Crossfire

by Matt Braun

  Vivian ducked her chin and raised her eyebrows as she walked to the bed. Though she was able to ignore all convention and use the mysteries of the flesh to dangle most men at the end of a string, Tallman stirred her juices in a different way. She was drawn to his animal magnetism, his self-assurance, and the calm determination with which he marched to his own drummer. She felt her face flush as she sat on the bed, took the half-burned cigarette from his hand and squashed it in the hammered-brass ashtray. She pulled him back on the goose down and gently pressed her warm soft lips to his, her tongue gently probing. She backed off to say something, when he clamped his hand over her mouth.

  “Quiet!” he whispered, his voice overflowing with urgency. “I heard something at the door.”

  As he rolled quietly off the bed, he snatched his Colt from its leather. Once his feet were firmly on the floor, he bolted from the bed and opened the door. He caught a glimpse of a man disappearing down the staircase, three steps at a time. He knew the snoop.

  “We got trouble,” he said in a rapid-fire voice.

  “What!”

  “Someone at the door,” he said as he grabbed his hat and holster. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Tallman darted into the street, which was illuminated by the light-gray pre-dawn eastern sky. He saw nothing, but on instinct he turned right and began to move slowly toward Tucson’s vice district. If he didn’t find the man who rode the distinctive brown-on-white paint, he’d have to close the case, putting only Pearl and her bunch out of action. Just as he was passing the first alley, a drunk stirred on the plankwalk on the other side of the street. Tallman turned, leveling his drawn revolver in the direction of the sound.

  “One move, mister,” a voice said from the shadows in the alley at his back. “Even breathe heavy and you’ll die screamin’.”

  “Easy does it,” Tallman said. “I ain’t got no money.”

  “Not your money I’m interested in. Now back into this here alley and don’t try to move that hogleg.”

  Tallman did what he was told.

  “Now drop that Colt,” the man ordered, once Tallman had backed into the shadows. “Easy like.”

  Tallman winced as the fine weapon thunked in the dirt.

  “Now how about you turn around and tell me what you are doin’ in Tucson. First I seen you followin’ me earlier, and now I hear you talkin’ bullshit about Jarrott and Traber with that lady card slick.”

  “Got somethin’ against a man gettin’ a piece of ass?” Tallman growled at the nameless rider, hoping for some sort of edge.

  “Seems to me like you got more than a piece of ass goin’ with the dealer. Sounded like detective talk to me. What say we go over and see Mr. Traber so’s you can explain about your piece of ass to him. Somethin’ tells me that when I tell him what I heard, you ain’t goin’ to see no more sunsets.” The rider sounded as if he could and would kill at the slightest provocation. “Now move!”

  Tallman, surmising that the rider had talked to no one, decided he had to make a move now or die later. As he turned to walk away, he pressed his forearm to his side. The hideout rig released the little .41 derringer. He spun away just as the metal hit his palm, leveled the gun, and fired. The little derringer exploded right in the man’s chest, the muzzle only inches away. The shot made only an eerie thump, silenced by clothing and exploding meat. Tallman’s assailant opened his mouth as if to scream, gunsmoke curled from his lips, and he pitched backward as if his legs had been chopped away at the knees. The smoking corpse hit the ground like a grain sack dropped from a six-foot loading platform.

  The Pinkerton agent looked carefully around the edge of the building. Satisfied that he’d not been seen, he grabbed his Colt from the dirt and turned to the body.

  After several moments of contemplation, he crouched down, turned the outlaw’s pockets, and fled with the dead man’s coin, billfold, and watch.

  ELEVEN

  By the time he made his way carefully to the livery, the eastern sky was light, outlining the eight-thousand-foot peaks of the Rincón Range. At the well behind the stable, he raised a bucket of water and washed several spots of gelled blood from his hand and face. After cleaning up, he dropped the dead man’s watch in the well and buried the billfold deep in the steamy manure pile after pocketing the banknotes and coin.

  Assured that he had erased any trace of his part in the killing, he entered the barn, walked quietly past the snoring Mexican, looked in on his horse, and then retrieved his bedroll and saddlebags from the warped wooden shelf next to the rack that held his saddle.

