Josiah had passed the house several times but had never had the inclination, need, or desire to stop and pay a visit. He hesitated even now.
The last time Josiah had been in a whorehouse was a little over a year before. Crestfallen, grieving, not knowing where he was going, he’d allowed the deceased Captain Hiram Fikes’s horse to take him wherever it wanted. And he ended up in the bad side of Austin, at least for an Anglo, in Little Mexico, at a place called the Paradise Hotel.
He was several blocks away from that hotel now, and as the wind wrapped around him, standing there, he was uncertain of whether to put one more foot in front of the other, as memories of that visit came rushing back to him.
He had tried to forget about Suzanne del Toro, or “Fat Susie,” as the captain called her, but he couldn’t. She had rescued him from himself, showed him a night of kindness, and there was a promise of more, even though Josiah knew nothing could come of the relationship. She was Mexican. He was Anglo. She was a madam. He was a Texas Ranger. Her former lover was Captain Hiram Fikes, Pearl’s father. These were more complications than any relationship could survive. But they had had something that was more than sex, if not quite love. Their grief met on a stormy night, easing their pain and allowing each of them to move on with life. Suzanne was the first woman Josiah allowed himself to be intimate with after the death of his wife, Lily. It was at that moment that he had realized that he had to leave Lily behind so he could move forward, live life again, maybe love again at the very least, feel alive.
Unfortunately, now Suzanne del Toro was dead, too. Murdered by her brother for nothing more than money and the desire for the full book of business at the Paradise Hotel, or El Paradiso as she called it, which in the end cost him his life, too. Scrap had fired the kill shot, saving Josiah from serious injury and maybe death. One of the many reasons Josiah couldn’t turn his back on Scrap.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to stand in place, not to leave.
Pearl didn’t know about his night with Suzanne, and he wasn’t sure he would ever have the heart to tell her.
The incident had happened before they began courting, just after they met. It shouldn’t mean anything to her . . . but he knew it would if she ever found out. Josiah had slept with her father’s mistress. It was a sticking point, a grasp on his wrist that held him back from committing totally to Pearl, though he was working his way toward that now that they were courting formally and publicly.
There was nothing he could do about the past now. Just like on the morning he’d left Suzanne’s bed, he needed to walk forward again, unsure of what lay ahead or how he would be received.
There were lamps burning in several of the windows, and there was no question that the house was open for business. From what Josiah understood, it was never closed; someone worked the door twenty-four hours a day. There was no stopping him now, and he knew that, just as he knew that he was not calling on the house for pleasure. He hoped to find the witness, and Myra Lynn, too, since the girls that had fled the Easy Nickel were said to be under Blanche Dumont’s wing now.
He walked up to the door and pounded the brass knocker loudly three times.
There was a distant sound of music coming from inside the house. A piano playing low and mournful, not happy and inviting like in a saloon or dance hall. The sweet honey to draw customers into this house was found elsewhere; waiting in the parlors in sheer clothing, exposing hints of flesh and pleasure to be had for a price.
There was an air of proper business about the place, a sharp edge that noted any kind of rowdiness wouldn’t be tolerated. That might have been an assumption on Josiah’s part only because Blanche Dumont herself came across that way. Her reputation preceded her in every manner of the house. She was one of the most notorious women in Austin.
The door opened and Josiah found himself staring at an amazingly short Negro, four feet tall, if that, dressed in a bright red velvet frock coat and a black top hat. The Negro smiled, exposing a mouthful of white teeth that were so perfect they looked like they belonged on a piano instead of inside a human head. A .41 rimfire over-and-under derringer dangled from the little Negro’s belt. The gun looked too big for the man’s hands but perfect for a woman’s.
“What’s your pleasure, mister man? I got a golden-haired girl, a redheaded girl, and a dark one, too, if that be to your taste, but tell no one about that, though she sure has special skills for a man like you. Five dollars mo’ for the whole night, and you never be same, I swear. So what is it? What’s your pleasure, mister man? Gold? Red? Or black?”
Josiah stood on the stoop, the door open, his view unobstructed into the house, ignoring the Negro’s offer the best he could.
The interior of the Dumont house was as perfect as he’d expected it to be: Long curtains, nearly the color of the Negro’s coat, hid a doorway that he assumed led upstairs to the pleasure rooms. Several plush, high-backed sofas lined the wall, all covered in fancy upholstery, and the rugs on the floor looked too pretty to walk on. A couple of girls sat together on one of the sofas, a golden-haired one and a red-haired one, neither of them looking like they could be Scrap’s sister, or what Josiah expected Myra Lynn would look like. The black one was nowhere to be seen. He assumed she was hidden, or didn’t really exist.
“I need to speak to Blanche Dumont,” Josiah said, staring down at the Negro.
The smile faded quickly from the little man’s face, and his right hand automatically slipped down to the over-and-under, coming to rest on the grip. “She don’t take customers or visitors with no reasons or appointments, mister man.”
“I’m not a customer.”
“Then what is you then?”
“I’m a Ranger. My name’s Josiah Wolfe, and I’m looking for a girl that came in from the Easy Nickel.”
