Under a Turquoise Sky (2 page)

As Wooster dragged the last piece of luggage—a large, heavy trunk—into room ten, Markstein stared out his window at the street below. It was midday and the street was busy with pedestrians, wagons and buckboards, all negotiating deep mudholes and ruts. Looking down at his own boots, he saw that they were already coated with mud.

“That's it, boss,” Wooster said.

Markstein turned and looked at the sweating man—perspiring as much from the need for alcohol as from the effort of dragging the suitcases and trunk up the stairs.

“Excellent,” Markstein said. He reached into his pocket, came out with a dollar, and then a second one as an afterthought. “Here you go, my good man.”

Wooster put out his hand and Markstein placed the money in his grimy palm.

Thank you, boss,” Wooster said. “Thank you kindly. You need any more…help…you just let ol' Charlie Wooster…know.” The drunkard was still panting, trying to catch his breath. Markstein hoped he wouldn't have a heart attack before he got to a saloon.

As Wooster started to leave, Markstein said, “Wait a moment.”

“Boss?” Wooster said.

“What was that other room number the desk clerk mentioned?” Markstein asked.

“Room five, boss.”

“Thank you.”

“But I wouldn't go there if I were you,” Wooster added.

“Oh? Why not?”

Wooster looked around, then stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him. Markstein suddenly became aware of the stench of the man's unwashed body.

“The man in that room won't take kindly to bein' asked ta move.”

“Why not?” Markstein asked. “I'll make it worth his while.”

A crafty look came into Wooster's eyes.

“You mean money?”

“Of course I mean money,” Markstein said.

“Boss…are you a rich man?”

Markstein opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it.

“Well, no, I am not a rich man,” he said, carefully, “but I am willing to pay for what I want.”

“And you want that room?”

“If it is the best room in the hotel,” Markstein said, “I want it.”

“Why don't you let me talk to him for ya?” Charlie Wooster asked. “Maybe I can—”

“Nonsense,” Markstein said, cutting him off. “I do my own negotiating.”

“Forgive me,” Wooster said, “but negotiating in the East is real different from doin' it in the West. I think I'd have a better chance of convincing him to switch rooms with you.”

“And you'd like to be paid for this?”

“Only if it's worth somethin' ta ya,” Wooster said.

“Well,” Markstein said, “my comfort is very important to me. If you can convince him, I would make it worth your while.”

“That's great,” Wooster said. “I'll go talk to him right now.”

Markstein was impressed that, as much as the man obviously needed a drink, he was willing to do that first.

He looked around his small room with its thin mattress in distaste and said, “I'll wait right here.”

 

The man in room five grabbed the woman by the ankles, spread her legs wide and brutally plunged his rigid penis into her. She gasped and grabbed a handful of sheets with each hand and grunted each time he drove into her. He had been brutal with her ever since she first entered the room, and she was going to have the bruises to prove it, but this was what she got paid for. Besides, she kind of liked it…

He also grunted as he fucked her, but he sounded more like a bull. Abruptly he released her ankles and withdrew, telling her, “Turn over,” and then flipping her roughly.

“Lift your ass!” he commanded.

She did so and he slapped it hard, more than once. She was tall and thin, not much meat on her, but he got a satisfactory smacking sound as his hand reddened her ass cheeks. She yelped each time he hit her, then gasped again as he reached up between her legs and poked his fingers inside of her. His skin was hard and rough as he probed her, but even though it felt uncomfortable she wet his hand with her juices, which she couldn't control. The more it hurt, the wetter she got, which made her his kind of woman.

Once she was soaking wet, he removed his fingers, moved up close behind her, took hold of her hips and probed between her legs with his long dick. When he found her moist hole, he poked in again and then began to fuck her from behind that way. She found his rhythm and began to rock back against him so that the room filled not only with the squeaking sound of the bed, but also the sound of slapping flesh. In addition, the gun and holster hanging on the bedpost began to rock, creating a clinking noise to go along with the rest.

The man was gathering momentum, driving toward his climax when the knock came at the door. He withdrew from the woman in anger, grabbed the gun from the holster and stormed to the door naked. There was no way he could fuck while somebody was knocking at the door, and that somebody was gonna pay for the interruption.

When the door opened, the man stuck his gun in Charlie Wooster's face. That concerned Wooster more than the other part of the man's body that was sticking out. “This better be good.” Then he recognized the drunk. “Wooster, what the hell—”

“Sorry, Mr.—”

“What do you want?” the man demanded. He was still angry, but removed the gun from the center of Wooster's face.

“Well, sir, there's this fella who just got in town? From back East? And he, uh, sorta wants this room.”

“My room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What for?”

“Well, uh, seems this is the best room in the hotel.”

