by Lou Cameron
He went on to his hotel to find Irene still running the place all by herself. As he leaned on the counter to jaw with the pretty part Comanche he didn’t get into Osage ice cream or Cherokee gunslingers. He said, “Seeing you know more than me about telephones, I’ve been wondering if there was a way for a gent to make a telephone call, late at night, over by the railroad depot.”
She told him there was no doubt a pay phone or two in and about the depot. He nodded and said, “I figured there might be. Is there any way to find out if someone made a late night call, and to whom, just around the time a certain train pulled in?”
She frowned thoughtfully and said, “Not from me. Nobody could have called anyone here at the hotel after eight, because that’s when I shut the switchboard down for the night.”
He questioned her in more detail to learn that her switchboard and all the other lines in Tulsa ran directly to Tulsa Central, meaning a second story office manned or, rather, womanned by a half dozen gals employed by the Bell Telephone Company. Anyone wanting to call anyone else in town had to give the wanted number to an operator at Central who in turn plugged it in on a switchboard much like Irene’s, only bigger.
He asked if the gals at Central kept records of the calls they put through. She shook her head and said, “Heavens, why would they bother to do that? Unless it’s a long distance call, like you made all the way to San Francisco, they just make the connection, listen in long enough to see they got the party you wanted, and go on to the next call. It’s not like it is here, over to Central. Those girls are plugging in and plugging out like Navajo women weaving blankets. What numbers are we talking about, anyway?”
He sighed and said, “That’s what I was in hopes of finding out. I can’t even say for sure that Jack Holt ever made such a call. But if he did that late at night, wouldn’t it be at least possible some night shift operator might remember? He had a mighty rough way of talking and they can’t handle that many pay phone calls close to midnight, right?”
She looked dubious as she said, “It wouldn’t hurt to ask, I reckon. I know just one or two of the girls at Central and we could drop by to ask, later tonight.”
He said, “Swell. What time did you have in mind?” to which she replied, coyly, “Well, the ones you’d want to talk to don’t come on until around midnight. That gives us plenty of time to take in that French picture show I told you about, after I get off this evening.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“That was lovely. Could we do it again?” asked the pretty little breed as Stringer rolled off her, gasping for breath and fumbling for his shirt in the darkness of her bedroom on the unfashionable side of the Arkansas. He assured her he’d be proud to try as soon as he had a smoke and got his second wind. The Pathe picture show from France had been more informative than the sleepy-eyed operators Irene knew at Tulsa Central. It had been Irene’s notion to cook a late supper for him after he’d had no luck at discovering the telephone number of anybody Jack Holt might have been working for. What had happened after that had been sort of mutual, even if she had sobbed, just before he’d entered her for the first time, that she wasn’t that sort of gal, and what did he mean by hauling her pantaloons off like that just after she’d hauled him into her bedroom, durn it?
Some women were like that, he knew, as he rolled a smoke while Irene got rid of the shimmy shirt she’d been screwing in, saying he’d gotten it all wrinkled, shoving it up above her breasts like that. As he struck a light he saw she looked as swell as she felt in the dark, the match light glowing on her shapely tawny torso as she regarded him with her big sloe eyes and murmured, “Oh, Lordy, did I really have all that inside me, just now?”
He shook out the match and enjoyed a drag of Bull Durham as she fumbled for the object of her adoration in the dark and gave it a playful tweak, saying, “My, it’s not really half as big as it was before. Can you boys make them things get soft and hard at will?”
He said, “Alas, no. But you’re doing just fine, only be careful with those fingernails, honey.”
She got a better, albeit softer grasp of the situation and shyly asked him, even as she was fondling him with practiced skill, if he minded her being just an inexperienced country girl, adding, “I mean, you being used to going out with famous San Francisco opera stars and such.”
He chuckled and said, “I hate to disillusion you, Irene. But hardly any famous ladies I get to interview ever seem to want to show me their new bed spreads. So I like country gals just fine.”
