Chapter Seventy-seven
AT midnight they met again at Melville's. No one had anything significant to share, and they went back to the streets, agreeing to meet again at noon the following day.
Aaron and Joseph split up, determination etched in Aaron's face. He didn't stop until dawn, sagging against the worn, unpainted siding of one of the more typical saloons of the district. He'd decided the chances of finding men of Jack and Ben's character in the high-priced brothels were nil. Maybe they'd spend one night extravagantly, but after that they'd seek lower levels of enjoyment.
Wearily he entered a dingy saloon, at this hour purporting to be a cafe. He ordered breakfast, though he wasn't especially hungry, and attempted to sort out his gloomy thoughts over perhaps the strongest coffee ever poured. He had descended finally into the meaner part of the district, but probably it was the section of the city he could be most at home in, he thought sardonically. These were the people he knew best: the prostitutes, smugglers, gamblers, thieves, murderers, and aimless drifters, few with any creed above survival, few with any hope for life above the lowest level.
When the grimy cook, cigar stub clenched fiercely in his jaws, shoved Aaron's sizable breakfast at him, he was the only patron in the place. "Business isn't too lively," he offered.
"You're a little late in the day."
Aaron smiled ruefully. "I'm looking for a woman."
"Like I said, you're a little late. Come back this evenin'. They're catchin' their beauty rest," he gestured with a nod upstairs, a tooth-filled grin dissolving into a phlegmy cough, which did a good deal to further dissuade Aaron from attacking the grease-filled plate sitting before him.
He shoved it aside. "She'd be new. Slim. Pale hair. Light blue eyes. Not too tall. Soft, beautiful."
The cook gave Aaron another wide grin, and a very doubting expression, waving the well-savored remains of his cigar at him. "Now what do ya suppose a dame like that would be doin' here?"
Aaron didn't answer. "Maybe you've seen her companions," he said, and described every detail he could remember about Ben and Jack.
"Could be half dozen of the men I see every night."
Aaron frowned. "Keep your eyes open," shoving some gold coins at the man. "There'll be more if you report anything worth hearing. The name's . . . Hudson. You can leave word for me at the stone house on Drydock Hill."
The cook eyed the money, which amply covered the indigestible fare Aaron had merely surveyed. "What'd you say your name was?"
"Hudson," Aaron answered from the doorway.
"Marshall Hudson."
It was a series of questions and descriptions he gave the rest of the day, returning to the stone house in midafternoon, collapsing for a few hours of sleep, and the first edible meal he'd had in more than a day. On his way out again, Aaron glanced at himself in an ornate mirror in Melville's foyer and saw a face he'd almost forgotten, noting he was already beginning to take on the appearance of the kind of men he was rubbing elbows with along the Barbary Coast. The looks of a gentleman wear off fast enough, Aaron thought to himself, seeing hard lines of tension in his face, and the already soiled patches on his warm, coarsely woven pea jacket. "In a few days, I won't be admitted to this house through the front door."
And that was as it should be, he reasoned. He was only a gentleman for the charade. The habits he'd acquired, the mode of dress, the style of life were only part of the masquerade. If―when he found Louisa, the act would resume―but only for as long as it took to be done with this affair. "Water seeks its own level," he cautioned himself before the glass. Louisa would forever be above his reach, regardless of his restless dreams. By his side she would suffer, and, Aaron sighed, he already knew enough of her sorrows.
Aaron turned away from the mirror, and left the house hurriedly. Light was fading and the crisp evening air was damp. Soon it would be pouring. "Wonderful night," he said aloud. "At least the dives'll be full."
Hours later, he found Emil scouring the same establishment he'd stumbled into. "Anything?"
"Not a trace," Joseph growled over obviously cut, disagreeably sour whiskey. He poured Aaron a glass. "I've seen my share of these places," he offered, "but the way they spring up's an amazing thing. Haven't been on this street for a while. Haven't missed much."
Aaron winced at the first swallow of liquor.
"Not like the stuff at Melville's!" Emil laughed. "This sure must be an eye-opener, son."
Aaron nodded. At least he continued to deceive someone, he sneered to himself.