  After a twenty-minute walk, he found a suitable four-bit hotel and strolled casually into the lobby.

  “You come with the sun, señor,” the desk clerk said cheerfully.

  “Something like that, amigo,” Tallman muttered. “How about a room?”

  “Sí, señor. Feefty cents. One night.”

  “Got a bath?”

  The clerk pointed to a door across from the desk. “Feefty cents.”

  “Make the bath hot and use fresh water and you can keep the change,” Tallman said as he thumped two silver dollars on the marred wooden counter.

  “Síii, señor,” the clerk responded as he put one dollar in the tin box under the counter and the other in his pocket. “Quince minutos.”

  After a bath, a shave, and a long breakfast, Tallman made his way to Commercial Street and bought a dark-gray pinstripe suit, a black bowler, lace-up high-top shoes, several shirts, and a fancy suit bag made of supple brown leather.

  Back in his hotel room, he carefully slicked back his hair after adding a wisp of gray to either side. Using spirit gum, he then attached a stubby gray-red mustache. His plain-glass silver-wire spectacles in place, he stood back from the mirror and chuckled out loud at his handiwork. Over the years he had become a master of disguise and an actor worthy of any big-city stage production. Aside from the risk, the money, and the fast-changing pace of life his work provided, he found great amusement in casting himself as a hard case, an inept drummer, or some vain, blowhard captain of industry and finance. Doing good was, of course, not a moving force in his life. His mission was a far cry from a personal crusade to rid the world of the likes of Pearl Bowen and her little kiddies. He jammed an expensive cigar in the corner of his mouth and laughed once more at what he saw in the mirror.

  Once he had attached the .41 hideout derringer and had stuffed his stubby .41 Colt New Line into its spring-loaded leather, he donned the dark-gray jacket and straightened the black-and-maroon bow tie. The black bowler completed the transformation. He was Cyrus Purdy, Chicago mining speculator.

  His disguise complete, he stuffed his long-barrel revolver, holster, boots, and other things into the new suit bag and quietly departed the third-rate hotel by the back stairs.

  An hour later Cyrus Purdy had registered at the Governor Hotel and settled into his room.

  “Mr. Oldham in?” Tallman asked the clerk at the shipping desk. It was fifteen minutes after noon.

  “Yes . . . but . . .”

  “Well, I’ll just surprise him,” Tallman said as he walked toward Oldham’s office door with the well-practiced strut of someone important. “Can’t be too busy to see an old friend.”

  Tallman opened the door and entered the office before the elderly clerk had backed away from his paper-cluttered desk.

  “It’s me. Tallman,” he whispered as he closed the door.

  Oldham, momentarily taken aback, quickly regained his composure when he understood.

  “Cyrus Purdy, mining speculator.”

  “I daresay you look like one,” Oldham chuckled. “That’s a hell of a getup.”

  After they exchanged greetings and a minute of small talk, Tallman launched into an explanation of what had unfolded since their meeting in Santa Fe.

  “Traber,” Oldham repeated quietly as he nodded up and down. “You might have something there. Though I can’t think of any connection between Traber and anyone in my office.”

&n
bsp; “What do you know about the man?”

  “Nothing for sure. But the rumors run hot and fast. Most say he’s Tucson’s vice czar. Takes a cut on all the saloons, whorehouses, and gaming dives. Word has it that he is in deep with the politicos down at the courthouse.”

  Tallman recalled what Vivian had said about the mayor’s blackjack winnings as he fired up an expensive cheroot.

  “Does the mayor run the town with an iron fist?”

  “Not really. He’s mostly a backslapper and baby-kisser. Real gasbag. God knows how he gets elected, but he does. I always thought the Trabers and Jarrotts of the world somehow kept him in office. Folks say Oscar Westfall is kept in line with wine, women, and coin. Gather he can’t keep his hands off the ladies.”

  “Can’t figure it. Slicks like Traber don’t usually get themselves in that deep,” Tallman said as he savored the taste of the slender cigar. “Somehow it’s out of character.”

  “Greed is never out of character, Mr. Tallman.”

  “You got a point, Perry. Nothing carved in stone that says a whoremaster can’t be a stage robber.”

  Oldham shrugged.