She began to jerk him faster as she felt it rising to the occasion. But her voice was pouty as she said, “I’ll bet. What about that famous blond newspaper gal at the hotel, last night? Are you saying there was nothing like this going on between you, or that you don’t miss her fair white body right this minute?”
He laughed and told her, truthfully enough, “Miss Hackman was the farthest thing from my mind until you brought it up. Bring it up a little more and I’ll get rid of this smoke and prove it to you.”
So she did and he did and after they’d somehow wound up climaxing together on the rug, with her on top, she kissed him in a smug possessive way and announced, “I told Mister Kelly he was full of it. No mortal man could have just treated me so fine if he’d been with another gal within a week! Let’s get back up on the bed and do it some more. How come you didn’t want to mess with that blonde white gal, Lover Man? Is that why she checked out in such a huff?”
He helped her back into bed as he said, “I didn’t know she left in a huff. I figured she had all the local color she needed and was out to scoop me.”
As they snuggled down together atop the rumpled bed covers Irene asked, “What does that mean? How does a woman scoop a man? It sounds sort of dirty. Is it fun?”
He laughed and explained the meaning of the term. Irene said, “Oh, I thought there was something I’d missed. Do you think them French gals in that picture show we saw tonight do wild and dirty French things?”
He laughed and said, “Not in front of the camera, though I have seen French post cards that were a mite more shocking than any can-can dance.”
She said, “Me, too. Do you men like it when gals let you put it betwixt their lips like that?” So he replied, cautiously, “I don’t imagine it would hurt too much. You sure are a curious little thing, Irene.”
She said, “Well, I got a right to be curious, never having been nowhere or done nothing thrilling. You’ve already shamed me just awful. So as long as I’m mint in your eyes I may as well find out what all the fuss is about. I don’t see what them French gals get out of being so wicked, but I mean to try everything at least once afore I die.”
He didn’t argue. She’d obviously played the French horn before as well, he could tell, as he just lay back and enjoyed it. For he’d felt sure, until just now, he was about finished for the night. The hot-natured little breed took a lot out of a man just doing things the old-fashioned way. But as her pursed lips began to inspire him to new heights, Stringer had to allow there was a lot to be said for French ways. It had been a French philosopher, bless him, who’d said never to make love in the morning because you never knew who you might meet at lunch. Had not old Bubbles slipped out of bed that morning without waking him, he’d no doubt have been unable to get it up again right now, with or without a French lesson. But since she had, he could, and Irene was mighty pleased when he said, “Enough of this anti-pasto, Sweet Lips. Let’s get back to the main course.”
As they did she moaned in pleasure and purred, “I see why French gals do that, now. Does this mean you’ll be taking me back to Frisco with you?” To which he could only reply, with a groan, “Jesus, can’t we wait for sunrise before we talk about cold gray dawns?”
The next day didn’t dawn all that cold and gray. They made love before and after breakfast in bed. Then they enjoyed a nice hot bath together in tepid water before she insisted she just had to get dressed and go to work. As she sat nude on the bed to roll her stockings she did shoot him a wistful l
ittle smile and make a remark to the effect that if she wasn’t ever going to see the Golden Gate she’d best hang on to her job. She said nothing else to make him feel guilty, putting her a cut above most she-males at such times.
He escorted her most of the way back to the Osage Inn, but saw her point when she remarked it might be best if she showed up alone, lest Mister Kelly surprise the world by being on duty behind the desk on time.
Stringer was thus thrown to his own devices, neither hungry nor hard-up just as downtown Tulsa was opening up for business. He started to turn in at the telegraph office, realized he had nothing to write his paper that was worth a nickel a word, and leaned against an awning post to roll a smoke as he contemplated what he might do next.
He’d just lit the smoke when a familiar blue-uniformed figure joined him there to murmur, “Morning. Nice day so far, but we sure could use some rain.”
