Bounty Hunter, page 8
Simon Hogg deserved to die. But Tone would leave that pleasure to Lambert Sprague.
His immediate concern was to get Hogg to tell him where he could find Hooper and start earning his bounty money.
His mind made up, Tone left the shelter of the alley and stepped into Hogg’s place. The tavern on the ground floor was crowded with sailors and women, and the air was thick with pipe smoke, cheap perfume and the smells of sweat, spilled beer and urine, the pervading odor of every dive along the waterfront.
His watch cap pulled down to his eyebrows, collar up around his face, Tone pushed through the noisy throng, his eyes searching for Hogg. The man was nowhere in sight.
He made his way to the bar and when he caught the bartender’s attention, he asked in a gruff tone: “Hogg?”
“Who wants to know?” the man asked suspiciously,
“Mr. Hooper sent me.”
The bartender’s face cleared and he nodded to the hallway outside the tavern’s side door. “Try the kitchen.”
Tone retraced his steps, his hand on the butt of the gun in his pocket. The kitchen lay at the end of the corridor, its door ajar. Quietly he stepped inside. A gray-haired woman was at the burdened stove and when she turned and saw him, Tone jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get out,” he said.
The woman had spent too many years on the waterfront not to recognize trouble when she saw it. She threw Tone a frightened glance, then dashed past him, closing the door behind her.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hogg had seen the woman leave. He came from behind a counter and yelled, “Hey, Maria—” He stopped dead in his tracks, his face draining of color. “You!”
“Yeah, Simon, me. Now we’re going to have a few words, you and I.”
“Damn your eyes, Tone, who got you off the ship? Was it Sprague?”
“I reckon Mr. Sprague will answer that question for you very soon.”
“Captain Muller and five of his men murdered, throats cut, every man jack of them,” Hogg said. “Damn him. Only Sprague kills like that.”
Hogg had been at the counter carving slices of beef from a roast. Tone picked up a slice and chewed on it. His eyes hardened to the color of blue steel. “Hogg, I’m going to ask you a question. Whether I let you live or not depends on how you answer it.”
“Ask, and be damned to ye. And leave my meat alone. It ain’t for the like o’ you.”
Tone helped himself to another slice. “Where can I find Hooper?”
“Ah, that be your question, Mr. Tone. The answer is you can’t. But he will find you, lay to that.” Hogg’s eyes grew crafty. “I can tell you this: he’s close, and I am under his protection.”
Tone drew the revolver from his pocket. The Enfield was a self-cocker, a style of weapon he had never used. He thumbed back the hammer for a shorter trigger pull and said, “Not doing a good job of it, is he, Hogg? I could blow a hole in you right now.”
“Maybe, but you’d never get out of this place alive. I have friends here.”
It was a standoff and Tone knew it. There would be much satisfaction to be gained by putting a bullet in Hogg, but the noise of a shot would bring the innkeeper’s men running.
In the end, it was Simon Hogg who decided his own fate.
He was wearing a shabby coat over a filthy white apron. His hand blurred as it dived under the coat for his waistband. He threw the knife with a quick back-hand motion, a technique much practiced among blade fighters.
But Tone had the gunfighter’s fast reactions. He moved his head to the right, only an inch or less. But it was enough that the blade missed his left eye and cut a bloody groove across his temple.
Tone fired and Hogg, hit square in the chest at a distance of three yards by the big .476 bullet, lurched back, his face unbelieving, mystified at the manner of his death. The man plunged into eternity with that expression on his face, dying as miserably and uselessly as he’d lived.
Feet pounded in the hallway outside. Tone fired a couple of fast shots through the door that brought the charge to a sudden halt.
There was a back entrance to the kitchen and Tone plunged through the door into an alley, the air vile from the smell of the outhouse and a huge pile of stinking garbage.
Tone looked around, then moved to his left into a canyon of darkness. Behind him men were yelling and a shot rang out. But the bullet came nowhere near Tone and he figured it was some drunken rooster firing at phantoms.
