Two for Trouble

by J. R. Roberts

  “He’s in Sacramento.”

  Avery stopped looking at his cards and looked at her.

  “What is he doin’ here?

  “Looking for Ted Singleton.”

  Now Avery put the cards down.

  “Why?”

  “They’re friends.”

  “Why would he be here lookin’ for him now?” Avery asked.

  “Because Ted sent for him.”

  Avery rubbed his hands over his face. At twenty-eight he was more than a few years younger than she was, but she deferred to him. He was well dressed, well scrubbed, well appointed. He had the cleanest hands of any man she had ever known . . . but that was just physically.

  His charcoal gray suit was wrinkled, as if he’d had it on since yesterday, or longer. His tie was gone, probably in his pocket. She knew he had a .32 Colt, much like hers, in a shoulder rig under his left arm.

  “Is he stayin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Until he finds or hears from Ted Singleton.”

  “Well then,” Avery said, “maybe he should.”

  “See him?” Amanda asked. “How do you plan on arranging that?”

  “No, not see him,” Avery said. “Maybe he should get a message from him.”

  “Delivered by whom?”

  He smiled at her and asked, “Who else?”

  She sipped her brandy.

  “Where is he?”

  “At his hotel.” She told him which one. “He said he’d wait there to hear from me.”

  “And will he?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did he follow you?”

  “No, Ben,” she said. “I know when I’m being followed.”

  “Don’t get testy,” he said. “I’m just askin’.”

  “No, he didn’t follow me.”

  “Well then, I guess we better get to it.”

  “Get to what?”

  “Composin’ a message for him that he’ll believe. How well does he know Ted?”

  “Knew him well, but hasn’t seen him for five or six years.”

  “A lot can happen to a man in five or six years,” Avery said.

  “Yes, it can.”

  “Well,” Avery said, “you know Ted better than anyone. Come up with somethin’.”

  “What about the girl?” Amanda asked. “She went to see the Gunsmith, too.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “Stuck a gun in his face.”

  “That shouldn’t have fazed a man like him.”

  “It didn’t,” she assured him.

  “How much does he know?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Not a blessed thing, or so he claims.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “Let’s just say he was in no position to lie to me.”

  EIGHT

  Clint decided to make it easy for anyone who wanted to find him—Amanda, the telegraph clerk or even Ted Singleton. He got himself a chair and set himself down out in front of the hotel.

  Maybe even the girl, Julie, would want to come back and talk to him. She interested him even more than Amanda did. He still couldn’t imagine that Singleton would work with such a young, obviously inexperienced girl. There must have been some other reason she thought they were partners, and that he worked for the government.

  What was she doing at that moment? he wondered. Wandering the streets, looking for Singleton? Or was she looking for the elusive, mysterious “it”?

  Clint wondered what “it” was, but that didn’t really matter when it came right down to, uh, well, it. What he was more interested in was Ted Singleton himself.

  Where was Ted, what had happened to him not only in the last few days, but the past few years, what kind of man was he now? What was his relationship with the two women, Julie and Amanda?

  Clint tried to recall Ted’s general attitude toward women. He had never gotten married, never talked much about women. Mostly, when they drank together, he would talk about the law and what it meant to him. Now that he thought about it, Singleton never talked much about women because it was the law that he loved. The law that had been his mistress for many years.

  How, Clint wondered, did he feel about his mistress now?

  The telegraph operator put down his pencil and read the message again, then picked up the pencil and hurriedly copied it word for word onto another slip of paper. He folded that paper and put it in one pocket, then picked up the telegram and left the office, heading for the Marsh House Hotel.

  Clint saw the telegraph operator coming down the street toward him and decided to remain in his chair until the man reached him.

  “Got that reply you was waitin’ for,” the man said, holding it out.

  Clint noticed that the man’s hand was shaking. It might have been normal for him, except that Clint had not noticed it the first time they’d talked. He did not immediately take the telegram.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “Uh, no, sir.”

  “Why is your hand shaking?”

  “Um, it does that, sometimes.”

  “You know,” Clint said, sitting back in his chair, bringing the front legs up off the walk, leaving the man to continue holding the telegram out, “I have always wondered about telegraph operators.”

  “Wondered what . . . sir?”

  “Well, all the messages you write down all day long,” Clint said, “with nobody around to watch you? What’s to stop you from making some copies?”

  “Copies?”

  “You know,” Clint said, “taking your little pencil and writing another copy.”

  “Um.” The man scrunched up his face, still, for some reason, holding his hand out. “Why would I do that, sir?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Well, your name was on your telegram.”

  “But do you know who I am?”

  “Well . . . yes, sir.”

  Clint decided to stop beating around the bush. He brought the front legs of his chair down hard.

  “What’s your name?”

  “P-Philip, sir.”

  Philip looked to be in his thirties, a dapper little man with a fussy mustache and garters on his sleeves.