"Not too many places in the country depraved as this one. Watch yourself. You're a sore thumb. Fact is, you'd best tag with me the rest of the way. One body's enough to be searchin' for."
The assessment stung Aaron, although he was well aware the possibilities were slim Louisa was still alive―for, if she were, she'd likely be wishing she were dead. "No. We'll continue separately. We'll cover more ground."
"Naw. Melville'd personally slit my throat if you didn't come back." The decision for him was final, and he leaned a little more heavily against the bar. "Ya know the little game they play here? Convince some fool they've got him a virgin all primed and eager to get it over―just on account of him. And for the same price he can do her sister. Well, the two ladies see to it he's properly sauced, then help him out for a little air. They take him for a few spins around the block, and in again the back way. They help him off with his britches, and the 'virgin' for the hour invites him in. While he's on his way to paradise, the 'sister' brains him for all she's worth, and someone drags him off, dumps him in the alley, and if he's lucky he wakes to see another day."
"Probably none the wiser," added Aaron, having heard of the game before.
Joseph laughed. "There's not a virgin over thirteen years old within a thousand miles of here! You'd think everyone'd know that!" He took a hasty swig of his drink, turning slightly more serious. "Been into Virgil's yet?" Aaron shook his head. "Not my favorite place. Not bad-lookin' gals though―considerin'. He's a mean sonofabitch, and he keeps a tight rein on 'em. They don't last long, even at the prices he pays. That's what attracts 'em. Laces the booze he insists they drink with cantharides and keeps 'em dancin' even if they burst. Some show! Maybe we'll have some luck there―our men haven't been here," he added with a sweeping gesture.
He'd been leaning over the noisy bar, and now he straightened, hunching and rolling his shoulders to ease his fatigue. "Don't give up―we'll find 'em yet. They've got to be around. They'll not skip with their tickets to fortune stashed with Kilby," he reasoned. "It's just a matter of us gettin' lucky." And he put his thick arm around the younger man's back, and ushered him into the rain-soaked night.
Chapter Seventy-eight
THERE was an especially brutal and foul air at Virgil's, its reputation for depravity well deserved. Six scantily clad women, in various stages of inebriation and discomfort, did their best to keep up with the discordant music pounding from a much-scarred upright piano next to the crude raised dance floor. All the dancers wore long black stockings held up with scarlet garters, their sheer blouses clearly displaying all for the prospective customers. Their black skirts just reached the tops of their stockings, and none were allowed undergarments.
An equal number of "girls" circulated among the patrons of the very packed saloon and gambling house, selling drinks which they shared with their customers in full strength, though it was an unusual practice. They also hustled their other wares to whatever willing customer was available for snaring, and the takers were plentiful. The traffic between upstairs and down, from main to back rooms was constant.
"If they haven't been here, they've been done in," was Emil Joseph's wry assessment. He and Aaron circulated and spoke with each of the girls, prying their already loose tongues with coins. ,
"Maybe I seen 'em," a husky damsel who called herself Mabel told Aaron. "Especially the one with the sliver of a mustache," she added to the clink of his gold coins in her palm, shoving her other hand between his
thighs, urging him roughly. "Vicious bastard, too," she added, smiling.
When Aaron pushed her hand from him, the whore's smile faded. She attempted to push the wisps of her dirty blond hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck, staring at him cautiously. "What is it you· want 'sides information?" she inquired suspiciously.
Just then Emil joined them. "The barkeep says he's seen 'em!" he said jubilantly. "They've been in every night since they arrived; spendin' freely, drinkin' heavy, and whoring plenty." He paused. "No sign or word of a woman," he added quietly.
Aaron shoved Mabel aside. She growled an obscenity, but quickly went on her way to more willing prospects while Emil and Aaron seated themselves near Virgil's main entrance, several tables back against the wall. They bought a bottle of uncut, but poor quality whiskey―"the best in the house"―and proceeded to wait.