It was Officer Jake Wetumpka of the Creek Police. He looked rather pleased with himself this morning. Stringer asked, “Did you get Tiger Twain off all right, Jake?” and the young Creek laughed and replied, “Didn’t we ever. I wired ahead to Fort Smith to make sure he didn’t get off still inside the territory. The Arkansas Law took him off the train and out of our hair at the Missouri Pacific Depot when the eastbound stopped there. Seems he skipped bail in Little Rock about this time last year.”
Stringer whistled and said, “Then he was a crook as well as a piss-poor oil man!” to hear Wetumpka reply, “He was working here under false colors. The real Tiger Twain got killed in the Ohio oil fields a year or so back. The one you met here admits, under pressure, that his real name’s Brown. I sort of doubt that, too. But, as Brown, he owes a debt to Arkansas Society for selling bogus oil stock. Knowing just enough about the business to sell himself as an honest working man, he tells suckers he draws part of his pay in oil stock and allows he’d rather have a mite more drinking money. So the suckers think they’re skinning him, all the while he’s skinning them with worthless paper.”
Stringer whistled and said, “He never struck me as a slicker. But, then, I reckon he wasn’t supposed to. How do you suppose he slickered Sinclair Oil into hiring him as a straw boss if he was just a fake driller?”
The young Creek lawman shrugged and said, “The real Tiger Twain enjoyed a rep for knowing what he was doing. Playing boss is easier than doing the real work. Can we get outten this sun if you want to jaw, Stringer? The Sunflower, across the way, serves pretty good draft as well as shade.”
Stringer didn’t argue. But as they crossed the street together, he couldn’t help asking if they’d suspended the rules against serving firewater to savages, now that Oklahoma was a territory instead of a glorified reservation.
Wetumpka chuckled and said, “Not hardly. That fool law is federal. But who’s going to arrest me for drinking? You?”
Stringer assured the Indian he’d always thought it a fool law as well. So they went on into the Sunflower, laid out much like the more notorious Pronghorn albeit empty at this hour, and the bar maid greeted them with, “Two draft lagers coming up,” as if she’d met Jake Wetumpka somewhere before.
As the two men clinked beer schooners the plump dishwater-blonde stayed with them, resting her considerable weight on the bar with her dimpled elbows. There was nothing polite either man could do about it and Stringer didn’t know any secrets worth a murder in any case. So he mused, half to himself, “Twain, Brown, or whoever must have had a reason for working for Sinclair, no matter who they thought he was. He was risking exposure long before he gave himself away as an incompetent, you know.”
The Indian shrugged and said, “It still made a good cover for a man on the run with the habit of letting suckers diddle him out of bogus oil stock. I don’t know a thing about setting up an oil well. But, if I had to, and they’d put me in charge, I reckon I could manage. I’d just tell my crew to get to work and stand over ’em sort of officious.”
Stringer inhaled some suds and decided, “I rode for a trail boss like that, one time. We’d have never noticed if the bossy cuss hadn’t fallen off his pony the third or fourth day. Where Tiger slipped up was showing off with nitro he didn’t really know how to use. Even the company lawyer knew enough about the business to suggest they change the drill bit when they got down to stubborn rock.”
Wetumpka nodded knowingly and said, “A real driller wouldn’t have got so frusterpated. Everyone knows you can drill most any place in these parts with a better than fifty-fifty chance of striking rock-oil and they allow you a few dry holes afore they fire you. We’ll likely hear from the suckers he sold fake Sinclair Oil stock to in a month or so. Folk don’t know they bought worthless paper until they notice they don’t seem to be getting any dividends in the mail.”
Stringer grimaced and said, “I can’t hang around that long. I would have left by now if I hadn’t been offered a whiff of gunsmoke hinting at a more important story than this oil boom.”
He had another sip and added, “I’ve been running here and dashing there in hopes of scouting sign, but I suspect I’ve been going about it wrong. I hate paper cuts on my fingers, but since I doubt anyone’s going to just up and tell me what they’re out to hide, I’m going to have to look it up. Where would you start pawing through the files if you were me, Jake?”
