Cold-Blooded, page 13
“How do we play it, boss?” Talon lashed.
“We move in on him, demand ninety percent of his business, he refuses and we run him out of town or kill him, whatever is the more convenient at the time.”
“When?” Talon said.
Dunn frowned. “A questioning man, aren’t you, Talon?”
“I like to be ready,” Talon said.
“The walls have ears,” Dunn said. “When the time is right, I’ll tell you. But it will be soon. I mean within the next couple of days soon.”
* * *
“He was a pimp, ran maybe three or four girls,” the landlady said. Her name was Mrs. Orpha Brown. “This is how I found him this morning.”
“What was his name?” Jess Casey said.
“Archie somebody or other. He kept to himself, paid his rent on time and I never asked for his last name.” She crossed her arms under her plump bust and said, “Well, I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.”
The late Archie, dressed in pants and a shirt, sprawled across his bed. There was no sign of a struggle and nothing to suggest that the man had committed suicide.
Jess was visiting Nate Levy in his hotel room and Dr. Arthur Bell was in attendance when Mrs. Brown came looking for him. Nate, declaring that he was no longer an invalid, insisted on accompanying Jess “to keep him out of trouble.”
“He’s been dead for at least eight hours,” Dr. Bell said. “Hello, what have we here?” The physician examined the inside of Archie’s forearms. “Looks like he used morphine.”
“Is that what killed him?” Jess said.
“It’s not out of the question. Too much morphine and the breathing slows and eventually stops.”
Nate Levy, who had been poking around the shabby room, picked up some items off the wood floor. “What’s this stuff, Doc?” he said.
“Lay it on the table there,” Bell said. One by one he examined a syringe, a soupspoon and a candle. He sniffed. “Smells like vinegar.”
“He was injecting vinegar?” Nate said. He was pale but looked well.
“Unlikely,” the doctor said. “I believe he melted something in the spoon, then used the syringe to inject it into his arm. It wasn’t morphine, but something else.”
“Any idea what it was?” Jess said, ice in his belly.
Dr. Bell shook his head. “No, Sheriff Casey, I have no idea. A drug, certainly, but not one I’m familiar with.”
“It’s a new drug, Doctor,” Jess said.
“Certainly a new one on me.”
“Made from opium.”
“It could be that, I suppose, but I can’t make an informed guess if that’s the case.”
“I believe this is the first overdose in Fort Worth,” Jess said. “And I don’t think it will be the last.”
Dr. Bell dropped his wooden tube stethoscope into his bag and snapped it shut with an air of finality. “Well, keep me informed, Sheriff,” he said. “If a new drug is involved this might turn out to be an interesting case.”
* * *
Dr. Bell’s footsteps had no sooner faded on the staircase when another, lighter tread took their place. A dark-haired girl wearing a demure day dress of pink cotton stepped into the room and glanced at the body on the bed. “Is he dead?” she said.
“I’m afraid so,” Jess said. “And you are?”
“Julia Grimes, but they call me Alaska on account of my cold feet.”
“Did you know the deceased?” Jess said.
“Know him? I was married to him. Was he shot?”
“I think he died from an overdose of a new drug,” Jess said. “Have you heard about it?”
“Archie told me he was trying something new—that’s all I know,” the girl said.
“Any idea who sold it to him?” Jess said.
“Mister, this is the Acre. Any number of people could’ve sold it to him.” The girl walked around the room, looking in dresser drawers and a cigar humidor and a number of jars and boxes. “Nothing. Not a red cent. Just like Archie to die penniless.”
Nate, always the gentleman, said, “Mrs. Grimes, if you need a few dollars . . .”
“No thanks, Pops,” the girl said. “I have gentlemen friends who’ll take care of me.” She smiled. “Ah . . .” She stepped to the bed, put her hand under the pillow and produced a Remington derringer. “I figured it would be there. It’s worth a few dollars, huh?”
“Will you take custody of your husband’s body, Mrs. Grimes?” Jess said.
