by Matt Braun
Starbuck fixed him with a speculative gaze. “Do you think there’s some connection between the stage robbers and whoever’s robbing the miners?”
“God, I hope so!” Duggan said vehemently. “If there’s not, then there’s no stopping the vigilante movement!”
Starbuck was thoughtful for a time. His expression was abstracted, and he appeared to be debating something within himself. Then, at last, he looked at Griffin.
“Does anyone know you’ve approached me? Any of your associates, the sheriff, anyone at all?”
“No one,” Griffin assured him. “These gentlemen arrived in Denver only last night. They asked my advice, and I recommended you as the man for the job. That’s as far as it’s gone.”
Starbuck regarded him with great calmness. “I’ll take the assignment on two conditions. First—I do it my own way, no questions asked. Second—all three of you button your lip till the job’s done. Anybody talks out of school and I’ll know where to look.”
Duggan stiffened. “That sounds like a threat!”
“Take it any way you want,” Starbuck said flatly. “It’s good advice . . . the best you’ll ever get.”
“Indeed it is,” Griffin broke in smoothly. “Now, what about your fee, Luke?”
“Same as last time,” Starbuck said without inflection. “Five thousand down and five thousand on delivery.”
“One question, Mr. Starbuck.” Salisbury cocked his head with a quizzical look. “How will we contact you, once you’ve undertaken the job?”
“You won’t.” Starbuck’s eyes were hard, impersonal. “You’ll get a report when the assignment’s completed, not before. That’s the way I work.”
Griffin smiled and rose to his feet. “We’ll wait to hear from you, Luke.”
“Depend on it, Horace.”
When they were gone, Starbuck walked directly to the safe. He spun the combination knob and swung open one of the doors. On an inside shelf were four leather-bound ledgers. He took out the ledger stenciled G-L and returned to his desk. After lighting a cigarette, he opened the ledger to the section flagged with the letter L. He began thumbing through the pages.
The ledgers were a rogues’ gallery of western outlaws. Almost a year ago, he’d begun collecting information on the Who’s Who of the criminal element. Correspondence with peace officers and U.S. marshals across the frontier provided him with hard intelligence. Added to newspaper clippings and material gleaned from wanted dodgers, it gave him a quick and ready reference whenever he undertook a new case. He now had dossiers on more than three hundred gunmen and desperados.
A few moments later he stubbed out his cigarette. There was no page on Wilbur X. Lott, the aspiring vigilante leader. Nor was there any cross-reference indicating an alias. He’d thought it a long shot, but nonetheless worth a try. All things considered, though, it was no great loss. He was accustomed to working in the blind.
Lost in thought, he replaced the ledger and locked the safe. Then he wandered into the outer office. Verna looked up, and he stopped beside her desk.
“I took the assignment.”
“So I heard.”
“Eavesdropper.” Starbuck smiled, nodding absently. “Check out the train schedule. I want to connect with the stageline at Dillon. That’s somewhere in western Montana.”
“When will you leave?”
“Couple of days ought to be soon enough.”
“I’ll see to it right away.”
“Good.” Starbuck turned toward the door. “Guess I’ll call it a day. All that paperwork tuckered me out.”
Verna sniffed. “Don’t forget your theater tickets. A messenger brought them from Mr. Rothacker while you were in conference.”
“Hell’s bells!” Starbuck grumbled. “I forgot all about that!”
“No doubt you wanted to forget.”
Verna extended an envelope, and he stared at it a moment. Orville Rothacker, publisher of the morning Tribune, was one of his few friends in Denver’s society circles. He had accepted the invitation more than a week ago, and there was no way out of it now. With some reluctance, he took the envelope. There were two tickets inside.
“Who’s playing, anyway?” He suddenly remembered, and frowned. “It’s whatzizname—the Irish poet?”
“Oscar Wilde,” Verna said sharply. “And it’s neither a play nor poetry! Mr. Wilde will deliver a lecture on interior house decoration.”
“No kidding?” Starbuck watched her with an indulgent smile. “A poet and a house decorator! What’s he do for an encore?”
