by Matt Braun
“Hallelujah!” Duggan laughed. “I’ve got an idea Virginia City will be in your debt for a long time to come.”
“That reminds me,” Starbuck said without expression. “Our deal was half down and half on delivery. I delivered last night.”
Still chortling, Duggan opened his desk drawer and pulled out a signed check. “Like I said, I thought you might drop around today. I believe the balance due was five thousand.”
“On the nose.” Starbuck inspected the check and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Much obliged.”
“Quite the contrary,” Duggan said gratefully. “We’re the ones who are obligated. You did a whizbang of a job, Luke.”
“All in a day’s work.”
“Amen to that!”
Duggan walked him to the door. There he thrust out his hand and warmly pumped Starbuck’s arm. With a wave, Starbuck stepped outside and strolled off in the direction of the hotel. He was whistling tunelessly under his breath.
Some while later Starbuck emerged from the stageline office. He handed the driver his ticket and waited until his warbag was stowed securely in the luggage boot. Then he climbed aboard the coach and took a window seat. On impulse, he fished out his pocket watch and checked the time. He saw it was twelve-o-nine, and his eyes immediately swept the street. Wilbur Lott and the vigilantes were nowhere in sight.
The twelve o’clock deadline had come and gone. Yet Lott had apparently weighed the wisdom of revoking their truce. Starbuck thought it a damn shame.
High noon seemed an appropriate death hour . . . for a hunchback.
Chapter Seventeen
The Alcazar Variety Theater was mobbed. Scarcely a table remained vacant, and the barroom was crowded to capacity. With the first show still a half hour away, it was already standing room only. Lola Montana, as usual, would play to a packed house.
Jack Brady, proprietor of the Alcazar, stood near the door. His thumbs were hooked in his vest and a cigar jutted from his mouth like a burnt tusk. The turnout seldom failed to put him in an expansive mood, and tonight he looked enormously pleased with himself. The star of his show was the toast of the town, the single greatest drawing card in Denver. Only today he’d boosted her salary to a level that none of his competitors would dare match. He was congratulating himself on his foresight when a commotion at the door attracted his attention.
Starbuck was trapped just inside the entranceway. Voices were raised in congratulations and wellwishers ganged around for a quick handshake. Brady and a couple of bouncers rescued him from the crowd. The housemen charged into the melee and roughly cleared the well-wishers away. Then, their arms spread wide, they formed a protective cordon. The theater owner greeted Starbuck with an ebullient grin.
“Welcome back, Luke!”
“Thanks,” Starbuck mumbled, eyeing the crowd. “I feel like I just stepped into a goldfish bowl.”
“The price of fame!” Brady laughed. “You’d better get used to it.”
“I’d sooner have a little privacy.”
“No more!” Brady crowed. “That’s a thing of the past, Luke. You’re a public figure now!”
“Who says?”
“Everybody and his brother!” Brady said gleefully. “Don’t you read the papers?”
“Not lately,” Starbuck grouched. “I’ve been on a train for the last couple of days.”
Starbuck had pulled into town earlier that evening. He’d gone directly to his hotel suite, where he treated himself to a long soak in a hot bath. Afterward, he had ordered supper from room service and penned two messages to be delivered by a bellboy. One went to Lola, and the other went to Horace Griffin, division superintendent of Wells Fargo. Then he’d dressed and caught a hansom cab to the Alcazar. He hadn’t read a newspaper since departing Virginia City.
“Take my word for it!” Brady assured him. “Half the goddamn world knows who you are tonight. You’re big news—headline news!”
“Worse luck,” Starbuck said with a pained expression. “Got a table for me, Jack?”
“The best in the house—reserved and waiting!”
The bouncers led the way. A path opened before them, and Brady escorted him to a table near the orchestra pit. Starbuck felt somewhat like a clown in a parade. All eyes were on him and a buzz of excitement swept through the theater. He was no sooner seated than a waiter appeared with a bucket of iced champagne. Brady fussed around longer than necessary, clearly delighted with the sideshow atmosphere. Finally, Starbuck was alone at the table. He lit a cigarette and tried to ignore the stares.
