Cold-Blooded, page 8
The urchin rubbed the back of his head, shot Jess a frightened glance and took off running.
Whores entertaining men in alleyways was a common occurrence in the Acre and normally Jess would have walked on by. But something about the woman’s cry troubled him . . . maybe the ring of her voice.
Ignored by the passing crowds and rumbling wagons, Jess drew his gun and stepped into the alley. He stood still for a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the gloom and then walked forward on cat feet. He heard a man laugh and another said something that made him laugh again.
The alley was clear and Jess recalled that it opened up into the rear of a tenement block where there were usually stacks of stored packing cases and sawn lumber. He stopped to allow a little calico cat to walk between his feet and then stepped to the end of the alley. Coming from his left he heard the woman’s muffled cries and the husky voices of men. For a moment Jess stood still, his feet apart, his eyes wary and alert. Behind him the street sounds were subdued, coming from the far end of a tunnel. Jess knew what he faced. There were three of them and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him without qualm or conscience. They must know that rape was a hanging offense in the Acre and that City Marshal Koenig would string them up without the inconvenience of a trial. That knowledge would make them desperate, and when he intervened his life and the woman’s would not be worth a plug nickel. But he had it to do.
Jess stepped into the open.
The three men had their backs to him, concentrating on the woman, who was struggling fiercely. Her dress had been torn from her shoulders and Jess caught a glimpse of the frightened, peaked face of Joselita Juarez.
The devout will tell you that God provides. That day He provided for Sheriff Jess Casey all right. Jess knew that if he opened the ball with a six-gun quadrille the girl was sure to take a bullet. But lying at his feet was what looked like a broken table leg more than two feet long. He holstered his gun and picked up the leg. It was heavy—mahogany, he figured—and square in shape.
The man in the middle was pushing up Joselita’s dress and didn’t hear Jess cat-foot up on him. During his struggle with the girl the man’s hat had fallen off and his bullet head made a perfect target. Jess swung the table leg, crashing it into the side of the would-be rapist’s skull. Jess didn’t wait to see him drop. The man on his left, small and thin with the face of a hungry rodent, stepped back, his lust-fogged brain momentarily unable to comprehend what had happened. He paid for that lapse. A corner of the table leg crashed into the bridge of his nose and the man screamed and staggered back, his hands to his bloody face. The third fellow was bigger, meaner, and a fighter. His hand dropped for his gun but he was one step too close to Jess. The back of the sheriff’s work-hardened hand slapped the man across the mouth, drawing blood, staggering him. Giving him no time to recover, Jess moved in, swung the table leg and slammed it into the left side of the man’s head. For a moment the man swayed on his feet and Jess thought he might need to hit him again, but the fellow dropped like a felled oak and hit the ground hard.
The bloody table leg in his hand, his wounded side aching, Jess looked around at the carnage he’d caused. Two men down and the third, his nose smashed and his eyes swollen shut, whimpered like a snake-bit pup. When Jess glared in his direction the man unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall to his feet. His voice thick, he said, “I’m out of it. Leave me the hell alone.”
“Did the girl say that same thing?” Jess said.
The man wiped blood from his chin and said nothing.
Joselita stared down at the torn remnants of her dress. She looked at Jess and said, “It’s the only pretty thing I ever owned and now it’s ruined.”
“I’ll get you another one,” Jess said as he stripped the two unconscious men of their gun belts. “Did they . . .”
“No. They didn’t. I fought them.”
“Where the hell is Sam Waters?” Jess said.
“He wanted to go for a drink, said the experience of being in a shop full of women’s fixin’s had aged him a ten year. I told him he should go to the saloon and I’d walk back to the sheriff’s office. I was passing the alley when these animals jumped me.”
“Sam left you to walk alone in the Acre?” Jess said.
“I told him it would be all right,” the girl said. Her hair was trimmed and clean and she looked almost pretty.
Jess was mad clean through. “When I find Sam Waters I’m gonna kill him. No, I’ll tear his guts out. I’ll—”
“Don’t blame Sam,” Joselita said. “It was all my fault.”
