“Uh-oh,” Callahan said.
“What?”
“A woman going to a hotel in the middle of the day,” the policeman said.
“What about it?”
“I don’t know what that would mean in Dodge City or Tombstone,” Callahan said, “but here it means a woman is meeting a man—a man who is not her husband.”
“It wouldn’t happen in Dodge City or Tombstone,” Clint said, “and Avery is not her husband.”
“Her man, then,” Callahan said. “She’s meeting someone other than her man.”
Clint frowned. Obviously, she and Avery had a sexual relationship, and she had also been to bed with Clint. Now she was meeting another man? Singleton, or a new player in the game?
He hoped it was Singleton. At least then he would have found him.
And he also wished he knew what the damn game was.
Amanda already had a key, because she came to this hotel fairly often—often enough for the clerk to simply nod to her. She went up the stairs to the second floor and let herself into a suite there. The man there waiting for her was already naked, and erect.
“You’re not wasting any time today,” she said, approvingly.
“It’s been a while,” he said to her. “Get your clothes off.”
She obeyed.
Clint and Callahan entered the hotel lobby behind Amanda. She was already gone. They approached the front desk and the clerk looked at them.
“Gents,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Callahan showed him his badge and said, “The lady who just came in—”
“Room two-fifteen. It’s a suite.”
Clint and Callahan looked at each other.
“That was easy,” Clint said.
“Ain’t stickin’ my neck out for nobody,” the young clerk said.
“All right, then,” Clint said, “next question. Who’s she with?”
“Don’t know ’im.”
“Does she meet the same man here every time?” Callahan asked.
“Yep, same man.”
“How long has this been going on?” Clint asked.
“I dunno,” the clerk said. “Months?”
“How many times a week?” Clint asked.
“Couple,” he said, “but it’s funny, they missed last week, and this is the first time this week.”
Clint and Callahan exchanged another glance. Today was Thursday.
“Is there another way out of the hotel?” Callahan asked.
“Not for guests.”
“So she and her boyfriend will have to come through the lobby and out the front door?”
“Yep.”>
“So we wait again?” Callahan asked.
“We wait again,” Clint said.
TWENTY-NINE
Amanda lifted her knees to open herself up more for him. He got between her legs, pressed the head of his penis to her moist slit and pushed. His rigid penis slid into her like a hot knife through butter, and she gasped. He began to fuck her then, in long, slow strokes. He said it had been too long and he wanted to take his time, but she didn’t have that much time to give him. She urged him on, using her hands and her mouth to excite him more, even using old whore tricks and talking dirty to him, until he was pounding her, snorting like a bull, chasing his release. When it came, he bellowed, jammed himself into her and his whole body shuddered. Then he collapsed on her the way they all did, like because it was all over for them, it was all over for her, too.
Well, in this case it was all over. She rolled him off of her, and while he was lying on his back, panting and sweating like a pig, she took the knife out of her purse, a stiletto with a nice thin but strong blade, and stuck it in him once, twice and then a last time, twisting it before she took it out. The sheets quickly began to soak in his blood, and she got off the bed before any of it got on her. He died with a gasp and a rattle, and she threw the bedsheet over him. Immediately, the blood began to soak through that, too.
She’d thought that a good fucking would help her, get her ready to do what she had to do, but it hadn’t been very good at all. In fact, she hadn’t been fucked good in so long, until the other night with Clint Adams. She didn’t know exactly what was going to happen to him, but she knew she was going to get him between her thighs at least one more time. Who knew how long it would be before she came across a real man again?
“I wonder how long they’ll be,” Callahan said.
“Have you ever met with a woman in a hotel, Charlie?” Clint asked.
“Well, sure . . .”
“Someone else’s woman?”
“No.”
“They’ll be a while,” Clint said.
“You’ve been with somebody’s else’s woman?”
“Once or twice,” Clint said.
“That, uh, don’t sound right.”
“It isn’t,” Clint said. “How old are you?”
“I’m, uh, twenty-eight.”
“Been with many women?”
“Well, sure . . . I been . . . Well, with a . . . few . . .”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Clint said. “You’ve got plenty of time and a lot to learn.”
Upstairs Amanda made sure she had no blood on her. She poured water from a pitcher in a basin, washed herself good, then used a cloth to wash her pussy. It felt good, so she kept washing until she’d finished what the dead man on the bed couldn’t. Her body shuddered, her right hand rubbing hard with the cloth, her left hand pinching her own nipples . . .
Afterward she got dressed and looked over again at the bloody lump lying beneath the sheet.
“Too bad,” she said to him. “I might’ve been able to train you to be a good lover.”
Now she’d never know, though. However, she was left with Ben Avery, and he was still young enough to learn.
She straightened her clothing, put her knife back in her bag and left the room.
