Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  They eyed his rough attire: battered Stetson, a worn rancher’s coat, and a loose neck-kerchief. What they couldn’t see was his shoulder holster and his No. 3 nestled inside.

  “And you are?” Billy asked. A bit of Irish lilt warred with the enunciated tones of a Californian. Not a hint of Brummie.

  “A man with connections in England of the type you’re impersonating. They don’t take kindly to that sort of thing, Mr. Blackburn. Now a word if you will.” He looked to the two other men at the table, and jerked his head to the side.

  Obvious confusion flashed across their eyes. One didn’t meet a cowboy claiming to have connections to an Irish street gang in England every day.

  Billy nodded to his friends, who vacated the table. Riot took a moment to study the framed photographs on the wall he faced—all of posing ladies of the line in various states of undress. The frames were polished and so was the glass.

  “You best not be wasting my time,” Billy said.

  “I hope the same can be said of my own time. I’m not with the police, and I’m not working with Mr. Kane.”

  “Then who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I’m a private detective.”

  Billy tensed.

  “Running won’t get you anywhere, Mr. Blackburn. Trust me. I want a few questions answered, then I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening.”

  “You have some bollocks coming in here.”

  Riot glanced around the room. “It’s a popular place.”

  “It’s my turf.”

  “Then you shouldn’t mind answering my questions.”

  “I don’t have to answer anything.”

  “You don’t have to,” he agreed. “But I guarantee you’ll tire of me and my agents shadowing your every move.”

  “You with the Pinkertons?”

  “Something like that.”

  Billy rubbed his chin, then shrugged. “I have nothing to hide. Shoot.”

  Riot cocked a grin at the turn of phrase, and Billy’s cheek twitched. “The dead fellow in room 136.”

  “I don’t know nothing about a dead fellow.”

  “He died on your floor. On your watch. Then you took off that same night. It’s looking bad for you, Mr. Blackburn.”

  “No, it don’t, ’cause I left. I got tired of working there. Long hours, shit whiskey, and drunk cows.”

  “Those same drunk cows, along with your employer, might think you an easy scapegoat. Now the police haven’t caught wind of your name, but I have.” Riot let that sink in. “Tell me what happened and I’ll keep your name quiet.”

  “You’re full of piss and wind.”

  “Humor me, Mr. Blackburn, and I’ll make it worth your time.” Riot slid a five dollar bill onto the table, and tapped a finger on it.

  Billy licked his lips, then after a moment of thought, shrugged. “What the hell,” he muttered. “I didn’t kill that fellow. I don’t even know his name. Came in a while back asking for a Japanese whore. I pointed him to two of the ladies. He looks in the first room I show him, then asks after the second. Peeks in there and goes inside. After twenty minutes or so, he comes out. He must’ve liked what he got, ’cause he came again the next week.”

  Riot continued to tap his finger on the bill.

  “That time, I heard a scuffle. The bell rang once, so I walked over and peeked through the peephole and saw two men going at it.”

  “What do you mean ‘going at it’? Sex or fighting?”

  “Hard to tell when two cocks are having a tumble.”

  “What did the other man look like?”

  “Fancy, like the dead fellow.”

  “Be more specific, Mr. Blackburn.”

  “Those rooms are dark. I really can’t say.”

  “Were the lights turned off?”

  “Maybe. Some women turn off the lights when they want privacy. There’s also bad wiring in some of those rooms. Whatever the reason, there was only a candle.”

  “Where was the woman?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  Riot had a knack for reading people. He could pick up on a tell in seconds. Billy’s tell was in the puffed up way he held his chest. The man was trying his hardest to be confident in the lies he was spouting through his teeth.

  Riot shifted his coat, and took out his billfold. “Now why don’t you tell me what really happened. That’d be ten dollars for your time, or I’ll haul you to the police station. It’s your choice.”

  Riot laid down another five dollar bill. Billy licked his lips, but his eyes weren’t on the bills. It was on Riot’s billfold.