Beyond the din of the place, Aaron heard the rain pour down, the storm filling every dive on the street with more than the usual assortment of revelers. As the night wore on, Virgil's increasingly crowded patrons grew steadily more drunk and disagreeable. Through it all Aaron and Joseph sat silently watchful, surveying every new arrival, every fistfight and quarrel, every public exhibition. After a while the bottle they shared even seemed reasonably acceptable refreshment.
Emil Joseph sat patiently and considered his companion. He remembered Mr. Marshall Hudson from the weeks he'd spent on the trail with him. Emil recalled how displeased he'd been when Melville said a gentleman would be accompanying him into the interior. But he'd been pleasantly surprised to discover the man was in no way a hindrance, finding him an expert horseman, even if it did take him a few days on the trail to regain some comfort in the saddle. Joseph had also been amazed at how easily the man adjusted to the other rigors of the trail, and it wasn't long before Mr. Hudson seemed as at home in the countryside as his two guides. Emil had a great deal of respect for the young man, and it had only increased these last few days and nights as they combed the saloons and bawdy houses together. He expected the man could hold his own in the confrontation they hoped to have, although he had no specific knowledge to make him certain. But the man's preparations, his conduct throughout the search suggested Mr. Hudson could take care of himself. It was as if he'd had more than a gentleman's education.
While Emil regarded him, Aaron scanned the customers, his anticipation high, his desire to act against the two men he'd entrusted with Louisa's safe journey rising with every passing minute. He watched the night tick away on a battered German clock above the otherwise unadorned entryway, and wondered why someone hadn't long ago put the whimsical parading figures out of their misery. At predictably regular intervals, two gaily painted lovers would appear and clasp each other fervently to a trite melody not often heard above the roar of Virgil's place. Then the wooden couple would disengage and disappear. Whenever they appeared, Aaron watched the pair hypnotically as he drank, momentarily feeling the heavy numbing effects of alcohol and grief.
He felt as wooden as the clock's carved figures. Certainly his experience with women was in many respects not exceptionally different from the comical male doll who paraded mechanically each quarter hour. This minute, Aaron's encounters seemed as brief, as unsatisfying, as empty, even when he'd felt love. And he found himself contemplating putting a final end to the misery of the hapless wooden lovers who strutted unnoticed in the foul-smelling saloon.
He leaned back on two legs of his chair considering such action, suddenly inching upright when he saw Jack Herbert step surely through the doorway. Jack quickly scanned the mob in Virgil's, but took no notice of Aaron. Ben followed his friend out of the rain in the same ignorant condition. Without raising his eyes from Aaron's face, Emil knew instantly the men they waited for had arrived. In the younger man's countenance he read unmistakable hatred and unflinching purpose. He suspected only extreme self-control prevented Aaron from swiftly murdering the new arrivals.
Because of the crush inside the hall, Ben and Jack stood near the doorway relaxed and unprepared. As if by signal. Aaron and Joseph acted in concert, rising from their chairs, moving in one motion. By prearrangement they'd chosen who to grab, Aaron deciding Jack was more his equal in age and strength and Ben and Emil a suitable match.
Before either Ben or Jack had time to sense the presence of their adversaries, Aaron and Joseph seized the men from behind, their weapons drawn. Strangling Jack with one powerful arm locked around his neck, Aaron felt a special thrill as he thrust his knife against Jack's lean belly. One powerful unrestrained thrust and the man's life would begin to flow from him, and it was nearly impossible for Aaron to refrain from the motion, so sure was he that any information these men provided would be long past helping Louisa.
At first, the life-and-death movement in the barroom went unnoticed, but soon a wide circle opened around the four men and the roaring of the place ceased. Ben and Jack were frozen, their breathing restricted in the death grips of the strong arms of their captors, their awareness of the damage the blades would surely do momentarily eliminating any other response.
In the suddenness of the attack, Ben was the first to guess the reason for the confrontation, the first to know it would be a fight to the death, if, in fact, they were given an opportunity to defend themselves.
In the surprising stillness Aaron's voice was unfamiliar, but Jack instinctively knew his attacker. "Where is she?" Aaron bellowed, pressing his knife point to penetrate the surface of Jack's skin.