The man frowned, then ducked his head into the room for a minute before ducking it out again.

“Looks just about like any other room,” he said.

“It's, uh, bigger.”

“That right?”

“I guess.”

“Well, you tell this fella from back East he's outta luck.” The man started to withdraw and close the door.

“He says he'll, uh, pay.”

The door stopped, opened, and the man stuck his head out again.

“He'll pay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much?”

“I dunno,” Wooster said, “but he's got lots of money.”

The man squinted at him.

“And you want a finder's fee, right?”

“Well…”

The man stuck his gun back in Wooster's face, causing Wooster to lose all the saliva in his mouth.

“You tell the man to come and talk to me himself,” he said, “and to bring his wallet.”

“But…I can make a good deal.”

“Do what I say, Wooster.”

The drunk became indignant.

“B-but…you're tryin'ta cut me out.”

“You got that right, Charlie,” the man said, “Now do what I tell ya.”

“No!” Wooster said. “I got a right—”

“You got a right to this!” the man said. He reversed the gun and struck Wooster right on the bridge of the nose.

 

Markstein answered the knock on his door and found Wooster standing there, blood dripping down his face from his nose and dropping onto the floor. He leaped back.

“Jesus Christ, man!” he said. “What happened to you?”

“Uh, the man says you should ask him about the room yerself,” Wooster said, “but I wouldn't, mister—”

“He did that to you?”

“Yeah, he hit me with his gun.”

“This is preposterous,” Markstein said. “This is no way to conduct business.”

“Uh, he ain't a businessman, mister—”

“Excuse me,” Markstein said, barging past Wooster.

“He's got a woman in there with him,” Wooster warned. “He ain't gonna take kindly ta bein' interrupted.”

“I'll reason with the man,” Markstein said confidently.

He stopped in front of room five, heard some squeaking and grunting sounds from inside, but knocked on the door nevertheless.

 

The man and the woman had the bedpost banging on the wall pretty good when there was a knock at the door again.

“Forget it,” she told the man, but he withdrew from her, grabbed his gun and stormed to the door.

“What?” he demanded, extending both the gun and his dick.

“Good God, man!” George Markstein exclaimed, jumping back. He hardly noticed the gun as the man's glistening, raging, blood-engorged dick alarmed him.

“Are you the dandy from the East who wants my room?” the man demanded.

Markstein, trying to avert his eyes from the male nudity, looked past him and saw the thin blonde on the bed with large, pear-shaped breasts, watching them impatiently. She seemed to have some welts and bruises on her body, as well.

“My God, is that…is that a prostitute?” he asked.

“That's a whore,” the man answered. “Don't they have whores back East where you come from?”

“I suppose—”

“Look, I'm busy.” He waved his gun in the man's face to get his attention away from the whore. “You got an offer to make me, make it and be done with it.”

“An offer—”

“You want my room, right?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Markstein said. “There really was no need for violence. Poor Mr. Wooster's nose—”

“Violence is the only way to get things done, friend,” the man said. “And if you don't start sayin' somethin' I wanna hear, you're gonna find out the hard way.”

He extended his gun again, and cocked the hammer back. It got very quiet in the hall.

All Clint Adams wanted when he rode into Kingman was about ten or twelve or fourteen hours of sleep. He'd arrived after dark and hadn't bothered with a drink, a meal or a bath. He'd just flopped onto the bed and fallen asleep. He hoped to wake up sometime during the afternoon, but of his own accord, not to a racket out in the hallway.

When the shouting and slamming against walls got to be too much to bear, he practically leaped from the bed and rushed to the door.

 

“A thousand dollars,” Mike Dolan said to George Markstein.

“That's ridiculous!”

“You want the room, don't you?” Dolan demanded. “That's the price. Take it or leave it.”

“I will give you a hundred dollars and no more, sir!” Markstein said. “You will find that a fair price.”

“Mike!” the whore, Loretta, called from inside the room. “We ain't done, are we?”

“No, we ain't done,” Dolan shouted. “Just hold on. Me and this dandy are doin' business.” He turned his attention back to Markstein.

Wooster watched the action from down the hall, standing inside Markstein's room, sticking his head out. He hoped the dandy wouldn't get killed, because he figured the man was good for some more drinking money.

“You can take your hundred dollars and shove it up your ass,” Dolan said. “A thousand is the price.”

“You are being unreasonable, sir.”

Dolan put his hand against Markstein's chest and pushed. The man bounced off the wall on the other side of the hall. Dolan followed him out, and put his forearm beneath the man's chin and his gun beneath the man's jaw.

“A thousand,” he said, “or I'll blow your head off right now.”

“Th-this is robbery!” Markstein said,

“You interrupted me, friend,” Dolan said. “That's worth a thousand right there.”

