Authors: J. R. Roberts
Out of the Past (5 page)
“You're telling me you missed?” Louis G. Cameron asked Ed Presser.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did I pay you and that idiot partner of yours for, Presser?”
“I know, sirâ”
“So Clint Adams is in Kansas City now?”
“I don't know, sirâ”
“You don't know, Presser?” The wealthy man's rage was barely suppressed. He sat behind his desk, holding on to his gold-tipped cane. Presser had seen him inflict much damage with that cane, and he kept his eyes on it.
“I suggest you find out,” Cameron said. “Find out if he's in town, and where he is.”
“Yes, sir,” Presser said. “And when I do that, should we kill him?”
“You had your chance, Presser,” Cameron said. “I believe if you and your idiot partner tried again, the Gunsmith would surely kill both of you. No, I shall go elsewhere now for my talent, and I will keep in mind that you get what you pay for in this life.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out,” Cameron said. “Don't come back until you find him. And if you don't find him, don't come back.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Presser went out the door, Cameron was tempted to take his gun from his desk drawer and shoot the man in the back. He'd terminated a man's employment that way more than once. It was very satisfying.
When the office door opened again, his wife, Olivia, came in. She was thirty-four years younger than he was and breathtakingly beautiful. She'd agreed to marry him on the condition that he never try to touch her. It had only been a year so far, but he'd kept his promise.
“Did they find him?”
“Found him and missed him.”
Olivia came around behind Cameron and put her hands on his shoulders.
“And you let him walk out alive?”
“He'll locate him,” Cameron said, “and then I'll have someone else kill him.”
“Like who?”
Cameron gestured with his cane.
“For a man of my wealth the answer is, anyone I want.”
TWELVE
Clint had been to Kansas City before, though not in a while. He still knew the way to one of the best hotels in town. If he was going to be rubbing elbows with the rich and elite of Kansas City, he had to appear as if he belonged with them. That meant staying at the Kansas City Plaza.
He dismounted in front of the hotel and a man approached him. He was wearing what looked like a military uniform, but he was just a glorified doorman.
“Will you be staying, sir?” the man asked.
“I will.”
“Can we take care of your horse?”
“If you have somebody who can handle him,” Clint said. “My name's Adams. If you can't find anybody, I'll come back down and do it.”
“Fine lookin' animal, sir,” the doorman said. “We have a good horseman workin' for us. He'll handle him.”
“If he does manage to handle my horse,” Clint said, “I'll be interested in meeting him later.”
“I'll tell him.”
Clint gave the man a dollar and went inside.
“Hello, sir,” the desk clerk said. “Checking in?”
“I hope so.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” Clint said, “that's why I said I hope so.”
“Well . . .”
“I'm in town to do business with Mr. Cameron.”
“Louis Cameron?”
“Any Cameron,” Clint said. “I'm actually here to do business with the family.”
“And your name?”
“Clint Adams.”
“Oh . . . Mr. Adams? Well, of course, I'm sure we can accommodate you.”
“Since I'll be doing business with the Cameron family, I'll need a room I can entertain them in.”
“Of course,” the man said. “Will a suite do?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “one with a view of the front street.”
“Yes,” the clerk said, “I have just the room. Do you have any luggage?”
“Just these,” Clint said, indicating his saddlebags. “I travel light and buy what I need when I get there.”
“Of course, sir. Will you sign the register, please?” He turned the book toward Clint and fetched a key while he signed it.
“Thank you, sir. Here is your key. Suite Two, on the second floor.”
“Thank you.” Clint started away, then turned back. “Oh, I could use a bath.”
“Yes, sir. I'll have the water brought to your room right away.”
“In the morning is good enough,” Clint said. “Eight A.M.?”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “Sharp.”
“Thank you.”
“Good night, sir.”
Clint went up the stairs to the second floor, found Suite Two and let himself in. The suite was impressive but he only gave it a glance on his way to the window. The view outside was lit up by street lamps, but most of the light was coming from the Red Garter Saloon and Dance Hall across the street.
Clint knew that upstairs the Red Garter provided gamblingâboth house games and private ones. He had a good night there once, walked out with twenty-five thousand from a private game.
But he wasn't in Kansas City to gamble or watch dancing girls. He could use a drink, though, so he left the room, went downstairs and crossed the street to the Red Garter.
After Clint went upstairs, the desk clerk pulled out a piece of paper, wrote a note and waved to a black porter.
“Take this over to Mr. Cameron's office,” he said. “See that his personal assistant gets it. No one else. Understood? ”
“Yassuh.”
“Go, and hurry back. I have work for you.”
“Yassuh.”
The porter hurried out the front door.
When Clint Adams reappeared moments later, the desk clerk was startled, but he simply nodded and smiled as the man went past him and out the door. Then the clerk breathed a sigh of relief.
The porter found his way to the large brick building that housed Louis G. Cameron and all his various endeavors.
It took some talking but he finally got past the front vanguard and was allowed to see Mr. Walters, Mr. Cameron's personal assistant.
“The desk clerk over ta the Plaza tol' me to give this to nobody but you, suh.”
“Is that right?”
Walters took the note from the porter's hand, using the tips of his forefinger and thumb, trying to touch the note as little as possible. He finally opened and read it, then nodded.
“Thank you.” He gave the porter a nickel.
“Thank ya, suh,” the porter said, and left.
Walters put the note down on the desk, removed his handkerchief and used it to wipe the slip of paper clean. Then and only then did he pick it up and carry it into his boss's office. It was late, but all the Camerons kept late hours. In fact, Mr. Cameron's wife was still with him when Walters entered. She was helping him get his coat on, so they were apparently ready to quit for the day.
