Five Points (7 page)

The bed creaked beneath them as they both grunted with the effort they were expending.

He pulled free of her reluctantly, but only long enough to turn her over. Once she was on her back and he could see those fine breasts, he slid his dick back into her before it could cool off. He was fascinated by the way her breasts jiggled and bounced as he drove into her.

“If I was a smaller gal, my teats wouldn't be bouncin' around this way,” she told him.

“They're bouncing around just fine, Angie.”

“You really do like you a good-sized woman, don't you?”

“I like all women, Angie,” he admitted to her. “Big, small, it doesn't matter. You've all got something beautiful about you.”

She wrapped her thighs around him tightly and said, “Maybe I can prove there's something more about me than all the others.”

“You're sure welcome to try.”

Later he stroked her flesh as they lay close together. He felt the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the swell of her belly, the softness of the blond hair between her legs, and the smoothness of her wet pussy lips.

“Mmm,” she said. “You're gonna get me all hot and bothered again, Clint.”

“Can't say I'd mind if that was the case, Miss . . . What is your last name?” he asked. “All you told me is that you're Irish.”

"O'Doul,” she said, “of the Five Points O'Douls.”

“Five Points,” he said. “That's a pretty rough neighborhood hereabouts, isn't it?”

“It is, and it's where I grew up.”

“How did you grow up so sweet, then?” he asked.

“I had lots of brothers who kept me safe,” she said. “Bein' safe made me sweet, I guess.”

“And what happened to those brothers?”

“There was five of them,” she said. “Three of them didn't make it out of Five Points.”

“Dead?”

“Before they were twenty.”

“And the other two?”

“They're still around.”

“I shouldn't be expecting a visit from them after tonight, should I?”

She laughed and rubbed his chest.

“Not unless you hurt my feelin's,” she said. “And you ain't done that yet.”

“No yet about it,” he said. “I have no intention of hurting your feelings.”

“So if I was to do this,” she asked, rolling over on top of him, flattening her big breasts against his chest and reaching between them to grab ahold of him, “you wouldn't object?”

“Not at all.”

“And if I did this?” She shifted her hips and slid him inside her. “You wouldn't object?” Her voice had gotten a lot huskier.

“No,” he said, with a sigh, “can't say as I would.”

“Mmm,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips. “Then I don't think we'll be needin' to tell my brothers about this at all.”

The next morning Clint woke with Angie lying on his left arm. He leaned over and kissed her shoulder and breathed in the scent of her hair, but she didn't stir. He didn't blame her. They'd tired each other out pretty well the night before.

He slid his arm from beneath her and got out of bed. At the window he looked down at the street. The sun was out, but just barely, so it was probably just after six. He decided to let her sleep. She probably didn't have to go to work until later. He washed up in the basin as quietly as he could, then got dressed and left the room. He was wearing a jacket so he could continue to wear the New Line in his belt, out of sight.

In the small lobby he found a different clerk at the desk.

“I'm in room fifteen,” he told the young man. “Adams.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said. “I know about you. Welcome.”

“Thanks. Is there a place within walking distance where I can get a good breakfast?”

“About two blocks, just past the telegraph office,” the clerk said.

“Okay, thanks.”

“My name's Ted, Mr. Adams. You need anything, you just ask Owen or me.”

“I'll do that.”

As Clint started to leave, the clerk called, “Oh, how stupid of me.”

“What's wrong?” Clint asked.

“I mentioned the telegraph office and then I forgot to give you this.”

Clint walked back and accepted the telegram Ted was holding out to him.

“You were waiting for this, weren't you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Came in late last night.”

“Telegraph office is open that late?”

“The clerk Len, he brought it over after he closed. He does that sometimes.”

“Well, I'm much obliged,” Clint said.

He took the telegram out onto the street with him before he opened it and read it. Bat Masterson promised to try his best to come up with something, but reminded Clint that he wasn't a detective. Not even “one in training, like you.”

Smiling, Clint folded the telegram and put it in his pocket. He started down the street toward the telegraph office, and beyond it to the restaurant the clerk had told him about, but he knew immediately he was being followed. Between the telegraph office and the restaurant he quickly stepped into a doorway and waited. Soon, his tail passed by. Clint stepped out and picked him up off his feet.

“Lemme go, lemme go,” the kid yelled. “Put me down, I tell ya!”

“Are you going to talk to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

He put the kid down and turned him around and found himself looking into the face of the young pickpocket Red.

“You.”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“Why are you following me?”

“I was wonderin' if you needed any help yet, mister? ” Red asked.

“Maybe you were hoping for another chance at my wallet?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Red said. “I was just hopin' to make some money off ya—ya know, help ya out.”

“Well, I could use some help, now that you mention it,” Clint said.

“That's great. What do I gotta do?”

“You can help me eat some breakfast.”

“How did you find me?” Clint asked.

Red was sitting across the table from him, a full plate of bacon and eggs and potatoes laid out in front of him. The same was in front of Clint, which gave the kid a man-sized appetite.

“I got connections,” the boy said. “I found out that the cap'n took you to the Belvedere Hotel. I was just waitin' for ya out front.”

“How long?”

“I came at first light.”

Clint picked up a forkful of eggs and bacon and shoveled it in. There was never any shortage of good food in New York, that he remembered well.

“What do you do with yourself all day, Red?” Clint asked.