Jack shrank against Aaron, away from the blade, feeling a trickle of his own warm blood begin to spread slowly. He struggled helplessly in Aaron's grip, Ben faring no better in Emil's hands, though the rage emitted from Aaron's every pore was lacking in his attack.
In Emil's grasp, Ben struggled for breath, eyes bulging, and tried to speak, his voice rasping incoherently. Emil loosened his grip slightly and it was all the man needed, arching and twisting, successfully wrenching the knife-wielding arm away, doubling both himself and his attacker, crashing head over heels into the saloon, onlookers trampling each other to avoid the two. Ben and Emil struggled desperately, the knife lost, slithering along the floor out of reach.
The brawl seemed to be a sudden invitation, and soon it seemed the whole of Virgil's erupted in long pent-up violence. Rapidly Aaron lost his control of Jack, and the two were shoved outside, losing their balance as they tumbled into the mud-wet street. They grappled furiously, the most vicious aspects of each man's nature rising instantly to the surface in the noholds-barred fight. The rain pelted them, making their grasp of each other more difficult with every passing minute. Jack received the advantage in their expulsion into the street, immediately pressing the full weight of his bent leg into Aaron's stomach, battering Aaron's head and face as fast as his arms could swing. Aaron's only advantage came in Jack's still short breath, and he managed a decisive, still powerful fist squarely into Jack's throat, knocking out the man's wind and toppling him backward into a pond in the muddied street.
Aaron threw himself onto Jack, pushing him deep into the puddle. They struggled and thrashed like two mud-and-water-soaked primeval creatures. Expecting the move to find him free of his pursuer, Jack planted a violent kick in Aaron's groin. Aaron roared in agony, but his grip was only momentarily, and insufficiently loosened, and his pain magnified his rage. He managed to shove his opponent beneath him again, feeling Jack struggle under the surface of the water. His own head safely above the water, Aaron gasped for air, nearly blind with fury and discomfort. Had he not wanted something more from the man than his life, Aaron would have easily drowned Jack without mercy. But he wanted more. He wanted to know about Louisa, and he raised the man by his hair from the shallow but deadly water, pressing his bent knee squarely, heavily into the man's gut.
Jack labored for breath, unrecognizably covered with slippery brown ooze, his eyes bulging. Aaron waited a few seconds, until he was sure the man had recovered enough to blurt out what he wanted to hear.
''Where is she?" he demande
d again, pressing his body down slightly to remind Jack who was in control.
Jack shook his head weakly. "Don't know," he gasped. "God's truth, I swear!"
Aaron wrenched the man's hair all the harder. "Where'd you leave her?"
With difficulty, Jack coughed and rasped. "Just west o' the Salinas River―east o' Los Burros."
Aaron tightened his grip again. "Why isn't she with you?"
At first, Jack was mute. Fear could be seen in the man's mud-smeared face, which was now streaked clean in patches by the fast-pouring rain. He begged shamelessly for mercy in Aaron's grip. "She . . . she was dying―havin' a baby too soon."
"And you left her alone, not sure whether she survived or not?" he bellowed, not giving Jack the opportunity to reply, his horror and grief finally turning to insanity, his hands clutching Jack's throat in a moment that seemed to be suspended in space and time, the seconds seeming eternal, the night and the strength of his hatred seeming to lift him from his own earthly body as he thought he watched Jack's soul leave his body, and the physical shell sink into the river of a street when he released it.
Aaron's effort nearly spent, he raised himself hypnotically from the scene with effort, now only vaguely aware of the continuing general melee around him. Something reminded him his business was yet unfinished, and he staggered painfully into Virgil's again. He looked around the battling throng for Emil, finding him losing his fight with Ben. Without hesitation, but feeling as if he were weighted and hardly moving, Aaron disarmed a fallen patron and, amid the roar of the place, put the .45 to Ben's ear and pulled the trigger.
The effect was ghastly, but Emil was saved. With effort Aaron shoved Ben's mutilated body from Emil, and lifted his disabled partner as best he could. Incredible pain shot through Aaron's groin as he did so, but the two men managed to stagger from Virgil's, jostled in their exit by still, and incomprehensibly, brawling customers.
Ford, Jessie Page 39
