Cold-Blooded, page 10
Luke’s face stilled in thought, then, “Seems like I heard that name before, years ago. Topper . . . Topper . . .” He shook his head. “No, I can’t recollect, but it will come back to me.”
“We should be ready to open next week,” Koenig said. Then, “No hard feelings, Luke?”
“You mean about Banjo Tom? I thought you’d hang me for sure, get rid of a partner and move in on his business.”
“I don’t work that way,” Koenig said. “We shook on our deal and a man can’t go back on that.”
Luke nodded and said, “No hard feelings.”
Koenig carried the oil lamp to the door and blew it out before he and Luke stepped outside and locked the door. “Hey, you got to see this,” he said.
Two torches, almost as tall as a man, stood on each side of the Green Buddha entryway, held upright by iron sconces. “They’re fueled by oil,” Koenig said. “Watch this.” He reached into his pocket, found a match and thumbed it into flame.
The bullet hit a split second later.
As Koenig and Luke dived for the dirt the lead spaaaanged! off one of the sconces and set it ringing. Koenig’s Colt was in his hand. “See anything?” he said.
“Not a damn thing. It’s as dark as the inside of a boot.”
Another shot. A probing bullet that kicked up dirt and grass a few feet from where Koenig lay.
Luke, not a long-fused man, got up on one knee and yelled, “Show yourself and fight like a man, you damned yellow-bellied son of a bitch.”
A derisive laugh sounded from somewhere in the gloom, followed by another bullet that drove Luke to the ground again.
Koenig fired, then dusted two shots to the left and right of his target.
“I saw his gun flare,” he said.
“Did you hit him?” Luke said.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Koenig said.
“Maybe we can Injun over there.”
“Better than lying here. Let’s do it.”
The two men began a slow crawl across bottle-strewn waste ground. Then Luke cursed softly. “Damn, I think I bellied over a dog shit.”
“Good,” Koenig said. “You’ll smell better.”
After ten yards Koenig stopped and said, “See anything?”
“No, and I’ve had enough of this Injun crap. I’d rather die on my feet like a man.”
Luke pushed himself erect just as a woman screamed and a man yelled, “What the hell?”
* * *
“Your bullet didn’t do much for his looks, but do you recognize him?” Luke Short said.
“Yeah, I recognize him,” Kurt Koenig said, his face bitter. “It’s Cole Danvers.”
“I thought he was one of your boys,” Luke said.
“So did I,” Koenig said.
“One of your bullets went right through our house, Mr. Koenig,” the man who’d called out said. His dark-haired wife clung to him and she looked dumbly at the corpse’s bloody face.
“I didn’t hurt anybody, did I?” Koenig said.
The man shook his head. “No, my two youngest sleep in dresser drawers in the bedroom but the bullet hit the ceiling above them.”
Koenig reached into his pocket, brought out some coins and handed the man a double eagle. “This will pay for the damages,” he said. He knew twenty dollars was probably more than this working man earned in a month, but he felt guilty about the young ’uns in the drawers.
And he was devastated by Cole Danvers’s treachery.
“He was in the Silver Garter and heard me tell Destiny I was headed to the Green Buddha to meet you,” Koenig said to Luke. “And he heard me say I was planning to light the lamps.”
“He should have waited a couple of minutes, then he could’ve nailed you for sure,” Luke said.
“Yeah, he hurried the shot—nerves, I guess—and it done for him,” Koenig said. He shook his head, his handsome face bleak. “Hell, Luke, I liked the man.”
“I know. That always makes a killing harder, when you’re shooting at a feller you like. I felt that way about Jim Courtright, thought he was just fine. But he was a tad excitable, like your dead man.”
“This way, Sheriff,” a woman’s voice said. The dark-haired wife stepped out of the door and Jess Casey followed her. To Koenig she said, “I was out front talking to the neighbors when he asked me if I heard the shooting. I hope I done right, Mr. Koenig.”
“You did just fine,” Luke said.
“I heard the shooting, figured that it came from the direction of the Green Buddha and knew you two must be involved,” Jess said.
