Out of the Past (8 page)

Of course, she would have loved to find an experienced lover in Kansas City, one she could enjoy without it getting back to her husband. What Franklin Walters didn't know was that he had been approved by her husband, who probably assumed the man was woefully inept in bed and would pose no danger. He wasn't far from wrong.

“All right, Frankie,” she said, sighing because her orgasm had managed to elude her, “time to poke it in Mommy's pussy.”

Walters always assumed this was her term of endearment, calling herself Mommy, but she only ever did that when he frustrated her.

He mounted her and drove his rigid penis inside. He was able to get nice and hard, but she would have preferred a larger man—taller, more solid, with a longer dick. Ah well . . . she closed her eyes and moved her hips and pictured the huge, brutish sailor she had once picked up in a Barbary Coast saloon. That man had also been inept. All he'd wanted to do was poke it in her and then have a go—but my God, he was huge, filled her up with that big column of meat like no one before or since. If she'd only had time to work with him . . .

“Faster, darling,” she told Walters, “and harder, oh, much harder, there's a good boy . . .”

When they were done, she watched him dress without interest. All she wanted at that moment was for him to leave. She was done with him. Once he was gone, she was going to have to bring herself to orgasm.

“Did you manage to find Joe Bravo?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “he'll be in your husband's office at eleven.”

“He's a gunman, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Walters said, putting on his tie. “A young and very good gunman.”

“Young?”

“Well, early thirties . . .”

“Like you?”

“Yes, like me.”

In many ways Walter was a very mature thirty-one, but not in bed. But he was a good assistant for Louis, she knew.

“Is Louis going to send him after the Gunsmith?” she asked.

“I'm sure he is.”

“That's a shame.”

“Why?”

“Oh . . . just thinking out loud, darling. Be sure to pull the door shut on your way out.”

He finished dressing and then went out the door without trying to kiss her. He'd learned the hard way she didn't like that. Just finish and get out.

Olivia had heard a lot of things about the Gunsmith over the years. In San Francisco, she'd talked with a couple of saloon girls who had been to bed with him. That was the reputation she was interested in, not his prowess with a gun.

Sliding her hands down between her legs, stroking herself, she wondered if she could manage to bed him before her husband managed to kill him.

Chief Dan Fortune was a large, broad-shouldered man in his fifties. He stood as Lieutenant Abernathy brought Clint into his office and extended his hand.

“Mr. Adams, it's a pleasure,” Fortune said. “I'm acquainted with your reputation.”

“It's something I have to carry around with me,” Clint admitted.

“I don't mean your public reputation,” Fortune said. “I mean what I've heard from people who know you.”

“Such as?”

“Why don't you have a seat?” Fortune said. “Edgar, thank you.”

Obviously, a dismissal. Lieutenant Abernathy nodded and left, closing the door behind him. The chief's office was four times the size of the lieutenant's, which made it about normal size. Apparently, the chief didn't feel the need for ostentation.

“We have friends in common,” the chief said, taking his own seat

“Is that a fact?”

“I met Talbot Roper when he was in San Francisco on a case,” Fortune said. “I was a lieutenant then, like Abernathy. We worked together. He's a helluva detective.”

“Yes, he is.”

“I also know Duke Farrell.”

Farrell ran a gambling house just off Portsmouth Square.

“I haven't seen Duke in years.”

“I saw him several months ago, before I came here to take this job,” Fortune said. “He said if I should run into you out here to give you his regards.”

Clint made a mental note to telegraph both men— Roper and Farrell—for information about Fortune.

“Feel free to check me out with them,” the man said, as if reading his mind.

“I will, thanks.”

“Now,” Fortune said, “the lieutenant didn't tell me what your business was, so why don't you tell me what I can do for you?”

“I came to Kansas City because I heard a friend of mine was murdered here,” Clint explained.

“Oh?” Fortune looked concerned. “Who would that be?”

“Her name was Anne Archer,” Clint said, then hurried on before the chief could speak. “I heard she was involved with William Cameron. I was wondering how the investigation is progressing.”

“And did the lieutenant answer your question?”

“All he said was that he is still investigating,” Clint answered, not wanting to get the lieutenant in trouble with his chief. “I think he brought me to you for more . . . in-depth answers.”

“I'm afraid I don't have much to say to you that would be in-depth, Mr. Adams,” Fortune said. “We are continuing to investigate.”

“What about the connection to the Cameron family?”

“That is being looked into,” Fortune said. “But you'll appreciate that something like that would have to be done . . . delicately.”

“You mean because of the family's standing in the community?”

Instead of answering, Fortune stared at Clint for a few moments.

“All right, yes,” he said, finally. “I could tell you that, but you're smart enough to know that it's more than that.”

“Louis Cameron is a powerful man,” Clint said, “and you have a job to be concerned about.”

“I have a job to do,” Fortune corrected him, “and a man like Cameron could make it much harder for me.”

Clint spread his hands and said, “I understand. My only concern is that the whole thing is not swept under the rug.”

“I'm not in the habit of having murders swept under the rug, Mr. Adams,” Fortune bristled. “I don't care who's involved.”

“I see,” Clint said, standing. “Well, I guess I have my answer, then.”

“Wait, wait,” Fortune said, as Clint turned to leave. “What does that mean? What is your . . . interpretation of what just happened here?”

“My interpretation is that I'm going to have to look into the matter myself, Chief.”

“You have no standing, Mr. Adams,” the chief said. “I don't care who you are. I'll throw you in a cell if you start any trouble.”

“I only intend to start trouble for one person, Chief.”

“And who would that be?”

“Whoever was responsible for Anne Archer's death.”

