Barbary Coast (A Searcher Western Book 12) Read online

  The bartender pointed to a roast turkey sitting in a greasy pan, half its breast carved away. ‘Sandwich?’

  ‘Just give me a drumstick.’

  The bartender ripped it away. Stone paid him and returned to the sidewalk, hungrily biting chunks of meat. Well-dressed pedestrians stared at him. He came to the office building, tossed the skinny drumstick bone over his shoulder, wiped his hands on his pants, climbed the stairs. The same clerk sat behind the desk in the front office of the Pinkerton Agency.

  ‘Inspector Richardson’s waiting for you, sir.’

  Stone walked down the corridor, passing earnest young gentlemen in suits. Richardson gazed out his window at the rooftops of San Francisco, casting his mind like a vast net over the city.

  ‘Please be seated, Mr. Stone. You’re not looking well.’

  ‘Have you found out anything about my friend?’

  ‘Her dossier is right here.’ Richardson read the information in a bored matter-of-fact voice. ‘She arrived in town approximately a month ago with Derek Canfield the gambler. They lived together at the Black Swan Hotel until last Saturday, when she left him after a series of disagreements about money, his infidelities, her infidelities, the usual charges and countercharges. She lived a few days in the flat of a painter for whom she worked sporadically as a model, then checked into a private rooming house for ladies at 131 Ashford Street. She departed there on Wednesday morning, in a carriage with a man. She and he boarded a train going east. We’ve been unable to determine his identity. Approximately sixty years old, well-dressed, silver hair, average build and height Fifty dollars, please.’ Richardson handed the dossier to Stone.

  ‘What would it cost to track her down?’

  The detective shrugged. ‘She could be anywhere. You can’t rule out Canada or Mexico either. Two thousand dollars—half in advance.’

  ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’

  ‘Next!’

  On the sidewalk, Stone examined the dossier. Man with silver hair? Next stop, 131 Ashford Street. Something crashed into his back, hurling him against a post that held up the eaves. Stone spun around and saw a big burly man with a moonface, single earring in the shape of an ax dangling erratically in the breeze.

  ‘What the hell you think this is, a library? When you’re on a sidewalk, keep it movin’, you goddamn dizzy ass!’ Stone, at his worst after arising, hadn’t even had his coffee yet. ‘Kiss my ass.’

  Moonface pointed his forefinger at Stone. ‘I’ll kick yer ass all over this goddamned street!’

  Moonface stalked closer, bobbing and weaving, evidently knew his way around a brawl. Stone held his hands low, to draw him in. Moonface pawed lazily with his left fist, then brought his right around and hooked it toward Sterne’s head. Stone ducked under the blow, slammed moonface in the pit of the stomach, then shot a straight right to the jaw.

  Moonface rocked back on his heels. A terrible pun bolted through his skull, down his spine, into his boots, as Stone smashed the jaw from the other side. Moonface flew against the side of a building, slid to the boardwalk, lay still in a heap next to an empty bottle of beer.

  I need my coffee, Stone thought He scanned the territory and saw a sign for a restaurant.

  Stone ambled inside. The smell of the sea in his nostrils. The only vacant table leaned against the far wall, beneath the red shell of a lobster mounted on a board. A waiter placed an immense bowl of fish chowder in front of him. Stone tasted the mighty Pacific. A platter of bread and butter appeared. Then a pot of coffee. Stone felt power pour into his body.

  In San Francisco a man can get in a fight every ten minutes. I’ll watch my step from now on. He opened the dossier and read the information.

  ‘May I join you?’ A rangy man wearing the brown robes of a Catholic monk stood next to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

  ‘I hope you won’t preach.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it I’m Brother Eusebius ‘

  They shook hands. A bowl of fish chowder was placed before the monk, long black beard, bronzed cheeks. The waiter brought a bottle of wine and a glass. The holy man ate and drank heartily. Somebody fired a shot in the street outside. Four sleek black horses pulled a gilded carriage past the front door. Stone scraped up the last drops of chowder, then finished the coffee.