He kneeled and studied the dead man. “I don’t know him,” he said.
“His name is Cole Danvers,” Koenig said. “He worked for me. At least I thought he did up until tonight.”
“Who killed him?” Jess said.
“I did. He didn’t give me any choice,” Koenig said. “He took a pot at me from out of the darkness and I fired back.”
“Middle of the forehead,” Jess said. “That’s good shooting.”
“I got lucky,” Koenig said.
“Damn, what’s that smell?” Jess said.
“I crawled through dog shit,” Luke said.
“You’re gonna be real popular in the street,” Jess said. Then to Koenig, “If Danvers was one of your boys, why did he try to kill you?”
“Did you put him up to it, Jess?” Koenig said.
“I sure didn’t.”
“Then I don’t know.”
“I’ll send somebody for Big Sal,” Jess said. “Get the body out of here.”
A shooting star burned a scarlet scar across the face of the night sky and reflected in Jess’s eyes. “Unlucky for somebody,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A hansom cab drawn by a gray horse splashed through a rare midsummer rain and stopped outside the forbidding bulk of an abandoned warehouse.
For a moment the cab stood motionless but then rocked on its springs as a tall man wearing a canvas slicker and a plug hat alighted, followed by a second figure dressed in a long black coat with a velvet collar. Like his companion he wore a bowler.
The man in black said something to the cabbie that made the man nod and then the tall man stepped beside him, his gun hand inside his slicker. “This must be the place, Mr. Thurgood,” he said. “I don’t see any other warehouses around.”
“This is the place, all right,” Gideon Thurgood said. “Stay close.”
Somewhere a clock struck midnight and the rain chattered to a gusting south wind. The warehouse was constructed of corrugated iron and had once been given a coat of orange paint to cover rust.
Thurgood stepped to the door. It was closed with a crude, hand-forged shutter bolt, and he said to the tall man, “Open it, Gabe.”
The man drew the bolt then pushed the metal door open. The hinges screeched as the door moved several feet then stopped, leaning inward on its hinges. “Let me, Mr. Thurgood,” Gabe said. “It’s as dark as hell in there.” He reached into his slicker, pulled his Colt from a shoulder holster and stepped inside.
Thurgood followed. “I can’t see a damned thing, Mr. Steel,” he said.
“Maybe they’re all gone,” Gabe Steel said.
“No, I was assured that they’re here, all right. But I thought they’d be easier to find. Let us proceed with caution.”
Steel took one cautious step, his eyes searching a wall of darkness, then another . . .
A clattering, clanging, clashing clamor rang around the warehouse followed by the hoarse shout of a man and the thud of feet pounding on wooden stairs.
“Trip wire,” Steel said. “Damn, I walked right into it.”
“Who goes there?” a man’s voice from Steel’s right said.
“We’re friends,” Thurgood yelled quickly.
Lantern light bobbed and several men came into view, half hidden in the gloom. “Who are you? And state your intentions,” a man said.
“My name is Gideon Thurgood. My intention is to talk business with Mr. Jasper Dunn.”
“Who sent you here?” the man said.
“Attorney-at-law Mr. Jethro Tull. We have a mutual friend, it seems.”
“I’m Dunn,” the man said. “Walk this way and tell the gun to holster his iron.”
“Do as he says, Gabe,” Thurgood said. “At this early stage of the game we can’t afford any unpleasantness.”
Thurgood and Steel followed Jasper Dunn down a flight of rickety wooden steps to the shadowy basement area, lit by a few oil lamps. Stepping over the recumbent bodies of sleeping men, he led the way to a corner where a cot was set up and a desk and chairs.
“Sit,” Dunn said. He was flanked by a couple of armed men, one of them the fast gun Silas Topper and the other Ford Talon holding a sawed-off scattergun. Dunn waited until the two visitors were seated, then said, “Proceed, and I hope for your sake I like what I hear.”
Thurgood’s face looked as though yellowed parchment had been stretched tight over his skull. His eyes were as gray as a sea mist and were without warmth. He took a silver cigar case from his pocket, selected a thin cheroot and placed it between his lips. Steel quickly lit it for him. Behind a haze of blue smoke he introduced himself, then said, “A new drug, Mr. Dunn. Come now, have you not heard about it?”