“Really!” Verna said with feisty outrage. “Some people consider Oscar Wilde a genius. You might very well be surprised!”
“Nothing surprises me.” Starbuck’s features mirrored cynical amusement. “Course, lots of things surprise Lola. She’ll probably enjoy it.”
“You’re taking her?” Verna asked querulously. “To see Oscar Wilde?”
“What the hell!” Starbuck gave her a satiric look. “They’re both in the show business . . . her and Oscar.”
Verna appeared mortified. She merely stared as he chuckled and walked out the door. Her mind was reeling with the thought of him and his hussy—at the Tabor Grand Opera House!
She suddenly felt faint.
Chapter Two
Lola Montana was a vision of loveliness. She wore an exquisite gown of teal blue and a pearl choker with a sapphire in the center. The bodice of the gown was cut low and cinched at the waist, displaying her sumptuous figure to full advantage. Her flaxen hair was upswept and drawn back, with a soft cluster of curls fluffed high on her forehead. She looked at once regal and sensual.
Holding her arm, Starbuck was attired in a cutaway coat and black tie. Orville Rothacker and his wife, directly ahead of them, were following an usher down the aisle. The opera house was packed to capacity, and their entrance caused a sudden stir of commotion. Heads craned and the audience buzzed, all eyes turned in their direction. Starbuck was amused by the reaction, his face fixed in a nutcracker grin. He looked proud as punch.
Certain conventions were normally observed at the Tabor Grand Opera House. The boxes and all of the orchestra were reserved for the elite of Denver society. The sporting crowd and other assorted riffraff were consigned to the upper balcony. Tonight, for the first time in memory, the customary order of things had been breached. Yet no one in the audience raised a cry, and none would dare reproach Orville Rothacker. The publisher knew where all the skeletons were buried, and the lorgnette set of Capitol Hill lived in fear he would unearth the darker secrets of their past. Scandal, despite Denver’s cosmopolitan airs, was still very much in vogue.
In truth, Rothacker cared nothing for their conventions or their secrets. He considered himself a newspaperman, and his friendship with Starbuck stemmed from a series of interviews over the past several years. He’d always found the detective forthcoming, however sensational the case, and the interviews never failed to boost circulation. Only on one subject had they come to an impasse. Starbuck either deflected or ignored any question as to the number of men he’d killed. Rothacker privately speculated that the number was twenty or more, perhaps many more. He hoped one day to print the full story, for he believed Starbuck deserved all the credit normally accorded sworn lawmen. Tonight, however, there was no thought of a story. He was content to enjoy the manhunter’s company.
The houselights dimmed as the usher seated them. Lola squeezed Starbuck’s arm and snuggled closer. She was a tawny blond cat of a girl, with bold eyes and enchanting verve. Her evenings were usually spent prancing about the stage of the Alcazar Variety Theater. The star of the show, she belted out songs in a husky alto and bewitched the crowd with her sultry good looks. The combination had made her the toast of Denver’s Tenderloin district, and every man’s fantasy. Yet she was one man’s woman, and never prouder of it than now. Tonight he’d flaunted her before the society swells, which amounted to a public announcement. She was Luke Starbuck’s woman. His only woman.
Th
e curtain rose to reveal a lectern positioned stage center. Then a spotlight flared and Oscar Wilde walked from the wings. He was a short, plump man, with cherubic features and curly locks that tumbled to his shoulders. He wore a purple velvet coat, knee breeches, and silk stockings. In his right hand he carried a single lily, which somehow compounded the effect of his costume. He stopped behind the lectern, gazing raptly a moment at the lily, and finally looked up. The audience twittered with laughter and gave him a modest round of applause.
“Just between us, lover,” Lola whispered in Starbuck’s ear, “he ought to trade that lily for a pansy.”
“You think so?”
“I’ll lay odds he’s queer as a three-dollar bill!”
“No bet!” Starbuck chortled. “I got a hunch I’d lose.”