He flattened himself against a wall, his gun up and ready, and waited a moment, planning his next move. He did not relish returning to the silken prison of the Chinatown brothel, but he could not remain on the waterfront.
He had only one choice and he knew it: he must find Luther Penman’s office and let the shrewd lawyer plan his strategy.
The man would consider him a failure, since all six men he’d been contracted to kill were still alive and seemingly more powerful than ever. It was a bitter pill, but all Tone could do was swallow it.
Moving farther along the alley, shrouded in inky blackness, he took a narrow passageway between two warehouse buildings and walked into a parked wagon, cursing when he banged his shin on an iron-rimmed wheel.
He stopped and rubbed his aching leg as he listened to the night. There was no sound of pursuit. It seemed that the threat of his dangerous gun and the darkness had taken all the fun out of the chase.
Walking carefully along the arroyo between the soaring warehouses, Tone finally emerged onto a busy street, jammed with horse-drawn vehicles of all kinds and constant foot traffic.
He’d left the waterfront behind him. Ahead lay the residential, commercial and financial hub of San Francisco with its fine, tall buildings, tree-shaded streets and row on row of bright electric arc lamps.
But where, in a city of three hundred thousand people, could he find Luther Penman?
Away from the waterfront, sailors were rare enough in the city, and Tone’s watch cap and peacoat drew more attention than he would have liked. He tried a couple of saloons, asking after Penman, but a sailorman with no money to buy drink garnered little response.
Finally a friendly bartender told him there were some law offices on Washington Street and gave him directions to get there.
Unlike the denizens of the Barbary Coast, most people in downtown San Francisco paid their taxes and went to bed early. The streets were fairly quiet as Tone followed the bartender’s directions, walking under streetlamps that turned the falling drizzle into a shimmering cascade of shining needles.
Head bent against the rain, Tone almost bumped into a tall, burly man in blue.
“Here, watch where you’re going, boyo,” the big cop said.
Tone mumbled an apology and tried to walk around the man, but an arm as big and solid as a pine trunk shot out and stopped him in his tracks.
“Not so fast,” the officer said. “What are you doing so far from the waterfront, and you a sailorman as all can see?”
Tone decided on two things: to tell the truth and revive his brogue.
“I’m looking for my lawyer’s office, your worship, and that’s a fact.”
The policemen had a face as red and round as a ball and small, twinkling blue eyes that showed a deal of humor. “And what would a poor mariner be wantin’ with a lawyer, I ask meself.”
Tone lied easily. “An inheritance, a small one, just a few hundred pounds left to me by an uncle in Ireland.”
If the cop doubted that story he didn’t let it show. “And what would your name be, boyo?”
“John Tone, from County Wicklow.”
“Tone is an honorable name, to be sure.” The cop’s face hardened. “Why did you leave the auld country? Or did you jump ship? Answer that question, then answer another: if you did jump ship, why would you have an American lawyer?”
Again Tone settled for the truth. “I left because of the Troubles. The rebellion of sixty-seven was crushed and the English were hanging men and women all over poor Ireland. I killed some British soldiers and had to flee to America.”
The big cop was silent for a few moments, then said, “So, you didn’t jump ship, then?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And I’ll wager you’re not a sailorman.” The man’s face brightened. “Maybe you still fight for the cause from afar?”
Tone let a significant silence answer the question, and it seemed to be confirmation enough for the officer. “Walk with me, John Tone,” he said.
“As far as Washington Street,” Tone said. “I was told there are law offices there.”
The cop smiled. “And what if I told you I was running you in?”
“For what? Being on the street?”
“Vagrancy. Loitering with intent. I could find something.”
“Are you running me in?”
This time the officer laughed. “No. I’ll walk with you to Washington Street. Auld Ireland has lost enough of her heroes as it is.”
A few people hurried past in the street, most sheltering under umbrellas that glided through the rain like gigantic bats. Cabs rattled by on the wet road, the flames of their oil side lamps fluttering, drawn by blinkered horses that looked underfed and overworked.