“Can’t say as I have,” Dunn said.
“It’s made from opium and was first produced in Germany as a medicine and like opium and morphine is perfectly legal in the United States. But it is easy to make and the craving it causes is intense. Once the opium hounds get a taste for it, you can charge what you want,” Thurgood said. He clenched his white, bony hand into a fist. “Mr. Dunn, you can squeeze them dry and make a fortune.”
Jasper Dunn was wary. “Why are you telling me this?” he said, his eyes guarded.
“Because the smart money is on you to become the new big auger in this town. Or have I been wrongly informed?”
“Who is the informer?” Dunn said.
“Why, Jethro Tull, of course. I understand he liberated three of your men from jail yesterday. He’s a very sharp fellow, knows where all the bodies are buried.”
“Where can I get this stuff?” Dunn said.
“The short answer is from me,” Thurgood said. “I will not reveal my sources at this time. Let me just say they are located west of the Mississippi and are eager to get started.”
“Who are you, mister?” Dunn said. “What are you?”
“You already know my name. By profession I’m an itinerant hangman, but I grow weary of travel. I just hanged a poisoner in Houston who’d recently toured Europe and in exchange for a clean drop, he told me about his use of this new drug and how it was made.”
“So you came to Fort Worth looking for me,” Dunn said.
“Not immediately,” Thurgood said. “Fort Worth was recommended to me as a wide-open town. I wrote to my friend Mr. Tull and he confirmed that fact, especially the area named Hell’s Half Acre, and he told me about you and your convict army.” The hangman’s wide mouth stretched in a smile, revealing teeth like yellowed ivory piano keys. “How could I resist? Mr. Dunn, you’re poised to walk a wide path and I want to be a part of it.”
“How much a part of it?” Dunn said.
“I come with a guarantee,” Thurgood said. “After the first shipment of merchandise arrives by rail, I will stay in Fort Worth for three months. If you don’t realize a considerable profit by that time I will leave and no hard feelings.”
“And if there is a big profit, what’s your take?” Dunn said.
“Fifty percent of all sales.”
Dunn slammed back in his chair. “That’s not a go.” He glanced at Ford Talon. “What do you think?”
“Fifty percent of something is better than fifty percent of nothing,” Talon said. “He may be right. Your initial cash outlay will be relatively small and the profit margin in the Acre alone could be huge.”
“If after three months there is no profit just walk away from it, Mr. Dunn,” Thurgood said. “You have nothing to lose.”
“If there is no profit you have everything to lose, Thurgood,” Dunn said. “Starting with your life.”
Gabe Steel stiffened, then pushed back from the desk.
Dunn smiled. “The gun is nervous.”
Thurgood smiled. “Mr. Steel is overly protective. It’s his job. Do we have a deal?”
“All right, a deal,” Dunn said. “And remember, if this doesn’t work out like you say it will, it’s your neck, hangman.”
* * *
“Walk with me, Major Talon,” Jasper Dunn said after Thurgood left.
Preceded by Talon, he walked up the stairs into the dark warehouse. Dunn stepped to the door and pulled it open. “I’ve always loved the rain,” he said, gazing out at the downpour. “Though it’s rare enough in Texas.”
“You didn’t bring me up here to discuss the weather,” Talon said.
“No, I didn’t.” Dunn didn’t take his eyes off the rain. “Cole Danvers is dead.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“I sent him to kill Kurt Koenig and he failed.”
“Koenig is not an easy man to kill.”
Dunn ignored that and said, “Things are shaping up, Talon. What do you think about Thurgood?”
“He means what he says.”
Dunn nodded. “Seems like.” Then, “Koenig and Luke Short still stand in my way. One way or another they have to go.”
“With Koenig and Short there’s only one way—you have to kill them.”
“Then we must make that a priority. What about the sheriff . . . what’s his name?”
“Jess Casey.” Talon treaded carefully. “He can keep.”
