Crossfire

by Matt Braun

  “Hey,” the hotel owner groaned. “I’m hot. You can’t leave now.”

  “Just hang on to your skivvies, Henry.” She got up and ruffled the hotel owner’s gray hair. “I’ll send Melinda over to relieve me.”

  Henry blushed to a beet-red glow, and the gang around the table was still funning the hotel owner when Vivian and Westfall found an empty table at the back of the room.

  “What’ll you have, Mayor?” Vivian asked as she reached out and placed her warm hand on his.

  “Draught.”

  “Two beers,” Vivian said after getting the bartender’s attention.

  Vivian easily took the hog-jowled mayor through two rounds of beer, forced laughter, and moderate touching. Just as things began to drag, he told her the first of several smutty stories. Vivian pretended to respond to the mayor’s odd sex chatter with a series of moans and groans accented with bedroom eyes. Halfway through a gusty tale about a girl he knew who could only come when sandwiched between two men, Vivian decided to move before she lost control and fell off her chair in a fit of laughter.

  “Excuse me, Oscar. I just realized it’s later than I thought. I promised to see Sherm in his office. I was supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago.”

  “You won’t be seeing Sherm for a while,” Westfall wheezed. “Now, let me tell you. This girl would take one in either end, and—”

  “But I promised,” she interrupted, as she set her drink on the dark blue cloth which was draped over the side of the table.

  “He’s busy. I saw some people come in earlier,” Westfall went on as he put a chunky hand on her thigh. “Believe me.”

  “Oooo. Oscar, you devil,” Vivian said as she leaned on his arm with her firm breast. “You this way with all the girls!”

  “Most aren’t as pretty as you, Susanna,” Westfall said, with white pasty saliva forming at the corners of his mouth. “That’s the gospel.”

  “But I told Sherm I’d see him at seven-thirty.”

  “Take my word for it,” Westfall said as he began to stroke her leg. “He’ll be tied up.”

  “Oh. Those two who came in earlier,” she said with a knowing look in her eyes. “The dapper tall man and the stumpy-looking dude.”

  “Yep!”

  “The short one looks mean,” Vivian said as she put her hand on Westfall’s leg. “He must eat nails for breakfast.”

  “Judd Hall,” Westfall volunteered, having no idea that the name had been expertly extracted. “He’d kill you for a fifty-cent piece. If I had my way, the son-of-a-bitch would hang. Killed four I know of.”

  “You’re the mayor!” Vivian exclaimed with a fake tone of shock. “Why don’t you have the sheriff arrest him?”

  Westfall sighed and didn’t answer. His face became a mask of defeat. Vivian decided to increase the tempo of her interrogation by sliding her hand up to the bulge in Westfall’s pants. Westfall gasped as she reached the oblong mound and squeezed.

  “Seems to me you run the town,” she went on.

  “A mayor can’t do everything he wants,” Westfall said, his body momentarily frozen by Vivian’s electric touch. “Hall’s Traber’s muscle and Traber pretty much runs certain things in Tucson.”

  “Ooo, Oscar. Sounds to me like you know everything that goes on in Tucson,” she said as she stroked the stiff rod, which was partly covered by his overhanging gut. “You might be able to help a girl get ahead in this world.”

  Westfall couldn’t talk any longer, as he was overcome with the artful touch of Susanna Duncan. He began to dig his chubby fingers into her dress and underthings, groping ineptly for the right spot between her legs as he made odd sounds with his short breaths, the foam in the corners of his mouth growing more sticky.

  “This Traber’s the boss man?” she said, pulling his meat in quick, hard strokes.

  “Yeah,” he gasped, paralyzed by her hand. “Nothing ahh . . . happens in Tucson that he doesn’t ah . . . get in on.”

  Out of control now, the fat mayor hiked her skirt and found warm flesh. Trying to look somewhat composed, he fumbled his way toward her prize. Torn between disgust and a sense of the absurd, she pumped Westfall fast and firm, after first looking to see if others were staring. In seconds, Westfall shuddered and Vivian felt a warm dampness through his pants.