“He should’ve known better,” Jess said. He kicked the man closer to him in the rib. “You, on your feet.” The man got up on his hands and knees and Jess kicked him again. “I said on your feet.” He’d already thrown away the table leg and now he pulled his gun. Jess motioned to the other fallen man and said. “And haul that piece of garbage upright.”
* * *
It took a while for Jess to get his three dazed prisoners shuffling in the same direction. But when he reached the entrance to McKenna’s Close he halted them and said, “Listen up. We’re walking to the sheriff’s office. On the way a man gives me sass or back talk I’ll shoot him in the balls. A man tries to escape I’ll shoot him in the head. Any questions?”
There were none.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Destiny Durand stepped into Jess Casey’s office like a breath of fresh air. She was one of those women so spectacularly beautiful that the dogs get out from under the porch to look at her. And she was all smiles. Jess took that as a warning.
He rose to his feet and said, “What can I do for you, Miss Durand?”
“I’ve come to see the prisoners, Sheriff Casey,” Destiny said. She smiled sweetly. “I’ve never seen three rapists before.”
“They didn’t . . . I mean . . .”
“Attempted rape is the same thing as rape as far as I’m concerned,” Destiny said. “I’m going to give those three a piece of my mind.” She looked around. “Where is the girl?” Then, “Kurt told me what happened to her and how she got here.”
“She’s out back at the pump, for I swear the seventh time,” Jess said. “She says even lye soap can’t get her clean.”
“I’ll go talk to her,” Destiny said.
“I guess it would be good if she could talk to another woman,” Jess said.
“Really, General Custer?” Destiny said, an eyebrow rising. “You are an expert on the subject?”
“No. I mean . . . yes . . . no, I mean no.”
Destiny smiled. “You blush like a schoolboy, Sheriff. I find it most refreshing.”
Jess decided to keep his mouth shut as the woman rustled to the door, her French perfume scenting the air like a breeze in a wildflower meadow. He sat in his chair and wondered if the valiant Custer had ever blushed.
* * *
Unlike the sporting crowd, the respectable citizens of the Acre considered Jess the law and had no qualms about barging into his office at any time of the day or night.
Destiny had just stepped out the door when it opened again to admit the huge form of a scowling man in a bloodstained apron. But what alarmed Jess was the gleaming curve of the massive butcher’s cleaver he held in his right hand and the sniveling, trembling wretch he grasped in the other.
“Do you know me?” the man demanded. He had high, Slavic cheekbones, a huge blue chin and a great handlebar mustache set off by a pair of magnificent side-whiskers. Jess calculated he stood four inches over six feet.
“I’m afraid not,” Jess said. The shivering wretch looked like he’d been eating nothing but birdseed for a month.
“My name is Ivan Baranov,” the man said. He had a strong Russian accent. “They call me Butcher Baranov.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Baranov?” Jess said.
The big man shook the wretch so violently Jess could swear he heard his skinny bones rattle. “Sausages, sir!” Baranov roared. “I’m here to accuse this man of the attempted theft of two cold-smoked sausages. By God, sir, it’s a hanging offense.”
Jess tried to be stern. “What’s your name?” he said to the wretch.
“Wilkins, sir. Lem Wilkins.” His voice was small, timid and trembling.
“Lem Wilkins by name, Lem Wilkins by nature, I’ll be bound,” Baranov said. “I’ve been victimized by his kind before.”
“Why did you steal the sausage?” Jess said.
“Russian sausage, don’t forget,” Baranov said. His fist on the ragged collar of Wilkins’s coat was as big as an anvil and looked like it could crush Wilkins’s skull like an eggshell.
“My children and my wife are hungry,” Wilkins said.
Baranov shook Wilkins again and said, “That’s no excuse for stealing food out of another man’s mouth to feed your own starving brood. Why don’t you work?”
“Sir, I do. I’m the swamper at the First Chance saloon.”
“And don’t they pay you?” Jess said.