Franklin Walters—fresh from his second bath of the day—admitted Joe Bravo into Louis Cameron's office at eleven A.M. sharp.

“You smell sweet as a whore, Franklin,” Bravo said to him as he went by.

Walters ignored him.

“You can close the door, Walters,” Cameron said.

Walters withdrew from the room and did just that. He knew he smelled fresh, but Olivia must never know that he always went from her bed to a bath. She would feel insulted. He found it impossible to resist the woman, but after they were done he always felt dirty—full of germs— and had to run home to a fresh bath. She'd never understand that.

“He sure does smell good, don't he?” Bravo asked Cameron.

“Never mind that,” Cameron said. “You mention it one more time and I'm going to think you're a nancy boy.”

“Hey,” Bravo said, “I like women all the way, old man.”

“Joseph,” Cameron said, “do you like my money?”

“I love it,” Bravo said with a broad smile.

“Then don't ever let me hear you call me old man again.”

“Uh, sure, Mr. Cameron,” Bravo said. “Sorry.”

“Have a seat,” Cameron said. “We're going to talk about someone I'd like you to kill.”

“Killin' is what I do best,” Bravo said, having a seat. “Who did you have in mind?”

“How does the name Clint Adams sit with you?” Cameron asked.

Joe Bravo sat up straight and for once he did not have a silly grin on his face. Louis Cameron had never seen him look so serious.

“Is this on the level? The Gunsmith?”

“It's on the level, all right.”

“Well, where do I find him?” Bravo asked. “I'll get it over with today.”

“You're that confident?” Cameron asked.

“You better believe I'm confident, Mr. Cameron,” he said. “Ain't a man alive can stand against me with a gun and live.”

“If that's the case,” Cameron said, “then you won't mind if I pay you after the deed is done?”

“You can pay me whenever you want, as long as I get my chance against the Gunsmith. You know what this will mean to my reputation?”

“Yes, I do, Joseph,” Cameron said. “It means men will be coming after you the way they come after the Gunsmith. ”

“And they'll all be endin' up dead,” Bravo said, “but first . . .”

“Yes, first,” Cameron said. “You'll find that Adams is staying at the Kansas City Plaza hotel. And I believe he's drinking at the Red Garter, across the street.”

“I like the Red Garter,” Bravo said. “That'd be a good place for people to watch me take down the Gunsmith.”

“This has to be done fair and square,” Cameron said, “or complete from ambush. There must be no questions either way.”

“Oh, hell,” Bravo said, “I got way too much respect for the Gunsmith to ambush him. No, this fella deserves to see it comin'.”

“However you want to do it,” Cameron said, “there will be two thousand dollars waiting here for you when you get back.”

“You have that money ready today, Mr. Cameron,” Bravo said, “because I ain't gonna waste no time with this.”

“Oh, the money will be ready,” Cameron assured him. “You just get the job done.”

“You can bet on it.”

Bravo got up and almost ran out the door, leaving it open behind him. Franklin Walters came walking in and closed it.

“What do you think, sir?” he asked. “Will he get the job done?”

“Why don't you get ahold of Denver Cole for me, Franklin. Get him here as fast as you can.”

“Cole?” Walter asked. Denver Cole was a gunman of Clint Adams's generation, not Joe Bravo's. “Don't you think—”

“I think Clint Adams is going to kill that young fool and save me two thousand dollars.”

Clint went directly from the police station to the nearest telegraph office. He sent three telegrams. First to his friend and most reliable source of information, Rick Hartman, in Labyrinth, Texas. From his table at Rick's Place, the saloon he owned, Rick could come up with more information than anyone Clint knew.

The second went to Talbot Roper, in Denver. Roper was the best private detective in the country and his opinion of Chief Fortune would mean a lot.

Third and last he sent a message to Duke Farrell. He hadn't been in touch with Farrell in years, but he knew the man would get back to him as soon as possible.

With that done, he collected Eclipse from the hotel livery. Apparently, the liveryman had had no trouble with the gelding the day before. Surprisingly, the man had managed to unsaddle Eclipse, then groom and feed him without getting kicked in the head.

“That's a fine animal,” the liveryman told Clint. “High-spirited. Almost took a piece out of me, but then we came to an understanding.”

“You didn't—” Clint started.

“I'd never harm an animal, mister, if that's what yer gonna ask,” the man said. “I'm sayin' we had a talk and now we understand each other, don't we, boy?”

He put his hand on Eclipse's flank briefly and then removed it.

“He allows just the smallest touch, unless I'm groomin' him,” the man said. “You bring 'im back and I'll do just that.”

“We're just going for a short ride,” Clint said. “We'll be back. What's your name?”

“Nate,” the man said. “Folks around here just call me Nate.”

“Okay, Nate, thanks.” Clint walked Eclipse outside, then mounted him and rode over to Anne Archer's house.

“Father!” Sandy shouted when he entered. The word sounded strange to Clint, but also brought a lump to his throat.

He embraced the girl under the watchful eye of both her “aunts.”

“Have you found Mother's killer?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Clint said, “but I'm working on it.”

“Do you want some coffee? I'll get it for you.”

“Yes, I would like some.” He touched her face. “Thank you.”

She hurried to the kitchen, leaving him alone with Sandy and Katy.

“Did Sandy tell you what we talked about last night?” he asked Katy.

“You want us to go into hiding, Clint,” Katy said. “That rubs me the wrong way.”

“I figured it would, but Cameron's got so much money he could send an army against you.”

“Or you.”

“I can take care of myself, but not if I have to worry about—”

“We can take care of ourselves!” Katy said, cutting him off.

“—her,” he finished, jerking his head toward the kitchen.

“Oh,” Katy said. “Sorry.”