  “You’re not with the Pinkertons.”

  “I never said I was.”

  “I think you’re lying all around.”

  “I’m not a lawman. The less you know about me, the better, Mr. Blackburn.”

  A sharp, lively whistle from the crowd caught Riot’s attention. He cocked his head at the reflections in the glass photographs.

  “Well, whatever the hell you are, you’ve found yourself in a bind,” Billy said.

  “If you’re referring to your two friends sneaking up behind me, then I suggest you order them to stop before I show you what I really am.”

  A floorboard creaked as the two men paused. “And what’s that?” Billy asked.

  “A gunfighter.”

  Billy snorted. “You’ve been reading too many dime novels. Every cowboy thinks—” Billy cut off as Riot drew his revolver, turned slightly in his chair, and fired off a shot under his arm. It happened in a blink. His bullet pegged the hand of a man holding a knife.

  The saloon didn’t miss a beat. The music kept right on going, even as customers nearby cleared out, hurrying past the man clutching his hand.

  Riot repositioned his chair, so he could keep a better eye on the trio. “What were you saying?” he asked. “That every cowboy with a gun thinks he’s fast?”

  The third man, sporting a pair of brass knuckles, took a careful step back.

  “Yes,” Billy said. “That’s what I was going to say.”

  Riot holstered his revolver. “Was it fast?” he asked the trio.

  The men hesitated.

  Riot drew again, making the men flinch. Then he spun his revolver and holstered it in a blink of an eye. “Well?” He waited for an answer.

  When the two men nodded, he looked to Billy, who readily agreed.

  Riot tucked his ten dollars back in a pocket. “I’m not a lawman, I’m not a knife fighter or a brawler. I’m a killer, Mr. Blackburn. And my patience has run out. Answer my questions or I’ll introduce you and your friends to an undertaker.”

  Billy looked to his friends and jerked his head for them to get lost. Riot watched the two out of the corner of his eye as they disappeared into the crowd, leaving a trail of blood on the sawdust.

  “It’s like I said, honest,” Billy said. “Only the two fellows were fighting.”

  “Did you get a good look at them?”

  “One was that dead fellow. The other was maybe thirty. Seen him around the hotel before. He’s a bit of a nob. Blond hair, a little mustache, fit fellow in fancy duds.”

  “Did he come out of the room?”

  “No. I didn’t see him go in either. Must’ve used the back ways.”

  “But you went in after.”

  “I did,” Billy admitted. “The oriental whore was on the floor. Her head was bleeding. Must’ve hit her head on the alarm bell, I suppose. That other fellow was dead in the bed.”

  “Was he wearing clothes?”

  “He was.”

  Riot waited for more, already guessing at what happened next.

  Billy shifted. “So I… just helped myself to his belongings. He didn’t need worldly possessions anymore.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “His billfold, pocket watch, silk necktie.” Billy gestured at the one he was wearing. “I snatched them real quick and left.”

  “Did the woman wake up?”

  “No.”


  “Did you check her pulse?”

  “No.”

  “Was she breathing?”

  “I didn’t check. It wasn’t my concern.”

  “How much cash was in the billfold?”

  Billy glared.

  “I don’t care about the money,” Riot said. “But I do care about your answer.”

  “Five hundred dollars and some change. I paid up my tab at the Nymphia, then washed my hands of the mess.”

  Riot’s stare made Billy uncomfortable. The man was trying his best to find something else to look at in the prolonged silence that followed. It was hard to ignore a predator sitting at your table, though.

  When Riot was satisfied Billy knew nothing more, he picked up his hat and settled it on his head. “You’re a despicable man, Mr. Blackburn. But I wager you know that already.” He pushed a bottle of whiskey his way.

  Billy didn’t reach for it.

  The crowd parted for Riot as he walked towards the exit. Garrett tossed down some coins on the bar and fell in step beside him.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Riot said.

