you gave me the high sign . . . remember?”
Tallman searched his memory. “One was fat and somewhere in his late forties. The other was slim and quite well-dressed, probably ten years younger.”
“You don’t miss a trick,” Vivian said with genuine wonder. “Well, hold onto your hat, lover! The younger one was Ambrose Sloan.”
Tallman smiled, obviously pleased. “Tell me about it.”
“I figured somebody prosperous would be the best source of information. So I collared those two and gave them the Jezebel treatment. The fat one’s Benjamin Canby, president of the Mercantile National Bank.” Vivian suddenly burst out laughing. “You might say they’re in a dead heat to see who gets into my pants first.”
“What have you learned so far?”
“Not much,” Vivian explained. “Too much curiosity too fast would have seemed out of character for a saloon girl. I was working up to it gradually.”
Tallman considered a moment. “All right, here’s the way we’ll work it. Ditch the banker and concentrate on Sloan. Be discreet, but pump him dry. I want specifics on his connection with McQuade.”
“You think they’re in cahoots?”
“Something smells fishy,” Tallman said with assurance. “By all accounts, Sloan is a capable attorney. But he took on a hopeless case and I suspect he knew it from the outset. One look at that sales contract would have convinced anyone with even a little legal training.”
Vivian made an empty gesture with her hands. “Maybe he was trying to bluff the Southern Pacific into a settlement. Or maybe he just saw the chance to earn a sizable fee. Lawyers are known for their sticky palms.”
“Or maybe,” Tallman added, frowning heavily, “he’s involved in a little hocus-pocus with McQuade. I get suspicious when someone badmouths their own attorney. A
nd McQuade personally handpicked Sloan.”
“So you want me to find out the score?”
“Exactly.”
“Will do,” Vivian said agreeably. “Anything to speed the case along—and get me out of Fresno!”
“What’s wrong with Fresno?”
“A horny bastard named Horace Logan. He owns the theater, and a girl either puts out or she loses her job. I can’t hold him off much longer.”
“Then the quicker the better with Sloan. Turn on the charm and get him to talk.”
A funny look surfaced in Vivian’s eyes. “Was that how you got the widow Pryor to talk?”
“Well . . .” Tallman gave her a sheepish smile. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Fair enough?”
“On one condition!” Vivian studied him with a wicked expression. “Share and share alike . . . equal treatment!”
Tallman groaned and consulted his pocket watch. “We’re a little short on time.”
“I’ve got a short fuse.” Vivian brightened with a wide smile.
Tallman wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep. He was numb and overworked, and he thought another roll in the hay might cripple him. Yet he heard the siren’s call in her voice, and temptation beckoned. He rose to the occasion.
On the bed, Vivian hugged him with fierce possession. Her arms clutched him about the neck and her breasts flattened against his chest. She kissed him passionately and trembled with an almost uncontrollable sense of urgency. Her hand unbuttoned the fly of his trousers and groped for his cock. She stroked it tenderly, lovingly, her caress like the gentle tingle of a snowflake.
Tallman got back to Hanford later than he’d planned.
NINE
Tallman shaved with dulled concentration. He stared at himself in the mirror. He’d dipped his wick once too often last night and it showed. His eyes were bloodshot and scratchy and felt curiously like burnt-out holes. The mirror told the story in vivid detail.
Groggy from the long night, he wielded the razor with a careful hand. He’d had no sleep and nothing that faintly resembled rest. Between hopping about from bed to bed, he’d traveled almost a hundred miles. Only an hour ago, with false dawn lighting the sky, he had returned the horse and buggy to the stable. Now, after a bird bath and a shave, it was apparent there would be no immediate restorative effects. His head pounded like an ore crusher and the mere thought of pussy made his rod throb like a toothache. He toyed with the idea of quitting Pinkerton and entering another line of work. The detective business was sometimes a ballbreaker—literally.
A knock sounded at the door as he wiped lather from his face. He dropped the towel on the washstand and padded barefoot to the bed. He was in his undershorts and hardly expecting company, particularly with the sun only an hour high. His shoulder rig hung draped on the headboard and he slipped the Colt clear. Then he moved to the door.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Mr. Fitzhugh. Bob Simpson, from the desk.”
Tallman cracked open the door. The hotel owner peered through the slit with a silly grin. He jerked a thumb down the hallway.
“Major McQuade sent me up with a message.”
“A message?”
“He wants to know if you’ll join him for breakfast.”
“Of course,” Tallman said automatically. “Is he waiting downstairs?”
“No, he went on to the café. Told me to tell you to meet him there.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Tallman said with a bogus smile. “I’ll be along shortly.”
“No trouble, Mr. Fitzhugh. Always glad to oblige the major.”
Tallman waved and closed the door. He marked again that McQuade spent an inordinate amount of time in town for a farmer. As for the breakfast invitation, the purpose was all too transparent. McQuade clearly wanted to grill him about the Southern Pacific sales contract. How much he’d learned would be a matter of vital interest to the League leader. And his answers might very well affect McQuade’s future plans.