  “I’ll put money on Traber,” Tallman said. “Nothing else to go on at the moment. I’ll see you again as soon as I have something to go on.”

  “You know where to find me.” Oldham paused and his face went sour. “One more thing.” He looked Tallman in the eyes. “That guard they shot up.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was one of my best men and a good friend. We rode shotgun together years ago. As far as I am concerned, you can plant every one of those bastards and save the cost of a trial.”

  Tallman tipped his bowler, allowed a wry smile, and left the office.

  Sherm Jarrott was leaning on the bar complaining to the barkeep about the recent property-tax increases. He had just finished a cold draught when Traber and his goon walked through the door. The casino owner told the bartender what to deliver and then he led the odd couple to his personal table in the far corner.

  Vivian saw Traber’s entrance and noted that Cyrus Purdy entered two minutes later, ordered a beer, and sat in on a poker game not far from Jarrott’s table. She smiled at the disguise and felt a surge of warmth in her loins as she recalled the meeting they’d had earlier.

  Tallman listened carefully but he could only make out a few words. TRABER: I don’t like it. JARROTT: . . . probably . . . took . . . money and watch. TRABER: . . . something not right. HALL: Murphy never . . . on him. He assumed that they were talking about the dead messenger. The morning paper had it as a late-night robbery and murder. They’d named the victim as Jimmy Murphy, address unknown. Tallman noticed that Traber had an aura of danger about his skinny frame. He guessed that Traber was as deadly as a coiled diamondback.

  Vivian had waited for a half hour before signaling the floor manager for relief.

  “Sherm,” Vivian said as she approached the private table. “I’m going to take a few minutes to go to my hotel room.” Then she turned to Traber. “How are you this evening?”

  “Just fine, Susanna. Won’t you have a drink with us first? Sherm’s got the good stuff out.”

  “No, thanks, Mr. Traber.”

  “Floyd,” Traber said softly. “Mr. Traber was my father.”

  Poor son-of-a-bitch, Vivian thought to herself. Imagine a son like that! “Maybe later.”

  “I’ve got a better idea yet. How about supper at my place?”

  “Floyd,” Jarrott intervened. “You planning to eat at four A.M.? ’Cause I can’t let you have my top dealer till then.”

  Vivian saw Traber glare at Jarrott for an instant before speaking. “How about eleven?” he asked. “My place.”

  “I’d love to. But I’ll be working late, like Sherm said.” She was delighted to be able to drive a wedge between the two.

  “Sherm doesn’t mind,” he said as his eyes shifted from hers to Jarrott’s. The bent-nosed tree stump added his malicious stare. “Do you, Sherm?”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Jarrott said, smiling as he remembered that she had her period. Hope you choke to death on the blood, you skinny fuck, Jarrott thought to himself. He longed for the day when he would build the nerve to kill Traber.

  “Well, thank you, Sherm,” Vivian said. “Eleven it is, Floyd.”

  As Vivian walked away from the table, she caught a sly smile in the corner of Tallman’s mouth. She could see that he was pleased with her easy moves. She frowned, letting him know that she was not going to find any pleasure in being with the tall, gray-topped snake. The fact that the sharp-nosed vice boss might want to get under her petticoat made her shudder.

  TWELVE

  Tallman tipped his black bowler at the hotel clerk as he walked past the front desk.

  “Morning, Mr. Purdy,” the often-tipped clerk answered when he caught the gesture.

  The sun was just coming over the mountains as he stepped off the boardwalk to cross the street. The blue sky was void of clouds. He took a deep breath of the morning air and set off to the livery at a brisk walk.

  After a ten-minute ride in the rented buggy, he found what he was looking for. A two-foot-long sign, gold leaf on dark blue, hung over the door: TRABER & COMPANY, LTD., REAL ESTATE. The white board-and-batten building was carefully trimmed in the same dark blue that was used on the sign. Numerous potted flowers hung from the porch roof.

  Tallman quickly surveyed the street, which was bordered with commercial establishments. He sighed relief when he saw the Poste y Dehesa within sight of the real-estate office. With his stomach begging for a heavy breakfast, he quickly secured the much-used horse and carriage. His run of luck continuing, Tallman got a window seat, found a once-used copy of the morning Tucson Freeman on the table, and noticed that the breakfast special was a three-egg cheese-and-chili omelette served with biscuits and a half-pound chunk of tenderloin. Somehow, he never managed a sound meal when on the job. The breakfast would partly make up for that flaw in his line of work.