  “I do what I can,” Garrett said, as they stepped out into the street. Cool air caressed Riot’s bare cheeks. The fog was heavy tonight, clinging lazily to the ground. Riot tucked back his coat, and stood for a time, taking in the street. He didn’t sense any lurking danger, so he headed down a boardwalk.

  “If you don’t mind me asking… what the hell are you, Mr. Riot?”

  “I’m still alive.”

  Garrett chuckled. “I get that. Did you find anything out?”

  “Dominic fought with another man. I wager Sakura was shoved against the wall during the fight, and hit her head on the room’s alarm bell—that or the killer knocked her out with a blow. She was left for dead. After the killer finished with Dominic, he left out the back hallways, which means he’s familiar with the layout of the hotel.”

  “What did our friend Billy do?”

  “Our friend Billy robbed Dominic. He was carrying five hundred cash and some change—the exact amount Sakura owes to the manager of the Nymphia.”

  Garrett gave a low whistle. “Surprised the killer didn’t take it.”

  “I don’t think the killer was short on cash.”

  “So who stripped our corpse naked?”

  “I have an idea.”

  52

  Proof of Divinity

  Lotario sat back in his chair, rubbing at his left shoulder. The bullet wound ached today. It usually did in the damp cold, but he couldn’t account for it today. His office was warm and dry. Perhaps he’d been hunched over too long.

  He was surrounded by a wall of newspapers, one stack marked in red, others discarded. Isobel had been right. But who was orchestrating this bit of brilliance? It wasn’t a common gang of thieves—not with the sort of elite clientele sitting in that private box at the racetrack. That realization led Lotario to a rare moral dilemma. He’d broken their cipher, and now he faced a choice.

  He picked up the telephone. “Daisy, is Mr. Tim in the office?”

  “No.”

  “Matthew?”

  “Hold on.”

  Daisy hung up, and he stared at the receiver, insulted. Footsteps approached from the hallway, then his door opened without permission.

  “It’s easier to talk face to face,” Daisy said.

  “I had the telephone put in so we wouldn’t have to walk back and forth.”

  “You make an art out of laziness, Lotario.”

  He glanced at his nails, then frowned. The tips of his fingers were stained with newspaper ink. “Shameful,” he muttered, springing up to wash his hands in an attached bathroom.

  “Miss Off is the only other one here,” Daisy said, leaning on the doorway.

  “What time is it?”

  “Closing in on seven.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “It’s not like I have anywhere to go that’s good for me.”

  “Who’s to say what’s good and what’s not?”

  “I’m here to make a new start, not to get sucked into my old ways.”

  “Hmm.” When Lotario had dried his hands, he turned to her. “Yes, but what is right and wrong? Is it better to sacrifice a single life for a greater number, or save the one and let the others die?”

  Daisy laid her head against the doorpost. “I don’t think we get to choose who lives and who dies.”

  “But if we had to.”

  “We live and die regardless. Now or later… does it matter?”

  Lotario frowned at her. “Yes.”

  “If you had to choose between me or your twin, who would you choose?”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Daisy returned. “I wouldn’t know if you chose your twin over me. I’d be dead. Death only matters to the people left behind. What’s all this about?”

  “I broke the cipher.”

  “How’s it work?”

  Lotario motioned her over to the desk, then pointed to a series of numbers—from a slip they’d copied at the racetrack. “It’s simple once you have the correct newspaper.” Lotario shuffled through his stack and slapped down a folded article. “The date on the betting slip indicates the date of a newspaper. These numbers here, represent page, column, and so forth. The name of the horse on the slip matches the initials of the target. The fee, in this case two dollars, is in thousands, I suspect. The newspaper article gives instructions for each job.”

  “With another code of some sort?”

  “No, it’s a report of a completely unrelated crime. This particular one points to an article about a robbery—the man was killed by thugs on his way home from work.”

  “And these numbers are another date?”

