The Dublin Detective (5 page)

Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Dublin Detective

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Clint looked down at the ground. If there were any of McBeth's tracks there, they had long since been trampled, but outside of town it would be a different story.

“Okay, Pop,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Clint left the livery.

He found a poker game that night, played quietly, and listened to the men at the table talk to one another. Clint also eavesdropped on conversations going on around him. Nobody mentioned an Irishman.

Toward the end of the night, though, he was standing at the bar after having won fifty dollars in the small poker game when a girl standing near him mentioned an Irishman.

“. . . big, and mean,” she said, talking to another girl. “And he liked hurtin' me. I was sore for days.”

“Excuse me,” Clint said.

The girl speaking was a short blonde. When she turned, Clint saw that she was very buxom. The girl she was talking to was tall and dark-haired, with a nose that was a little too big for an otherwise lovely face.

“Want some company, honey?” the dark-haired girl asked.

“No, thanks,” Clint said, “I couldn't help overhearing what your friend, here, was saying.”

“I got work to do,” the dark-haired girl said, and left.

“The Irishman you were talking about,” Clint said to the blonde. “When was he here?”

“I don't know. A couple, maybe three weeks ago.”

“Not last week?”

“No,” she said, “definitely not last week.” She laughed. “If it was, I'd still be sore.”

“Can you tell me what he did to you?”

She looked around, almost shyly, and then said, “Well . . . not here.”

“Look,” he said, “it's important. Where can we talk?”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the hotel right across the street.”

“A-all right,” she said. “I'll come to your room when I'm finished here. It'll be later, though.”

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I'll be awake. What's your name?”

“Eve.”

“My name's Clint,” he said.

“I'll see you in a couple of hours, Clint.”

“Thanks, Eve.”

He left the saloon and went to his room to wait.

TWELVE

Clint was reading when the knock came at the door to his room. As always, he answered it with his gun in his hand. When he opened it, Eve slipped in very quickly and pushed the door shut behind her.

“Worried somebody will see you?”

“We're only supposed to . . . entertain in the saloon upstairs,” she said. “I just don't want to get in trouble.”

“I don't want to get you in trouble, Eve,” he said, putting the gun in the holster on the bedpost. “I'll pay you for your time, if that makes a difference.”

“Well . . . you just wanna talk, right?”

“That's right.”

She shrugged, and her big breasts jiggled. She was still wearing her work clothes, a low-cut red gown.

“It wouldn't be right for me to take money just for talkin',” she said.

“I don't have a problem paying,” he said, “you shouldn't have a problem taking it.”

“Are you . . . on the run?” she asked. “Is that why you answer the door with your gun?”

“No,” he said, “I'm not on the run, I just have to be careful. But the big Irishman you were talking about, he was on the run, right?”

“He didn't say so,” she said, “but I heard him talkin' to some of his men, and that's the impression I got.”

“And you didn't talk to an Irishman last week?”

“I didn't say that,” she said. “I said he wasn't the one who hurt me. He wasn't even with me.”

“But he talked to you?”

“Yeah,” she said, “he talked to everybody.”

“Okay,” he said, “let's talk about the first Irishman first . . . the big one.”

The Dolan Gang consisted of Jamie Dolan, Ed Grey, Billy Ludlow, and a Mexican named Santee. They were camped for the night somewhere near El Paso, with intentions of crossing into Mexico the next day.

Santee was a cold-blooded killer who liked to use a knife. He was the first one Dolan hooked up with when he left San Francisco. He was also the cook.

“Chow's on,” Santee called.

The other three came over, picked up plates and held them out. They also filled their tin coffee cups. Then they went and sat down with their food. Santee, as always, served himself last, then went and sat by Jamie Dolan.

“Good chow, like always, Santee,” Dolan said.

“Bacon an' beans,” Santee said. “Nobody can ruin bacon and beans.”

“When are ya goin' to make some potatoes, though?” Dolan asked.

“You Irish an' your potatoes.”

“Yeah, you Mexicans and yourâwhat are they called?
Frijoles?
”

“Yes,
frijoles
.”

“Why don't you make us some
frijoles
some time?” Dolan asked.

“I would make some tortillas,” Santee said, “but those two will not appreciate them.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dolan said. “All they know is bacon and beans. Well, when we get to Mexico they're going ta have to eat Mexican food, aren't they?”

“
SÃ
,” Santee said, “they are.”

“Well then, better get 'em used to it,” Dolan said. “Tomorrow make us some Mexican food.”

“We will need supplies.”

“We'll stop and get them, boyo.”

“What about your . . . countryman?” Santee asked. “He is still on our trail, no?”

“He is still on our trail, yes,” Dolan said. “How do they say it in this country? There is
no quit
in James McBeth.”

“That is not the kind of man you want hunting you down,
senor
.”

“Well, my friend,” Dolan said, slapping the Mexican on the back, “I don't think we want any man hunting us, but such is the nature of our business.”

Santee turned and looked over his shoulder at Grey and Ludlow.

“How long will we keep them with us?”

“Not long,” Dolan said. “We'll find better.”

Dolan and Santee had met in a bar fight in a Nevada town, and during that short fight they'd saved each other's lives and formed a bondâand, at the same time, the Dolan Gang. They'd been hitting banks and stagecoaches ever since, usually with two other men, but they still hadn't found two men they'd keep with them steady.

“We'll get rid of them in Mexico somewhere,” Dolan said. “Maybe you have some
compadres
who might ride with us?”

“I might,
senor
,” Santee said, “I might. More coffee?”