Wilkins said, “It’s not enough. I have six children and two bits a day is never enough. Sir, if you lock me up I can’t work and my children will starve. Have mercy.”
“Mr. Baranov, do you still want me to hang this man?” Jess said.
The huge butcher shook Wilkins again until the little man’s teeth chattered, then stared into his eyes. “I want to cut off your head,” he said. “I want to crush your bones to powder.” Then, after a terrible wail from the depths of his melancholy Russian soul that made Jess jump, he said, “But I can’t. I can’t. I see the faces of starving little children and my heart is melted.” He lifted Wilkins by the scruff of his neck and shook him again, even harder this time, and the man danced in the air like a puppet on a string.
“You will come with me,” Baranov said. “I will give you meat for your family.” Then he growled like a slavering mastiff, “But I still want to crush your bones.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Baranov,” Wilkins said in his small, mousy voice.
“Sorry!” the butcher bellowed. He waved the cleaver in the little fellow’s face. “A taste of this medicine will make you sorry.” Baranov wailed again. “No, no, no. Not that. Never that. Come with me. I will give you meat and sausage.”
Without another word to Jess, Baranov marched Wilkins outside. As they passed his window he saw the big Russian brandishing the meat cleaver over the little man’s head and Wilkins looked like a scared rabbit.
For a moment Jess thought about following the pair but decided that the big Russian wouldn’t chop Wilkins into cutlets. At least he hoped he wouldn’t.
But then Destiny Durand stormed inside, Joselita Juarez in tow, and laid another problem on his desk. “Did you do this?” she said.
Jess was alarmed. “Do what?”
Destiny tugged at the shoulder of the girl’s dress. “Buy her this rag?” Before Jess could answer, Destiny lifted the hem of the dress, revealing Joselita’s thin legs. “And she has no undergarments.”
“I sent Sam Waters with her,” Jess said. “He said he knew everything about women’s fixings.”
“Sam Waters! You mean that crazy old buzzard who’s been working around here?”
“Sam said—”
“I don’t care what Sam said,” Destiny snapped. “The way this child has been treated is a disgrace, Sheriff, and I’m holding you responsible. Why didn’t you escort her to and from the dress shop?”
“Sam Waters—”
“Is Sam Waters the new sheriff of the Acre?”
Jess clutched at a straw. “Well, at least nothing real bad happened.”
Destiny was outraged, a green-eyed tigress. “Nothing real bad happened. The child had to fight off a gang of rapists and you say nothing real bad happened? Look at the bruise on her cheek. That’s nothing bad?”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant, Sheriff Casey. And I think you’re a disgrace to the star you wear.” Destiny laid down her purse and it clunked . . . a thing Jess would later remember with regret.
* * *
“Sheriff, Joselita is coming to live with me, and I don’t wish to hear any objections,” Destiny said. “Do I make myself clear on that point?”
Jess had no intention of raising an objection. A peace officer’s office was no place for a young girl, especially one who’d been abused her entire life.
Wary of Destiny’s wrath, Jess picked his words carefully. “That sounds just fine, Miss Durand.”
“And I should hope so. Now I want to see the prisoners. I wish to familiarize myself with the inhuman faces of rapists.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Jess said.
“Yes, I do. And I’ll also watch them hang.” Destiny’s smile was dazzling. “Besides, I may be able to identify them. All kinds of trash find their way into the Silver Garter.”
“I see no need for that,” Jess said. “I’ll find out who they are.”
“Sheriff, do I have to send for the city marshal to overrule you?”
“I think Kurt would agree with me.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Back there is no place for ladies.”
“Just a quick look. Afterward I may be willing to overlook the fact that you’re a child abuser.”
Jess sighed. “If I allow you to see the prisoners will you leave and hopefully never come back?”
“Yes. I know where I’m not welcome,” Destiny said, her back stiff.
Jess rose and got the key for the locked door that separated the cell area from the rest of the office. “This way,” he said. “Step carefully.” Then to Joselita, “You stay there, girl.”