“Hell no. Archie never took care of me when he was alive, why should I take care of him now he’s dead? And he is dead, isn’t he? He was always such a lying piece of—”
“He’s as dead as he’s ever going to be,” Jess said.
“Good,” the girl said. She stood at the bottom of the bed, joined her hands and bowed her head. “Dear God, please rest Archie’s double-dealing, tinhorn soul. Amen.” She smiled. “There, I’ve done my duty as a good wife.” She stepped to the door, sang out, “So long, gents,” and then was gone.
“Nice lady,” Nate said with a straight face.
“She has cold feet, though,” Jess said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Silas Topper’s instructions from Jasper Dunn were simple: “Look around the White Elephant, gauge the opposition and don’t be afraid to kill somebody if you can make it look good.”
“You can depend on me, boss,” Topper said, his reptilian eyes gleaming. “I always let the rubes go for their gun first.”
Ford Talon wondered if now was the time to play his hand. He could report to Jess Casey and head this thing off at the pass, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Luke Short was more than capable of taking care of himself and Talon decided he had to stand pat until something bigger came down.
He watched Topper swagger to the stairs, his hand resting on his gun. Earlier Talon had gone outside to smoke a cigar and saw blood on the moon. At the time he considered it a bad omen, but now he wondered . . . for whom?
* * *
As surely as night follows day, a man with a gun rep will be tested. And the man who killed a living legend most of all.
Silas Topper decided to disobey Jasper Dunn’s orders. He’d no intention of visiting the White Elephant. Luke Short was of little importance and he could wait. Besides, what fame was there in picking a white-faced rube from the crowd and gunning him? The answer was none, none at all.
But gunning the man who killed Hiram Hartline was . . . what was the saying? . . . ah yes, a different kettle o’ fish. Topper smiled to himself as he took to the boardwalk. Soon he’d be the most famous gun in the entire West. He’d walk with a swagger and cut a wide path and the rubes in their one-horse towns would doff their hats to him, and the women . . . well, he’d have his pick.
Topper was feeling good, so good he decided to dally and savor what was to come. A bottle of whiskey and a willing whore. That’s what a man like him needed before entering a gun battle.
The whore’s name was Elsie, pretty enough, but she seemed bored and Topper took no pleasure in her. As for the whiskey, it tasted sour in his mouth and he cut his bed session short. He badly needed a kill and it had been foolish of him to postpone it. To watch a man die, to see the horror in his eyes at the time and manner of his death, was better than convulsing on top of a woman, better than the raw burn of whiskey . . . better than anything.
* * *
“You know what’s better than anything, Sheriff?” Sam Waters said.
“No,” Jess Casey said. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“It’s what I got right here in this glass. Three fingers of Old Crow with just a . . . leetle . . . drop of water to bring out the flavor, like.”
“Is that a natural fact?” Jess said. “Well, I’ll give it a try.”
“Just a smidgen now,” Sam said. He picked up the water glass and let a drop fall into Jess’s whiskey. “There. Now, take a taste o’ that.”
Jess tested his bourbon, tried it again and said, “You know, Sam, I think you’re right. It does taste better.”
Sam smiled and nodded. “See, when it comes to drinkin’ whiskey I’m what they call a connoisseur.”
“Where did you learn a ten-dollar word like that? Con . . . con . . .”
“Connoisseur. Feller teached me that word in Huntsville. He was an eddicated feller and was gonna learn me other big words but then they hung him. Connoisseur was the only one I ever learned.”
“It’s a crackerjack word,” Jess said.” A man who knew a word like that could’ve gone far and made his mark.”
“Well, they hung him for poisoning his wife, so that’s as far as he went.”
“Pity,” Jess said. “They should have kept him alive to teach them big, important words.”
“Ah hell, what do prison guards know?” Sam said.
“I’ll drink to that,” Jess said, raising his glass.
* * *
This had to be done out in the open with as many witnesses as possible and Silas Topper considered the conditions excellent. The day was just beginning its fade into evening and most of the goods wagon traffic was gone from Main Street. But there were many pedestrians about, mostly of the respectable merchant sort, and street vendors plying their wares.