A short while later Horace Griffin arrived. Brady again made a production of escorting the Wells Fargo superintendent to the table. Griffin seemed amused by the attention and put on a show of wringing Starbuck’s hand. The waiter materialized with another glass and deftly poured champagne. Then, at last, the activity around the table slacked off.
“Happy days!” Griffin hoisted his glass in a toast. “Looks like you’re the man of the hour, Luke.”
“Don’t rub it in,” Starbuck said gruffly. “Jack Brady already beat the drum till my ears are ringing.”
“I thought it was a celebration! Isn’t that why you invited me to join you?”
“Not exactly,” Starbuck informed him. “We’ve still got some unfinished business.”
“What sort of business?”
“How would you like to recover part of the stolen gold?”
“From the Virginia City holdups?”
“That’s the idea.”
Griffin was openly surprised. “I’d like that a lot, Luke. Needless to say, it would be a feather in both our caps. The home office might even come through with a bonus.”
Starbuck grinned. “I never turn down money.”
“What’s involved in recovering the gold?”
“A lawyer and a shovel.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Starbuck pulled a small ledger from his pocket. He briefly explained that the ledger itemized Cyrus Skinner’s gold deposits in a Salt Lake City bank. He suggested that Wells Fargo institute a court suit—with the ledger as prima facie evidence—against Skinner’s estate. Then he produced a piece of paper, with a hand-drawn diagram of the Virginia City livery stable. He recounted the story of the stagecoach robbery—in league with Frank Yeager and the gang—and how he’d later hidden his share of the loot. A bold X on the diagram marked the correct stall. He told Griffin the gold was buried a foot or so down, not counting manure. A shovel and a few minutes’ digging would do the trick.
“With Skinner’s estate,” he concluded, “and what you find in the stall, it’ll nudge a hundred and ten thousand dollars. Not exactly what you’d call chicken feed.”
“How true!” Griffin took a thoughtful sip of champagne. “I can’t help but wonder about the others . . . Yeager and Stimson and Henry Palmer.”
“What about them?”
“Well, it’s possible their share of the robberies might be recovered. Would you be interested in looking into it—for a percentage?”
Starbuck wagged his head back and forth. “I was hired to get them . . . not their bankrolls.”
“You’re perfectly right!” Griffin agreed quickly. “We’ll put a lawyer to work on it.”
“Have him contact me,” Starbuck offered. “I could point him in the right direction.”
“I will indeed!” Griffin once more lifted his glass.
“Here’s to you! Wells Fargo won’t forget the job you’ve done.”
Starbuck’s grin widened. “I’ll depend on it, Horace.”
“Good evening, Luke!”
Ned Buntline approached the table. He halted with a fraudulent smile and an outstretched hand. Starbuck studiously declined the handshake. He looked the writer up and down.
“Where’d you drop from, Buntline?”
“New York,” Buntline replied, lowering his arm. “I came in on the evening train.”
“What brings you to Denver?”
“You do!” Buntline gave Gr
iffin a perfuntory nod and seated himself. “I’m here to make you a millionaire, Luke!”
Starbuck regarded him with impassive curiosity. “I thought we already had this discussion.”
“That was before!”
“Before what?”
“Before Virginia City!” Buntline said with cheery vigor. “Before you routed a gang of robbers and singlehandedly faced down a vigilante mob!”
“How’d you hear about that?”
“You’re too modest!” Buntline’s smirk turned to a smug grin. “The newspapers have all but made your name a household word. You’re a sensation back east!”
“So?”
“So you’re famous!” Buntline cackled. “You killed five men—including a renegade sheriff—all in a matter of weeks!”
Starbuck looked annoyed. “I shot Palmer the way you would a crippled horse. I don’t take any pride in it.”
“A trifle!” Buntline said confidently. “Only one point has significance. You are the foremost lawman on the western frontier!”