  “Philip, you’re just too damn nervous for my taste,” Clint said. “I think you copied that telegram you’re holding onto another piece of paper, and I think you have it in your pocket. Give it to me.”

  For a moment Philip looked as if he was going to cry.

  “Sir—Mr. Adams—I didn’t—”

  “Hand it over.” Clint snatched away the telegram the operator had been holding out for minutes now. The man’s arm must’ve felt like it was going to fall off. Instead of pulling it back quickly, he drew it back slowly.

  “Come on, Philip,” Clint said. “Don’t make me have to search you.”

  Slowly, the clerk reached into his pocket and brought out the folded piece of paper. He held it out to Clint, who took this one right away.

  “So you sell information when you think it might be worth something to you?”

  “Yessir,” Philip said. “If you won’t tell my boss, though—I mean, I’d get fired—”

  “And then you’d have no job, and no information to sell.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t see any reason that your boss has to know . . .”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.”

  “. . . as long as you tell me one thing.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Philip asked, suspiciously.

  “Who were you going to sell this information to?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, sir, please—”

  “Somebody you’re afraid of?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “More afraid of than you are of me?”

  “W-well—”

  Clint leaned forward so he was almost nose to nose with the smaller man.

  “I think you should be more afraid of me,
Philip,” he said, slowly. “Don’t you? At least, at this moment.”

  “Um, y-yessir.”

  “Then give me a name,” Clint said, “and tell me where to find the person. Then you can go and keep your job, and keep your profitable little sideline going.”

  Reluctantly, Philip gave him a name.

  NINE

  Clint was glad for the telegraph operator’s nerves. He was now armed with the name of a man who might have paid for the information that the Gunsmith was in town. Also for the fact that the Gunsmith had sent a telegram to Washington, D.C. The telegram in reply to which Jim West told him that he knew of no Secret Service people in Sacramento at that time.

  Victor Barrett was what big cities had started to call a “crime boss.” He was in charge of everything from prostitution to drugs to “loan-sharking”—another new term—in most of Sacramento, according to Philip, the telegraph operator. And he paid well for information he thought was worth paying for. To that end, he papered the whole city with bribe money so that information flowed to him from every corner.

  Now Victor Barrett was going to get more than just information about Clint Adams. He was going to get Clint Adams in person.

  Clint was glad for the clerk’s nerves, because without them he never would have known about Barrett, who was the kind of man who might be able to tell him what this elusive “it” was that everyone in Sacramento was chasing.

  Well, maybe not everyone . . .

  Victor Barrett liked the docks. He’d grown up there, working them beside his father until the old man had keeled over dead while they were loading a freighter—or was it unloading? He didn’t remember, he just knew that his father died on the docks, and since he’d hated the old codger, he loved the docks for freeing him.

  Once his father was dead, Victor began to move up. His father had always held him back, telling him how honest dock work was and how well it paid. Yeah, Victor thought, and it also broke your back and made you old before your time. That was not the life for him.

  Victor made connections in his teens, worked for powerful men until he got old enough to become powerful himself. The men he’d stepped on—or killed—on his way up were gone. Victor Barrett was now the powerful man in Sacramento. Thugs, honest men, lawyers, judges, politicians, even lawmen came to him for favors, and waited anxiously to learn whether or not he was going to grant them.

  He chose to live on the docks, in an apartment above a bar he owned. The bar was the first thing he had bought when he’d earned enough money to start owning things—buildings, and people.

  Victor Barrett was thirty-two and, to his mind, the most powerful, most feared man in Sacramento. Everybody kowtowed to him. The Chinks, the Micks, the Wops, the Niggers, the Whites . . . everybody.

  Of course, Barrett had no way of knowing—or no capacity for believing—that the bulk of the population of Sacramento had never heard of him. That was something he’d never want to be told, that people, who lived in their homes, went to and from work every day and led quiet, productive, private lives, had never heard of him. But to the men and women who populated his little crime world, he was king.

  At this moment the king was sitting on his throne—a chair at a back table in the Docksider Tavern. Barrett preferred to word “tavern” to “saloon.” He’d heard it from sailors for years, and when he bought the place, he decided that was what he was going to call it—a tavern.

  When the front door to his tavern opened, and the tall, well-built man wearing a sidearm came in, he noticed him right away. Most men who entered his place didn’t wear guns in plain sight. So this man was unusual. He was obviously a stranger, who didn’t know where he was.

  Victor decided to watch.

  Clint walked into the Docksider and stopped just inside the door. It was about a quarter full; all the men looked like dockworkers, and there were no guns in sight. That didn’t mean there were none in the room, though.

  He walked to the bar, aware that he was being watched. Some of the men were following him with their eyes idly, mostly for something to do. There was one man, though, who was watching him for different reasons. He was fairly certain this was Victor Barrett.

  “Help ya?” the barkeep asked.