If a man wanted to enhance his rep as a revolver fighter this was the time and the place.
Silas Topper’s wide-legged stance outside the sheriff’s office almost immediately drew attention. He waited awhile and let the curiosity build. People stopped in the street, whispered to one another and already he felt like the big man in town. He glanced around, grinning, and was satisfied. It was time. Confident of his blinding speed on the draw and shoot, Topper felt invincible.
“Casey!” he yelled. “I’m calling you out. You killed a friend of mine and I’m here to even the score.”
* * *
Jess Casey doused the oil lamp then stepped to the window. “Who the hell is that?” he said.
Sam Waters joined him and peered outside. “That there is Silas Topper. In Huntsville I was told he’s the fastest, deadliest gun in Texas. A thing I was told by the kinda folks who never lie about important stuff like that.”
“He must have been a friend of Hiram Hartline,” Jess said. “Or even kinfolk.”
“Sheriff, you stay in here and lock the door,” Sam said. “I’ll go get Mr. Koenig.”
“You stay put, Sam,” Jess said. “I can’t show yellow in front of all those folks out there.”
“You can’t shade him, sonny,” Sam said. “He’s a demon with a gun.”
Then, from outside, “Casey, are you coming out or do I have to go in there after you?”
“He’s making it clear, Sheriff,” Sam said. “He’s stated his intentions.”
“Then let him make it clear to my friend Mr. Greener,” Jess said. He took down a shotgun from the rack, opened it and inserted two bright red shells into the chambers. He stuck two more in his pocket.
“Sam,” Jess said, “if he cuts my suspenders out there, could you see your way clear to gunning him first chance you get?”
“You bet, Sheriff. An’ I’ll use the very scattergun you got in your hands.” Sam grinned. “I ain’t been here long, but already I know all the dark alleys in town.”
“Thank you kindly, Sam,” Jess said. “Makes a man feel better knowing his friends are looking out for him.”
“Ah, hogwash,” Sam said. “No thanks needed. I’ll be glad to do it, Sheriff, and I’ll see you buried decent as well.”
“If I don’t come back, you can finish the rest of the Old Crow,” Jess said.
Sam knuckled his forehead. “Thankee, Sheriff. By God, you’re a white man through and through.”
Jess stepped to the door and behind him he heard Sam say, “So long, Sheriff.”
“Yeah, you, too, Sam. So long.”
* * *
“Well, about time.” Topper grinned when Jess stepped onto the boardwalk. His carrion-eater’s eyes flicked to the shotgun pointed right at his belly, both its hammers eared back. “This is a draw fight,” he said. He looked around him and played to the crowd. “This here is a draw fight.”
“This here is any kind of fight I care to make of it,” Jess said. He smiled. “It’s a scattergun fight, Topper, and you don’t have a scattergun.”
Topper considered that and one question flashed into his mind: Could he draw and fire faster than it took Casey to pull the Greener’s triggers? He’d never tried it before and had no answer. But he had an odd, sickly sensation in his belly and was surprised when he realized it was fear.
Jess gave him an out.
“Unbuckle the gun belt, Topper, and then step away from it,” he said. “I want to see those hands move as slow as a hound dog in August.”
A large crowd had gathered and people watched in silence as the drama played out. “Here, this won’t do,” a strict-looking man said. But nobody paid him any heed.
“Damn you, Casey,” Topper said through gritted teeth. “Damn you to hell.”
“I got the drop on you, Topper,” Jess said. “Make your play or shuck the gun belt.” He looked over the crowd. “You folks move on now. This here is over.” His eyes flicked to the gunman. “Ain’t it, Topper?”
The man stood, his primitive brain trying to grasp what was happening to him. He’d been cut down to size by a man he could outdraw any hour of the day, any day of the week and it seemed that his humiliation was witnessed by the whole population of the Acre.
Jess was not a particularly patient man and his experiences in the Acre had shortened his fuse. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” he said.