  ‘Been in San Francisco long?’ Stone asked.

  ‘Once a month I come for supplies.’

  Stone took out the picture of Marie. ‘Ever see this woman?’

  Brother Eusebius examined it. ‘Don’t believe I have.’

  ‘She was with Derek Canfield.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Do hoodlums leave you alone, because you’re a man of God?’

  Brother Eusebius reached underneath his robe and pulled out a Remington .44. ‘They leave me alone, but this is why.’

  ‘Ever use it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Think you could?’

  ‘Defend myself if I have to.’

  ‘Christ said turn the other cheek.’

  ‘I have difficulties with that concept. Do you like brandy?’

  ‘Never drank much of it.’

  The monk raised his hand. ‘We make it in the monastery. It’s how we support ourselves.’

  ‘No women up there, I don’t suppose.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Just make brandy?’

  ‘And work in our garden, with our cattle. And pray.’

  ‘What do you pray for?’

  ‘The redemption of the world.’

  The waiter brought a dark green bottle. The monk poured pale brown liquid into Stone’s glass. He took a swig, it went down smooth as silk, then, five seconds later, kicked like a mule. Stone sucked air between clenched teeth.

  ‘What did you do before you entered the monastery?’

  ‘I robbed banks.’

  Stone stared at him incredulously.

  ‘Christ healed my soul,’ Brother Eusebius continued. ‘In turn, I offer His love to you. If you want to end your wicked ways, come to the monastery and purify yourself. You have the perfect bass voice for our choir.’

  ~*~

  Numbers painted on the porch: 131. Good neighborhood. Three-story wooden home painted gray and white, with bay windows. Stone knocked on the door. No answer. He opened it and entered a parlor. The portrait of Martha Washington hung above the fireplace, where a lady sat and knitted.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak with the manager.’

  The woman arose, rawboned, strong features, red hands. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I understand this woman lived here.’ He showed her the picture of Marie.

  ‘You’re the second person who’s come looking for her. The other was a Pinkerton man. What’re you?’

  ‘Old friend of hers. The Pinkerton man was working for me.’

  The manager looked at the picture. ‘That’s Marie Scanlon, and she’s gone. Didn’t the Pinkertons tell you?’

  ‘Thought I could get additional information if I came here personally.’

  ‘Didn’t know her well. She kept to herself.’

  ‘Did you see the old man she left with?’

  ‘He wasn’t that old.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Didn’t tell me. Appeared to be well off, I’d say. Very dignified. A gentleman.’ She looked down her long bony nose at Stone. ‘You might do something about your own clothing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been sleeping in them.’’

  ‘Did she have any friends here?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Has her room been rented?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘May I see it? You see, Marie was my childhood sweetheart. We’re supposed to get married, but she thinks I died in the war. I’ve got to find her. My life never will mean anything without her.’

  She pinched her lips together while reflecting on what he told her. ‘Maybe I’m crazy, but I belie
ve you.’ She handed him a key. ‘Room ten at the end of the hall on your left. Just don’t bother any of the ladies. We ordinarily don’t permit gentlemen on the upper floors.’

  He climbed the stairs three at a time, found the door, inserted the key in the lock. The faint familiar fragrance nearly floored him. He sat on a chair and stared at the walls that enclosed his lady love. The belle of Columbia, living in reduced circumstances.

  Marie had a stupendous bedroom in her home. Her father cheerfully provided anything she wanted. A spoiled brat all her life. Quite a comedown. But she survived. That was the important part.

  Maybe she left something behind. He searched the dresser, scraped in the dark corners of the closet, crawled underneath the bed. What’s this? A needle. Hard to imagine Marie sewing something. Probably had to learn, without a father to buy new clothes whenever she wanted something.

