by Jake Logan
He pumped up and down in a fury and pulled on her buttocks so that he buried his cock to the hilt. She screamed as he held her tight and his milky seed exploded from his scrotum and shot through his cock like a powerful jet from a fire hose. He felt it splash against the walls of her womb, and for that single long moment, they were both transported to the highest human pinnacle, a place where there was only the air of the gods. Time fell away like a discarded cloak, and in that single instant there was a glorious eternity, a feeling of immense power, of supreme mastery of time and space that stretched into infinity.
“Oh, God, yes,” she breathed, and the voice was from another being, a woman floating in the high reaches of the rarified atmosphere far above the earth.
Slocum grunted as he spilled his seed and a supreme joy infused his body with a pleasure beyond measurement. It was that single moment when man was most godlike, beyond earthly emotions and desires. It was a moment never to be recaptured in memory, but forever indelible on the deepest part of the human soul.
He let her hips fall from his grasp and float to the bed, just as he and Linda floated downward from that great height where their emotions had carried them, floating like a pair of down feathers, weightless and satiated beyond simple satisfaction.
He fell out of her, limp and wet. He rolled from her body and lay at her side, all of his energy drained, all of his fires banked until they were on the coals of the afterglow, that seeping pleasure that soothed them like the comforting hand of a caring mother on the forehead of an ailing child.
“John,” she said. “That was wonderful. You were wonderful.”
“So were you, Linda.”
“I feel you inside me, even though you have gone, John.”
“I think that’s what they call mating,” he said. “Part of you is still with me and part of me is still with you. Hard to describe.”
“You can’t describe it,” she said. “Neither can I. Nor can anyone.”
“Maybe that’s why we keep coming back for more,” he said. “It’s there, that great feeling, and then it’s gone.”
“Yes, it’s gone, the part that is pitch perfect, that one moment when we both climax together. And then it’s gone, just as the night goes with the coming of day.”
“You put it real nice,” he said.
“But still indescribable.”
“Yes. You can’t describe it. At least, I can’t.”
They lay there in a peaceful lassitude for several minutes, their hands on each other’s smooth and damp stomachs, their perspiration drying in the coolness of the evening breeze through the open window.
“I’m going to light a cheroot,” he said. “Want one?”
“I’ll draw a puff or two on yours, if you let me.”
“Sure,” he said, and slid from the bed. He got a cigar, bit off the end and spat it out, struck a match, and carried an ashtray to the bedside table.
She raised her head and he passed the cheroot to her. She took a small puff, but did not inhale.
“Good,” she said.
“You liar,” he said.
They both laughed and Slocum leaned back against the pillow and smoked alone as Linda lay beside him, content as any kitten with a belly full of warm milk.
“Tell me about your uncle,” he said later. “Did you know he was coming to Socorro?”
“No, I didn’t know he was coming. But I’m not surprised, knowing Willie like I do. Maggots seem to be attracted to filth, and my uncle is a worm of the first rank.”
“But he’s your father’s brother.”
“My father hated his brother. Hated him for what he stood for, for what he did.”
“Is your father still alive?”
“No, he died two years ago. He had a cancer. My mother died the year before. Daddy missed her. He didn’t die peaceful. He was in great pain and yet he never complained. He was a man. A man’s man. Unlike my Uncle Hiram. A man like you, John.”
“I’d like to have known him,” he said.
“You would have liked him. He would have liked you, I think.”
“Well, we’ll never know.”
“Maybe. Maybe we can know some things without knowing.”
“You mean . . .”
“I mean that some things we have to take on faith, John.” She reached over and squeezed his limp penis. “And some things,” she said, “we can see and touch and feel.”
“If you keep touching me like that, Linda, you’ll never get a wink of sleep. Nor will I.”
“Sleep is for mortals,” she said. “You and I are gods.”
They made love again, with the lamp blown out and moonlight shining in the window and filling the room with a soft silvery light, granting the room a special glow that came from far away, from the distant realm of the gods.
