Longarm in Hell's Half Acre

by Tabor Evans

  All along Main, on either side of the street, Longarm took note of thriving, busy parlor houses that appeared to have sprouted like Texas wildflowers. Peppered here and there, crib shacks and rough-looking dance halls popped up—usually as near to a convenient saloon as possible.

  Wagon yards, mule barns, and stables were mixed in here and there. But the jam-packed, cheek-by-jowl building methods of most cities and towns didn’t appear to apply to Fort Worth. Watering holes, dance halls, and sporting establishments were scattered along the streets, and large, open, unfilled gaps between them appeared fairly typical. Such construction methods gave the town that wide-open feel so often described in the penny dreadfuls so popular back East.

  Most of the coarse-built structures they passed appeared not to have been in place for any length of time. The board-and-batten shacks were predominately constructed from rough-cut, unseasoned lumber that still oozed thick streams of gooey sap. And while the false fronts of every liquor locker and cantina sported garish paint jobs, few, if any, of the sporting houses, and none of the cribs, had yet been graced with the loving touch of a painter’s brush.

  Shameless women hawked their carnal wares from doorways and windows, and some walked boldly up and down the street in various states of dress and undress. A hard-eyed gal with hair the color of flame staggered along beside Longarm’s hack and plucked at his sleeve. Wearing nothing more than open-crotched pantalets and a chemise that did nothing to cover her melon-sized breasts and dark nipples, she grabbed his hand and placed it on one of her swaying tits.

  “Wanna ride the tiger, mister?” she yelled. “Jus’ get your stringy ass down outta that wagon, big boy. You can fuck me right here in the street. Do the deed in the bed of your wagon. Won’t cost but a dollar. A damned fine deal. I’m juicier’n a ripe melon. Jus’ waitin’ fer you to make up your mind. I get done and you’ll swear you just fucked a Comanche squaw whose ass was on fire. Ask your driver, he knows me.”

  “Git the hell away, Iris,” Allred snapped. “This gent don’t need nothin’ you’re a-sellin’.”

  In a halfhearted attempt to remain the gracious Southern gentleman, Longarm tipped his hat and said, “No thanks, miss. Perhaps at some later time.”

  “How ’bout a nice blow job. Suck you till your head caves and your spurs start spinnin’ like a Fourth of July whizbang. Do you for fifty cents. Ain’t no other woman in Hell’s Half Acre can suck your dick like me. I can lick the leather cover off a saddle horn.”

  Longarm jerked his sleeve out of the unrelenting woman’s grip. “Appreciate the offer, miss, but think I’ll pass.”

  Iris stopped dead in her tracks. She grabbed up a wad of something at her feet and threw it. The pile shattered against the spring wagon’s side boards. “Well, then, you can go straight to hell, you penny-pinchin’ son of a bitch,” she screeched. “Girl’s gotta make a livin’, for Christ’s sake. Guess you figure I ain’t good enough. High-toned bastard. Wouldn’t suck your dick now for a hundred dollars, by God.”

  Over his shoulder, Longarm glanced back at the angry girl. “Testy little thing, ain’t she, Tater?”

  “Yeah, they’s a lot of ’em jes’ like ’er workin’ the streets. Rough ole gals. Most of ’em ain’t seen twenty yet, but they’re tougher’n a chewed boot heel. Come out here straight off Louisiana farms and Texas ranches. All of ’em young, big-eyed, mostly innocent, and lookin’ fer adventure. Year or so sellin’ themselves, and even the sweetest little country girl ever born gets harder’n a chunk of flint.”

  “What’re the borders of Hell’s Half Acre these days, Tater?”

  “Oh, from about Ninth Street south to the depot, and everything from Throckmorton on the west to Calhoun, or maybe Jones, on the east. Most everythang from about Fifth Street north is considered the better part of town. That’s where the El Paso and the White Elephant are located.”

  At Main and Fourth Street, Allred used his whip to point out the Mansion House Hotel, but immediately qualified his praise by saying, “But if’n I had the money, I’d stick with your original choice, Custis. El Paso’s closer to Luke Short’s White Elephant, and that’s as nice a gamblin’ and eatin’ joint as you’ll find in the entire West. Jus’ a few steps ’cross Third Street and you’re right at the front door.”

