The Devil's Collector (4 page)

ELEVEN

After his pie, Clint left the café and found the sheriff's office. He was sure Jack Sonnet was walking the streets and checking saloons for Cole Damon. He figured maybe he could go about it a different way. He figured if he got to Damon first, maybe he could find the answers to some of his questions.

The office was old and small. A lot like the town. Clint figured within ten years most of the people would have moved on. Certainly this sheriff would no longer be in office. It looked as if he was already on his last legs. He was seventy if he was a day, wearing overalls that were at least that old.

“Sheriff?”

The man looked up from his desk, eyed Clint from beneath two bushy white eyebrows. His head had more liver spots than hairs.

“I used to be, sonny,” he said. “What are you doin' in this godforsaken town?”

“I'm looking for a man named Cole Damon. Ever heard of him?”

“I know everybody in this town,” the man said. “I know when they ride in, and when they leave.”

“That a fact?”

“You don't believe me?” The man laughed. “Yeah, I know I don't look like much. There was a time, though, when I was a lot of man.”

“I can believe that.”

“Well, I know what you had to eat at the café,” the lawman said. “I know your friend left and you had peach pie for dessert.”

“Then I guess you know where my friend is?”

“He hit a couple of the saloons,” the sheriff said. “Still in one, I bet.”

“Well, he's also looking for Cole Damon,” Clint said. “I'd like to find him first.”

“Which one of you wants to kill 'im?”

“Not me.”

“Your friend?”

“He's got information that says Damon killed his brother.”

“And you?” the sheriff asked. “Why do you want to find him?”

“I want to ask him if he did it or not.”

“So you'll give him a chance to talk and your friend won't?”

“That's about the size of it.”

“Well,” the sheriff said, “if your friend hasn't already found him in one of the saloons, you'll find him over at Carlotta's.”

“Carlotta's?”

“Cathouse.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Hey?”

Clint stopped at the door.

“What's your name?”

“Clint Adams.”

“For real?” The old man's eyes brightened.

“Yes, for real.”

“Well, sonofagun,” the man said. “My name's Jeremiah M. Atticus. I'm seventy years old, and you're the first famous person I ever met in my life. You'll probably be the last.”

“Let's hope not, Sheriff,” Clint said.

“Look, Mr. Adams,” Atticus said, “you do what you gotta do in my town, and I'll be right here if you need me. Okay?”

“Okay, Sheriff.”

“And if you want a decent steak, go to Molly's up the street.”

“Sure thing. Thanks.”

TWELVE

When Clint reached the whorehouse, he found a falling-down two-story wood-frame house that had actually seen some repairs. Probably just enough to make sure it remained standing.

He mounted the steps and knocked on the door. A pretty girl in a see-through nightie opened it. He could see her belly button, and her brown nipples. She had big blue eyes, a cute nose, and a cupid's bow mouth. He wondered if she was even fifteen.

“You lookin' for love, mister?”

“If I was, I wouldn't be here, darlin',” he said. “I'm looking for a man named Cole Damon. Is he here?”

“I think so,” she said. “If he is, he's with Miss Carlotta.”

“Well, could I come in and maybe you could find out for me?”

“Sure,” she said. “Come on in.”

He entered, looked to the right into a parlor filled with girls. Seemed like a lot of whores for this town.

“We serve the whole county,” she said, as if reading his mind.

“I'm sure you do. What's your name?”

“Lila. What's yours?” she asked. “Miss Carlotta is gonna ask me.”

“My name is Clint Adams.”

“I'll check with Miss Carlotta.”

• • •

Just moments before the girl knocked on Carlotta's door, Cole Damon had her legs spread wide and was driving his stiff penis in and out of her. She was grunting and moaning, but as a pro, she did not ever scream or yell out loud. Damon, however, let go with a loud growl as he exploded into her, a sound the girl heard while she was walking down the hall to the room. That was how she knew they were done when she knocked on the door.

• • •

“What?” Carlotta yelled as Damon dismounted.

“Miss Carlotta, there's a fella here lookin for Mr. Damon.”

Carlotta looked at Damon.

“Is he a lawman?” Damon called out.

