Longarm 243: Longarm and the Debt of Honor (13 page)

He saw Luke Baldwin step into the alley, turn, and use a key to carefully lock his back door. Then the man went off through the much wider service alley behind the other stores in Baldwin's block.

It wasn't dark yet, and there were no shadows to keep to, so Longarm stayed well back of the barber as he followed the man. He had no trouble keeping Baldwin in sight, though, and was sure the barber had no idea he was being tailed.

 

Luke Baldwin lived, apparently alone, in a small, rather tidy house in the same residential block as Norm Wold. From the outside the house seemed identical to Norm's, and might well have been built by the same man. If so, the interior layout would probably be the same also. Not a bad thing to keep in mind if Longarm ever needed to go in after the man with a gun in his hand.

It was close enough to dusk that Baldwin lit a lamp in the kitchen to work by, conveniently letting Longarm know where he was and what he was doing. Not that the information was helpful. Sure wasn't exciting either. Lurking in the bushes watching a bachelor fry potatoes—or whatever the hell he was doing in there—was not Longarm's idea of a good time. Still, the vast majority of a lawman's work was a matter of standing around waiting for something to happen. It was far from exciting. On the other hand, the rare moments of excitement that did occur were more than enough to get the pulse to pounding. The juices did tend to flow hot and heavy when there were bullets sizzling past a fellow's ears. Longarm yawned. This was not exactly one of those moments.

Baldwin took his time with supper, then came out back to draw a bucket of water from the pump in his yard. He carried the bucket inside, and for the next little while Longarm could see him through the kitchen window as he washed the things he'd dirtied for his meal. He dried them carefully and put everything away, then blew out the kitchen lamp.

It was full dark by that time, but no more lights showed inside the house. Longarm was about to decide Baldwin was a really early sleeper when he heard the sound of a door closing at the front of Baldwin's place. Apparently Luke intended to step out for the evening. Good. Maybe Longarm would have a chance to learn a little more about him.

It was easier to follow Baldwin now that it was dark. Especially easy because the barber still had no idea he was being watched. He walked back toward the heart of town, Longarm hanging a block or so behind him, and past the rows of saloons without so much as a sideways glance.

Longarm felt a trifle disappointed. If Baldwin had gone into one of the saloons, Longarm would have been forced to go in and buy a drink too so he could keep an eye on his quarry. As it was, he couldn't take the time. But a short swallow of rye whiskey would have tasted mighty good about then.

Baldwin, however, marched straight on. He passed the darkened front of the Methodist church and, half a block beyond it, an equally silent and empty Pentecostal church. Longarm figured this must be the side of town devoted to clean living, unlike the part they'd just gone through.

The barber's destination proved to be a house somewhat larger than those over on Norm Wold's side of the community. It was a two-story affair, with porches on the front and one side and a young fruit tree of some sort struggling for survival inside a yard that was surrounded by a startlingly white picket fence. The whole downstairs of the place was ablaze with lamplight, and through a side window Longarm could see the sparkle from a fancy chandelier. He could also see there were a good many people gathered in the side room.

Longarm found a bush to stand beside, large enough and far enough off the street that it should help conceal him from any casual passersby. He only stood beside the shrub, though, not in it. That way, if anyone did happen to notice him, he could act innocent as a newborn. Hiding? Not him. He just happened to be standing there looking at the stars.

Baldwin was not the last of the group to arrive. While Longarm watched, a young lady hurried past, through the gate, and into the house without knocking. Then a pair of young and exceptionally pretty girls—where the hell had Crow's Point been hiding these belles, Longarm wondered—followed.

It occurred to Longarm that virtually all the guests he'd seen through that side window looked to be female. Was this some sort of high-class whorehouse maybe? The few girls Longarm had seen enter so far were mighty fine-looking fillies, a hell of a lot prettier than anything he'd seen back in the saloons. Was this where the really good stuff was? Did Barber Baldwin have something to hide here? He was....