“Hell, yeah,” Dolan said. “Drinkin' your coffee is better than bein' with a two-dollar whore.”

Also camped for the night, several days behind the Dolan Gang, was James McBeth.

During the three months he'd been in the United States McBeth had become more comfortable with his American clothes, saddle, and gunâalthough he could never get the holster to sit comfortably on his hips.

There were two things that were plentiful in the United States that he had not availed himself of: whiskey and whores. He felt that either would dull his senses and he knew he needed to be sharp to find Jamie Dolan and then kill him. Especially now that Dolan had aligned himself with others and rechristened himself as the leader of the Dolan Gang.

If Dolan now thought of himself as Jesse James or Billy the Kid, McBeth was bound and determined to see that he suffered the same fate.

THIRTEEN

“I'm not sure what his name was,” Eve said, sitting on the bed. “All I know is he was . . . huge.” Her eyes widened. “I mean, he was a big man, and all, butâdown there, he was . . . huge.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Well, it was . . . I wasn't sure how it would feel. I've never been with a man that . . . big.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “I get it, he was big.”

“But he was mean,” she said, shuddering. “He likes to hurt people.”

“And he hurt you.”

“He hurt my . . . my breasts,” she said. “He squeezed them, he pinched them, left marks behind, you know? And I was sore for a week. He also split my lip when he slapped me, made my head ring . . .”

“Couldn't you call for help?” Clint asked. “Doesn't the saloon supply that kind of help?”

“I thought he would kill me if I screamed,” she said. “And I know he woulda killed the bouncers. They never would've been able to handle him.”

“Let me get this straight,” he said, sitting next to her.

“You took a beating so that your bouncers wouldn't get killed?”

She smiled wanly.

“You make me sound so noble,” she said. She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. He turned his head and found himself looking down her impressive cleavage. He could feel the heat rising from her, and his body responded.

“I was just afraid,” she said. “I'm used to men treating me without love, like a piece of meat, rutting and rolling off.”

He put his arm around her and she snuggled closer.

“So while he was hurting you was he saying anything?” Clint asked.

“He was telling me how much he liked it,” she said. “He'd flip me over on my stomach, then on my back again. He'd growl like an animal. And he was hairy like an animal. A-at one point I really thought he was going to kill me, and he looked . . . happy about it.”

She shuddered and he pulled her close to him. She had perfumed her cleavage and the pleasant scent wafted up at him.

They sat that way for a while and then she sighed and tilted her head up to look at him. She had a small, full-lipped mouth and when he leaned down to kiss her, her tongue blossomed into his mouth.

“You deserve to be treated with kindness,” he told her. “And love.”

“I'm a whore,” she said. “I'll settle for kindness.”

“You shouldn't have to settle for anything.”

He pulled her up so she was in his lap, straddling him, and kissed her soundly. She put her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him tightly. They kissed that way for a while and then she pulled her head back and looked at him.

“There's no charge for this, you know.”

“Hush,” he said.

He unzipped her dress in the back and pulled it down to her waist. Her breasts spilled out. He took them in his hands, lifted them to his mouth, and nuzzled her already distended pink nipples. She took some pins out of her hair and shook it free so it fell down past her shoulders.

“What a beautiful creature you are,” he said into her cleavage. “And so sweet.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, “I believe you're the only man who could ever make me come with words!”

“Well,” he said, laughing, “let's see if we can't use a little more than that.”

FOURTEEN

Eve held the back of Clint's head while he worked over her breasts with his mouth, tongue, and teeth. She wiggled her butt, enjoying how hard his cock felt in his pants.

“Oooh, God,” she said, “I want to get that thing out of your pants.”

She stood up, pulled her dress down, and stepped out of it. When she was nakedâthe hair between her legs plentiful and even blonder than the hair on her headâshe undid his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He lifted his hips so she could slide his pants off and toss them away. Since he'd been reading on the bed, he'd already removed his boots.

When his penis came into viewârigid, red, ready, willing, and ableâshe said, “Oh, my God.”

“Maybe not as big as the Irishman's,” he said.

“Oh, his was so ugly,” she said, “all veiny and . . . crooked. Yours is . . . it's . . . beautiful.”

She took it in her right hand, slid her hand up and down.

“It's so smooth,” she said, getting down on her knees between his legs. She rubbed his column of flesh against her cheeks, then licked until it was good and wet. That done, she opened wide and took him in her mouth. Clint caught his breath and let it out slowly as she started to suck him noisily.

He watched as her head bobbed up and down. She sucked with her mouth, stroked with her hand, and before long he had to pull her off him or it would have all been over much too soon.

He put her on her back on the bedâmindful to do it gentlyâthen lowered himself between her legs to go at her avidly with his mouth. When she was gasping and heaving about on the bed, he slid up onto her and into her and began to ride her. She dug her nails into his ass and tried to pull him into her more tightly.

“I know what I said before,” she said into his ear, “but I'm not gonna break, Clint. I promise. Come on . . . harder!”

From that point on he stopped treating her like some sort of porcelain doll that might shatter and by the end they were both whooping and hollering and having a good time. . . .

Clint and Eve lay there together, catching their breath, her hand on his thigh.

“Oh, my,” she said. “I never thought I'd come across a real man. Not in this town.”

“Glad to oblige,” he told her.

“You know,” she said, “when I came up here I didn't expect this.”

“Neither did I.”

She propped herself up on an elbow. He stared at her big breasts.

“Did I tell you anything helpful?”

“Did you talk to the Irishman who was here last week?” he asked.