Destiny picked up her purse and followed him.
Late afternoon sun angled through the jail’s two small windows and made dust motes dance. But shadows had already gathered in the corners where the spiders lived. There were two cells. One was reserved as Jess’s sleeping quarters, the other held the three prisoners. When they caught sight of Destiny they crowded to the bars, their eyes moving over her voluptuous curves and luxuriant, upswept hair. One of them whispered something and another laughed.
“Seen enough?” Jess said.
Destiny surprised him. In a clear, ringing voice she said, “I’m a friend of Joselita Juarez, the little girl you tried to rape today.” Then she really surprised him.
Her right hand went into her purse and she came up with a Smith & Wesson .32. She aimed at the cell and cut loose. Three shots. Very fast.
As the prisoners dived for the floor, Jess stood stunned for a moment. Then he reached out and wrestled the little revolver from Destiny’s hand. “Damn it, woman!” he yelled. “Get out of here,”
He pushed Destiny out the door and crossed the floor to the cell. “Anybody get hurt?” he said.
There was only one casualty. The man with the broken nose had yet another misery. A bullet had burned across the meat of his left shoulder, spilling more blood than the shallow wound merited. “I need a doctor,” he said. “The crazy whore tried to kill me.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jess said. “Pity she missed.”
* * *
When Jess closed the door behind him and walked into the office, Destiny Durand shoved out her bared wrists in a dramatic fashion and said, “Yes, put me in manacles, Sheriff Casey. Chain me. I hope I killed all three of them.”
As patiently as he could, Jess said, “Two of your shots went wild, the third winged one of them but it’s not serious.”
“Then charge me with attempted murder,” Destiny said. “I want my day in court. I want to tell the men of this town what women think of the rapists in our midst and the stubborn refusal of the law to do anything about it.”
“Miss Durand, I’m charging you with disorderly conduct and plan to release you into the custody of Kurt Koenig once he pays your ten-dollar fine,” Jess said. “I’m also confiscating your gun.”
“But . . . but I tried to kill those men . . . those monsters,” Destiny said as Joselita put a comforting arm around her shoulders.
“I don’t think the prisoners were ever in much danger,” Jess said. “Two of your shots went into the ceiling and as far as I can tell the third bounced off the floor and burned one of them.”
Destiny’s beautiful face was crestfallen. “Then you won’t shackle me, subject me to the chains.”
Jess smiled and shook his head. “Nope. Not a hope in hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The edge of the knife blade dug deep enough into the left side of Ben Hoard’s neck to draw a trickle of blood. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself understood,” Jasper Dunn said. “I want thirty percent off the top.”
Cole Danvers of the Panther City Boys stood at the closed office door to prevent anyone from walking in. He wore two guns that evening, more for intimidation than need. “Listen to Mr. Dunn,” he said. “For the kind of protection he can supply, thirty percent is a bargain.”
“Damn you, I already pay protection money to Kurt Koenig,” Hoard said. “I can’t afford two of you.”
“In a few days Koenig won’t be around anymore,” Dunn said. “Then your only business partner will be me.”
Hoard said, “Big talk, mister. On your best day you can’t take Koenig. Just being here makes you a dead man. Kurt will kill you.”
The knife dug deeper. Blood seeped over the white collar of Hoard’s frilled shirt. “I said thirty percent,” Dunn said.
“Go to hell.”
Dunn removed his knife from Hoard’s neck and stepped back from the overstuffed chair where the man sat. He turned to Danvers. “Cole, bring me a whore, a pretty one,” he said.
Danvers nodded and left.
“What are you going to do?” Hoard said. He was a fat man, the founder of the Gentleman’s Retreat cathouse, and his completely bald head glistened with sweat.
Dunn smiled. “You’ll see. I think after the little demonstration I plan you’ll agree to my business proposition.” He shrugged. “Of course it may take more than one. Demonstration, I mean.” His thumb tested the edge of his knife. “Ah, it’s very sharp, the way I like it.”