The Indian shrugged and replied, “Depends on what I wanted to look up. Us Creek Police keep files on our own kind causing petty or serious trouble betwixt here and the Osage and Cherokee lines. U.S. Deputy Tilghman rides herd on white and intertribal trouble makers. So his records would read somewhat different.”
Stringer shook his head and said, “I doubt anyone has gone to so much trouble to hide anything the law, red or white, would already have on file. I suspect it’s a criminal record someone’s out to avoid. Is there any other way for a heap of money changing hands in these parts, aside from dealing in rock-oil, I mean?”
The barmaid said, “Sure. There’s moonshining and stealing. Do you recall the time the Starr gang robbed the Creek treasury, Jake?”
Wetumpka made a wry face and said, “I do. My daddy was on the force then, and he come home cussing just awful when he and the boys had to turn back at the Cherokee Line. But I suspicion old Stringer here, is talking serious money. There never was much serious money in these parts afore they sunk that first oil well a short spell back.” He turned to Stringer to add, “All them big oil barons are crooks. Our very own President says so. I don’t see how you aim to put old John D. in jail if Teddy Roosevelt can’t, howsomever.”
Stringer chuckled and said, “The oil trust wouldn’t send a hired gun after a newspaper man. They’d just buy his newspaper if they wanted to shut him up. I have the story on the men big and small producing the black goo. The petty tinhorns who infest any boom are stale news and likely know it. This confusing nonsense about you Indians doing business with the oil trust by such complicated rules is new to me, as well as to most lawyers and judges, no doubt. A slicker slick enough to be taking advantage of some loopholes provided by the can of worms might not want the rest of the world to know what he or she is up to, so…’’
“Hold on.” The bar maid protested, “Who says one of us ladies is crooking Indians? Have I ever overcharged you, Jake, even when you was drunk?”
Wetumpka told her she was a good old gal and that he’d propose to her if ever he had an oil lease deal of his own to worry about. She giggled and coyly asked how much he made a year as member of the tribal force. Before Jake could get in more trouble, Stringer said, “I’ve found most master criminals to be male, no offense, Ma’am. But this formality of recruiting white kin in a hurry is one of the unusual angles I was talking about. I doubt my readers would be too interested in some trash gal bilking her Indian husband out of some oil money unless it was serious money. But I may as well round that base as long as I seem to be running in dumb circles to begin with.”
He turned back to Wetumpka to ask, “Where would they keep records of such matrimonial matters, Jake?
The county courthouse?”
The Indian shrugged and said, “They might, if there was such a courthouse. They’ve been talking about building a regular county around Tulsa, if ever we get statehood. Meanwhile, it depends on who marries up with whom. The BIA don’t approve of red and white weddings, but can’t do much to stop ’em. To be binding, at least on the Indian’s side, his or her tribal council has to give approval. They generally do unless they know for a fact that the white’s no durned good at all, or if the Indian is too young or feebleminded. It’s hard to get a white minister to perform such ceremonies, as hung-up on brotherly love as most of ’em seem to be. But that’s all right, we got our own churches and a copy of the wedding permit is sent to the tribal council. If me and old Mabel, here, ever marry up, the records will wind up in the Creek capital of Muskogee, down river near Fort Gibson. If she spurns me for a rich Osage they’ll want to file it up north at Pawhuska. If she elopes with a Cherokee horse-thief, I think their records are kept at Tahlequah, near the Arkansas Line.”
Stringer swore under his breath and said, “Now you’re talking about me riding in circles. Wouldn’t the Indian agency here in Tulsa have such records, whether they approve or not?”
The Indian said, “I can’t say. I don’t work for ’em, and I’ve given up trying to understand ’em. They keep changing the rules back and forth every election. We do our best to ignore Indian agents unless they owe us money. Do you know the rascals want to cut off government allotments to Indian families who have oil wells on their land? That infernal Teddy Roosevelt even says he hopes to see the day when we all get to vote, drink, and pay taxes like everyone else!”