Longarm's train of thought was interrupted by a peal of music. Piano. Loud. Ah, they were getting down to it now, he bet. Of course. Longarm wondered if the line of duty would require him to go look further into this place of, um, business. Strictly of necessity, of course, and only for the benefit of his old pal Norm.

Before the answer came to him—perhaps fortunately—Longarm recognized the tune that was being played.

“Amazing Grace.” There was no mistaking it.

And moments later a dozen voices or more were raised in sweet song.

Choir practice. Luke Baldwin and all these young lovelies were gathered for a mid-week choir practice.

Longarm decided he wasn't going to gather much dirt on Barber Baldwin tonight.

He lit a cheroot—there was no point in worrying about drawing attention to himself with the flare of a match now—and wandered back the way he'd just come, leaving Luke Baldwin to his singing.

Longarm's belly rumbled. What the hell, he thought. He'd stop in for a drink on his way by. But tonight he was in no mood to play cards. He thought he'd have just one or two drinks then go back to Norm's place and get to bed early for a change. Dammit.

One drink. Two. Longarm was not drunk. Hell, no, he wasn't. Man in his line of work couldn't let down far enough to go and get drunk. Not never. Not even in a town as friendly as good old ... Crow's Point. That was what this place was called. Good old Crow's Point. Damn right.

He stumbled a mite on the top step, leaned against the doorjamb, and fumbled in his pocket for the key. Took him a second or two to remember that the door wasn't locked. No need to lock up. Not in good old Crow's Point. Hell, no.

The tip of Longarm's nose was missing. Felt like it was anyhow. And his cheeks were numb too. Felt funny as hell when he tried to talk. Which he had tried back there at the saloon. Not now, of course. Nobody here to talk to. Felt funny just the same. He worked his mouth silently, forming a couple letters of the alphabet, just to make sure. Still felt funny, all right. He laughed a little, found the doorknob—damn thing wasn't all that easy to locate in the dark—and gave the door a shove. Maybe a little harder than he'd intended. The door slammed against the wall and rebounded, whomping him in the face as he tried to go inside. That seemed kinda funny, and he stood there laughing about it for a bit, then stepped the rest of the way indoors and spent some time getting the door shut behind him and setting the latch. No need to bolt it, though. No need to lock up. Not here in good old ... Crow's Point. That was it. Good old Crow's Point.

Wasn't drunk, by God. Wasn't, Longarm told himself, then repeated it a couple times more just to emphasize the point. Only had a couple. Not but ... hell, he hadn't been counting. Not but a couple anyway. He was sure about that.

He grinned. Paid for a helluva lot, though.

It was that Schooner's fault. All his doing. Man showed up to collect on those beers Longarm'd been promising. One thing kinda led to another. Then some of the other boys joined in. Longarm'd buy a round. Somebody else'd buy. Longarm'd buy. Somebody else. Damn if he could recall how many he'd bought. Or for who.

Nice folks, though, all of them. Everybody in good old Crow's Point was nice. Damn right. Good fellas. Knew how to have a nice time. Friendly. They could sing too. Just damn near everybody, it seemed like. That barber fellow singing. Then Schooner and the other boys at the saloon. Seems near about everybody in good old Crow's Point could sing.

Why, even Longarm could sing. Funny, he'd never fully appreciated until tonight what a fine singing voice he did have.

He leaned against the door—latched but not bolted, thank you—in good old Norm's house in good old Crow's Point, and gave himself a small demonstration of superior tonal quality by way of the opening bars to “John Brown's Body.” Stupid sonuvabitch song, that one. Morbid too. Longarm decided he didn't like the damn thing. Sang a little bit of “Buffalo Gal” to make up for it. That was better. Happier. Helluva good voice too, if he did say so.

He heard somebody laughing. Not him. He was pretty sure about that. “What th' hell 're you laughin' at?” he demanded. Loud. Sharp. His good humor evaporated and he was on the prod. Ready to take on ... who-the-hell-ever.

“You, silly.”

“Oh. Well, that's all right then.” It was too. Now that he knew. “What the fuck 're you doin' here, Ellie?”