  “I met Luke Short in Tombstone not long after he snuffed Charlie Storms’s lamp. And we’ve run into one another a time or two since. ’Bout as nice a feller as you’d like to meet, as long as you don’t piss him off.”

  “Wouldn’t know anythang ’bout that myself, but yours appears to be the prevailin’ opinion on the subject. Lookin’ the raggedy-assed way I do, ain’t never had nerve enough to go inside the place. Stood at the door a time or two, though. Took a gander at the wonders they offer. Swanky stuff fer a frontier burg like Fort Worth. But that’s jes’ my opinion, and the opinions of fellers like me don’ mean much.”

  The farther north they traveled along Main Street, the cleaner and more pretentious the town became. Parlor houses, cribs, stables, wagon yards, and dance halls gave way to fancy eating establishments, like the Merchant’s Restaurant, several theaters, and a number of classy hotels. In the distance, the street came to a dead end directly in front of the imposing, still new, but somewhat strange-looking Tarrant County Courthouse. Laid out somewhat like the spokes around the center hub of a wheel, the building was unlike any Longarm had ever seen before.

  Allred eased his rickety wagon past the El Paso Hotel, the White Elephant, and Theatre Comique, turned right on Second Street, then headed for the city jail. He reined to a stop at the corner of Second and Rusk. In appearance, the coarse city marshal’s office and jail didn’t look all that different from the shabby cribs they’d passed along the way—it was simply a good bit larger and decorated with heavy iron bars on the windows and doors.

  Longarm climbed down from Tater Allred’s wagon, slipped a silver dollar into the old soldier’s trembling hand, told him to wait, then hopped up on the jail’s porch and pushed his way inside without knocking. Once over the threshold, he closed the door and hesitated long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the room’s darker interior.

  Several hard-looking men, dressed in a kind of rudimentary uniform that consisted of knee-length gray coats, black slouch hats, and large official-looking six-pointed stars lounged around a desk in one corner of the room. Gun racks laden with a variety of weapons, ammunition, leg irons, and other methods of restraint covered the north wall of the cramped space. A tin stove, rough table, and handmade checkerboard in the corner opposite the marshal’s desk were surrounded by a mixed collection of mismatched chairs, stools, and empty, upturned wooden shipping crates.

  Barred doors across the entire back wall of Fort Worth’s jailhouse led the way into a cellblock that appeared fully capable of housing several hundred prisoners. An odor, rank enough to curl a man’s nose hair, oozed from the empty-appearing calaboose like an invisible cloud of stink from a cattle pen.

  A florid-faced, black-haired gent seated behind the desk sported a waxed handlebar moustache the size of a man’s forearm. On his chest, the distinctive gold badge of the city marshal twinkled in the room’s sparse light.

  The marshal motioned Longarm forward and said, “Come right on in, sir. These fellers are on their way out. Job of keepin’ a lid on things around here ain’t never done.”

  One of the policemen grunted, rose from the only other available chair near the desk, touched the brim of his hat, and headed for the door. His fellow officers followed. In pretty short order, Longarm and Fort Worth’s chief law enforcement officer had the entire dank-smelling room to themselves.

  Sam Farmer motioned for his guest to sit, offered up a politician’s painted-on smile, then said, “How can the Fort Worth city police be of assistance today?”

  Longarm removed his hat, yanked a bandanna from his pocket, and wiped his sweaty head and face. Then he pulled his wallet from an inside jacket pocket and flipped it open to reveal his deputy U.S. mars
hal’s badge and official credentials. “Name’s Custis Long, Marshal Farmer. In town for a few days of rest and recreation. Nothing official, mind you. Just stopped by to let you know I’m in town.”

  Farmer’s gaze darted from the badge to Longarm’s face, then back again. He leaned forward in the squeaky chair and placed his elbows on the desk. He peaked his fingers, then rested his chin against his thumbs, as if in deep contemplation. “Most gracious of you to come in for a visit today, Marshal Long,” he said. “Want you to know I do appreciate the thoughtfulness of the courtesy you’ve so graciously extended.”

  “Well, Marshal, I’ve always made it my practice to keep in close touch with local constabulary, no matter my business. Hope you understand and approve.”

