Crossfire

by Matt Braun

  “Damn! . . . Damn nice,” Traber wheezed as he watched Vivian’s orgasm.

  Vivian opened her eyes, quickly regaining her composure. Traber stood above her, his limp cock dangling from his skinny body.

  “You like that, Floyd?” Cindy asked as she lapped the juices from Vivian’s crotch. “Did I do good?”

  Traber didn’t answer, his face a mask. He turned on his bony heel, went to the closet, and emerged with a small whip for each of the girls.

  “Get up,” he ordered.

  Before Vivian had a chance to comprehend the moment, Cindy popped out of bed and took the whips, giving one to Vivian.

  Crack.

  The first stroke she laid on his taut ass sounded like .22-caliber gunfire.

  Snap. She hit the front of his legs just below his meat.

  Crack. And she left a red stripe on his white ass.

  “You,” Traber grunted, looking at Vivian. “Hit me.”

  Vivian took the whip and laced the beanpole vice boss on the back. Cindy was now laying softer strokes on his penis, which was swelling with desire. After several strokes, a bright red head popped out of his baggy foreskin.

  “Harder!” he demanded as he took the hard-on in his fist and began pumping the eight-inch rod, which looked grossly out of proportion to the rest of his body.

  The two girls continued to whip him as he danced in pain, jolted about the room by the whipstrokes, pounding his own long shaft.

  The lashing grew in intensity and Vivian was truly tiring when he began to grunt and splash his seed on the floor.

  “Stop,” the queer saloon girl said. “He’s going.”

  With a pained look he hammered his cock until the last drop ran down his hand. Then he fell on the bed.

  “You two sleep here tonight,” he sighed as he slapped the sheets on each side.

  The two naked women exchanged a quick glance of disgust and then complied.

  For more than an hour, Vivian lay awake, worrying about Tallman and waiting for Traber and the girl to fall into a deep sleep so that she could get away.

  As she was lying there nude, the bullet-marked stage was a half hour out of Tucson, coming slowly with its morbid cargo, three dead outlaws and a dead Wells Fargo guard. The rain had started, a steady downpour.

  In order to check, she rolled abruptly in the bed. Neither the firm-bodied saloon girl or Traber said anything or seemed to stir.

  “Asleep,” she said.

  Neither answered.

  Still nude, she slipped from the bed and stood quietly over the silent pair. Assured that they were asleep, she poked her head through the door and surveyed the hallway. Nothing stirred.

  Her soft steps and an occasional creak in the floor were muffled by the drumming of the rain on the wooden shingles. She turned into Traber’s study and stood quietly for a moment. Not hearing a sound, she closed the door and walked to his desk. She lit a match and put the kerosene lamp as low as it would go. The light reminded her of her nudity and left her feeling vulnerable. She wished she’d brought the derringer.

  The third drawer she checked yielded paydirt, a leather-bound ledger that appeared to be his personal record of collections and payoffs.

  Judd Hall, who lived in a room in the attached carriage house, was cleaning his rifle when he saw the light and the nude silhouette of a woman. At first he sighed, thinking the boss was up to his odd tricks. For some reason, at that moment he recalled one smart-assed whore who had threatened to blackmail Traber the year before. Hall had raped her and then slowly beat her to death. But, after a minute of staring at the nude form, his addled mind comprehended that the light was in Traber’s private office. He slid his Remington .36 revolver from its worn leather and snuck into the house.

  Vivian gasped when she looked up to find herself staring at a pistol muzzle and the twisted face of Judd Hall.

  “What the hell you doin’ in here?” he growled, his eyes lapping her firm, upsloping breasts and the neat triangle of hair.

  “Floyd sent me looking for ah . . . ah . . . another whip.”

  “Don’t look like no whip to me,” he grunted when he eyed the ledger. “Mr. Traber!” he shouted. “Mr. Traber? You in there!”

  Vivian’s heart pounded when she saw Traber run into the room tying his robe.

  “What the—?” he said, his eyes glowing with surprise.

  “Sorry, boss. But did you send her in here? Sorry to bother you, but it looked like she was snoopin’!”