Billed as the Apostle of Aestheticism, Wilde was currently in the midst of a grand tour of America. His career as a poet-playwright had already brought him much fame in Ireland and England, and he’d been treated as a dignitary by the eastern press. In one interview, he had stated that the purpose of his tour was to bring culture to the “colonists.” Tonight his reception was something less than overwhelming. Westerners apparently weren’t ready for culture or the finer points of aesthetic expression. His lecture on interior decorating played to stifled yawns and impromptu bursts of laughter. Even the grandes dames of Denver society were hard pressed to stay awake. He cut the lecture short and marched offstage in a towering snit. The performance drew scattered applause, and a rush for the doors.
Starbuck and Lola traded smiles and said nothing. Stepping aside, they waited while Rothacker and his wife made their way to the aisle. Rothacker’s muttonchop whiskers were split wide in a wry grin. He motioned toward the stage.
“Would you like to meet the illustrious Mr. Wilde?”
“Who?” Starbuck croaked dumbly. “Me?”
“Why not?” Rothacker laughed. “We plan to interview him tomorrow, before his second lecture. That should be good for an introduction.”
“I—”
“We’d love it!” Lola interrupted with a mischievous smile. “Wouldn’t we, Luke?”
Starbuck gave her a hard look. “You really want to?”
“Ooo pleeze!” Her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth. “Just for me!”
“Well—”
“It’s settled, then,” Rothacker said quickly. “Come along, Luke! A little culture never hurt anybody.”
The publisher led the way backstage. The door to Wilde’s dressing room was open, and four women, gushing compliments, were just leaving. The poet looked a little frazzled and somewhat sour around the mouth. His smile was forced.
Rothacker simply walked in and began talking. A seasoned newshound, he employed flattery with the subtle touch of a diplomat. Wilde, who was a creature of his own vanity, responded immediately. By the time introductions were completed, he was once more in character, pompous and wholly self-centered. Yet he seemed taken with Starbuck. There was a twinkle in his eye, and, to Lola’s delight, he ignored everyone else. He put a chubby finger to his lips, contemplative.
“Starbuck.” He repeated the name slowly. “Ah, but of course! You’re the detective fellow, aren’t you?”
Starbuck looked uncomfortable. “How’d you know that?”
“Why, dear man!” Wilde trilled breezily. “I read about you while I was in New York. One of those publications peculiar to America. The Police Gazette, I believe it was called. But a splendid article nonetheless! Indeed it was.”
Starbuck smiled without warmth. “I guess I missed that issue.”
“Then more’s the pity!” Wilde said cheerily. “A truly gripping account it was! All about that poor sod you laid to rest in Deadwood.”
A pained expression came over Starbuck’s face. “I wouldn’t exactly call him a poor sod.”
“Well, no matter!” Wilde laughed, and his voice went up a couple of octaves. “You put the bugger out of his misery! And didn’t I say to myself what a grand name for it? Deadwood! So apropos, and imagery at its purest. Now, don’t you agree?”
Starbuck stifled the impulse to say what he was really thinking. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Pathos, dear fellow!” Wilde made an effeminate gesture and laid his hand on Starbuck’s arm. “Poets love tragedy, and a tragic figure even more. We’re all very sensitive, you know?”
Lola smiled and took a possessive grip on Starbuck’s other arm. “I’ve told Luke that very thing, Mr. Wilde! You see, I’m an artiste myself . . . a singer.”
“How nice.” Wilde gave her a withering look, then turned swiftly to Rothacker. “Now, about the interview you requested. I regret to say a second lecture in Denver appears fruitless. I’ve an engagement in Leadville, and I believe I’ll travel there tomorrow.”
“That’s a shame,” Rothacker said affably. “You might have drawn a better audience tomorrow night.”
“I think not.” Wilde shook his head with a condescending air. “Aestheticism does require a certain sophistication.”
Rothacker grunted, smothering a laugh. “I wish you luck, then. Leadville’s one of our rougher mining camps.”
“Indeed!” Wilde arched one eyebrow and looked down his nose. “Well, now, I’ve great rapport with the working class. I wouldn’t wonder they’ll embrace the message with open arms!”
The conversation ended there. Wilde saw them to the door and closed it firmly. Outside, Rothacker pantomimed a limp-wristed gesture and rolled his eyes at Starbuck. Waving him off, Starbuck lagged back and took Lola by the elbow. His voice was sardonic.