  “Oh, I do, Marshal Long. Indeed, sir. Must admit that, when I took office, I made the mistake of letting personal fears and political resentment color my attitudes toward other members of the law enforcement fraternity. But I’ve adjusted that faulty attitude considerably over the past year or so. Do make yourself at home while visiting my town, and feel free to call on me for anything you might need. I’ll be most pleased to assist in any way I can.”

  Longarm stuffed his hat back on, then stood. “Well, do appreciate your offer, sir. Right now I’d like to head for the hotel and get settled.” He extended a hand.

  Farmer kept his seat, but shook his guest’s hand, then, as Longarm headed for the door, he said, “Hope we can have a drink while you’re in town, Marshal Long.”

  Standing on the threshold, with the brass knob in hand, Longarm turned, then touched the brim of his hat. “I look forward to that pleasant instance and would be most happy to stand you to a beaker of your favorite poison at your own convenience. You can find me at the El Paso Hotel, Marshal, or just get in contact with my driver, Mr. Allred. We’ve come to an arrangement, and he’ll always be aware of where I am as long as I’m in town.”

  Chapter 6

  Limping as though he could barely make it, Willard Allred lugged Longarm’s canvas bag up to the imposing three-story brick El Paso Hotel’s solid walnut check-in desk and dropped it on the floor.

  Longarm glanced around the enormous lobby and noted that it looked more like a European opera house than a Texas hotel. All the furnishings appeared new and impressively expensive. Well-dressed men, of obvious substance, sat at small tables placed around the open vestibule. They read newspapers, smoked their ax handle–sized cigars, or talked with one another in hushed tones behind cupped palms.

  Underfoot, a meticulously clean, thick, dark-colored Brussels carpet deadened the building’s interior noise and added a peaceful, relaxing feel to the place. A staircase nearby led to the two upper floors, and across the foyer a set of highly polished batwings opened into a convenient saloon and billiards room. Another entryway, gilt decorated and gleaming, led into the hotel’s private dining area. A beautiful young woman manned a desk beside the door. Might have to spend some time in both those places, Longarm thought, then smiled at the prospect of the entertainment possibilities afforded by such an onsite convenience.

  A slick-haired, clean-shaven, imperially slim clerk, dressed in a suit and spotless white shirt that made a man want to cover his eyes, hustled over, nodded, then said, “Who do we have with us today, Tater?”

  “Custis Long, deputy U.S. marshal outta Denver, Mr. Hunter. He’d like a room with a bath for a week, maybe two.”

  Hunter sniffed, then twirled the thick, leather-bound registration book around on its swiveling stand. “Please sign here, Mr. Long. I’m sure the El Paso can accommodate your every need and desire during your stay.”

  Longarm took up the pen, dipped it, then signed his name. He laid the pen aside, then said, “Well, Mr. Hunter, what I need right now is a bath and one of your valets to take my suit to a laundry. Have it brushed and pressed. What I might desire later could prove problematic. But we’ll hold off on that for the present.”

  Allred waved a uniformed hotel employee aside and insisted on carrying the heavy bag all the way to Longarm’s room. He knew exactly where to go as soon as the room number came from the desk clerk’s mouth, and led the way as though the sumptuous lodgings were his own.

  He ushered Longram around the elegantly appointed room, bragged about the help, the in-house bar, the billiards room, and the restaurant, then doffed his hat and headed for the door. “Been my pleasure, Marshal Long. Hope you enjoy your stay. And, oh, thanks for allowin’ me to pull one over on Mr. Hunter. Hotel pays me two dollars for every guest I appear to guide their direction.”

  Longarm gazed at the bed, polished walnut furnishings, metal bath in the corner, and back to Allred. “Tell me, Tater, how much do you make on an average day a-haulin’ folks back and forth from the depot?”

  Allred scratched his chin. “Oh, at twenty-five cents a trip, best I ever done was four dollars. But that were durin’ the busiest part of the cattle season. ’Course, if’n I can git a feller like you, the El Paso’s added income fer bringin’ you in helps considerable. Guess you could say three to four dollars in a day’s a damn good’un. But I’ve been known to take a siesta, here and there. Rarely work all day at a single spurt.”