15
As soon as Slocum had left the saloon with Linda and Swain, Willie Scroggs had flown into a rage. The big Swede was dead, cut down by a stranger’s bullets. Thorson’s lifeless face was sallow, drained of blood, and there was a black hole in his forehead that was turning purple at the edges.
Wu Chen stood next to Hiram Littlepage. He held a white handkerchief to his nose. Thorson’s sphincter muscle had relaxed and he had voided himself when he died so suddenly.
Scroggs cursed under his breath. The two bartenders leaned over the bar top to stare at Thorson’s body. Ruben Loomis had returned to the bar once he saw Slocum saunter away, and now the hired gunman stood a few feet away, a blank expression on his face. Scroggs looked over at him.
“Did you get a good look at that man who shot the Swede?” Scroggs asked.
Loomis nodded.
“I want you to get that bastard,” Scroggs said. “Track him down. Shoot him. Back or front, it don’t make no difference.”
“Yes, sir,” Loomis said, and turned to leave the saloon.
Miranda and her daughter, Maria Luisa, were like two hawks. They watched and listened. They stood somewhat apart from the other woman who worked at the saloon.
“That man,” Maria Luisa whispered to her mother in Spanish, “he was with Jethro’s brother.”
“I know,” Miranda said.
“Do you know his name?”
“No, but he is very strong. Very fast with the pistol.”
“Yes, I saw it all. I saw how fast he was and how he shot the Swedish man. I am worried about Jethro.”
“Do not worry. The brother—he is called Obadiah, no?—he is very strong, too. I saw him speak to Scroggs and I think he gave Scroggs a warning.”
“Still, I worry. Scroggs wishes to kill the tall stranger, the man who wears the black clothes. That is why he sends Loomis to kill him.”
“Perhaps the stranger will kill Loomis, or perhaps Obadiah will shoot him.”
“I do not like that Loomis man.”
“Nor do I,” Miranda said.
Scroggs looked over at the two bartenders, who still gawked at Thorson.
“Eddie, get some boys to clean up this mess,” he said. “Take the Swede out back and send somebody over to Parmenter’s. Tell him to bring his wagon.”
“Parmenter is the undertaker, I presume,” Littlepage said.
“Yeah, old Josh Parmenter cuts ’em and guts ’em, plants’em at Boot Hill in a pine box six feet under. A damned bandit, that’s what he is. But he’s all we’ve got here in Socorro.”
“When you get finished giving orders, I’ll take a look at that basement you’ve been telling me about,” Littlepage said.
Scroggs held up a hand, looked over at Cal, who was back at his job, pulling beer for the patrons sitting at the bar once again.
“Cal, can you find somebody to fetch Gustav over here and maybe find out where Shadow is?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cal said.
“Do it,” Scroggs snapped. “And somebody better tell Paddy Degnan to get his ass over here.”
“I’ll send Freddie after the sheriff,” Cal said. “Where is he? Upstairs?”
; “Yep. Freddie knows where Degnan hangs his hat.”
“I’m right on it, boss,” Cal said.
He spoke to men at the bar and two of them left their places and went to pick up Thorson’s body.
“Let’s you and I take a look at my basement, Hiram,” Scroggs said with one last look of disgust at the body of Thorson.
The two men walked to the back and down a hall. Small globe oil lamps attached to the wall every four feet provided illumination. They entered a small room off to the side where, besides some shelves, on one of which sat several oil lanterns and lamps, there was only a large trapdoor with a braided rope handle.
Light from the hall sprayed through the open doorway. Scroggs picked up a box of matches off the shelf and lifted the glass chimney of a lamp. He struck the match and lit the wick, turned it up.
“Follow me,” he said to Littlepage.
Scroggs lifted the trapdoor and let it fall against a wooden stanchion. There was a gaping square hole in the floor and steps leading down into the basement. There was a round wooden rail on one wall of the stairs, and Scroggs guided himself downward into the black maw of the basement, his and Littlepage’s shadows large against the earthen wall, shadows that moved like black leviathans flowing down into an inky sea.