“No, sir.”

“Who is it?” Carlotta asked.

“He says his name is Clint Adams.”

Damon rushed to the door, still naked, and swung it open. His penis was still semihard and immediately drew Lila's eyes.

“Who?”

“Clint Adams.”

“The Gunsmith?”

The girl shrugged, still staring at Damon's dick.

Damon turned and looked at Carlotta.

“Now what the hell's he want?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“Well,” Damon said, turning to face her, “why don't you go out there and find out?”

Now that he turned around, Lila was staring at his naked ass.

Carlotta leaned over so she could see past Damon to Lila.

“Tell him I'll be right there.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She didn't leave, though. She was still staring at Damon's body. She was used to seeing fat, old men come through the whorehouse. Not men who looked good, like Cole Damon.

“Lila!”

Startled, the girl turned and ran down the hall.

• • •

“She'll be right out,” Lila told Clint. “Do you wanna wait in the parlor?”

“No, that's okay,” Clint said. “I'll wait right here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lila left him there and went into the parlor herself. Moments later a buxom blonde in her forties, carrying about thirty pounds too much weight, all of it in her breasts, came from a downstairs hall. She was out of breath, and her hair was tousled.

“You're Adams?” she asked.

“That's right,” he said. “Miss Carlotta?”

“Lila says your name is Clint Adams,” Carlotta said. “You're the Gunsmith, right?”

“That's right.”

“And you're lookin' for Cole Damon?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“To try to keep him alive.”

THIRTEEN

Carlotta walked Clint down the hall to her room.

“Just let me talk to him first,” she said.

“Sure,” Clint said, “but tell him not to go out the window. There's no need.”

“I'll tell him.”

She opened the door and went inside. In a second, he heard raised voices. That went on for a few minutes, and then the door opened and Carlotta looked out.

“You can come in, Mr. Adams.”

He entered, found himself immediately covered by Cole Damon's gun. The man was wearing a pair of jeans, and nothing else.

“There's no need for that,” he tried to assure him.

“Just put yer hands up,” Damon said.

Clint obeyed.

“Now why're you lookin' for me? I never did nothin' to you.”

“That's true,” Clint said. “I'm just trying to help you.”

“Why?”

“I don't want to see you get killed.”

“And who wants to kill me?”

“First,” Clint said, “let me ask you if you knew a man named Carl Sonnet.”

“Carl Sonnet?” Damon thought for a moment then replied, “I don't think so.”

“Well,” Clint said, “somebody thinks you did. In fact, he thinks you're one of the men who killed Carl Sonnet.”

“Where'd this happen? When?”

“A few months ago,” Clint said. “In Texas.”

“I ain't been to Texas in years.”

“Is that true?”

“It is.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Do I have to?”

“Did you ever know men named Dell Colbert or Dix Williams?”

“Never.”

Clint frowned.

“Why you askin' me all these questions? What's this you told Carlotta about me gettin' killed?”

“Carl Sonnet's kid brother, Jack, is searching the country for the men who killed his brother. When he finds them, he kills them.”

“Murder?”

“Fair and square,” Clint said. He outdraws them, clean.”

“Ain't no kid gonna outdraw me,” Damon said. “Unless you back his play.”

“I'm actually riding with him, just to keep him from getting backshot.”

“So you're helpin' him?”

“I have been,” Clint said, “but I don't want to find that he's been killing innocent men. So I ask you again, did you kill Carl Sonnet?”

“I didn't.”

“I think you're going to have to prove it, Mr. Damon,” Clint said.

“Oh yeah? Why don't I just kill this kid when he comes for me?”

“Well, I wouldn't be able to let you do that.”

“And what if I kill you now?”

“You didn't take my gun,” Clint said, “and you know who I am. If you were going to kill me, you should have done it by now. I can still draw and kill you, even if you shoot me. Want to try?”

“No!” Carlotta said. “No shootin' in my place!”

“Then put it down, Damon,” Clint said. “And let's talk. Convince me that you're innocent.”

Damon lowered his gun, but he said, “Why should I be worried about this kid?”

“His name's Sonnet,” Clint said. “That mean anything to you?”