While he dressed, Tallman mulled on it further. He decided it would be a mistake to try second-guessing McQuade. The better approach was to play it straight, without guile or pretense. His qualms about the contract itself should be expressed openly and with the proper degree of amazement. Even his opinion regarding Ambrose Sloan should be broached frankly, with just a dash of professional outrage. Only on the subject of McQuade’s farm—purchased without a deed—would he avoid any direct reply. He mustn’t let on that Angela Pryor had talked too much. Or risk letting slip what he now suspected.
A few minutes later Tallman entered the café. McQuade was seated at a window table, nursing a mug of coffee. He rose with a smile and an outstretched hand.
“Good morning, Alex.”
“Morning, Major.” Tallman returned his handshake with a slow grin. “You must get up with the chickens.”
“Old army habits,” McQuade said, motioning him to a chair. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished would be more like it.”
“No doubt.” McQuade chortled out loud. “I understand you had a long night.”
“Oh?” Tallman lifted an eyebrow. “Somebody carrying tales?”
“Hanford’s too small for secrets. Bob Simpson almost burst his britches the minute I walked in the hotel. Told me you’d come dragging in with the sunrise.”
“Dragging?” Tallman parroted with amusement. “Well, I suppose it’s a fair description. I’ve certainly felt peppier.”
A waitress appeared and took their orders. Tallman opted for ham and eggs with a stack of flapjacks. McQuade, sticking to simpler fare, asked for biscuits covered with red-eye gravy. The girl brought Tallman a mug of coffee, which did wonders for his fuzzy vision. He expected the conversation to shift to the Southern Pacific; but for once his instincts failed him. McQuade hunched forward with a faintly lascivious grin.
“How was it?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Angela,” McQuade said eagerly. “I know you spent the night with her. Is she as hot as she looks?”
“Why . . .” Tallman faltered, never more amazed. “You surprise me, Major. I thought we agreed a gentleman never tells.”
“I know,” McQuade said with a hangdog look. “But there are exceptions, Alex. After all, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have met her.”
“And I appreciate—”
“Not only that,” McQuade hurried on. “You wouldn’t have been invited to her house . . . or allowed to sleep over.”
“True.”
“So you might say I’m your benefactor. And quite frankly, I’ve always been intrigued by Angela. Forbidden fruit and all that—normal curiosity.”
Tallman suddenly realized he was talking to a closet voyeur. McQuade had probably never had his pole greased outside the marriage bed. A strange piece of ass and a glass of ice water would doubtless give him a stroke. He got his kicks by the vicarious route, acting out his sexual fantasies through the escapades of others. Tallman decided to play on the weakness.
“You wouldn’t repeat anything I said, would you, Major?”
“Never!” McQuade swore. “On my word as an officer and a gentleman.”
Tallman let his gaze drift off, as though reliving some moment of profound ecstasy. “She’s all woman, Major. Hotter than a three dollar pistol. Would you believe it?—She actually copped my joint.”
“She what?”
“Went down on me.” Tallman said with a rolling laugh. “Sucked the lollipop to the very last drop.”
McQuade fairly drooled. “Then what?”
“Well . . .” Tallman baited him with a conspiratorial look. “You’re sure you wouldn’t talk out of school?”
“Not a word.”
“I’m straight arrow myself,” Tallman whispered, darting a glance at nearby diners. “But Angela’s a lady with very peculiar tastes. So we had ourselves an old-fashioned Roman circus. Head to toe, cunnilingus and fellatio—all we could eat and more.”
“You—” McQuade’
s mouth went pasty. “You did that?”
“Surprised myself.” Tallman said with feigned wonder. “She turned me into a regular muff diver. And damned if I didn’t like it.”
McQuade’s eyes lighted up as though he’d heard a new verse in an old sermon. “What happened next?”
“Then we played stink finger and hide the wienie.”
“How’s that again?”
“I tickled her rosebud till she was about to explode.”
“Yes . . .?”
“Then I stuck it to her so deep her tonsils rattled.” McQuade cleared his throat. “How many times?”
“Not bragging,” Tallman said almost idly, “but I lost count somewhere around four or five.”
“Five.” McQuade swallowed hard. “Good God! No wonder her husband died an early death.”
“Tell you a secret, Major.” Tallman rocked his hand, fingers splayed. “I’ve been fucked in my day—from virgins to whores—but never like that. Angela Pryor’s in a class all by herself.”
The waitress materialized with their breakfast platters. McQuade fell silent and attacked his gravy-soaked biscuits like a ravenous dog. Watching him, Tallman thought the gambit had worked out rather well. Though highly exaggerated, his salacious account had distracted McQuade from the Southern Pacific. The major was clearly a man who got his jollies listening to dirty talk and clinical tales of fornication. It was a device not to be overlooked in the days ahead. A word here and there about Angela Pryor would serve to divert McQuade and keep his mind occupied. And all the while the investigation would go forward.
After breakfast, McQuade seemed to have recovered his composure. He swigged a second mug of coffee and made no further reference to things sexual. Instead, once more austere and overbearing, the turnabout in his character was startling. He studied Tallman with a kind of bemused objectivity.
“Now that you’ve examined the contract”—he let the thought dangle a moment—“how do you suggest we proceed?”