Lanterns and lamps hung from the wooden beams within easy reach. The lamp in Scroggs’s hand threw the whitewashed walls into relief. The room was large and possessed several straight chairs, a couple of stools, and two long rustic tables. Scroggs set the lamp on one of the tables. Littlepage walked around the room, a slight smile on his face, as if he was imagining tapestries on the walls, plush rugs on the floor and sofas, pillows and soft pads on the dirt floor.
“Well, what do you think, Hiram?” Scroggs asked when Littlepage returned to the table.
“This will do fine. I want Wu Chen to see it. He knows how to decorate such a place.”
“Decorate?”
“Cushions and exotic rugs on the walls and floor, plush pillows, places to put the hookahs, a cabinet to store bottles of water, and of course, a safe to store the opium.”
“And you think folks will come down to this dungeon?”
“Once they taste the evil flower, they will kill to come to this place,” Littlejohn said.
“And we’ll make a lot of money, you say.”
“A lot of money.”
“I’ll go up and get Wu Chen. I want to hear what he has to say. “
“It does not concern you, Wilbur. I will pay for all that we need. You provide the room. Wu Chen and I will furnish the room and the opium.”
Littlepage rubbed his hands together.
Scroggs climbed the stairs. He returned in a few minutes with Wu Chen, who descended the stairs timidly.
“Look around, Wu Chen,” Littlepage said, “and see what we need.”
“It is a large room,” Wu Chen said as he walked the perimeters of the room. “It is very dark. That is good. Very quiet and peaceful.”
“How soon can you bring the pillows and the hookahs?” Littlepage asked.
“My wagon is full,” Wu Chen said.
“And do you have enough opium?”
“Yes. Quite enough.”
“Then we’re set, Wilbur,” Littlepage said. “After you close tonight, you give me two strong men to help Wu Chen and we will transform this basement into a paradise for opium smokers.”
“The patrons don’t eat the opium?” Scroggs asked.
Littlepage shook his head.
“Smoking is faster. We can also turn the powder into a fluid and use hypodermic needles to inject the drug into the bloodstream of those who are in the iron grip of the drug. Isn’t that so, Wu Chen?” Littlepage looked at Wu Chen, whose eyes glittered in the yellowish glow of the lamp.
“They do not escape the dragon’s claws,” Wu Chen said. “We will make much money.”
“How do we get people to try the opium?” Scroggs asked.
“Pick them one by one,” Littlejohn said. “Invite them down to this place of magic. Tell them you are going to let them smoke a kind of cigar or cigarette that will take away all their pains and make them a little bit drunk.”
“And you think they will smoke the opium? The men who come to my saloon are mostly ignorant Mexes. They are dumb as a sack full of doornails.”
“The Mexicans are the ones who will fall to the clutches of opium the quickest, Wilbur. Many of them have smoked marijuana. They have floated on the smoke from those little brown cigarettes. They will float higher with the opium. Isn’t that so, Wu Chen?”
“Oh, yes,” Wu Chen said. “The Mexicans love the opium. They love the dreams.”
“The Mexicans will rob for you, Wilbur. They will kill for you. Just to have money to buy opium. It is magic. And do not forget the ladies, the women in this town. Once they taste the petals of the poppy, they will demand it. They will beg their husbands and their lovers to bring them here so that they can float like eagles and dream of paradise.”
Scroggs smiled as he listened to Littlepage’s rhapsodic promises. He envisioned the room filled with paying customers who would never be able to resist the opium. Just like Jethro Swain, only more so.
He walked up to Littlepage and extended his hand. The two men shook hands. Wu Chen shook Scroggs’s hand as well.
“You will be very happy with the success of this venture,” Littlepage said.
“I agree,” Wu Chen said.
With that, the deal was sealed. The three men ascended the stairs. At the top, Scroggs blew out the lamp and placed it back on the shelf.
“Now,” Littlepage said, “all you have to do is kill that man who shot the Swedish man. No one must stand in your way.”