“I’m not a lawman,” Starbuck corrected him. “I’m a private detective.”
“Whatever you are”—Buntline’s eyes took on a tinsel glitter—“you’re the deadliest mankiller extant. You’ve overshadowed Wild Bill Hickok and Wes Hardin and all the others. You stand alone at the apex of your profession!”
Starbuck’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “I don’t travel in the company of gunmen. I told you once and I’ll tell you again—I’m a detective.”
Buntline appraised him with a crafty look. “By any name, you’ve captured the public’s imagination. Virginia City was an epic struggle—good versus evil—and you’re now something more than a nameless man-hunter. You are on the verge of greatness!”
“Forget it,” Starbuck said shortly. “Go peddle your snake oil somewhere else.”
“Confound it, Luke!” Buntline objected. “Listen to reason! You’ll make a fortune off of dime novels and stage appearances. Within a year, you’ll be rich as Midas!”
Starbuck hesitated just long enough to lend emphasis to his words. “Get the wax out of your ears and pay real close attention. I don’t want any part of you or your schemes—and that’s final!”
“Stop and think!” Buntline persisted. “It’s not just the money we’re talking about! I’m offering you something few men ever attain. Sign with me, and I’ll make you part of our mythology . . . one of the immortals!”
“You’ve overstayed your welcome.” Starbuck jerked a thumb toward the street. “Hit the bricks, and be damn quick about it!”
“You’re passing up the opportunity of—”
Starbuck stood and moved swiftly around the table. He snatched Buntline out of his chair and spun him around. One hand took hold of the writer’s coat collar and the other grabbed him by the seat of his pants. Then Starbuck danced him up on tiptoe and marched off at a fast clip.
“Gangway! We’re comin’ through!”
The crowd split as though cleaved apart. Starbuck hustled Buntline out of the theater and through the barroom. One of the housemen obligingly opened the door and stepped aside. Halting at the last moment, Starbuck lifted the writer bodily and gave him the bum’s rush. Buntline landed on his rump and bounced across the sidewalk. His hat went flying and he rolled face down in the gutter.
Grinning broadly, Starbuck dusted his hands and walked back to the theater. All around him men cheered and applauded and pressed forward to slap him on the shoulder. As he approached his table the orchestra thumped to life and the curtain swished open. A chorus line, led by Lola Montana, cavorted out of the wings. Their legs flashed and they bounded onstage in a swirl of skirts. Then the tempo of the music quickened and they went into a high-stepping dance routine.
Lola stared past the footlights and her eyes fastened on him. She pranced downstage, her bloomers revealed in a showy cakewalk, and gave him a dazzling smile. The chorus girls squealed and kicked higher, and Lola dimpled her lips in a beestung pucker. Her hand touched her mouth and she blew him a kiss.
Starbuck sat down to a thunderous ovation.
Late that night, Starbuck unlocked the door to his hotel suite. Lola preceded him through the foyer and tossed her cape on a chair. Then she turned and stepped into his arms. She kissed him long and passionately.
“Ummm!” She groaned and lightly caressed his cheek. “That’s sweeter than sugar and twice as nice!”
“Careful what you wish for,” Starbuck joked, tightening his embrace. “It’s liable to come true.”
“Not so fast!” Lola slipped from his arms. “I want to change into something more comfortable, and I want a drink.” She lowered one eyelid in a bawdy wink. “Then I want you—all night!”
Starbuck watched her disappear into the bedroom. He chuckled, amused by her antics, and crossed to the liquor cabinet. There, he collected a couple of glasses and a brandy decanter, and moved to the sofa. After placing everything on the coffee table, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He filled both glasses and left them standing. Then he lounged back on the sofa and lit a cigarette.
A time passed before Lola returned. She wore a sheer cambric peignoir and high-heeled slippers. Her breasts were visible through the gauzy fabric, and a bare leg showed as she crossed the room. She smelled faintly of lilac.
