“Thanks for your time,” he said.
Barrett surprised him by leaning forward and extending his hand. The two men shook.
“Pleasure’s mine,” Barrett said. “Truth is I’ve read a lot about you. You’re sort of an idol of mine.”
Clint didn’t know what to say to that. Finally he said, “I guess I’m flattered.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Barrett said, again.
As Clint left the tavern, the bartender came over and said, “He didn’t drink his beer.”
“Smart man,” Barrett said. “I wouldn’t drink the beer here, either, if I didn’t own the joint.”
The barkeep picked up the mug. He’d seen Barrett rub his nose, and he knew what it meant.
“You got a plan?”
“I got somethin’,” Barrett said. “I’m gonna need Jerry and Roman.”
“I’ll find them.”
Barrett nodded. The bartender went back to the bar. Barrett lit up one of his buck-a-piece cigars, leaned back and puffed on it. He didn’t have a plan yet, but he’d have one soon. First, he was going to have to find out what this elusive and in demand “it” was.
Couldn’t have an “it” like that lying around Sacramento without him knowing about . . . it.
ELEVEN
Clint went back to his hotel. He figured he’d done all he could for the moment. Going to Victor Barrett on the word of the telegraph operator had been a long shot. Maybe first thing the next morning he should go to the law, check Barrett out for himself. He wouldn’t have to tell them about Julie and Amanda and Singleton—not yet, anyway.
When he got back to the Marsh House, he checked at the desk for messages and was told there were none.
“Thanks,” he said, and started to walk off.
“There was somebody here lookin’ for you, though,” the young clerk said.
“Oh? Who?”
“Didn’t leave her name.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, emphasis on the word “sir.”
That probably meant it was Amanda—unless the clerk preferred young women like Julie.
“What’d she look like?”
“A woman, sir,” the clerk said. “A real woman.”
“Young?”
“Not so young,” the clerk said, “but that don’t matter, right?”
It was Amanda.
“Dark-haired?”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, “and, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, a very womanly figure on her.”
“No,” Clint said, “I don’t mind. She didn’t leave a message? You’re sure?”
“She seemed real put out that you weren’t here, sir,” he said. “No message.”
“Did she say she’d be back?”
“She said something I wouldn’t expect to come out of a lady’s mouth, sir,” the clerk answered, “but she didn’t say whether she’d be back or not.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Clint was about to go up to his room when he thought of one more question for the young clerk.
“One more thing,” he said.
“Sir?”
“She didn’t bribe you to let her into my room, did she?”
“Well, sir . . .” The man looked sheepish.
“She’s up there now?”
“Yes, sir—you won’t tell my boss, will you, sir? I’d get fired, for sure.”
Clint had never had so many jobs in the palm of his hand.
“No,” he said, “I’m not going to tell your boss.”
He headed up to the room.
Amanda Tate made herself comfortable in Clint’s suite. She’d never stayed in such a room before—not by herself, anyway. There was a time in her life when she’d been sent to rooms like this for the pleasure of the man who was renting it. She decided to enjoy the room until Clint Adams came back, maybe even pretend like it was hers.
She poured herself some brandy and walked around, touching everything—the expensive furnishings, the flocked wall coverings, the glass fixtures. She was pouring herself a second brandy from the crystal decanter when she heard the key in the lock. She thought about taking out her gun, but decided she wouldn’t need it. The Gunsmith had already proven he couldn’t resist her charms.
She seated herself in one of the expensive, overstuffed chairs, holding her brandy snifter in one hand, the other beneath her chin.
Posing.
Waiting.
TWELVE
As Clint entered, he saw Amanda sitting, waiting, with a glass of brandy. Thankfully, there was no gun pointing at him.
“Hello, Amanda,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “You were supposed to wait to hear from me.”
“I got bored,” he told her. “I went for a walk.”
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, raising the glass, “I helped myself . . . twice.”
“That’s the hotel’s booze, not mine,” he said, “and I’m not paying the tab here, anyway—at least, I don’t think I am.”
It was a good question. Had Ted Singleton paid the bill in advance, and if not, would he be around to pay it when Clint checked out?
“That’s neither here nor there,” Amanda said. Clint wasn’t sure what that meant. “Do you want a drink?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “Do you have any news for me about Ted?”
“I have a message.”
“To who?”
“To you,” she said. “Who else?”
“He sent me a message? In writing?” Would he remember what Ted’s handwriting looked like? Probably not.
“No, not in writing,” she said. “He sent it with me.”
“So why didn’t he come himself and meet me?” Clint asked.
“He can’t,” she said. “He fears for his safety.”
“What’s the message?”
She crossed her legs, which made her skirt ride up a bit, exposing her boot. No skin, though.