  “Yes, but sometimes instead of a date the numbers point to an advert about a hotel or boarding house. That’s what took me so long to work out.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Perhaps the instructions are too sensitive or too complicated. Or maybe it’s to hand over payment… I’m not positive.”

  Daisy frowned down at the numbers, then looked at a slip Tim had fished out of the garbage can. “These slips have to be prepared beforehand. Unless the men hiring killers are coming up with the instructions themselves?”

  “I don’t think so.” He tapped the betting slip. “I think it’s organized somewhere else, and then a paying customer takes a slip to the racetrack and hands it over to a middleman for delivery to someone like Monty, who then hires thugs of his own. The middleman may have no idea what the slips are.”

  “How do these rich fellows get the slips then?”

  Lotario shrugged. “The numbers could be given over a telephone line for all we know. After a customer pays at the racetrack, a slip is mailed to them, or delivered by a paid messenger boy. Even slipped through a lottery booth.”

  “It seems complicated.”

  “Not really,” Lotario mused. “Think of it in terms of whoring. A john meets with a madam, and indicates his desired scenario. He pays the madam. Then the madam selects a fitting whore. The john is given a time and place, and the whore carries out his wishes. Transaction completed. No names, no set locations, identities protected. Now imagine the john doesn’t actually meet with the madam, but indicates his pleasure over the telephone and sends payment by messenger.”

  “Except the madam knows…”

  “Yes…” Lotario said, tapping the desk. “There’s a mind behind this. It’s a brilliant system, really. If one little fish in the pond is caught in a net, there’s hardly any connections. Most would slip free. Perhaps a few underlings would be arrested, such as the actual killers, but I doubt they know the source of the pond they’re swimming in.”

  “So in the case of Mr. Riot… A man wants him dead. Instructions are given. The private bookie passes off the betting slip to the fellow at the racetrack, and it gets passed on to someone else.”

  “To Monty, who for some reason kept his betting slip. A mo
mento, I think. The instructions on his slip pointed to an article about dynamite being planted by the Molly Maguires.”

  “So then Monty hires thugs to do it.”

  “Who botch up the job. Monty likely didn’t know who wanted Atticus dead any more than we do.”

  “And as far as the men who carried out the attack know, it was Monty who wanted him dead.”

  “Exactly. All to protect their very wealthy clients. No one looks twice at a gentleman of means blowing thousands at the racetracks. It’s a perfect ‘Cleaning Service’ for the elite. I suspect it’s why Bel could never pin anything on her despicable ex-husband.”

  Daisy made a face. “I had him once. God-awful man wanted the full fantasy of an ‘unwilling virgin maid’ to mount. Thought himself a stallion. Liked it real rough. I couldn’t sit for—” Cold fury flashed across Lotario’s eyes, and she cut off, shocked. Daisy had never seen that look on his face before; she didn’t think him capable of it. “I’m sorry, Lotario…”

  “Don’t,” he snapped. “I’ll never forgive that man.”

  Daisy hesitated. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  She gestured at his office. “This.”

  “I find it mentally stimulating.”

  Daisy wasn’t buying it.

  “Yes, all right, fine,” he admitted. “Bel didn’t come to me for help. She never does. She’s always trying to protect me. Last year, she charged in and tried to take care of things herself, then ended up in over her head and trapped with a brute. I hate Alex Kingston. I hate everything he stands for. I hate bullies. Take this Ghost Organization for example…”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “I did,” Lotario sniffed.

  “It could just be a business.”

  “I prefer my term.”

  “It’s usually called a gang,” she pointed out. “I rather like the name the Molly Maguires came up with.”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “Right, so let’s catch them. We set up a trap…”

  “We’ve come back to my moral dilemma.”

  “I didn’t think you actually had those.”

  “I’ve just discovered one.” Lotario slid over a newspaper and tapped an article. “A hit is scheduled for tonight, Daisy. I have to choose between saving one man’s life or letting him die for the greater goal of gathering evidence and finding this ‘Ghost’ who will undoubtedly harm more people.”