  “Here’s what I’ll do. You make yourself available for me, kind of semi-exclusively, while I’m in town, and I’ll give you ten dollars cash money right now, and ten more the day you take me to the depot when I leave. All you have to do is check in with the desk two or three times a day to find out if I need you.”

  Allred’s rheumy eyes lit up. “Damn, didn’t realize lawmen made that kinda money. Ever’ one of ’em as I’ve knowed was poor as church mice.”

  Longarm waved the old soldier’s concern away. “Well, I’ve been savin’ for more years than I care to remember for this trip. Money is not a problem. There’s plenty. Trust me when I say I’ve not had an opportunity to spend much of my salary for some years now. Stuff’s just been sittin’ in a bank in Denver, gatherin’ interest.”

  “I see.”

  “Does my proposition have any appeal for you?”

  Allred stuffed his hat on, came to military attention, and saluted. “Mr. Long, you’ve got yourself a private guide to all the wonders, carnal and otherwise, of Fort Worth in general and Hell’s Half Acre in particular. You just tell me what you’re lookin’ for, or what you want, and by God, we’ll find it. If’n Tater Allred cain’t find it, then a man sure as hell don’t need it.”

  Longarm placed the ten-dollar gold piece in Allred’s palsied hand, then clapped the man on the back. “Pick yourself a spot in the shade and take a load off for a spell. Soon’s I get cleaned up, we’ll get out amongst ’em and see what we can get into.”

  Allred rolled the coin around in his fingers, then stuffed it into the pocket of his raggedy vest. “Be waitin’ fer you. Don’t worry, I’ll spot you soon’s you hit the street again, Mr. Long.”

  “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you called me Custis, Tater.”

  “See you downstairs—Custis.”

  Two hours later, Longarm, bathed and shaved, stepped onto the El Paso Hotel’s covered veranda. He stopped a moment, then lit a fresh cheroot. His brown tweed suit, snuff-colored Stetson, and low-heeled boots had all been brushed, and the suit carefully pressed. As he ran a finger back and forth under his heavy moustache, he watched Willard Allred hobble across Third Street from the direction of the White Elephant.

  “Been starin’ in the door again like a kid at the candy counter?”

  “Yeah. Gonna work up nerve enough to stroll in one a these days.”

  “Hell, you don’t have any problem strollin’ into the nicest hotel in town. Why does a saloon slow you down?”

  Allred tilted his head like a confused hound. “Not sure, exactly. It’s just different, that’s all. Hell, I’ve got an accommodation with these folks here at the El Paso. Ain’t managed to get nothin’ goin’ over at the White Elephant. Besides, a man kinda feels obligated to spend money in a place like the Elephant. Money I ain’t alwa
ys got to throw around.”

  Longarm glanced up and down the darkening thoroughfare. Both Main and Third Streets teemed with bustling knots of laughing, loud-talking people. Men and women strolled arm in arm. Cowboys, freighters, gamblers, and travelers of every imaginable stripe moved about between large puddles of flickering light created by lamps behind the opaque windows of various businesses along the streets.

  Allred tilted his head back and sniffed the air. “Do I detect the hint of toilet water waftin’ off a your person, Custis?”

  Longarm snatched the cheroot from between his lips and smiled. “Women tend to like a man who smells like something other’n sweat, dirt, a nasty ass, and horses, Tater. And when it comes to women, I’m gonna do whatever it takes to make ’em happy.”

  “Ah. Well, of the worldly pleasures available to a man down in the Acre, am I to assume that women are the first order of business this evenin’?”

  The cheroot traveled from one corner of Longarm’s mouth to the other. “Perhaps a bit later in the evening. We’ll just have to wait and see what kind of opportunity presents itself. Right now, I could use a good meal, two or three glasses of good Maryland rye, and maybe a bit of poker to top off my first evening in town.”

  “Fine eatin’ joint right here in the hotel. Mighty good’un in the Elephant, too. Merchant’s Restaurant over yonder across Main’s a favorite spot for visitin’ cattlemen. Any of ’em are good. Just take your pick.”

  Longarm turned, clapped Allred on the shoulder, then said, “Come along, Willard. I’ll treat you to a beaker of your favorite spirits at the White Elephant. Then you can head home for a much-deserved night’s rest. Figure I’m not gonna be needin’ your services tonight.”