Dunn nodded. “Good. So long as he doesn’t get in my way he can live for a while longer. Leave me now.”
Jasper Dunn stepped outside, spread his arms and turned his face to the falling rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
At fifteen minutes past midnight as Jasper Dunn plotted with Gideon Thurgood, fate brought three people together on a rainy, pitch-black night at a most unlikely place, the city’s Oakwood Cemetery.
It had not been Sheriff Jess Casey’s intention to wander far from Main Street. Despite the foul night and the late hour the stalwarts of the Acre’s sporting crowd and those who preyed on them were very much in evidence and the Acre still showed snap.
The rain glistening on his slicker, Jess did his appointed rounds, walking as far north as the White Elephant, where Luke Short, smelling better, gave him a cool welcome. “Hell, why don’t you stay home,” he said. “There’s a better lawman than you on duty tonight.”
“Rain slowing business, huh?” Jess said.
“Look around you,” Luke said. “I couldn’t give booze away.”
Jess stepped outside where a woman in a rain cape had apparently been waiting for him. “Sheriff, this maybe nothing,” she said.
“But,” Jess said, smiling.
“Well, I saw Flora Lynch carrying her lantern and start toward the cemetery like she does,” the woman said.
“She does that often?” Jess said.
“No, not often.” The woman was older and had tired brown eyes. “She’s been tetched in the head this five year since her husband and two young ’uns were taken by the cholera. On the anniversary of their deaths she visits their graves at night and kneels and prays and cries until sunup.”
“Why at night?” Jess said.
“God help us, all three died at the midnight hour.”
“You want me to bring her back . . . ah . . .”
“Mrs. Baggerly, Sheriff. Edith Baggerly. My old man, Mr. Baggerly, delivers firewood. Do you know him?” She saw the lack of recognition in Jess’s face and said, “Ah well, never mind, but the thing is Mrs. Lynch was being followed by a man, and real sneaky he was, keeping to the shadows, like.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Big man. Wearing a cowboy coat like yours and a bowler hat, Sheriff.”
“Maybe it was just a feller going home in the same direction, trying to stay out of the rain,” Jess said.
“Maybe so. But Flora Lynch is still a fine-looking woman and I worry about her so. If you ask me, that man was up to no good.”
Mrs. Baggerly’s concern was real and Jess decided to take her seriously. “I’ll take a walk up that way and make sure she’s all right,” he said.
“Bless you, Sheriff,” Mrs. Baggerly said. “I feel so much safer now with a lawman around who listens to ordinary people like me.”
“You’re very welcome, ma’am,” Jess said. “You can depend on me.”
In fact the last thing in the world Jess wanted was to walk up to a dark graveyard after midnight in a teeming rain to rescue a crazy lady.
* * *
When Jess Casey stepped through the cemetery gates he loosened the Colt in his holster and his eyes probed the darkness. He saw nothing but the looming branches of the wild oaks and the steel needles of the slanting rain. There was no wind to speak of and the only sound was the snake hiss of the downpour . . . and a woman’s sobs.
Jess looked around him in an attempt to pinpoint the direction of Flora Lynch. It could be no one else. He walked into the cemetery and passed a small aboveground tomb flanked by grieving angels. Rain poured down the cheeks of the angels like tears, as though their sorrow at the death of a child was too much to bear.
“Mrs. Lynch! Are you there?” Jess called out.
No answer. But the sobbing continued, a woman in such terrible distress it made Jess’s skin crawl. He walked on, his eyes and ears reaching out into the rain-torn night. He walked under oaks that ticked water onto the shoulders of his slicker and the air smelled of leaf mold and rotten vegetation, and gibbering things crawled in the grass but Jess couldn’t see them.
“Mrs. Lynch!”
No answer.
The rain hissed like a baby dragon revealed by an upturned rock. Jess came to a wide, graveled path that left the main route through the cemetery at a right angle. He stopped and looked along the footpath, a tunnel of blackness with a dim pinpoint of light in the distance. His boots crunching on gravel, Jess walked toward the light, rain falling around him. The sobs, heart-wrenching and prolonged, grew louder with his every step.