Washington Street was a wide boulevard, lined with plum trees, its residential and commercial buildings built in the Second Empire style, inspired by the opulent architecture of Paris.
Polished brass plaques were affixed to many of the doors Tone passed, announcing that the occupants were physicians, architects, engineers and attorneys. But none bore the name Luther Penman.
“Then here’s what you do, John,” the cop said. “No, wait, let me ask you first if you have money for a hotel room.”
Tone smiled and shook his head. “I have money in a bank in Reno, Nevada, but not here. I didn’t expect to spend so much time in San Francisco.”
“Then you’ll sleep in the doorway of one of the offices, and come morning when the attorney shows up for work you’ll ask him where you can find your lawyer friend.” The man winked. “Lawyers know other lawyers. And so they should, given the time they spend bickering with each other in court.”
The cop put his hand on Tone’s shoulder, a friendly gesture he had not expected. “I’ll be sure to pass this way several times tonight to check on you. Footpads are always about, and so too are the Hoodlum Gang, a nasty lot of young thugs, female as well as male, who rob and kill all over the city. I’ll be watching for them most of all, and so should you. Sleep light and be on guard. If you see them, you’ll know who they are. They wear hoods, the scoundrels, and add ‘lum’ to every word that comes out of their lying mouths.”
Short of getting arrested, Tone had no better suggestion than a doorway to offer, and the rain was falling heavier, fat drops ticking from the branches of the plum trees. He found the deep portico of a lawyer’s office that offered shelter and settled into a corner.
He looked up at the cop. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“Ah, me name is Thomas O’Brien, so it is.”
“An honorable name.”
O’Brien nodded. “And I should think so, since it was the one borne by the high kings of Ireland.” The big cop raised a hand. “Now I’ll bid ye good night, John Tone. I must be about my duties.”
“Thank you,” Tone said.
“No thanks needed, since it’s little enough I’ve given you, a doorway to sleep in on a cold, rainy night.”
“It’s enough.”
O’Brien waved again, then walked into the splintered darkness, light from the arc lamps gleaming on his wet shoulders.
Cramped and stiff, Tone eventually found an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of dead whores and Hoodlums.
Chapter 13
Someone was shaking his shoulder. John Tone woke up with a start, his hand reaching for the gun in his pocket.
Officer Thomas O’Brien saw the motion and smiled. “The British are not at the gates. It’s only me.”
Tone rose to his feet, stretched and groaned the kinks out of his back. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven, and time I was getting home or Mrs. O’Brien will take a stick to me, fine woman that she is.” The cop held out a thick ceramic mug. “A dish of hot tea. And here”—he reached into his pocket and produced a bread roll—“it’s got butter and a nice slice o’ ham. As good a breakfast as any and better than most.”
For a few moments O’Brien watched Tone eat hungrily, then asked, “Did you sleep well?”
“I dreamed that Hoodlums were chasing me.”
“Better to dream of Hoodlums than meet them for real.”
Tone smiled. “I guess so.”
O’Brien sounded apologetic. “I have to wait for the mug, since I took it from the station and I’ll have to return it. They count them, you know.”
Tone drained his tea and finished off his sandwich. He handed the mug to O’Brien and thanked the man again.
“Ah, well, it’s me for my bed,” the cop said. “I expect the lawyer”—he peered at the plaque on the door—“Mr. Matthew Petty, Attorney-at-Law to the Gentry, will be here shortly to point you in the right direction.” O’Brien stuck out his hand. “Well, good luck to you, John Tone. And when you return to Ireland, stay well clear of an English noose.”
Tone said he’d bear that in mind, and when the cop left he huddled in the doorway again. It was still raining.
The lawyer showed up an hour later, a small, bent man with white hair and a sour expression. He was startled when he spotted Tone, and then frightened.
“Who are you, and what do you want with me?” he asked, his voice quavering.
For his part, Tone understood the man’s anxiety. A huge, unshaven and rough-looking sailor blocking his doorway was not a thing Mr. Mathew Petty, Attorney-at-Law to the Gentry, would encounter every day.