“ ‘Get out while you can.’ ”
Clint waited, then said, “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she said.
“And when are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “And really, it’s none of your affair. This is government business.”
“I see.”
She put the brandy snifter down on the tray she’d gotten it from and stood up.
“I have to go.”
“So soon?” he asked.
“Why?” she replied. “Did you have something special in mind?”
“The same thing I’ve had in mind since the first time I saw you,” he said. “Same thing we both had on our minds last night.”
She sucked her lower lip in between her teeth and said, “Ooh, that’s tempting, but I have some errands I have to run today.”
“Official business?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, why don’t you come back later?” he asked. “We can have dinner downstairs, and then come back up here.”
Now she bit her lip.
“That’s very tempting, but I can’t make any promises right now.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
“Like you were here before?”
“I’m here now,” he pointed out.
She approached him and put her arms around his neck. He encircled her waist and pulled her to him. They kissed for a long time, and when they parted she was breathless.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “You convinced me. I’ll come back later for . . . dinner.”
“Dinner and . . .”
“Yes,” she said, “dinner and . . .”
He released her and she walked to the door. She knew he was watching her swaying hips.
“Are you going to do it?” she asked, without turning to face him.
“Do what?”
“What Ted wants you to do.”
“Oh, that,” he said. “I don’t know. He might just be
trying to keep me out of trouble.”
“I suspect he is.”
“Well, maybe I want to stay and help him.”
She turned to face him squarely.
“That wouldn’t be such a good idea.”
“Well, I’ll think about it,” he said. “Maybe in the morning . . .”
“We’ll talk about it when I come back later,” she said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
She smiled, blew him a kiss and went out the door in a flurry of long dark hair and skirts.
Clint went to the front window to see if anyone was meeting her on the street. When he didn’t see her, he assumed she had remained on the hotel side of the street, or had caught a cab in front.
As messages went, that really wasn’t much of one. Whoever had thought it up didn’t have much of an imagination. He didn’t believe for a minute it had come from Ted Singleton. But it had come from somebody who definitely wanted him out of Sacramento—somebody Amanda Tate knew.
He turned back to the room, which was filled with the scent of Amanda’s perfume. At the moment he didn’t know good guys from bad guys. Amanda was supposed to be good, but there was no way of knowing yet. And Victor Barrett was a known crime boss, but he was helping—or claimed he would help.
It would all come down to Ted Singleton. He was the only one who knew all the players, and what side they were on. Clint had to find him in order to find the answers. Singleton had sent for him, so he must have still felt the bond of friendship, must have felt that Clint would be able to help him.
Clint had no intention of leaving Sacramento until he, too, knew all the players, knew where they stood and knew what had happened to his friend.
And most of all, knew what the hell everybody was chasing!
THIRTEEN
Ben Avery was waiting for Amanda Tate in a cab in front of the hotel. When she came out, the driver stepped out to open the door and assist her in.
“Well?” Avery asked.
“I don’t think he believed me,” she said, sitting across from him. “I’ll have to go back later this evening to reinforce it.”
“Maybe I should just have some of the boys take care of him.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Ben.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s the Gunsmith,” she said, “and you’d end up with some dead boys. Let me handle him.”
“That’s what you said about Singleton.”
“And I was handling it until you sent some boys in, remember?”
He grumbled.
“Just let me do it my way,” she said.
“As long as you don’t have to sleep with him to do it,” Avery said.
Amanda remained silent. Sex with Ben Avery was a pleasant diversion. Sex with Clint Adams had been exciting and new. She had every intention of going back for more.
Jerry Ames and Salvatore Romanowski—called Roman by everyone who worked for Victor Barrett—entered the tavern and walked over to Barrett’s table.
“Sit down, boys,” Barrett said. “I’ve got some work for you to do.”
“What kinda work, Mr. Barrett?” Ames asked.
“Somethin’ that’ll give your backs a rest for a while,” Barrett said.
“Off the docks?” Roman asked. At twenty-three he’d been working for Barrett for two years, ever since he’d gotten off a boat from Europe, and he hadn’t been off the docks in all that time. Even the rooming house he lived in was on the docks—or almost.
“Yes, Roman, off the docks,” Barrett said, “Jerry, you’re going to be responsible for Roman.”
Ames was forty-four and had been a dockworker all his life. In fact, he was exactly the kind of man Victor Barrett had not wanted to become. But he was the kind of man Barrett knew he could count on.
“Now listen up,” Barrett said.
“Can we get a drink first?” Ames asked.
“No,” Barrett said, “you can have a drink after—just one. Now open your ears and shut your mouths . . .”