“I pick pockets.”

“That's it?”

“That's all I can do until I grow up.”

“And then what?”

The boy's face lit up.

“When I grow up, I'm goin' on the con.”

“You ever go to school?”

“Naw,” he said.

“What about your parents?”

“Been dead since I was little.”

“So where do you live?”

“Here and there,” Red said. “Mostly around Five Points.”

“That's a pretty rough neighborhood for a kid, isn't it?”

“Not if you was born there,” Red said. “Everybody in Five Points is my friends.”

“Well, that's good,” Clint said. “It's good to have a lot of friends.”

“Yeah, it sure is.”

Red kept feeding his face while he talked, and before long his plate was empty while Clint's was still half full.

“You full?” Clint asked.

“Not hardly.”

“You want some more?”

“Sure.”

“Well, you can have some.”

“Swell.”

“As soon as you tell me why you're really here,” Clint said. “Why you were really looking for me.”

“I tol' ya,” Red said. “I was just tryin' to make some money from ya.”

Clint studied the boy for a few moments, still convinced that he was lying, but he waved the waiter over anyway.

“Bring the boy another order,” Clint said. “Same thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter looked at Red, made a face as if the smell was too much to bear, and then left.

“When's the last time you had a bath?” Clint asked.

“I ain't done nothin',” the boy said. “Why do I need a bath.”

“It's not a punishment.”

“It ain't?”

“Being clean is no punishment, Red.”

“I ain't got time to be clean,” the boy said. “I got work to do. If I don't pick pockets, I don't eat . . . and I never eat as good as this.”

“Well then, I guess you better stock up.”

“Thanks, mister . . . What's yer name?”

“Adams,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”

Red stared at him.

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . ain't you the Gunsmith?”

“I suppose so.”

Red sat forward. “I read about you in Mr. Buntline's dime novels.”

Clint knew about those novels. They hadn't done him any good.

“You can't believe everything you read.”

“I know how to read!”

“I don't doubt that,” Clint said. “Take it easy. I know you can read. I'm just saying don't believe everything.”

“You mean Mr. Buntline lies?”

“Let's just say he exaggerates a bit.”

“Well,” Red said, “even if half what I read is right, well . . . you're a legend.”

“Don't be so quick to be impressed, Red,” Clint said as the waiter brought another plate and put it in front of the boy. “Why don't you just eat up?”

Red's eyes widened at the new plate of food and he said, “All right!”

After breakfast Clint and Red stepped outside the restaurant.

“I sure do thank you for the grub, Mr. Adams,” Red said.

“Just call me Clint, Red.”

“Okay, Clint.”

“Where are you off to now, Red?”

“I got business, Clint.” The boy pulled on a dirty cap. “I got business every day.”

“Pickpocket business?”

“That's right.”

“Aren't you afraid of being arrested?”

Red grinned.

“The police can't catch me, I'm too fast.”

“I caught you.”

“Yeah, but you're the Gunsmith. Well, I gotta get goin'.”

“Hold on.”

“For what?” Red asked, squinting up at Clint.

Clint put his hand in his pocket. “I just want to make sure I've still got my wallet.”

“Aw . . .”

Appo frowned at the knock on his door. He had just poured himself a cup of coffee and carried it to the door with him.

“Red,” Appo said. “What brings you around here this early?”

“Ain't so early, George,” Red said. “I been up for hours.”

“Come on in, then.”

Red entered and Appo closed the door.

“You want some breakfast?”

“Had some.”

“Well, it couldn't've been much—”

“Two plates of bacon, eggs, and spuds,” Red said proudly.

“Wow, you must've had a big hit.”

“The biggest.”

Appo regarded the boy over the rim of his coffee cup, then said, “Well, okay, you're busting to tell me.”

“I had breakfast with the Gunsmith.”

“Then it was him?”

“Yep.”>

“All I asked you to do was find out what hotel he was in, Red.”

“I did,” Red said, “but I wanted to make sure it was the same man, so I went and had a look myself.”

“And . . . ?”

“He caught me followin' him.”

“Well, this fella must be good,” Appo said. “He's caught you twice.”

“He's the Gunsmith, George,” Red said. “He's a legend.”

“So I hear,” Appo said. He was pretty used to being on the receiving end of all of Red's adoration, so he was feeling a tingle of jealousy as the boy talked about Clint Adams.

“Well, I guess it's not such a coincidence that he's here in New York,” Appo said.

“He musta come lookin' for Bethany and Ben, huh?” Red asked.

“It's more likely he doesn't know who he's looking for, Red,” Appo said. “It's probably Willie, since he's the one who killed that woman.”

“The Gunsmith is lookin' fer a killer?” Red asked. “But he ain't a detective.”

“Apparently that doesn't matter. Red, what hotel is he staying at?”

“The Belvedere.”

“A favorite hideaway of Captain Byrnes when he has a dignitary in town,” Appo said. “I think there is also a telegraph office a block or two from there.”

“Sure is. We passed it while we was walking to the restaurant.”

“Well,” Appo said, “maybe I ought to have a talk with the clerk there.”

“You think the Gunsmith sent a telegram to somebody? ” Red asked.

“That's what I'm going to find out, my boy,” Appo said.

“I'll go with you,” Red said.

“No,” Appo said. “You're no good to me now when it comes to Adams. He's seen you twice. And, obviously, he's fed you.”