They entered the saloon. A couple of the women were scrubbing the blood from the floor, and Cal was sprinkling sawdust from a bucket onto the remainder of the bloodstains. Scroggs was glad to see that the men were drinking again. They had returned to their tables and some stood or sat at the bar. There was conversation and the ring of the cash register. More people had streamed into the saloon, as word of the killing had spread.
“Nothing draws a crowd like violence and death,” Scroggs said to Littlepage.
“That is why I like Socorro,” Littlepage said. “The men can bring their guns in here and there is always the chance one of those pistols will go off and draw blood and life.”
“Not many shootings in here,” Scroggs said. “But we do have some pretty good fights.”
“Perhaps you should schedule a public hanging in here every now and then,” Littlepage joked.
“Not a bad idea, Hiram,” Scroggs said. “Let’s drink to that, and the success of, what do you call that place where they smoke from those glass hookers?”
“Hookahs,” Littlepage corrected, “and most people call such places ‘opium dens.’ They are private lairs where mice are turned into lions.”
“An opium den,” Scroggs mouthed as he led Wu Chen and Littlepage to his customary table, holding his hand up with three fingers extended when he caught Cal’s eye.
Just as he and the other two men sat down, he saw the batwing doors swing open. Sheriff Degnan and Morgan Sombra strode in like a pair of gamecocks entering the ring to do battle.
Scroggs smiled and waited for Degnan and Sombra to come to his table.
He felt like a great lord, master of his domain, his castle, which would soon have a dungeon full of opium smoke and the heady aroma of money.
16
Paddy Degnan walked over to speak with Cal Meecham, Sombra at his heels.
“Where’s Olaf’s body?”
“Out in the back,” Cal answered.
“When Josh Parmenter comes in, have him pick up the Swede.”
“Where’s Eddie?” Cal asked.
“He’s with Parmenter.”
“How come?” Cal asked.
“He stayed to help with the corpse of Loomis,” the sheriff replied.
Sombra stood there, somber-faced, a slight tic pl
aying with the muscles of his jawbone. His eyes were as dull as cloudy marbles covered in dust, and he had a thumb tucked behind his gun belt as if he was ready to spring into action at any moment.
Degnan was all coiled up inside, like a spring. A Mexican shopkeeper had knocked on his door and told him that a man had been shot over on Palo Verde Street. He and Sombra had ridden over there and found Loomis. He had questioned all the bystanders while Sombra went to fetch the undertaker. Nobody saw the shooting. Nobody knew who had killed Loomis. But he had his suspicions, and so did Morgan Sombra.
“Eddie said Slocum shot the Swede. That so?”
“I don’t know what the man’s name was. Tall, dressed in black. Very fast with a gun.” Cal swabbed the bar top with a grimy towel, stopped rubbing when he finished talking.
“That was Slocum,” Degnan said.
“You see Wilcox?” Cal asked.
“No. Why?”
“I sent him to fetch Parmenter.”
“Well, he’s probably running around in the dark out there like a lost dog. He ain’t got the brains of a toy whistle, that one.”
“Yeah,” Cal said and slapped the towel on another part of the bar.
Degnan and Sombra walked to the back table where Scroggs and Littlepage sat.
“You shouldn’t have sent Loomis after Slocum,” he said as he sat down. Sombra sat next to him, as silent as stone.
“I sent him after the man who killed Olaf,” Scroggs said.
“Well, you got Loomis killed,” Degnan said.
“What?” Scroggs reared back in his seat.
“You heard me. Loomis is dead. Parmenter’s got him in the Black Maria. On his way here to pick up Thorson’s corpse.”
“Shit,” Scroggs said.
“Did you know Slocum’s a wanted man? Got a price on his head?”
“Yeah. Morg told me. I told Olaf to put Slocum’s lamp out and he walked into a bullet. Shit, I never saw nobody draw and shoot that fast.”
“Well, if you saw that, you should have just sat tight and not sent Loomis to his death.”
“I figured Loomis was man enough and smart enough not to face that jasper down.”
“Well, he wasn’t,” Degnan said. “People heard a lot of shots, but nobody saw a damned thing.”