  Traber looked down and saw his open ledger. He walked up and slapped her so hard she toppled backward and fell spread-eagle. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  He reached down, grabbed her hair, pulled her upright, and punched her in the right breast.

  Vivian bent double in pain and fell back again.

  “I asked you, woman,” he spat. “What were you doin’ in my books?”

  Vivian, dazed by the painful blow in the chest, sensed that she’d die unless she could come up with something.

  “Just trying to get ahead, Floyd,” she said, getting to her knees. “Jesus Christ. I just figured if I knew something, I might get a small piece of the action.”

  Traber was about to hit Vivian again when Cindy gasped at the sight from the office doorway.

  “You go home,” Traber said after he turned toward the sound. “And remember! You haven’t been here tonight!”

  Vivian had gotten to her feet, and her eyes pleaded for help from Cindy.

  “I haven’t been here,” she said as she abruptly broke Vivian’s gaze and darted toward the bedroom.

  “Wait until the skinny bitch is gone, Judd. Then bring this whore into the bedroom,” Traber said as he turned to leave. “We’ll find out what she’s up to.”

  Hall, smelling like a two-day-old corpse, grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back, and stuck his revolver in his belt. “You’re going to be fun,” he said as he torqued her arm further and squeezed her nipples with his free hand.

  “You scum,” Vivian spat.

  Then she screamed as he bent her arm just short of the breaking point and squeezed her breast with a viselike grip. “We’ll see who’s going to die . . . bitch.”

  After the frightened saloon girl scurried by half-dressed, Hall walked Vivian into the bedroom.

  “Tie her to the bed, Judd, and find out why she’s here.”

  “I told you why, Floyd,” she pleaded. “I want in!”

  Traber simply pulled out the four velvet-lined shackles that were chained to the bed and nodded to Hall, who then shoved Vivian to the bed and put his knee in her belly. When she tried to fight, Hall punched her in the temple with his fist.

  She looked up and saw Traber’s sharp angled face through a haze. Then his form became clear. Her head pounded with pain. Conscious again, she jerked her arms and legs. She was secured to the four posts of the bed. Her head hurt so badly that she could hardly think.

  “Now tell me what the hell you’re doing here. Make it easy on yourself, Susanna . . . or whoever you are.”

  “I told you—”

  Traber nodded and Hall slapped her breasts with a leather riding crop. Her flesh quivered and turned pink instantly. Her mind was swimming. She was drowning, and it seemed that nothing would save her but some story that would make her an undisputable link in a takeover.

  “You perverted slime,” she said. Then she spat at him. “I’m not telling you a goddamn thing. But you can be sure that your days as king of the hill are numbered, and—”

  Hall whipped her again, twice on the face.

  “Ahhh,” she groaned. “And when my friends find out about this, you’re going to be strung up by that rubbery cock of yours.”

  Hall punched her in the belly.

  “Just who are your friends?”

  “Shit in your hat, you nutless slit,” she growled as spittle and vomit dripped from the corner of her mouth.

  Hall raised his fist to punch her again when Traber stopped him.

  “N
ot so fast, Judd,” he said as he walked to his closet. “Let’s go slowly.”

  “I wanna kill this bitch, Mr. Traber.”

  “I understand, Judd. But let’s do it slowly. It’s more fun that way.” He walked toward the bed with a wooden-handled whip that had twenty-two-foot leather thongs. “We’ll take her hide slowly.”

  Hall laughed like an imbecile and took the whip.

  As Traber stood over the bed with a crazed look on his face, Hall stroked Vivian lightly with the deadly device, which would slowly peel her hide.

  “That’s right, Judd. Start easy. We got all night.”

  EIGHTEEN

  At almost the same moment Vivian had discovered the ledger, Tallman came through the door of the Wells Fargo office.

  “Did you get the bastards?” Oldham asked eagerly.

  “All but one,” Tallman said as he slapped his soggy Stetson on his leg. “Goddamn woman got away.”

  “Jesus. What’ll we do now?”