“Ellie. My God, no one has called me that since I was twelve years old.”

“How old 're you now?”

“Really, sir. A gentleman does not ask that question of a lady.”

“Yeah. I know. How old 're you?”

She laughed again. “Can I give you a hand? I think you need one.”

“Shit, I'm fine.”

“I'm sure you are, but let me help you in before you trip over something in the dark and hurt yourself.”

“ 'M not drunk, y'know.”

“I know you aren't. Here now. Give me your hand. There. Now put your arm over my shoulder. Like that. Fine. Now we go this way ... noooooo, not there, this way. That's better. You aren't going to throw up, are you? Warn me if you feel it coming up so I can get out of the way. You're doing fine. Oh, sorry. Did that hurt? Good. Now this way. Turn around now. You can sit down. The bed is right behind you. Don't worry. I won't let you fall. I've got you. Now let me help you out of your shirt. Longarm. Please! I have to get your trousers off. Don't be silly now. I've done this before and more than once.”

“Haven't neither,” he said stubbornly. “Never been with you b'fore . . .”

“I didn't mean you, dear. And just never you mind who I was thinking about when I said that. Now do what you're told, please, and ... be
still,
will you? If you keep moving around like that I'm apt to rip a button off. Then where would you be.”

A couple things came to mind, actually. He thought about mentioning a few, but was distracted by the warm softness of Ellie's tit pressing against his shoulder as she leaned down to do something with his britches.

Longarm gave the tit a hearty squeeze. Damn, but that big, soft old thing was nice. Nice as anything he'd come across here in good old Crow's Point.

“Longarm!” She was laughing when she yelped, though, so he did too. He gave the tit another honk. “Stop that.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He gave her his very best contrite look. He could look just contrite as all billy-hell when he wanted to. Damn shame it was so dark in the bedroom so she couldn't see how nice and contrite he looked. He used both hands and gave each of those beauties a squeeze.

“Longarm! Really. Please stop.”

Remorse rushed through him, bringing a stinging heat into his cheeks and a deep sadness into his chest. “I'm awful sorry, Ellie,” he moaned.

“All right. I forgive you. Now cooperate with me a little here, will you, please? Can you lean back so I can get to this top button? That's better. Now lift your butt. I can't pull your pants off with you sitting on them. There that's ... oh, darn. I forgot your boots. Hold still. No, don't fall. Please don't fall. You can lean on me. It's all right. Let me get ... there. Now the other one. Good. Now the pants. All right. Feel better? Of course you do. Now lie down ... no, dear, don't close your eyes. The room will get all swimmy and start to spin. Keep one eye open. And one foot on the floor. Can you do that for me?”

For some reason—he couldn't quite figure out why—she was laughing again.

Wasn't important why anyway, he decided after giving it some thought. He was in the bed. That was the main thing. It was all right now. Everything was just fine. He'd lie here for a few minutes and then he'd feel his own self again, chipper and ready for anything, and then he could sit up and behave like a proper host for old Ellie.

That was what he'd do, all right.

Just rest. A couple minutes. That's all he needed.

Then he'd see what his pal Norm's woman was doing here in the middle of the damn night.

But not right now.... a few minutes. That was all he needed.

From somewhere in the distance Longarm heard a low rattle that he rather dimly recognized as a snore. He had no idea who was making the sound, and after a few seconds more he didn't care.

His mouth tasted like goose shit, hammers kept striking his forehead while a vise cranked tighter and tighter on his temples, and there was hair growing on his tongue. Apart from those few small details, Longarm felt just fine.

It was, he guessed, still some hours before daylight. He determined that on the basis of how bad he had to piss. He was hurting, but not yet to the point of rupture. After a night of beer-and-rye shooters, he would either have to get up before dawn or piss the bed. The choice would've been clear. So it was maybe three, four o'clock, he guessed with a yawn that rattled his teeth and made his head ache all the worse.

He went to pull the sheet back so he could stand up ... and ran into a long, lumpy obstruction that had gone previously unnoticed.

Longarm was, it seemed, not entirely alone.