Two for Trouble

by J. R. Roberts

“A thirty-two, I’ll bet.”

  “How did you know?”

  “It fits there comfortably,” Clint said. “You’re going to have to realize that you don’t wear a gun because it’s comfortable, you wear it because you want it to save your life.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “That you wear a bigger gun.”

  “I don’t have a bigger gun.”

  “Well, let me tell you this,” Clint said. “I’m not going out on the street with you unless I know you can back me up in a fight.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “A bigger gun, Charlie,” Clint said. “Either we get you a bigger gun, or I’m not helping.”

  Callahan stared at Clint just long enough to determine that he was serious, then said, “Fine, I’ll carry a bigger gun.”

  TWENTY

  “I didn’t mean you were going to have to buy me a gun,” Charlie Callahan complained. “I have money.”

  “I’m not going to buy it for you,” Clint said, as they entered the gun shop. “I’m going to pick it out for you.”

  “Oh.”

  The shop was as fully equipped as any Clint had seen. He could have spent all day there, talking with the proprietor, who was himself a gunsmith and had been one for thirty years, but they didn’t have time. So he picked out a good-looking Peacemaker and then shed a tear as he had the owner cut it down to fit Callahan’s shoulder holster.

  “It’s a forty-five,” Clint said, “and even with the cut-down barrel it’ll have more kick than that thirty-two you carry.”

  He turned to the owner.

  “Do you have somewhere we can test it?”

  “Out back,” the man said, then shook his head. “Imagine that, the Gunsmith himself in my shop.”

  Clint took Callahan outside, behind the building, where the owner had a firing range. Paper targets were affixed to thick bales of hay, so the bullets would not pass through.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “go ahead.”

  “How many shots?” Callahan asked.

  “All six. I want to see what you can do.”

  Callahan fired six shots. They all hit the bales of hay. Only three of the six struck the paper target. None hit the bull’s-eye. In fact, none were even near it.

  “It’s cut down,” Callahan complained. “Of course I can’t hit anything. You ruined it.”

  “Reload,” Clint said.

  As Callahan obeyed, the owner of the shop came out to watch. When the gun was reloaded, Callahan cocked the hammer.

  “No,” Clint said, “not you. Me.”

  He stepped forward and took the gun. Callahan stepped away. Clint turned toward the target and fired six quick shots. All six struck the paper target. Five of them encircled the bull’s-eye, and the sixth was dead center.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “You only got one bull’s-eye,” Callahan said, weakly.

  The owner started to laugh.

  “Son,” he said, “he put every shot right where he wanted it. That’s a good gun.”

  Shaking his head, he went back inside.

  Clint ejected the spent shells, reloaded the weapon and gave it to Callahan.

  “I’ll try again,” the younger man said.

  “Never mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if we get into trouble, you won’t be shooting at a paper target,” Clint said. “You hit the hay bales, that’s good enough for me. You’d hit a man.”

  “But—”

  “You want to investigate your murder, don’t you?” Clint asked.

  “Well, yes—”

  “Then let’s go and do some police work.”

  “This is where she was found?” Clint asked.

  “Right here.”

  Clint looked down the dirty alley where Julie Silver’s body had been found, then looked down the street.

  “How far from the docks are we?”

  “About two blocks.”

  “What the hell was she doing down here?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Callahan said.

  Clint figured if they were two blocks from the docks, they were two blocks from the Docksider Tavern. Could there be a connection?

  He walked into the alley and looked around.

  “Where was she found?”

  “Against that wall.” Callahan entered the alley and pointed.

  Clint walked to the wall and saw blood on the ground, lots of it.

  “She bled a lot.”

  “The coroner said she bled to death.”

  “Poor kid,” Clint said. “Probably laid here—what, all night?”

  “That’s what we think,” Callahan said. “Shot the night before last, found yesterday morning.”

  “By who?”

  “A drunk looking for a place to piss.”

  Clint slapped his hand against the side of the brick building.

  “What’s this place?”

  “Warehouse.”

  “Abandoned? Empty?”

  “No,” Callahan said. “In use.”

  “You question the owner?”

  “I tried,” Callahan said. “He wouldn’t talk to me. Had a few . . . men with him.”

  “You talked to him alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “That took guts.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Callahan said. “My boss won’t give me any men.”

  “He really does want you to fail, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’d you do to him?”

  “He had someone else in mind for this promotion,” Callahan said. “I got it, and I’m trying to hold onto it.”

  “He doesn’t care anything about the girl, does he?” Clint asked.

  “No,” the inspector said. “All he cares about is me failing. If I don’t solve this case, I don’t keep my promotion.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “let’s see what we can do about that.”

  “How?”

  “First,” Clint said, slapping the side of the building again, “let’s go and talk to the owner of this warehouse.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  As Clint and Callahan walked around to the front of the warehouse, Clint said, “Looks like our tail is still there.”