“There she is,” Callahan said. “That didn’t take real long at all.”
“No, it didn’t,” Clint said, suspiciously.
A cab came by at that moment, and she waved it down and got in.
“We’ve got to find a cab,” Callahan said, stepping out of the doorway they were in.
“No,” Clint said, “we have to go upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Something’s not right.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “If she was just meeting a man here for sex, it should have taken longer. This just feels wrong.”
“But we’ll lose her.”
“I think she’s done what she came out to do, Charlie,” Clint said. “Besides, I think we know where we can find her. Come on, let’s go upstairs and see what she left behind.”
THIRTY
Callahan got the key from the clerk at Clint’s insistence.
“Why don’t we just knock?” he asked.
“Because if I’m right, nobody would answer.”
They went up to room 215 and Callahan insisted on knocking first.
“Satisfied?” Clint asked, when no one answered.
Callahan used the key and opened the door. Immediately they saw the blood-soaked sheets on the bed.
“Jesus,” Callahan said. “I wonder who it is.”
Clint wondered, too. He hoped it wasn’t Ted Singleton, but he had a bad feeling that it was.
“Let’s have a look,” he suggested.
They approached the bed. There was so much blood it was dripping onto the floor.
Clint waited, and when Callahan made no move to pull back the top sheet, he gripped it and gave it a yank.
“Christ,” Callahan said, “she gutted him.”
The body was naked, and had been stabbed more than once. Clint could see that at least one wound was the result of a stabbing and then twisting of the knife. She hadn’t wanted to make any mistakes. She wanted him dead, for sure.
“Christ,” Callahan said, again. “This is bad.”
They both knew who the man was; they�
��d seen him earlier. Clint was relieved that the body was not that of Ted Singleton, but Victor Barrett.
Callahan wanted to send for his superior immediately, but Clint made him talk about it.
“If your captain was taking money from Barrett, he’s not going to be too happy that we stood out in front of the hotel while Amanda Tate killed him.”
“We don’t know that she killed him,” Callahan said. “He could have been killed after she left, or before she got there.”
Clint thought that was naive, but he let it go for the moment.
“That doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “You’ll still find yourself in uniform somewhere. Do you want that?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“But what?”
“We can’t just walk away from this,” the young inspector said. “For one thing, the desk clerk saw us.”
“For the right amount of money, he’ll keep quiet,” Clint said. “Besides, you showed him your badge, you didn’t give him your name.”
“He can point me out.”
“Stay away from him,” Clint said. “Just walk out of the hotel. He won’t even notice.”
“What about the key?”
“They’ve got lots of keys.”
“Look, Clint, if you want to go—”
“I’m not the one this is going to cause trouble for,” Clint said, “you are. Look, I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
“I’ll send for the police. Who will they send here first?”
“Somebody in uniform.”
“And then what?”
“Well, normally they’d send word for an inspector,” Callahan said, “but once they see who this is, they’ll send for someone higher-ranking—a lieutenant or a captain.”
“But they’ll need an inspector eventually,” Clint said. “That could be you.”
“How do I make sure—”
“Just go to headquarters and be there when the word comes in,” Clint said. “Then you come here like you’ve never been here before.”
“The clerk—”
“I’ll take care of the clerk.”
Callahan worried his lower lip. He paced around the bed, staring at the body.
“All you have to do is solve this murder, and your trouble will go away, kid,” Clint said. “But if they find out you were here—”
“I know, I know!” Callahan snapped. “I’m thinking.”
While he was thinking, Clint looked around the room. The first thing he noticed was the smell of blood. Second, Amanda’s perfume. She’d been here, all right, and she’d been in bed with the naked man. But had she killed him? Had to be her. Nothing else made sense. What was her motive, though? Just to get Ben Avery’s biggest competition out of the way?
“Okay,” Callahan said, “okay. I’m going to go. I’ll need a half an hour to get back to headquarters.”
Clint didn’t relish spending half an hour with a dead body, but then, it was his idea. He’d use the time to talk to the clerk, who, since he didn’t want to stick his neck out for nobody, might take some convincing.
“Okay,” Clint said. “Tell me your friend the lieutenant’s name, in case it’s him who shows up.”
“Powell, Sam Powell.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “now go.”
“Are you sure you’re willing to do this?” Callahan asked.
“I’m sure, kid,” Clint said. “This all might still help me to find my friend.”
“All right,” Callahan said. “All right. I’m doing this against my better judgment but . . . all right.”
“Go already!”
THIRTY-ONE
Clint stood to the side while the police examined the body on the bed. He’d been told to stay out of the way, which he was only too happy to do . . .
While waiting for the police, he’d had a very earnest talk with the desk clerk, who was appalled that Clint had found a dead body in the hotel.
“I don’t stick my neck out for nobody,” he said, again.