“You’ve got some sense of humor.”
Lola mimicked his dour expression. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t play coy!” Starbuck muttered. “You jumped at the chance to get me and Wilde together. You all but sicced the bastard on me!”
“Why, Luke Starbuck!” Lola batted her china-blue eyes. “Would I do a thing like that?”
“You not only would—you did!”
“Honestly, lover!” Her eyes seemed to glint with secret amusement. “I saved you from a fate worse than death! Your face went white when he latched on to your arm.”
Starbuck’s mouth suddenly split in a lopsided grin. “One thing’s for sure! That little sweet pea probably won’t make it out of Leadville alive. They’ll stick his aesthetics where the sun don’t shine!”
Lola’s throaty laughter floated out over the opera house. A few moments later, on the street, Starbuck declined Rothacker’s invitation to a late supper. Then he flagged a hansom cab and assisted Lola inside. They drove straight to the Brown Palace Hotel, where he’d maintained a suite for the past several years. Only recently had Lola become a permanent fixture in his life and the sole partner in his bed. He took her there now, and neither of them spoke a word. Their sense of urgency was mutual, somehow heightened by the evening.
Within minutes, naked and disheveled, they were locked together.
Starbuck kissed the vee between her breasts. Then he rolled away and sprawled exhausted on the bed. She wiggled into the crook of his arm and pillowed her head on his shoulder. For a while, time lost measure and meaning. She lay still and sated, far beyond the limits of her most vivid fantasies. She felt fulfilled and wanted.
Yet deep within she knew she possessed only a part of him. She was his woman, but he was still his own man. He shared his secrets with her and confided in her as he would in no other human. There was implicit trust in that sharing, for at root he was a man of privacy and ingrained cynicism. She accepted those things, careful never to smother him or demand more than he could give. She understood him with a wisdom that was both intuitive and practical. Only by allowing him to go free was she assured he would return. She was content with the arrangement, secure in the knowledge that he needed her. He would never give all of himself, but the bond between them was the single bond in his life. She asked no more.
Presently Starbuck stirred. He pulled her close and held her quietly for
a moment. Then he nuzzled her unbound hair, his voice muted and curiously gentle.
“I leave day after tomorrow.”
“You—you’ve taken another case?”
Starbuck bobbed his head. “Wells Fargo and another stageline hired me. They’ve got a little problem with a gang of robbers. Nothing too serious.”
“I’ll bet!” She tweaked the hair on his chest. “You’re not fooling anybody, lover-man. If it wasn’t serious, they wouldn’t come to you!”
“All in a day’s work,” Starbuck said easily. “Wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t sticky.”
“Where are they sending you?”
“Virginia City,” Starbuck told her. “The one in Montana.”
Lola sat bolt upright. Her breasts shimmered in the glow of lamplight spilling through the parlor door. She stared down at him with an expression of mild wonder.
“I was offered a job in Virginia City!”
“Yeah?” Starbuck asked idly. “Who by?”
Her brow furrowed in concentration. “Stinson? No, wait a minute. It was Stimson. Omar Stimson! He owns the Gem Theater there.”
“How come he contacted you?”
“Thanks a lot!” Lola gave him a pouty look. “Whether you know it or not, I’ve made a name for myself, too. All kinds of people have tried to hire me away from Jack Brady! It just so happens I like the Alcazar and I like Denver.”
Starbuck chuckled softly. “I guess folks know a good thing when they see it.”
“They certainly do!” She tossed her head. “Stimson offered me a thousand dollars for one week in Virginia City!”
“Jesus!” Starbuck was impressed. “He must’ve meant business!”
“Of course he did,” Lola replied airily. “In case you haven’t noticed, I do tend to draw a crowd.”
“You’ve got a way with men, all right. I reckon I’d be the first to admit it.”
Lola fell silent a moment. A strange look came over her face, and she seemed to stare straight through him. Then she suddenly giggled and squirmed around like soft wax.
“Holy Hannah!” she squealed. “I just had a brainstorm!”