  As he awaited his meal, sipped black coffee, and watched Traber’s office, he reflected on his late-night meeting with Vivian. She’d found Traber the perfect gentleman, but she’d learned nothing. They had gone to Tucson’s best steak house and talked for two hours about everything but business. Vivian had claimed that her subtle attempts to beguile Traber into loosening his lips had all failed. Sensing something menacing about the wiry vice boss, she had been careful to pry gently.

  Just as Tallman was shaking his head in admiration of the way Vivian had taken to the detective business on this, their second assignment, Traber and Judd Hall pulled up to the real-estate office in a buckboard towed by a matched pair of sixteen-hand chestnuts, each with four white stockings. The uncommon duo mounted the steps and disappeared into the building.

  Tallman watched the office and savored the tenderloin, the spicy eggs, and the biscuits, hoping Traber would take his time, leaving him enough time to finish the only good meal he’d had in days.

  His luck held. Two hours later, the sharp-faced vice czar and his henchman left the real-estate office in the expensive buggy.

  Tallman slapped a silver dollar and a quarter on the table in payment of the ninety-cent meal and moved quickly toward the door.

  Careful to stay as far from Hall and Traber as possible, he followed them through the now teeming business district to the southwest side of Tucson. After he observed several stops from side streets, it soon became obvious that the pair was making collections. Hall went in alone if the whorehouse or saloon was extremely sleazy, but usually, as a pair, they entered with an air of confidence and determination and came out minutes later counting coin or banknotes. After Traber made a quick entry in a small black book he kept in his vest pocket, they were off to another saloon or gaming dive.

  By the time Hall emerged from a place labeled simply DANCE DRINKS, Tallman had had enough. The Arizona sun was beginning to cook his brain.

  After they had pulled away, he wheeled his rickety rental buggy an
d old horse out of the side street from which he had been observing the pair of extortionists and headed back to the restaurant that overlooked Traber’s real-estate office. He assumed they would return to Traber’s place of business soon, as they had only two or three more stops before they’d covered all the joints in the vice district.

  As he was nursing a cold beer and savoring a hot steak, onion, and cheese sandwich, Traber and his flunky tied up the matched pair at the rail in front of the real-estate office. Tallman was sure that Traber was Tucson’s vice lord, but he still had nothing to tie the lanky gray-topped man to Pearl Bowen. And time was running short. He recalled Pearl’s suggestion that they might have another holdup before the week’s end. The food suddenly seemed less appealing as he reflected on the way the guard had tumbled head first from the coach and how she had shot his balls off with not one second of remorse. He mused that she’d look good at the end of a rope . . . if it got that far. As he sipped his beer he wondered if he hadn’t got into a box canyon. Without some sort of hard evidence linking Traber, Jarrott, and Pearl, none of the outlaws would ever see the insides of a courthouse. “There are other ways,” he said to the table.

  “What?” the pretty black-haired waitress asked.

  “Nothing,” Tallman replied, looking up at the young woman. “Talking to spirits.”

  “Oh.” The girl seemed to believe him. She paused before passing the handsome mining speculator on her way to get him another beer.

  Just as he was about to chomp down on the last bite of the sandwich, Mayor Westfall waddled up the street and into Traber’s office.

  One and a half beers later, the chubby mayor stepped onto the boardwalk and stuffed a bulky envelope into his vest pocket.

  Tallman left money on the red tablecloth and quickly left the Poste y Dehesa. Since Westfall was on foot and the streets were jammed with people, stalking the man was a simple task. Tallman followed the cherub-faced politician to his first stop, the Tucson Safe Deposit & Trust, the town’s biggest bank. After a short stop there and numerous sidewalk interruptions for superficial conversations, handshakes, and backslapping, he made his way to the offices of Purdue, Hunt, and Pour, Lawyers. And twenty minutes after departing the law firm, he entered Maybell’s, an establishment that was obviously the classiest whorehouse in Tucson.