He stepped off the boardwalk, covered the distance between him and the hesitant Topper in a few long strides and then slammed the butt of the heavy shotgun into the gunman’s face.
Topper went down leaking blood and after the man hit the ground, Jess removed his gun belt. His eyes lingered for a few moments on the fancy Colt in the holster and it made him wonder.
As the crowd still gaped, Jess grabbed the little gunman by the back of his shirt and dragged him onto the boardwalk through the sheriff’s office and into a jail cell. Topper lay on the floor and didn’t stir.
After he locked up Topper, Jess stepped to the front again and laid the Colt on the desk. Sam had already lit the oil lamp and he said, “Whiskey, Sheriff?”
“Yeah. Three fingers with a drop of water,” Jess said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“What do you think about this?” Jess Casey said, holding up the fancy Colt.
“I don’t know guns, Sheriff, but it sure looks purty,” Sam Waters said.
“Too purty to be a working gun,” Jess said. “This looks like something a dude on a Wild West show would use. The engraving is still sharp, like it was done recently.”
“Well, maybe ol’ Silas had it fancied up,” Sam said.
“You said Topper is a famous draw fighter. This revolver hasn’t spent much time in gun leather.” Jess shook his head, talking to himself, not Sam. “Who would own a Colt like this?”
“Somebody with money to spend. That’s fer sure,” Sam said.
Jess unloaded the Colt and walked back to the cells. Silas Topper sat on the cot, his head in his hands. When he heard Jess’s boot steps he looked up. There was blood across the bridge of his nose and more had dried black on his upper lip.
It seemed that Topper was not a man to mince words. “Next time I see you with a gun in my hand I’ll kill you, Casey,” he said.
Jess held up the long-barreled Colt. “Where did you get this?” he said.
Topper gave the revolver a cursory glance. “Go to hell,” he said.
“I reckon you stole it from Bruno Cavanni’s gunsmith shop,” Jess said. “If I can find its rightful owner and he confirms that he left it with the old man I can hang you, Topper.”
“You ain’t hanging nobody, cowboy,” the little gunman said. “By first light tomorrow I’ll be out of here and you’ll be dead.”
“Save your neck,” Jess said. “Tell me who else was in on the robbery.”
“I’m telling you nothing,” Topper said. “If I was you I’d spend the rest of my time making peace with my God. Now get the hell away from me.”
Jess stepped to the door, then said, “You ever put a drop of water in your whiskey, Topper?”
“What the hell kind of question is that to ask a man?” the gunman said.
“On the morning I hang you, that’s how I’ll fix it. Sound good to you?”
“I’m gonna kill you, cowboy,” Topper said through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna shoot you in the belly and listen to you scream.”
“All right, if that’s your attitude you don’t get any water,” Jess said.
* * *
Jess left Sam Waters at the sheriff’s office and walked along the thronging street to the Silver Garter, the fancy Colt shoved into his waistband. The sporting crowd was out and Jess followed a bartender’s nod and made his way across the packed dance floor to Kurt Koenig’s table. Destiny Durand, breathtakingly beautiful in a dress of white silk, sat with him. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket at Koenig’s elbow.
“Howdy, Jess,” Koenig said. “Is this business or pleasure?”
“Business, though it’s always a pleasure to see your lovely companion,” Jess said with a little bow to Destiny.
“You’re learning, Sheriff Casey,” the woman said with a dazzling smile. “Now you should inquire about my ward.”
“Very well then,” Jess said. “How is Joselita?”
“I think her life is in danger,” Destiny said. “A couple of nights ago we were followed here to the saloon. Fortunately I met a Panther City Boy I knew and he scared them off.”
“It could have been Loco Looper and Dark Alley Jim Turner,” Jess said. “I still intend to bring them to trial.”
“Forget that,” Koenig said. “A circuit judge dismissed the case last week. No doubt he was paid handsomely.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” Jess said.
“Jethro Tull told me in my capacity as city marshal,” Koenig said. He smiled. “In the grand scheme of things, Jess, you don’t count.”