  “Ah, you’ve spotted him,” the inspector said. “Do you want to confront him?”

  “I don’t think we need to,” Clint said. “Looks like Barrett is just keeping an eye on me—or you.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Who knows?”

  “No,” Callahan said, shaking his head, “he’s watching you. He was already at the hotel this morning when I got there.”

  “Either way,” Clint said, “he’s not doing any harm just watching.”

  When they got to the front, Clint pounded on the door first with the flat of his hand, and then with his fist, until someone unlocked and opened it.

  A man with a face that had encountered many fists in its time asked, “Whataya want?”

  Callahan showed the man his badge.

  “You again?” the man asked.

  “Yes, me again,” Callahan said. “My friend and I would like to talk to your boss.”

  “My boss?”

  “The owner of the warehouse?” Clint said. “Is he around?”

  “He don’t come around here,” the man said. “I run the warehouse.”

  “Is that a fact?” Clint asked. “Were you running it two nights ago?”

  “I’m here every night.”

  “Well,” Callahan said, “we’re only interested in two nights ago.”

  “Can we come inside and talk?” Clint asked.

  “Nobody comes inside,” the man said.

  “Then step out here so we can talk,” Clint said.

  “I don’t wanna talk,” the man said, and started to close the door. Clint stopped him.

  “It’s going to be one or the other, friend,” he said. “Either we come in, or you step out.”

  Clint could feel
Callahan tense next to him, but he could tell from looking in the man’s eyes that there wasn’t going to be a problem.

  The man looked at Clint, then at Callahan, then back at Clint, and slowly stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He stepped down when he came out, but still towered over both the other men. Callahan couldn’t figure out how Clint had intimidated him into stepping outside. They still had not mentioned Clint’s name.

  “Whataya want?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mervin.”

  “Really?” Callahan asked.

  “Yeah.” Mervin looked at Callahan. “What about it?”

  “Nothing,” Callahan said.

  “Mervin, a girl was found dead in the alley next to this building.”

  “I heard.” Mervin looked at Callahan. “He told me yesterday.”

  “Well, she was shot twice, probably at night. We want to know if you heard anything.”

  “I didn’t hear nothin’.”

  “If you did, would you tell us?”

  “Probably not.”

  Clint appreciated the man’s honesty.

  “Was anyone here with you the other night?”

  “Naw,” he said. “I was alone, goin’ over the books for the boss.”

  “You do the books?” Callahan asked.

  “Yeah.” Mervin stuck his anvil of a jaw out pugnaciously. “What, I don’t look smart enough?”

  “You look plenty smart,” Clint said, and gave Callahan a warning look.

  “Look,” Mervin said, “I’m sorry as hell some girl got killed, but I didn’t hear nothin’ and I had nothin’ to do with it.”

  “We never said you did,” Clint said. “We’re just looking for information.”

  “Well, I got none.”

  Clint figured they had gotten all they were going to get out of Mervin.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  They turned to leave, and Mervin opened the door to go back inside.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Clint said.

  “What?”

  “Your boss,” Clint said. “Who is he? Who owns this warehouse?”

  Mervin hesitated, then with a shrug said, “No harm in sayin’. It’s owned by Victor Barrett.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint and Callahan got away from the docks and stopped at the first saloon they came to.

  “I notice you drink on duty,” Clint said, as they took beers to a table.

  “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be on duty, so it probably doesn’t matter.”

  They sat down, looked around. There were only three other men in the place, and one was the bartender. And maybe they were far enough from the docks to be out of Victor Barrett’s earshot—except for the man outside, who had followed them.

  “So Barrett owns the warehouse,” Callahan said. “Could be a coincidence.”

  “I hate coincidences,” Clint said.

  “But if you hadn’t gone and sought him out,” Callahan reminded him, “you never would have heard of him until now. And it wouldn’t seem to be a coincidence.”

  “Whatever the reason was that I went looking for him, now it’s a coincidence. And I don’t like it.”

  “But you said he agreed to help you,” Callahan argued. “Why would he do that if he had anything to do with the girl’s death?”

  “To cover for himself.”

  “So how do we uncover what he’s covering?”

  “Easy,” Clint said. “We go and talk to him again.”

  “Again?”

  “Well, again for me,” Clint said. “First time for you.”

  “There’s something you should know about Barrett,” Callahan said.

  “What? That he’s got policemen on his payroll?” Clint asked.

  “H-how could you know that?”

  “A man like Victor Barrett doesn’t get where he is without buying some law, kid,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got your captain in his pocket. Maybe a lieutenant or two.”

  “My captain wouldn’t surprise me,” Callahan said.

  “You got a lieutenant you’re friends with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can he help us?”