Starbuck extinguished his cigarette. She sat down beside him, and he handed her a snifter of brandy. Without a word, they clinked glasses and sipped. Their eyes met and held, and something unspoken passed between them. She ran her tongue over her lips and smiled.
“Welcome home, lover.”
“I’ll second the motion.”
“Did you miss me?”
“What do you think?”
“I think maybe you did . . . a little bit.”
“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”
“Well, a girl does like to hear sweet talk!”
“Talk’s cheap.” Starbuck nodded to a jewel box on the coffee table. “How about something more permanent?”
“A present!” Lola’s eyes got big and round. “For me?”
“Open it and see.”
The jewel box was large and wide, covered with plush velvet. Lola opened it slowly and then suddenly caught her breath in a sharp gasp. Inside was a diamond and sapphire pendant, mounted on a necklace of interlocked diamond rosettes. The stones sparkled richly in the lamplight, and she seemed mesmerized by the interplay of colors. Then she snapped the lid closed and clutched the box to her breast. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Luke!” She blinked, and a teardrop rolled down her cheek. “It’s beautiful!”
“Hell, don’t cry!” Starbuck’s grin was so wide it was almost a laugh. “You’re supposed to be happy!”
“You dope!” Lola sniffed and clutched the box tighter. “Why do you think I’m crying?”
“Yeah—” Starbuck looked embarrassed. “I just never saw you cry before, that’s all.”
“Some presents are worth crying over! God, it must have cost a fortune, Luke!”
“Only a small fortune,” Starbuck said with a waggish grin. “I wanted you to have a memento of Virginia City. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Honestly?” Lola wiped the tears away. “You’re not just saying that?”
“Cross my heart.” Starbuck stitched a cross over his shirt pocket. “Without you, I would’ve never got wind of Alice Carver. And without her, I’d have never broken the case. So I owe it all to you.”
Lola took another quick peek at the pendant. Then her eyes cleared and she fixed him with a sly look. “You’re a terrible liar, Luke Starbuck.”
“I wouldn’t lie about a thing like that!”
“Yes, you would!” Lola’s laugh was low and infectious. “You paid more for this pendant than you earned on the case. How do you explain that?”
“Nothing simpler.” Starbuck gave her a jolly wink. “You were due a present long before Virginia City.”
“Why?�
�� Lola asked, a devilish glint in her eye. “I want to hear you tell me.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Starbuck’s mouth. “I reckon I just did.”
Lola knew better than to push him too far. In his own way, he had indeed told her what she wanted to hear. He was an emotional nomad; therefore, his choice of words was always oblique. Yet, however roundabout, it was enough for Lola. She adroitly switched to another topic.
“How long will I have the pleasure of your company?”
“How long you figure you could stand me?”
“Don’t play cat and mouse!” Lola shook a rougish finger at him. “You checked your mail before you came to the theater—didn’t you?”
“So what?”
“So tell me!” Lola mocked his grumpy expression. “How long until your next case?”
“Whoa, now!” Starbuck protested. “Don’t get any harebrained ideas!”
“Why, whatever are you talking about?”
“You know damn well!” Starbuck said sternly. “You got a taste of undercover work and you like it. Just don’t expect to tag along on every case!”
Lola let the remark pass. “Something in your mail must have been very interesting!”
“Goddamn, aren’t a man’s secrets safe anymore?”
“Not from me,” Lola cooed, batting her lashes. “You’re an open book, lover!”
Starbuck sat there with a funny look in his eye. After a moment he chuckled softly. “A fellow from Santa Fe wants to see me. His letter sounded the least bit urgent.”
“Outlaws in Santa Fe?”
“High-class outlaws,” Starbuck confided. “I got the impression he wants to talk about the Santa Fe Ring.”
“Omigawd!” Lola yelped. “Weren’t they the ones behind the Lincoln County war?”
“Nobody’s proved it . . . yet.”
“When would you leave?”
“All depends,” Starbuck said with a shrug. “I wired the fellow and told him to hop the next train to Denver.”
“In that case, we shouldn’t waste any time.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Something naughty and wild!”