“I’m not asking you to stick your neck out,” Clint said. He put some money on the desk. “I’m just asking you to forget that I was in here asking questions.”
The clerk eyed the money.
“What about the other guy with you?”
“Especially forget him.”
Clint put some more money on the desk.
“He was a cop,” the man said. “Who’re you?”
“My name’s Clint Adams.”
The clerk hesitated, then said, “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
The clerk examined him.
“Yeah, you look like him.”
“Like who?”
The clerk reached beneath the desk and brought out three dog-eared, yellow-paged books. On the cover of each was an illustration of a man who looked like Clint. At the top of the book, in large letters, were the words “THE GUNSMITH.”
“You’re really him?”
“Well . . . ,” Clint said, and stopped himself. If he said that he was really him—that Gunsmith—it would not be entirely factual.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m really him.”
“Can I see your gun?”
Patiently, Clint removed his gun from his holster, unloaded it and handed it to the young man.
“Wow.”
Clint took the gun back, loaded it and replaced it in his holster.
“So?” he asked. “We got a deal?”
The man looked at the money on the desk as if he’d forgotten it, then grabbed it.
“Yeah, Mr. Gunsmith, yeah,” he said, “we got a deal, only . . .”
“Only what?”
“Will you sign my books?”
He thought about pointing out that he didn’t write them, but instead said, “Sure.”
Clint was jolted from his thoughts by the arrival of another man, dressed in a suit.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” one of the uniformed policeman said.
“Who found him?” the man asked.
The man in uniform inclined his head toward Clint. The lieutenant walked over to him and looked him up and down.
“This ain’t Tombstone, partner,” he said.
“For some of us,” Clint said, “every town, every city is Tombstone.”
“So what’s your name?”
“Clint Adams.”
“Clint . . . Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“Yes.”
“You got anything on you that proves that?”
“No,” Clint said, then looked down at his gun. “Only this.”
The policeman looked unimpressed.
“Lieutenant . . . ?”
“Powell.”
“Powell. I’m staying at the Marsh House Hotel. You can check me out with them.”
“I won’t have to,” Powell said. “I know somebody who knows you.”
“Here in Sacramento?”
“Yeah.” Powell turned, and at that moment Inspector Charles Callahan came through the door.
“Charlie,” Powell said, “this fella says he’s Clint Adams. Is that him?”
Callahan came over and said, “Yes, sir, that’s him. Mr. Adams.”
“Inspector,” Clint said. “Nice to see you again.”
Powell looked from Callahan to Clint and back again, and Clint knew they were in trouble.
“You fellas are funny,” he said. He turned to address the room and shouted, “Everybody out.”
The men in the room began filing out. One uniformed policeman came over and asked, “What should we do, Lieutenant?”
“Question all the other guests on the floor,” Powell said, “see what they saw.”
“Yes, sir.”
Powell waited for everyone to be gone, then closed the door and turned to face Clint and Callahan.
“What are you two tryin’ to pull?”
THIRTY-TWO
“What are you talking about?” Callahan asked.
“Oh, he always has been,” Powell said.
“You can’t do anything with him?”
Powell made a face. “He’s too damn honest.”
“You two want to stop talking about me?” Callahan asked.
“Okay,” Powell said, “let’s go back to you two. What’s going on?”
Clint looked at Callahan, who shrugged and said, “You tell it.”
Clint started at the beginning, told Powell everything without leaving anything out.
Powell looked at the body again when Clint had finished.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay, what?” Callahan asked.
“We can keep this from O’Neal—for a while.”
“How long’s a while?” Clint asked.
“Until we find out who killed Barrett,” Powell said. “And the girl . . . and, while we’re at it, maybe we can locate your friend.”
“You’ll work with us on this?” Callahan asked.
“No.”
“What?”
“That would be sticking my neck out too far,” Powell said. “I will cover for you, though, while the two of you work on it.”
“Good enough,” Clint said.
“You,” Powell said, “I’ve heard of, but I never met before now. Charlie here is a friend of mine.”
“I get it,” Clint said.
“Get what?” Callahan asked.
Clint looked at him. “He’s telling me that if he has to throw somebody to the wolves, it’s going to be me.”
“Right,” Powell said.
“Hey, that’s not—”
“It’s fine, Charlie,” Clint said, cutting him short. “I can live with that. He’s right, you’re his friend, I’m not.”
“But friend or no friend,” Powell said to Callahan, “if push comes to shove, you’ll go to the wolves before I do.”
Clint and Callahan were outside the building when the body was carried out. Lieutenant Powell followed behind the body.
“What’s going to happen inside his business now?” Clint asked.
“I don’t know,” Powell said. “I don’t know of anybody who works for him who could take it over.”
“That’ll leave it for Ben Avery to take over,” Callahan said.
Two for Trouble Page 8