  “Beer.”

  The bartender drew one and sloppily placed it on the bar in front of Clint, sloshing some of it over onto the bar’s surface.

  “Anything else?”

  Clint stared down at the dirty mug of beer—or mug of dirty beer, he couldn’t be sure.

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “Victor Barrett.”

  The bartender inclined his head toward the back of the room, confirming what Clint had thought, that the man in the back was Barrett.

  “Do I need an appointment?”

  The bartender looked over at Barrett, and the two actually seemed to be able to communicate without speaking.

  “You got an appointment,” the bartender said. “Now.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint turned to walk back.

  “Don’t ferget yer beer.”

  “Oh,” Clint said, “yeah, thanks.”

  He hesitated, but picked up the mug and carried it to the back with him.

  TEN

  “Have a seat.”

  Clint sat opposite Victor Barrett, who didn’t feel the need to introduce himself.

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  Barrett’s eyebrows went up.

  “I know the name.” He looked over at the bartender and waved. “Let me get you a good mug of beer.”

  By “good” Clint figured the man meant clean. The bartender appeared very quickly with a clear mug of beer, nothing floating in it or coating the sides of the mug.

  “Such a special guest requires a clean glass,” Barrett said.

  “Thanks.”

  Clint was surprised by Barrett’s youth. He didn’t know the man’s reputation; he only knew what the telegraph clerk had told him, which wasn’t much. He also knew the fact that the clerk had been very frightened of the man.

  “What brings the famous Gunsmith not only to Sacramento, but to my place?’ Barrett asked.

  “It’s come to my attention that you’re a man who knows what’s going on in this town.”

  “I have that reputation.”

  “I was wondering if you’d consider helping me out.”

  Barrett sat back, hooked his thumbs into his maroon vest.

  “Why would I want to do that, Mr. Adams?”

  “I actually have no idea, Mr. Barrett,” Clint said, “but I thought there was no harm in asking.”

  Barrett stared at Clint and smiled.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?” he asked. “But then, you’re a legend of the West, right? I guess you didn’t achieve your reputation without a certain amount of guts.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Clint said. “You help me out and I’ll owe you a favor.”

  “You’re not gonna offer me any money for this service?”

  “In your position,” Clint said, “I wouldn’t think you’d need my money. I mean, I can’t offer you the kind of bribe you’re used to.”

  “Actually,” Barrett said, “I pay out more bribes than I bring in.”

  “Really?” Clint asked. “That doesn’t seem like good business to me.”

  Barrett frowned and said, “No, me neither.”

  “So will you help me?”

  Barrett still seemed lost in thought for a moment, then shook his head and focused on Clint.

  “I tell you what,” he said. “Since I’ve never had a legend in my place before, I’m gonna help you out—if I can.”

  “Well, I appreciate that.”

  “Now, what seems to be the problem.”

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Clint said. “His name is Ted Singleton.”

  “And what makes you think I know who he is, or where he is?”

  “Well, people with guns—women, in fact—keep sticking their guns in my face and asking me where
he is.”

  “I can think of something I’d rather have women stick in my face other than guns,” Barrett said.

  “So can I. But they’re also asking me a funny question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “No,” Clint said, “that’s the question they keep asking me. ‘Where is it?’ ”

  “And do you know what ‘it’ is?” Barrett asked.

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Then I guess you also don’t know where ‘it’ is?”

  Clint shook his head.

  “And you think I do?”

  “I think,” Clint said, “from what little I’ve been told about you, if there’s an ‘it’ in Sacramento that’s worth something, you’d know what it is.”

  “I’m flattered,” Barrett said. “Who’s been talkin’ about me?”

  “One of your informants,” Clint said. “I don’t want to say who. He’s kind of afraid of you. Thinks he’ll end up in the water if you find out he was talking to me.”

  “He’s probably right,” Barrett said. “What can you tell me about your friend Singleton?”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “Would I be askin’ you who he is if I did?”

  Clint took the time to tell Barrett about the Ted Singleton he knew.

  “Sounds like he was a pretty straight arrow,” Barrett said.

  “ ‘Was’ is the right word,” Clint said. “I don’t know if he’s changed since then.”

  Barrett rubbed the bridge of his nose with his right forefinger. Some people in Sacramento had come to recognize the gesture. Clint, never having met Barrett before, could not.

  “I’ll see what I can find out, Mr. Adams,” Barrett finally said. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Marsh House.”

  “Nice hotel.”

  “It’s okay. Like I said, too many women with guns are finding their way into my room.”

  “And who are these women?”

  Clint hesitated, then replied, “I don’t think I want to tell you that, just yet.”

  “As you wish,” Barrett said. “All right, sit tight at your hotel and I’ll be in touch.”

  Funny, Amanda Tate had told him essentially the same thing.

  Clint stood up. His beer remained on the table, untouched.