“Can that wait until tomorrow, Walters?” Olivia asked.
“Uh, no, ma'am, I don't think it can.”
“Oh, leave Walters alone, he's just doing his job,” Cameron said. “Bring it here, man.”
Cameron extended a liver-spotted hand to Walters who held the note out, careful not to touch the old man's hand.
“Cleaned it off, did you?” Cameron asked, chuckling.
“Yes, sir, as best I could.”
“You and your germs. Who's it from?”
“The desk clerk at the Plaza, sir.”
Cameron read the note, then started to laugh.
“Something funny, dear?” Olivia asked.
“Yes, love,” he said, “that's why I'm laughing.” He gave Walters a look that said, “Stupid woman.”
“Walters, in the morning please get in touch with Ed Presser and tell him that his services will no longer be necessary.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get ahold of Joseph Bravo and have him meet me here at eleven A.M.”
“Yes, sir.” Walters didn't ask what would happen if he could not locate Joe Bravo by that time. He just would.
“Very good. Mrs. Cameron and I are going home now. You lock up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cameron headed for the door, unaware that behind him, as Olivia passed Walter, she reached out and brushed her hand across his crotch. He seemed to forget all about his phobia for germs when they were in bed together.
THIRTEEN
When Clint entered the saloon he squinted, his senses assailed by all the red. He'd forgotten the “Red” in Red Garter referred to more than just the name of the place. All the lampshades were red, as was the flocked paper on the walls. Even the bar was red mahogany. He wondered if the place was still owned and run by the same man, Tommy Turner.
The bar was long, as had become the norm in places like this, and there was plenty of room for him to find a spot to signal the bartender.
“Beer,” he said.
“Comin' up.”
The place was alive with activity, girls dancing on a stage in the front, other girls working the floor, men yelling and banging on the tables, drinking, smoking and getting rowdy, like they were supposed to.
When the bartender brought the beer back, Clint asked, “Tommy Turner still own this place?”
“Oh, yeah,” the man said, “owns it and runs it. You a friend of his?”
“Acquaintance,” Clint said. “I played poker upstairs one time.”
“What's your name?”
“Clint Adams.”
The bartender snapped his fingers.
“Twenty-five grand, right?”
“That's right,” Clint said. “You have a good memory.”
“Oh, I wasn't workin' here then, but I heard the story,” the barkeeps said. “You took it off Luke Short, Ben Thompson and some others.”
“I didn't realize it was a story,” Clint said.
“Hey, I'll tell the boss you're here,” the man said. “Maybe he can get a game up for ya.”
“That's okay,” Clint said. “Tell him I'm here, by all means, but I'm not here to play poker this time. Got other business.”
“Well, if ya change your mind he'll do it for ya,” the man said. “My name's Roscoe, and I'll let 'im know you're here.”
“Thanks, Roscoe.”
“And I'm sure he'll want that beer to be on the house.”
“Thanks.”
Clint enjoyed the cold beer, turned his back to the bar so he could lean against it and survey the room. A picture of Anne Archer suddenly rushed into his mind, red hair, full moist lips, a smile that could light up the night.
Years wasted
, he thought . . .
Years wasted
, he thought . . .
He turned his mind to the business at hand. All three women were Pinkerton detectives. If the Cameron family was responsible for Anne's death, it was entirely possible they knew about Sandy and Katy as well.
As if on cue Sandy Spillane walked through the batwings. A big, solid blonde, she commanded the attention of the men in the place, and not only because of the gun she wore on her hip.
She scanned the room, spotted Clint and started over to him. A man who was half-drunk and should have known better sauntered toward her, leaned over and whispered something into her ear. Then he paid the price when Sandy elbowed him in the stomach hard enough to double him over and stomped on his toe before moving away. The man's friends came over and, laughing, helped him to a chair.
“Beer?” Clint asked.
“Please.”
Clint signaled to Roscoe, who nodded and hurried over with a full mug.
“The lady a friend of yours?” he asked.
Clint wondered if the point was to find out if Sandy was a lady unescorted in a saloon.
“Yes.”
“Then she drinks on the house, too.”
Sandy grabbed her beer and said to Clint, “You make friends fast.”
“I've been here before,” he said. “Apparently, there's a story going around . . .” He left it at that. “Where's Katy?”
“She's at the house with Sandy,” she said. “She won't go to sleep, so Katy's sitting up, talking with her.”
“That's some kid,” he said. “I can see Anne in her.”
“A lot of Anne is in her,” Sandy said, “but you don't see any of you in her?”
“No,” he said, “not yet.”
“She's as stubborn as you are.”
“That could've come from Anne.”
“That's true,” she said.
“Are you here for a beer and to do damage to the male population?”
“I came here looking for you.”
“What's on your mind?”
“That's what I was going to ask you,” she said. “I thought you might have some questions you couldn't ask in front of Little Sandy.”
“Really,” he said, “I can see why she hates that name.”
“What else would you have us call her?” she asked. “I didn't ask Annie to name her after me.”
“I don't know,” he said. “I'll give it some thought.”
“You do that and get back to me.”
Her tone was almost angry, and he realized she was mad at her friend for getting killed.
He understood. He'd lost many friends over the years, and too early. He was mad at all of them.
FOURTEEN
“You know,” she said, thoughtfully, “she changed the least of us all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean physically,” she said. “Look at me, put on weight. And Katy, she's still pretty, but Annie? She stayed radiant. That was why we thought she was the one to go undercover. We knew that Bill Cameron loved beautiful women.”
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