  “Stay loose, Perry. I’ve got a new plan. We’ll just go fishing again.”

  “Where are the outlaws you captured?” Oldham asked, his voice weary from lack of sleep.

  Two of the Wells Fargo Express guards came in at that moment, and lowered their eyes when they saw Oldham.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  “Lost Merlin,” one guard said, his voice almost inaudible. “Sorry, boss.”

  “The woman shot him,” Tallman added. “He never knew what happened.”

  “But we got the others, boss,” the same guard added. “All three toes-up and on their way to Willingham’s Funeral Parlor this very minute.”

  His broad shoulders sagged under the weight of his loss. “God,” he sighed. “We’ve lost five good men and Wes is crippled and still might die.”

  “We’re dealing with low-life, Perry,” Tallman added. “I’m sorry.”

  Oldham asked for details and Tallman recounted the whole story, including the unfortunate escape of Pearl Bowen.

  “I’ll wire headquarters,” he said, after listening to the tale. “I’m going to try to get authority to keep you on this case if it takes ten goddamned years. I want Pearl Bowen’s hide nailed to a barn door.”

  “Hang on to your britches, Perry. We’ll get Pearl. But in the meantime I want Jarrott. He’s next up the line,” Tallman said. “He’s facing the gallows on conspiracy to commit murder. He’ll talk rather than dance before the good folks of Tucson. We’ll promise him that we’ll put in a good word with the judge.”

  “Why not Traber?” Oldham shouted as he popped out of the chair. “Let’s quit messing around. I can’t keep those two tied up in the broom closet forever. We’ve lost that bitch killer, let’s not risk losing the mastermind!”

  While they argued the issue, the third express guard returned and reported that each of the three outlaws was at rest in a three-dollar pine box, ready for a trip to pauper’s hill. Oldham began to argue that all six of them ought to go for Traber. But Tallman insisted that he would be more effective alone.

  “Well shit on my bootheel,” Oldham finally sighed. “You’re the expert. Do it your way. But I’m telling you, I’m coming with my men if this isn’t tied up by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Tallman gave Oldham a thin smile, but his eyes revealed his distaste for Oldham’s idea of a frontal assault. He stood quietly, lit a cheroot, and walked toward the door, talking as he left, his back to the Wells Fargo district manager.

  “Perry, you kill Jarrott, or Traber, or anyone else for that matter, and you’ll be the one swinging. You will look mighty sheepish in court without one thread of evidence. Keep in mind who’s running this town.” The door closed with a thud.

  Tallman slapped through the mud as he crossed to the plankwalk on the other side of the street, his head tilted into the heavy rain. He was relieved that Oldham wasn’t going to launch a frontal assault on the Buena Suerte. That would have meant big trouble.

  After a short, soggy walk, he’d made his way to the casino. Once inside he shook off his rain slicker and panned the room, looking for Vivian. He spotted Jarrott’s bald head circulating in the crowd and assumed that he had no knowledge of the botched holdup. Tallman gave it a half hour. The word would spread like wildfire, as the stage robberies had become a major topic of barroom prattle. To many, those sour souls who devote their energy to blaming others for their own bungled lives, the stage robbers had become heroes who heaped a welcome misery on the bankers, the merchants, and Wells Fargo.

  “Whiskey,” he said as he bellied up to the bar.

  “You look like a drowned cat, mister,” the barkeep said in jest as he poured a shot so full it flowed over the glass.

  “Feel like one,” Tallman said after he bolted the cheap whiskey and planted the glass. “Do that again.”

  As the bartender poured, a scantily clad drink hustler approached. “Buy a girl a drink?” she asked.

  “And one for the lady,” Tallman added.

  “Your usual, Melinda?” the barman asked.

  “Sure.”

  He poured sugar water from a brand-name tequila bottle.

  “Thought I’d visit that bitch, Lady Luck. See what she’s got in store for me,” he said as he sipped his second shot, and eyed her sagging breasts. “But I don’t see my favorite dealer.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The lady dealer.”

  “You too!”

  “What?”

  “She’s got all you dudes going. Girl can’t hardly make a living in here since Susanna snaked into town.”