Tone stood where he was, not wanting to alarm the man further. “I’m looking for a lawyer,” he said quickly.
The old man threw up his hands. “No, no, I can’t take on any new cases for at least a twelve-month.”
“His name is Luther Penman,” Tone persisted.
Recognition dawned on the lawyer’s crabbed face. “I know him. He’s a shady character and a sodomite who should have been run out of San Francisco on a rail years ago. What business do you have with Penman?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“His establishment is on Grant Street.” Petty pointed to the west. “Two blocks that way.” He managed a smile. “If I were you, I’d count my fingers after I leave his office. And my toes. Now, will you step aside and give me the road?”
“I’m obliged for the information,” Tone said, stepping down to the sidewalk.
Petty’s harsh voice stopped him. “Remember what I told you, young man—to his everlasting shame, Penman is a damned sodomite.”
Luther Penman’s office was one of four businesses crammed into a two-story brick building huddled behind a hostile spiked iron fence. His door was to the left of the lobby, a wooden sign affixed to its front that said only:L. PENMAN, ATTORNEY
Tone knocked, then pushed on the brass handle. The door, locked from the inside, didn’t budge. He rapped the heavy oak with his knuckles.
After a few moments a small, timorous voice asked, “Who is it?”
“Tell Mr. Penman it’s John Tone.”
Tone waited, then heard footsteps scuttle behind the door. It swung open and a small, worn-looking man with thin black hair and sad brown eyes waved him inside.
Having recently read Mr. Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, Tone grinned at the man and said, “Your name wouldn’t be Bob Cratchit, would it?”
The little man either missed the reference or thought it wasn’t funny because he didn’t crack a smile. “No, sir, my name is Barnabas Dale. I’m Mr. Penman’s clerk.”
He almost bowed. “This way, please.”
Dale led Tone into a dusty office, every available surface piled high with books and legal briefs. There was an oil portrait of a stern Civil War officer on one wall and for a reason known only to Penman, an oval print of old Queen Vic, looking even sterner, on the other.
The lawyer rose from behind a parapet of legal tomes, the morning light gleaming on his glasses and the scalp of his skull head. “Barnabas,” he said, “find Mr. Tone a chair. Then shut the door, but stay close. I will need you later.”
The clerk did as he was told, and when he’d quietly shut the door behind him, Penman said, “Why are you here?”
The office was cold, the lawyer chilly and rain trickled down the windowpanes like a widow woman’s tears.
“By this time I think you probably know.”
“Don’t speak to me of probabilities, Mr. Tone,” Penman said, baring his yellow teeth. “I don’t deal in probabilities. Give me the facts. Now, I ask you again: why are you here?”
Tone fought to overcome his dislike for the man, then recounted how he’d been kidnapped by the banker Edward J. Hooper and later rescued by a Chinese Tong leader. Then he told how he’d been forced to kill the traitorous Simon Hogg.
Penman listened in silence. When Tone was finished, he waved a dismissive hand. “Hogg was of no importance, but the fact that Hooper can now recognize you is.” The man looked at Tone over his steepled fingers. “All six of the men you’ve been contracted to kill are now in the Barbary Coast, and they’ve already moved to take over Mr. Sprague’s business interests along the waterfront. Unless he’s changed his plans, Mr. Sprague is scheduled to arrive two days from now and he is determined to fight for what is his. Consider the revenues from opium, prostitution, slave running and gambling alone and you will comprehend that a vast fortune is at stake. There will be war and Mr. Sprague will need your gun.”
“I can’t go back to the waterfront,” Tone protested. “As you said, Hooper knows who I am and his men will be on the lookout. I won’t get near him, or the others.”
Penman nodded. “Not in your present . . . ah, persona. But you can go back as a Chinese coolie.”
The lawyer’s words were so shocking, so unexpected, that Tone laughed. “Damn it, man, I’m six foot four inches tall and weigh about two hundred and fifty pounds!”