  “Oscar! We can’t do this here, for God’s sake,” she said as his fat finger found her womanhood. “Your friend Henry is looking this way,” she lied as she backed away and dropped her hold on his limp and damp cock. “Let’s get together some time when we can go to bed,” she whispered in his pink ear. “Sometime when we can spend hours with our bodies,” she purred, nearly laughing at the idiotic and distant look on his chubby face. “Maybe later in the week.”

  Westfall began to regain his composure at the thought that the hotel owner was watching. He figured that it would be just like Henry to make some wisecrack at the next church supper. Most likely, he’d do it right in front of my wife, Westfall thought to himself.

  “And besides,” Vivian said as she discreetly wiped her hand on the dark-blue tablecloth. “I’ve got to get back to work. Let’s talk later.”

  Vivian got up and went quickly toward the stairs, once again amused at how easy it was to wrangle a two-hundred-and-eight-pound man by simply holding onto his sausage. She began to smile, until she had a vision of the white spittle in the corners of his mouth. That killed the smile.

  Somewhat disgusted with herself, she hammered loudly on Jarrott’s door with her knuckles. When the casino owner opened the door, she entered boldly, brushing by Jarrott.

  “Susanna! Please! Can’t you see I’m busy!”

  “Oh. Sorry, Sherm. Didn’t know you had company,” she said, her expression leaving no doubt as to her honesty. “Just wanted to suggest a late dinner at Eaton’s. But I’ll see you later.” As she turned to leave, she apologized to the two men for her intrusion.

  “Sure,” Jarrott said. “Later. I’m busy now.”

  Vivian thought it odd that the usually cool Jarrott seemed upset in the presence of the slender visitor and his muscle man.

  “Sherm!” Traber said. “Don’t be so quick to send away a beautiful lady.”

  Vivian thought she saw a veiled message as Traber’s eyes passed by those of the pug-nosed bodyguard. Nonetheless, she kept her eyes fixed on Traber.

  “You didn’t tell me you hired a new girl. Trying to keep her all to yourself?”

  “She’s one hell of a dealer,” Jarrott said. “Fingers faster than a rifle bullet.”

  Vivian sensed that Traber’s good humor was too sincere, and she raised her guard. There was something about the smile that shone from under his gray handlebar mustache. His eyes were narrow slits and set far apart by two deep vertical wrinkles just above his sharp nose. Three long wrinkles across his forehead made him look as if he was frowning, a sharp contrast with the square teeth that beamed through thin, smiling lips. She decided that he simply had one of those faces.

  “Susanna,” Jarrott continued. “Like you to meet two business associates. Floyd Traber and Judd Hall.”

  Traber nodded without altering his strange smile, and Hall touched the brim of his hat.

  “Susanna worked the Barbary Coast until an unfortunate political squabble got her boss in trouble,” Jarrott explained. “San Francisco’s bad luck was my good fortune.”

  “You must have run into Denny O’Riley, then?” Traber said.

  “You must mean Denny O’Brien, Mr. Traber,” Vivian said, allowing a smile that signaled Traber that she’d caught on to his amateurish interrogation.

  “The Emperor must still be up to his old tricks,” Jarrott continued.

  Vivian thought fast, her heart skipping a beat. She’d only worked two small scams in San Francisco before the law had caused her and her partner to make an unscheduled departure in the middle of the night. Then it hit her. “Norton the First!” she exclaimed. “Last I knew, he was still printing money.”

  “Beautiful city,” T
raber said wistfully. “There was a place—”

  “Mr. Traber,” Vivian said bluntly. “Do I sense that I am under interrogation?”

  “Susanna,” Jarrott groaned, obviously distressed by her challenge.

  “It’s all right, Sherm. Pays to be careful. I don’t mind the lady’s feisty manner. It’s a refreshing change.”

  Vivian smiled and looked toward Judd Hall. His face remained stone, bent nose and all.

  After several minutes of small talk, Traber popped out of his chair and motioned to his hired thug. He daintily kissed Vivian’s hand, and the pair departed with no further fanfare.

  “Damn, Susanna. I wish you hadn’t barged in like that!” Jarrott said the moment they’d gone.

  “Sherm,” Vivian pouted as she stepped forward and encircled the casino owner with her arms. “I just wanted to see if you were interested in a late dinner.”

  “No harm done,” Jarrott said, becoming his old self now that the wiry white-haired man had departed. He took off his glasses and set them on his desk.