  “She ain’t workin’ tonight?” Tallman asked.

  “Night off. No doubt she still gets her pay, though.”

  “Damn, thought she said Thursday was her night off,” Tallman sighed.

  “It is. But lately it’s any night Traber wants to play his fruity games.”

  “Goddamn!” Tallman exclaimed. “Traber! She’s movin’ fast.”

  “You got that square, cowboy. And old Sherm just weasels every time that creep Judd Hall wags his finger at Susanna.”

  “Again tonight?”

  “Yeah. ’Course, truth be known, I don’t envy her none over at Traber’s house. We hear stories. A real cockroach. He can’t do like most men, if you get my drift.”

  Tallman raised his eyebrows and sipped. He was suddenly concerned about Vivian. With Pearl loose, anything could happen. Even though Hoodoo Dunn had no connection with Susanna Duncan, Traber would look at every angle when he found out about the foiled robbery.

  “Speakin’ of doin’ like a man,” the bargirl said as she moved close enough to squish her soft drooping breasts on Tallman’s arm. “I’ll be off in a couple of hours, maybe by two or three.”

  “Well, now,” Tallman said with a smile. “I just might take you out for an early breakfast. But first I’m goin’ to my room to get out of these here soggy duds.” He tipped his wet hat and walked toward the front door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the floor manager, Obie Stallybrass, coming down the stairs like a man running from fire. Tallman turned, stopped, and pulled a slender cigar from his shirt pocket. The hurried man made his way quickly toward Jarrott through the loud and beligerent crowd. Once he had the casino owner’s attention, he jabbered wildly and pointed up to the balcony that overlooked the floor.

  Jarrott’s expression turned sour and he headed for the stairs.

  Tallman stepped onto the boardwalk and quickly assessed his options. Although it could have been something else, something told Tallman that Jarrott was, at that moment, learning of the stage ambush, probably from one of Traber’s people. If Traber knew, Vivian might be in trouble.

  Tallman made a snap decision and set off on a run toward Traber’s house.

  NINETEEN

  While Jarrott ran up his stairs, across town, Traber and Hall had decided that flogging their captive was getting them nowhere. So Hall was heating a spoon over the chimney on the kerosene lamp. “Can we start with them titties?” Hall
asked his crazed master, with a maniacal smile.

  “Why sure, Judd. Not too hot at first.”

  Vivian’s heart pounded at the thought of being disfigured by Hall’s hot spoon.

  Jarrott bolted through his office door. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” he commanded.

  “We got trouble. The stage job went sour today. Doc, Kirk, and Jake are all dead.”

  Jarrott was thinking, rubbing his chin. “That’s good.”

  “Good!” Pearl shouted. “You fuckin’ crazy!”

  “Good that there’s no witnesses, Pearl,” he added quickly. He knew Pearl was a cold-blooded murderess, and his mind had already conceived the fact that heads were going to roll when Traber found out. “Calm down and tell me what the hell happened.”

  “Probably a Pinkerton or a Wells Fargo undercover agent. Some slick who called himself Hoodoo Dunn helped us on the last job. It was him who led the ambush. And he ain’t no amateur. They opened fire and killed Jake and Kirk right off. I shot some big son-of-a-bitch who was ridin’ shotgun.” Her eyes twinkled as she told Jarrott the details of her head shot. “Fuckin’ nice shot,” she repeated three times.

  Jarrott moved to his desk, sat down, and quickly assessed his predicament. If Dunn, the undercover man, had gotten inside, someone else had to be inside the operation unless one of the three dead outlaws had talked.

  “Any of your people have a loose tongue?”

  “I’d bet against it,” Pearl said.

  “How did this son-of-a-bitch get inside, then? Nobody knew about this but me, my contact at Wells Fargo, and you. No one!”

  “Bullshit,” Pearl growled. “That bastard Hoodoo Dunn didn’t appear out of the goddamn thin air.”

  “Were you followed?” Jarrott asked, wiping beads of sweat from his almost bald head.

  “No.”

  “Sure?”