FOURTEEN
Clint did stay in his hotel this time, mainly because he couldn’t think of anything better to do with his time. He could have gone to talk to the law, but what if Ted Singleton was involved in something that was illegal? Going to the law would just get him in trouble. Better to sit tight for now and see what Victor Barrett could come up with. Or see what he could pry out of Amanda Tate.
The hotel had its own bar, next to the dining room, so he decided to go down there and kill some time nursing a beer or two.
The difference between the hotel bar and the tavern owned by Victor Barrett was so great that night and day could not explain it. The wood was mahogany and there was a lot of crystal. In fact, they were roughly the same type of furnishings that were in his suite.
He went up to the bar and a clean-shaven, neatly dressed bartender smiled at him and asked, “What can I get for you, sir?”
“A beer.”
The bartender brought him a beautiful amber beer with a nice healthy head on it, in a clear, clean mug. Clint picked it up, took several swallows and found it wonderfully cold and refreshing.
“Looks like you’re really enjoying that,” the bartender said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Clint said. “Much obliged.”
“Don’t mention it. First time in Sacramento?” the man asked.
“First time in a while,” Clint said. “First time in this hotel, though.”
“Stayin’ with us long?”
“I don’t know yet,” Clint said. “It depends on a few things.”
“ ’Scuse me,” the bartender said, and went to take care of someone else.
Clint decided to leave the bar before the man came back and wanted to talk some more. The bar was about three quarters full, but he was still able to find himself an empty table near the back of the room. The clientele here looked like mostly hotel guests and local businessmen. The only thing the place had in common with the Docksider was that there were no guns in sight.
Clint was just thinking about getting another beer when a man wearing a bowler hat and a stern look entered the bar. He didn’t know why, but Clint immediately knew the man was looking for him.
And he knew he was a policeman.
Victor Barrett was removing his trousers when there was a knock on the door.
“Ignore it,” the woman on the bed said.
Barrett looked at her. He would have liked to ignore the knock. The woman was blond, naked, extremely well endowed. Barrett liked women in all shapes and sizes, and he had three he literally rotated in and out of his bed. Maxine was the woman he wanted when he felt like getting lost on acres of flesh. She had giant, pear-shaped breasts with large pink nipples; big, fleshy buttocks and thighs. She was in her late twenties, and he knew in a matter of years she’d be considered fat. Right now, though, she was perfect for him—at least on this particular night.
“I can’t he told her.”
“If you answer that door, you’re gonna have to leave,” she said, “and then you’ll miss out on this.” She tossed the sheet away from her so that she was completely naked. She spread her legs, dropped her hand down between her thighs, said, “And this,” and touched herself.
“Bitch,” Barrett said, but he went to the door.
“Clint Adams?” the man asked.
Clint looked up at him. He was holding a bowler hat in his hand, and Clint would have bet the farm—if he owned one—that the man had a small gun secreted there.
“That’s right.”
“My name is Inspector Charles Callahan,” the man said. “I’d like to talk to you, if I may.”
“What’s this about, Inspector?”
“Do you know a woman named Julie Silver?”
Clint frowned.
“Can’t say I do,” he answered, “unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re asking,” Clint said, “and then I’ll tell you unl
ess what?”
“Fine,” Callahan said. “We found a young woman tonight. She’s dead, and she had your name and the name of this hotel written on a piece of paper on her person. Is that good enough for you?”
“Sit down, Inspector,” Clint said. “Let’s talk.”
FIFTEEN
“I met a girl named Julie yesterday,” Clint told the inspector.
“Julie Silver?”
“I never found out her last name.”
“What did she want?”
“Well,” Clint said, deciding that—in this case—honesty was the best policy, “I’m not sure. She pointed a gun at me and asked me where it was.”
“Where what was?”
“That was it,” Clint said. “She wanted to know where ‘it’ was, did I know where ‘it’ was.”
“And?”
“I told her I didn’t.”
“And do you, in fact, know what this mysterious ‘it’ is?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
“Mr. Adams, I know your name, and your reputation,” Callahan said. “Why are you in Sacramento?”
“I’m here to see a friend.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Ted Singleton.”
“Singleton?”
Clint studied the man’s face for any sign of recognition.
“Do you know him?” he asked.
“I never heard of him,” Callahan said. “Should I have?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “He’s an ex-lawman, wore a badge for almost thirty years. I lost track of him about five or six years back, then I heard from him and he asked me to meet him here.”
“In Sacramento?”
“In Sacramento,” Clint said, “in this hotel.”
“And that meeting was supposed to take place yesterday?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“And you’re still waiting.”
“Yes.”
Callahan thought for a moment, then said, “Tell me again about the girl.”
Clint did, explaining their meeting and how it went. He held back only that the girl claimed that she and Singleton were partners, working for the government. He also held back the name of the other woman who had stuck a gun in his face.
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