  He examined the needle. Maybe it wasn’t even hers. Frustrated, he glanced around the room, hoping to find a clue, hidden scrawled message, an old envelope with an address, anything he could follow up, but nothing presented itself. He placed the needle on the dresser. Where are you, sweetheart?

  No messages came from astral worlds. Disappeared with an old man, destination unknown. What a kick in the ass. He left the room, noticed the door directly across the hall, only three feet away. If Marie lived here, and another woman lived there, they must’ve known each other. Stone promised the landlady he wouldn’t bother anybody, but maybe Marie and the neighbor had been friends, or enemies, or maybe the neighbor saw something useful.

  He knocked on the door. Silence. He blocked again. ‘Just a moment,’ said a soft female voice. He waited patiently, hoping she wouldn’t call the police when she saw him standing in front of her door, and he hadn’t shaved for several days.

  The door opened. A tall willowy blonde with the face of an angel, wearing a pale purple robe, stood before him, eyes half-closed with sleep. ‘I’m scary, Mrs. Parker,’ she mumbled, ‘but we weren’t paid today. However, we’ll be paid tomorrow, and you can be certain you’ll be the first person I’ll see.’ She blinked, realizing she wasn’t conversing with her landlady. She let out a small shriek and tried to slam the door.

  He stuck out his boot. ‘I’m looking for Marie, who lived across the hall. Did you know her?’

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘An old friend of hers.’

  The tall blonde’s blue eyes examined Stone. He in turn was enchanted by what he saw. She looked like a goddess in an old robe, hair rumpled, just got out of bed. He could smell her perfume. A strange powerful urge came over him. His brain felt unhinged. She was stunning. Perfectly chiseled face. Eyes like luminous emerald pools. Lips the calligraphy of Venus. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Actually I’m not. May I sit down?’

  ‘But ...’

  Before she could get the words out of her mouth, he invaded her premises. The room was identical to Marie’s. He sat on a chair. She perched on the edge of the bed. He wanted to grab her long, lean body, even though he just left a two-day orgy. She can't be the most beautiful woman I've seen. Don't get carried away.

  He recalled exceptional beauties he’d met over the years: a friend’s wife, a banker’s daughter, a woman who owned a ranch, another woman who owned a saloon, and Marie herself. This woman had features of classic Nordic beauty, perfect nose, high cheekbones, magnificent sheer of chin. ‘Should I call a doctor?’ she inquired.

  ‘Sometimes I get dizzy spells.’

  ‘I can smell the whiskey all the way over here.’

  ‘Brandy,’ he corrected her. ‘Made by Catholics in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve been searching for Marie Scanlon nearly six years. Do you know where she went?’

  She examined him suspiciously. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘John Stone.’

  A cloud of anger distorted her brow. ‘Is this supposed to be a joke? Well I assure you, it’s not funny!’

  ‘Don’t know what joke you’re talking about. I was supposed to marry Marie, and that’s exactly what I intend to do as soon as I find her. If you have any information, please tell it to me. You’ll do two people an enormous favor.’

  The golden goddess pointed her finger at Stone. ‘Marie told me all about you. But aren’t you dead?’

  ‘Marie believed a false rumor. I was wounded, but here I am. By the way, may I know your name?’

  ‘I’m Phyllis Redpath. The night before Marie left, she spoke of you. She said her happiest moments were with you, and she’d never find anybody like you again. I was envious, because nobody ever loved me that way.’

  ‘I can’t believe that. Men must be after you all the time.’

  ‘They always find something wrong with me.’

  ‘I assure you, nothing’s wrong with you. You’re really quite marvelous.’

  ‘I thought we were talking about Marie.’

  ‘Who was the old man she left with?’

  ‘Friend of hers. They weren’t in love, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time May and September got together. What was his name? Where did they go?’

  ‘Marie tells only what she wants you to know. You look a little green around the gills. Care to lie down?’ She opened a cabinet, took down a bottle marked LAUDANUM.

  Adding several drops into a glass of water, she held it out to him. ‘Good for the nerves.’