“B-but—”

“Come on, come on,” Dolan said, “I got me an impatient whore waitin' on me.”

“I—I don't carry that much money on me.”

“You don't, huh?” Dolan took his forearm away, began patting the Easterner down for his wallet. “Come on, where's your wallet?”

“Here now!” Markstein said. “I'll put up with no more of this.”

As Mike Dolan pulled Markstein's wallet from his jacket pocket, the man made a grab for it. Dolan slammed his gun down on Markstein's head, driving the man to the floor. He was bloodied but not unconscious.

 

The door to room seven opened and Clint Adams stepped out. He was still wearing his gun because he'd been too tired to remove it and had fallen asleep with it on.

“What the hell is going on out here!”

Mike Dolan turned toward Clint's voice, tearing his eyes from the many bills he'd seen in George Markstein's wallet.

“Go back into your room, friend,” he shouted. “This ain't none of your affair.”

“You woke me up,” Clint said. “That makes it my affair.”

“He's robbing me!” the bloodied man on the floor said.

“No robbery goin' on here,” Dolan said. “Me and this feller are just doin' some business.”

“What kind of business?”

“He's payin' me a thousand dollars to switch rooms with him.”

“That's not true!” Markstein cried. “I offered him a hundred—”

Dolan kicked Markstein in the chest absently, just hard enough to shut the man up.

“Like I told ya, mister,” he said, still delving into Markstein's wallet. “Not your business.”

“If you'd kept it down, I'd agree with you,” Clint said, “but your noise brought me out here, so now I'd suggest you give the man his wallet and go back into your room.”

“What?” Dolan froze, wallet in one hand, gun in the other.

“Don't even think about turning to face me with that gun in your hand, mister,” Clint said. “I'm not in a good mood when somebody wakes me up from a deep sleep.”

“Friend,” Dolan said, “if I turn toward you with my gun, you're gonna end up in an even deeper sleep.”

“Don't try it,” Clint said. “I just got to town last night and I haven't had anything to eat yet.”

“That a fact?”

“It is,” Clint said, “and I'm not killing on an empty stomach.”

“Yer a funny guy.”

“I told you,” Clint said. “Not so funny when somebody wakes me up. So why don't we all go back to our own rooms?”

“You tellin' me what to do?”

“I am,” Clint said. “I'm telling you to give the man his wallet and go back into your room.”

“Mike!” Loretta wailed from inside the room. “Come on, do like he says. I ain't done yet.”

“Shut up, Loretta!” Dolan shouted. “Mister, take yer own advice and go into your room before you get hurt, you hear?”

 

Wooster, watching from down the hall, didn't know who the man from room seven was, but he sure hoped he could draw against an already palmed gun, or Mike Dolan would kill him for sure. Still, as long as the Easterner on the floor didn't catch a stray bullet, he'd be happy.

God, he was thirsty. He never should've gotten involved in the room switch. Should have just gone and had that drink.

 

From the floor, with blood in his eyes, George Markstein couldn't be sure what was happening. He was also holding his chest where Mike Dolan had kicked him. He didn't know who the man from room seven was, but he seemed to be the Easterner's only chance of coming out of this alive.

Damned hotel! They should have held that room for him like they were supposed to.

 

Loretta had other business to do that day. She needed Mike Dolan to finish fucking her and beating on her so she could get paid and go back to the whorehouse. One of her best customers was coming in this evening, and she wanted to have a bath first.

She didn't know who the other man in the hall was, but she hoped he wouldn't kill Mike Dolan before she could get paid.

 

Clint was in an even worse mood than he'd been when he'd left the comfort of the hotel bed. All he needed now was to have to kill this jasper and then have to explain it to the local law.

But the situation looked like it was beyond talking it out.

“Put the wallet and the gun down,” Clint said.

Dolan turned his head to look at Clint again. The tension in his shoulder gave away what his next move was going to be. He whirled on Clint, bringing the gun around. Clint's hand moved like a blur. He drew his gun and blew a hole in Mike Dolan's chest.

Dolan flew backward, his gun and the wallet flying from his hands. As he landed on his back, his gun hit the floor but the wallet landed on top of its owner, Markstein, who grabbed it and then covered his head with both hands.

Wooster couldn't believe what he'd seen from down the hall. He'd never seen a man draw his gun that fast.

The whore, Loretta, came to the doorway, one hand scratching her crotch and the other cupping one of her big breasts. She looked down at Dolan, knew he was dead, and then looked at Clint.

“Guess I ain't gettin' paid today,” she said, then added, “unless—”

“Try him,” Clint said, pointing at the man on the floor. “He looks like he needs some tender loving.”

He backed into his room and closed the door. Let somebody else clean up the mess.