  “Why does he make you so tense?” she asked as she walked behind Jarrott.

  “He doesn’t bother me!” Jarrott insisted.

  Vivian grabbed the firm muscle in his shoulder and began to massage his back.

  “You’ve got a strong back,” Vivian said in a sonorous voice. Though her opinion of him had fallen because of his sheepish performance in front of the two visitors, he was still a desirable hunk of man. After soiling her hands earlier, she figured she might as well proceed to soften up Jarrott. Traber and the stumpy bodyguard, she assumed, must know everything Jarrott does. She doubted that the casino owner had the guts to keep anything from the slit-eyed crime boss.

  After a minute, Jarrott rolled away from her grasp and pulled her into his arms. Then he leaned forward and gently touched his lips to hers. She encouraged him by pressing her pelvis hard against his hardening member and probing his mouth with her tongue. Jarrott’s gentleness was soon reduced to animal urgency, and he pulled her dress over her shoulder and down far enough to cause a breast to spring free. His lips left her mouth and clamped on an erect nipple.

  “Oooo. God, Sherm, that feels good,” Vivian groaned as she toyed with the long, curly and soft hair on the back of his head. “But Sherm . . . Oooo,” she went on, only partly acting. “But we can’t do anything tonight. I’m . . . sorry.”

  “What?” Jarrott said, dropping the nipple from his lips.

  “Bad time of the month. And I’m cursed with a horrible flow.”

  “Jesus,” Jarrott moaned.

  She figured that he would be squeamish, and for that she was thankful. She wanted to work him up to it slowly. She wanted to hold off long enough to fog up his mind with desire so that he might become slack and say something he shouldn’t.

  “Sorry,” she said, backing away and gently and slowly palming her breast back into her dress.

  Jarrott was bug-eyed at the sight of the slender hand tucking away the large firm orb.

  Vivian smiled. Magic, she thought to herself. Then something made her think of Judd Hall and his devil eyes. She guessed that he was one man who wouldn’t be fooled by magic.

  NINE

  Ain’t been here an hour and I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church,” Kirk muttered from his position on a small ledge.

  “Shut up, Kirk!” Pearl shouted. “That goddamned stage will be here any minute. And keep that square head of yours down!”

  Tallman wiped the sweat from his brow and replaced his hat. He smiled at the way Pearl commanded her troops. She’d give any experienced Army major a run for his money. “Some woman,” he muttered to himself as he looked down on the narrow and steep upgrade. There was no better place for an ambush in all of Picacho Pass. He wondered what she might have done if she had set her mind and energy to earning an honest living. As it was, he was out to see her hang. And there was no profit in that.

  “Here they come,” Pearl said, just as Tallman heard the faint thunder of twenty-four hooves. “Do like you have been told, and no one will get hurt!”

  Tallman’s heart began to speed up as the noise of the stage grew louder. He was acutely aware that he was in the midst of a bunch of half-crazed killers. And he remembered Pearl’s warning about the Wells Fargo guard. Anything could happen.

  Just as the team of six snorting and straining horses rounded the final bend at a slow trot, Doc jumped into the middle of the road and leveled his Winchester on the guard. Tallman, positioned on a high vantage point, behind a row of boulders, had been told to take a bead on the guard and kill him if it even looked like he was going for Doc.

  “Stop!” Doc shouted to the driver, his voice serious and tense. “One move and you’ll be eatin’ lunch with the devil.”

  The driver instinctively reined in the horses when he caught sight of the man in the road.

  Then Tallman saw the guard thumb the double hammers on his shotgun. Hoping to avoid killing, he fired at the top of the guard’s hat. Thanks to his skill and a dash of luck, the guard’s hat flew as if snatched by a fly fisherman’s errant cast. “Don’t move mister,” Tallman growled as the shotgunner looked in the direction of the blast. “I’ll put the next one in your goddamn ear!”

  The wide-eyed guard set the double barrel in his lap and slowly moved his hands away from the weapon.

  “Clear,” Tallman shouted.

  Then Jake and Pearl stepped from the large fissure that had been their cover. Like the rest of the gang, she had a bandanna on her face. But her large hat was pulled down over her eyes, she’d bound her chest in torn bedsheets, and she said nothing. Jake held the horses and trained his revolver on the driver, while Pearl held her Remington on the guard.