“No,” he said, then thought a moment. “Wait. Yes. You mean . . . those Sonnets?”

Clint nodded. “Those Sonnets. Carl wasn't good with a gun, but I've seen Jack kill two men now. You wouldn't stand a chance.”

“Cole,” Carlotta said. “Talk to him. Let him help you.”

Damon licked his lips.

“Okay,” he said, “okay. Lemme get dressed.”

“Come with me,” Carlotta said to Clint. “I got another room where you two can talk and have a drink.”

“Okay,” Clint said. Then to Damon, he warned, “But don't take too long.”

“I'll be there.”

Carlotta opened the door again and said, “This way, Mr. Gunsmith.”

FOURTEEN

Carlotta took Clint to a room that looked like it was used to eat in, or play cards. There were several tables with chairs stacked on them.

A black man took down two of the chairs and set them on the floor.

“Isaac,” Carlotta said, “please get a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Three glasses?” Clint asked.

“Well,” she said, “I'm not the kind of hostess who lets her guests drink alone.”

“I see.”

“Um, have you talked to the sheriff about this?” she asked.

“Sheriff Atticus?” he said. “Yes, I stopped to see him first. Why?”

“I was just wonderin'.”

At that moment Cole Damon came walking in, fully dressed, his gun belt strapped on. Behind him came the black man with the whiskey bottle and three glasses. He set the glasses down, filled them, put the bottle on the table, and left the room.

Carlotta sat at the table and picked up one of the glasses. Both Clint and Damon looked at her.

“What?” she asked. “It's my house. Go ahead and have your talk.”

Damon sat and grabbed a glass.

“What's this all about?” he asked Clint.

“Like I said,” Clint answered, “I rode in with Jack Sonnet, who is convinced you're one of the men who killed his brother. You say you're not.”

“I ain't killed no fella named Sonnet,” Damon said.

“Okay, so we've got to convince Jack Sonnet of that.”

“You convince him,” Damon said. “He's your friend. If he comes after me, I'll kill 'im.”

“You wouldn't stand a chance.”

“You ain't seen me handle a gun.”

“It doesn't matter,” Clint said. “I have seen him use one, and I'm telling you, I wouldn't want to have to go up against him.”

That seemed to surprise Damon, but he puffed out his chest and said, “Yeah, well, maybe you're just gettin' old.”

“And maybe I want you to get older,” Clint said. He looked at Carlotta. “Okay, now you talk to him.”

“Cole—” she said, but he cut her off.

“Just be quiet, Carlotta!” he said. “I ain't afraid of no kid with a gun. You tell 'im that, Adams. You tell him not to come for me.”

Clint stepped sway from the table. He hadn't touched the drink that had been poured for him.

“I'll tell him, Damon,” Clint said, “but that doesn't mean I'll be able to stop him. Look, all you've got to do is talk to the kid. Convince him you didn't kill his brother.”

“I ain't gotta prove I didn't do it,” Damon said. “He's gotta prove I did.”

“That's just it,” Clint said. “He doesn't have to prove it.”

“Huh?”

“I'm not telling you he wants to take you to court,” Clint said. “I'm saying he wants to kill you. He's satisfied you're one of the men who did it.”

Damon thought that over, had himself another drink for courage, then told Clint, “You get outta here. You tell him what I said. He comes near me, I'll kill 'im.”

“Isaac will show you out, Mr. Adams,” Carlotta said. The black man appeared at the door. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, ma'am,” Clint said.

• • •

After Clint left, Carlotta turned her attention to Damon.

“What are you tryin' to do?”

“I didn't do nothin' wrong,” he insisted.

“That man came here to try and help you.”

“Like hell he did,” Damon said. “He's just scoutin' me out fer his friend.”

“Cole,” she said, “you have a chance to talk about this without it turnin' into a shootin'.”

“Like hell.”

“Cole—”

“If that kid comes for me, I'm gonna kill 'im,” Cole Damon said, pouring himself another drink. “That's all there is to it.”

“There's nothin' I can say to change your mind?” she asked.

“Nothin'.”

She poured herself a drink.

“Then you're a damn fool!”