The Negro’s eyes grew wide, the whites of them shining like beacons in the graying twilight. He started to slam the door shut, but Josiah had anticipated that. He slid his boot in between the door and the wall, stopping the action.
“Tell Miss Dumont I’m an old friend of Suzanne del Toro’s, Fat Susie’s. I’m not here for trouble. I’m here to help her if she’ll have it.”
“She don’t need no help from a Ranger.”
Josiah cocked his head to the street. “Looks like she needs all the help she can get.”
The little Negro studied Josiah for a second, looking him up and down more than once, checking behind him to see if he was alone.
“I mean you, or her, no harm. Go on now, you go tell her a friend of Fat Susie’s is here to see her.”
“You be lyin’ to me, mister man, and I’ll shoot you through and through for causin’ me to bother the miss. Trouble be comin’ my way ’cause of it. And I got a bad place in my mind for peoples that bring troubles on me.”
“Tell her what I said. I’ll wait.”
The Negro shoved the door, trying to close it, pressuring Josiah’s boot, but he shook his head no. “I’ll wait right here,” Josiah said.
“Suit yourself then.” The Negro glared at Josiah then hurried away, disappearing behind the red velvet curtains. He walked like one leg was shorter than the other, teetering back and forth like each step took a great amount of effort to cover any ground at all.
Josiah stood there with the door cracked open far enough so he could still see the two girls. He had got their attention, but they looked a little fearful, concerned about his presence, not like they were anticipating a customer. Neither of the girls made eye contact with Josiah, and he was glad of that.
The piano played on in the back of the house. The air smelled like every hint of it had been sprayed with a flowery perfume, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was sweet and intoxicating, like honeysuckle on a breeze, inviting on a spring day—after a long and odorless winter.
Behind him, the street was silent, void of any traffic, a
nd there were no horses hitched out front other than Clipper.
In other words, Blanche Dumont didn’t look like she was making any money at the moment, and Josiah thought that was odd since Congress Avenue, and the café he’d left earlier, were bustling and filled with cowboys and businessmen.
The minutes ticked away. Josiah could hear voices, but couldn’t decide whether the tone was tension-filled or pleasure-filled—it was just a murmur, too low and too far away to be understood.
After a few more minutes, the Negro appeared from behind the curtains and returned to the door, which he opened fully, sweeping his arms to the floor in a great, if physically small, welcoming gesture. “Miss Dumont will see you now, mister man. But I needs your weapon.”
Josiah hesitated. The last time he’d given up his Peacemaker, he’d found himself in the midst of a jailbreak with no way to protect himself. He shook his head no. “I don’t think so. I don’t mean anyone any harm.”
“Rules is rules, mister man.”
Determined to see Blanche Dumont and hold on to his gun, Josiah stepped confidently inside the house, right past the Negro. It was a mistake, of course, not taking the little man seriously. He worked the door for a reason, and the little Negro was surely talented with the skills of crowd control and taking down men three times his size, or that job would’ve belonged to a boulder-sized man.
Josiah felt the first bit of pain explode in his side as the Negro punched him directly in the kidney.
The force of the punch took his breath away. But it was only a distraction.
The little man swept out his stubby leg, pushing Josiah in the opposite direction, sweeping him backward, knocking him completely off his feet. There was no time, no clarity, that allowed Josiah to reach for his gun—the pain was tremendous and the surprise of the sweep total.
In the blink of an eye, the negro was standing in front of Josiah with the derringer trained between his eyes. “Now, gives me the gun, mister man, and any other weapon you might be hidin’, or you’re not gonna see Miss Dumont. Do I make myself clear? Or would ya like to go another round wit me? I got somethin’ special I be savin’ just for you.”
Stunned, Josiah thought for a second about lunging forward, tackling the little man, and taking the derringer away from him. But something warned him off that idea. His attacker was probably aware of what he was thinking, had fooled men even more skilled than Josiah in the art of hand-to-hand combat. He had underestimated his opponent, and now he was not fully in control of the situation. It was just a matter of luck, timing, and lack of a serious threat from him that he wasn’t dead, or at least badly injured.
The curtains swept open and Blanche Dumont pushed through, her skin pure white and her pink eyes, void of any glasses, almost glowing red in the dim, flickering light from the lamps in the windows.
“That’ll be enough, Rufous. Mr. Wolfe is our guest and he is to be treated as such.”
The Negro, Rufous, nodded, and a look of disappointment crossed his face as he stepped away from Josiah, tucking the over-and-under back into his belt. “You heard the miss, stand up, mister man. She saved you a sweet ass kickin’ from a little man.” He laughed then. But only for a second. Blanche Dumont looked at Rufous scornfully, and he cowered away, stopping a few steps from the door.
Josiah groaned and sighed in relief. He stared up at Blanche Dumont. Never having been this close to her, he hadn’t realized how small and fragile she looked. Rufous was most likely protective of her for more reasons than Josiah knew.
He stood then, weakly, clutching his side. “That was a fine punch, Rufous.”