  “Clear,” Doc shouted to Kirk.

  Once he’d heard Doc’s voice, Kirk hopped down off a waist-high ledge behind the stage and ran forward with the two-foot crowbar. As he approached the coach, Doc moved to the door and ordered the two passengers to get out and lie face down in the road. The older of the two had a dark, weathered face and was dressed like a lifelong miner. He seemed unmoved by the unfolding robbery. The other, obviously some sort of itinerant peddler, was scared white and breathless.

  As the salesman went face down, Pearl calmly walked around the far side of the coach. Without warning, she quickly raised her .36-caliber Remington and shot the Wells Fargo guard in the side. The team jumped, each horse straining to go its own way, and the guard pitched forward and fell seven feet to the road.

  Tallman froze, his mind momentarily dulled by the savage act.

  “Goddamn,” Kirk grunted in a matter-of-fact tone when he saw the guard hit the dirt. As the man began writhing, churning up a small pool of red mud, Kirk looked in Pearl’s glazed eyes, once again amazed at how she could pleasure at such a sight. Then she leveled the .36 on the man’s crotch and fired again, sending a slug into his balls. Kirk, having had enough of her savagery, jumped into the coach and began prying up the coach floor.

  When Tallman heard the second shot, the ghastly grunting that followed, and then saw the guard’s boot heel digging at the road, he had to make a snap decision. Though he couldn’t see where Pearl had shot the man, it was obvious that her lead was meant to torture, not to kill. He was in a position to revenge the brutal act and stop the gang for good. From his perch, he could kill Jake, Kirk, and Doc in an instant and hope for a better shot at Pearl. But he was sure that the people at the top would find more highwaymen with little effort.

  “Hurry up!” Jake shouted as the restless team tugged at his grip. “Goddamn horses are gettin’ skittish.”

  Cursing the decision, Tallman decided to accept the grisly scene. However, at that moment, he swore he’d not rest until Pearl and her boys were fitted for a pine suit or awaiting the hangman’s trapdoor.

  In only a few minutes, Kirk had ripped up the floorboards and thrown the heavy box out of the right side of the coach.

  “Hey, boys!” Doc bellowed from the other side of the sta
ge. “The drummer just pissed his britches. Think I ought to shoot the son-of-a-bitch!”

  No one answered Stroud, as Jake was busy with the six horses and Pearl and Kirk were intent on opening the strongbox. Pearl fired three slugs into the locked brass latch before it fell from the hard-wood box. Kirk bent over and lifted the lid.

  “Well, ain’t that pretty,” Kirk said as he spied eight canvas bags bulging with coin.

  Pearl snatched four of the bags and headed for the cleft in the rocks. Kirk sensed her urgency and followed suit, stepping wide of the guard, whose eyes burned with pain and helplessness as his bootheel continued to dig.

  After Kirk and Pearl had vanished, Doc eyeballed the driver. “See that feller up in them rocks?” he said as he pointed to Tallman. “He’s going to keep you in his sights for a few minutes. You seen how he shot the man’s hat off, so you know he can shoot you in the fucking ear if he wants,” Doc went on, enjoying his speech. “And you, drummer! Stop your goddamned cryin’ before I shoot you in the asshole for givin’ manhood a bad name. Keep quiet like your buddy here.” Then he kicked the blubbering traveler in the side, signaled Jake to back away, and moved toward the slit in the rocks.

  Tallman wondered if the scarfaced Doc Stroud would give manhood a bad name when they walked him up the stairs to see the hangman. “Probably piss a river,” he said quietly. In his day, he’d seen a few Doc Strouds approach the gallows, and most did.

  As Jake, Doc, and Kirk slugged popskull rye and laughed about the drummer who’d peed his pants, Tallman sat quietly, sipping his cheap whiskey, and watching Pearl carefully arrange the stacks of coins into three distinct groups. She fondled the metal as a mother might touch a newborn child.

  “Gaawd damn,” she finally said, her words sounding oddly like an orgiastic moan. “Twenty-four thousand! Just like the man said. That makes eight for you boys.” Her words were soft and her eyes were locked on the yellow metal.

  “How does that tickle your fancy, Hoodoo?” Doc whooped after Pearl had divided the money. “Not bad for a day’s work.”