  “If he wants to risk his job.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “then we won’t ask unless we have to.”

  “So we’re going to see Barrett?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think we’ll need an appointment.”

  “I saw him before without one,” Clint said, “but I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Just follow my lead.” He looked around. “Does this place have a back door?”

  Randy Teller watched the front of the saloon closely. When given a job, he usually gave it all his concentration. He was very good at tailing people, keeping them in sight while remaining unseen himself. However, he had one flaw. He sometimes concentrated so much on what was in front of him that he lost sight of what was around him. That was why he was shocked when Clint Adams came up on his left side, and Charlie Callahan moved up on his right.

  “Do you know this young fellow, Inspector?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do,” Callahan said. “How you doin’, Randy?”

  “Inspector.”

  “We need your help, Randy,” Callahan said.

  “With what?” Randy asked. “I’m just . . . I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

  “We know,” Clint said, “that’s why we know you have time to help us.”

  “With what?” he asked, again.

  “We want to see your boss,” Clint said.

  “My boss?”

  “Victor Barrett,” Callahan said, “remember?”

  “Aw, look—”

  “It’s okay,” Clint said, “I saw him yesterday. He and I are good friends now. All you have to do is take us to him.”

  “So we don’t get shot going in,” Callahan said. “Some of your friends like to shoot at policemen.”

  “Look, fellas—”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Clint said, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Let’s just go now and get it over with,” Callahan said, placing his hand on the man’s other shoulder. “If we do it quick, it won’t be so painful.”

  Randy closed his eyes. He was going to be in so much trouble!

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint realized how lucky he’d been the day before when he had just blindly walked into the Docksider Tavern.

  He had attracted some looks then, but today—walking in with Randy and with a policeman—he got even more.

  The first thing he noticed was that Barrett was not at his back table.

  They walked up to the bar, and the bartender ignored Clint and Callahan and said, “Randy, what the hell—”

  “I didn’t have no choice. They wanna see the boss.”

  “Where is Barrett?” Clint asked.

  “We don’t serve no law here,” the bartender said, glaring at Callahan.

  “I wouldn’t drink here if it was free,” the inspector said. “Where’s Barrett?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How would you like me to ask that question again while you’re in a cell?”

  The bartender winced, then said, “The boss is upstairs, where he lives.”

  “Get him,” Clint said.

  “Look, I can’t—”

  “We’re saving your ass by not going up there ourselves,” Callahan said. “Now get ’im.”

  Clint gave Callahan a look. The young man was learning.

  The bartender said nothing, just threw down the bar rag he was holding and came out from behind the bar. He went to the back of the room and through a doorway.

  “Randy, you can go,” Clint said.

  “Um—” He seemed unsure about what to do.

  “Why don’t you just wait outside for us,” Callahan suggested, “and then you can follow us some more.”

  Randy stared at both of them
for a few moments, then shrugged and went outside.

  After a few minutes the bartender reappeared with an annoyed-looking Victor Barrett behind him.

  “Mr. Adams,” he said. “I thought we had an agreement that you’d wait to hear from me. Now you’re back with a policeman?”

  “Actually,” Callahan said, “it’s the other way around, Mr. Barrett.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m Inspector Callahan.”

  “Ah,” Barrett said, smiling. “I’ve heard about you. What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “You own a warehouse a few blocks from here, just off the docks.”

  “I own a lot of buildings, Inspector,” Barrett said. “Which one are we talking about?”

  “The one where a dead girl was found in the alley,” Clint said.

  “Dead girl,” Barrett said. “You mean that homeless young girl who was shot?” He looked at Clint. “Was that the girl you and I were talking about?”

  “It was,” Clint said, “and she wasn’t homeless.” Although, for the moment, according to Callahan, she might well have been, since they hadn’t been able to find out where she lived.

  “But she is dead,” Callahan said, “and she was left outside your building.”

  “As I said, I own a lot of buildings,” Barrett said. “I’ll bet there have been quite a few bodies found near some of them. After all, it’s that kind of area.”

  “So you don’t know a girl name Julie Silver?” Callahan asked.

  “Don’t know her,” Barrett said, “and never did. And Mr. Adams? I’m afraid our little agreement is over.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I pretty much decided I made a mistake coming over here.”

  “Maybe,” Barrett said, “a bigger mistake than you know.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Well,” Callahan said, after they’d returned to Clint’s hotel, “now you’re on the wrong side of Victor Barrett. Congratulations.”

  “Okay, okay,” Clint said, “I already admitted going to him was a mistake. Don’t rub it in.”

  “I just want you to understand this is different than getting some town boss mad at you,” Callahan said. “He won’t even pick up a gun; he’ll just have you killed.”

  “He’s got no reason to have me killed.”

  “He doesn’t need a reason.”

  “What about you?”

  “He could have me killed, too.”