  As she passed the bottle, the robe fell off her shoulder, revealing a black and blue welt, the ragged red edge of something like a scar. She pulled the fabric quickly and covered it. Eyes play tricks on me when I don't live right, he thought. He downed the medicine.

  She poured laudanum into a glass and sipped daintily. With her proud neck, strong shapely shoulders, grace and poetry in every movement, powerful intensity, her profile reminded him of a Renaissance religious sculpture depicting the Virgin Mary.

  She made a small semi flirtatious smile. Stone couldn’t take his eyes off her. He forgot about Marie, jail, Slipchuck, and even Robert E. Lee, who died three weeks ago. ‘Are you a native of San Francisco?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m from the East.’

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘I thought you were looking for Marie.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything more about the old man?’

  ‘Rich.’

  Stone looked around the room. A long silky something hung over the bedpost. The painting of a cat adorned a wall. Sprig of flowers in a vase. He turned toward her face. Delicious longlegs. No idea of what to do or say, he sat riveted in the chair and died to appear normal. She obviously wanted to be alone. But he couldn’t leave. She's so lovely. What's happening to me? I'm supposed to be looking for Marie.

  Silence became deadly. She sat opposite him, her silk robe outlining her legs. He felt a mad urge to drop to his knees and embrace them. An artery throbbed in his throat.

  She gazed at him calmly, obviously impatient for him to get going. He didn’t know what to do. If I don’t get away from her, I might do something stupid.

  He arose and stood unsteadily. ‘If you think of anything that might help me find Marie, may I leave my address?’

  She handed him a notepad, then bent over and picked up a big black pussycat that crawled from underneath the dresser. Stone saw the outline of her rear end. I must have this woman somehow.

  She kissed the cat’s lips, and for the first time in his life, Stone envied an animal. Her gently curving nose burrowed into the cat’s fur, Stone felt a thrill up his back.

  ‘I’d give anything to be that cat right now,’ he blurted, and immediately regretted making such an inappropriate remark.

  She smiled faintly, as if to say: Compliments don’t mean anything, I get them all the time.

  Time to leave, but his feet w
ouldn’t move. He felt insane, confused, as though she were controlling him. But I don’t even know her. And what about Marie?

  Marie receded into the past, an insubstantial fantasy compared to the ravishing blond wench before him. Drawn powerfully to her, he couldn’t understand why she didn’t feel anything for him. A woman sends little smiles and odd glances, a toss of the shoulder, a wiggle here and there, when she wants a man. This woman, cold as February morning in the North Pole.

  He opened his mouth, heard himself say, ‘Thanks for the information. Hope to see you again sometime.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said vaguely as she led him to the door.

  He found himself in the hallway, between Phyllis Redpath’s room and the one formerly occupied by Marie. Go someplace quiet, relax, think it through. He left 131 Ashford Street and headed for Russian Hill. The image of Phyllis Redpath filled his mind. Tall, elegant, stunning, he felt deep compelling physical desire, saw himself in bed with her, a terrible weakness came over him. He felt like fainting. I need a drink.

  He pushed through the swinging doors of the Lone Star Saloon. Whores everywhere, he made his way to the bar. A tall, lanky cowboy made way for him.

  ‘What part of Texas you from?’ asked lanky.

  ‘Near San Antone.’

  They shook hands. The lanky cowboy introduced himself. ‘Slim Simpson.’

  They drew deep draughts from their glasses. On the other side of the room, two men attacked each other, throwing punches, colliding, wrestling to the floor. A crowd formed.

  ‘Kick ’im in the balls!’

  Slim puffed his cigarette. ‘What you think of Frisco?’

  ‘Can’t wait to leave.’

  ‘Every time I turn around, somebody’s got his hand out. Never saw so many purty gals in my life. You walk down the street, one after the other. Quite a change from lookin’ at cattle all day long.’

  Stone gazed into his glass. ‘What do women have that makes us go loco?’