“It be Mr. Rufous to you, thank you.”
“Rufous!” Blanche Dumont said, continuing to admonish the little man. “That is impolite.”
“I beg your pardon, miss,” Rufous said, apologizing with another sweep of the hand, this one not welcoming at all.
“It’s all right.” Josiah drew in another breath, the pain in his side dissipating slowly. “I suppose I deserved what I got.”
“Rufous said you’re here to help, Mr. Wolfe.”
“I hope to.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Josiah was fully on his feet now, facing Blanche Dumont directly. “Probably not, ma’am,” he said, “probably not.”
CHAPTER 29
Blanche Dumont’s private study was simpler than Josiah had expected it to be. Three of the walls were lined with dark walnut bookshelves, loaded to the edge with books of every size, the spines muted in color—dark browns, dark reds, dark greens, all of the titles embossed with fancy gold lettering.
The lone bare wall housed a working fireplace, vacant of any fire at the moment, along with the door that Josiah had entered.
A portrait of Blanche Dumont hung over the mantel, her pure white hair piled up on top of her head, her skin as white and fragile as alabaster, and wearing a formal, full-length dress that was as red as blood. Her pink eyes were penetrating and angry. It was not a flattering portrait at all.
There was, however, a hint of beauty to Blanche Dumont’s face in real life; all she lacked was color, hue, a complexion that suggested something other than death. Her body was shapely, well proportioned, and under normal circumstances, if a man could imagine it, she would have been a stunning woman of above average beauty. Age showed itself on her face. Even in the portrait, sunlight was her enemy, burning spots into her skin, highlighting every wrinkle and worry line.
Josiah turned his attention away from the picture. Piano music still played softly in the distance, and the voices had quieted. Once Blanche Dumont closed the door to the study, they were enveloped in a silent tomb.
A desk sat in the middle of the room with one chair in front of it. Actually, the room looked like what Josiah had expected Woodrell Cranston’s office to look like.
“Have a seat,” Blanche said. Her voice was guarded, and she eyed him like an enemy. There was no doubt that she was armed, had a gun or knife within a second’s reach, most likely under one of the ruffles of her long skirt.
Josiah did as he was told, remaining silent, his eyes focused on the woman, trying to determine her intentions. He was in enemy territory, and he knew it.
Blanche walked past Josiah, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was just as light and understated as the other aromas in the house. More honeysuckle. Spring. Nectar. Opportunity. His nostrils flared, even though he barely realized it. Her dress swished as she passed, white satin rubbing on more unseen satin, the mystery of female garments a matter of quick and sudden speculation. Again, his mind’s wandering was much to Josiah’s surprise. The environment provoked something deep from inside him that he tried to ignore, to keep at bay.
Desire and need were recent redevelopments in his life, and even then with Pearl’s circumstances, they still had to be restrained, pushed away constantly. Some days, he felt like a schoolboy, unrepentant, needful, and uncaring about any consequences. He knew he would have to keep his wits about him.
Blanche sat down in front of Josiah. Other than her pink eyes, the only color apparent, since her white skin melded perfectly into her white dress, was an emerald necklace centered perfectly on her neck. A gold chain held it in place, and it was easy to see that the jewel sat atop a locket. The secret pendant was the only manner of jewelry that she adorned herself with. Her fingers were bare of rings.
The choice of a white floor-length dress struck Josiah as odd, since it almost made Blanche look nonexistent. But it really didn’t. Her eyes stood out like a pair of fires in a snowy field. She was fully aware of her deficiencies and capitalized on them in a way that drew even more attention to herself.
“Now, why is it you wanted to see me, Mr. Wolfe?” Blanche Dumont’s voice was equally as measured as everything else about her. There was a hint of an accent, European of
some kind—not Italian, not English or German, but a mix—that gave her an air of power, of aristocracy. It was then that Josiah remembered that he had heard that she had been born a duchess of some type or another but was shunned by her family, sent away, abandoned at a young age because of her appearance. She was lucky she hadn’t been killed, drowned as a baby or something worse. Whether or not there was any truth to the story was questionable. It may have all been nothing more than lore to add to the mystery that swirled around Blanche Dumont—created and populated by no one other than the woman herself.
“Josiah. You can call me Josiah.”
“Relax,” Blanche said, not losing the authoritarian edge to her voice, but allowing it to soften just a bit. “I know who you are. We don’t need to play games, Mr. Wolfe. I read the papers. And I was good friends with Suzanne del Toro.”
Josiah exhaled deeply, felt his face flush, then sat back in the chair staring straight into Blanche’s riveting pink eyes. “I was sorry for her death.”
“I’m sure you were. She failed, though, to see the threat Emilo, her brother, posed. You can trust no one in this business. Not even family. Especially not family.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Surely you understand the need to be suspicious.”
“I do.”
“Good. Then we are united in that thought. And you must consider that I am not trustful at all of your intentions to help. I presume there’s a self-serving reason why you think I must need your aid.”
“I didn’t realize you would until I came here.”
“And saw the street?”
The Coyote Tracker Page 19
