Murder in Dogleg City (10 page)

And Ira Breedlove watched over it all
from the end of the bar. Ira lived in an upstairs room, and almost
never left the property—but his web extended all over
town.

He stood there now, and Sam joined
him.

“
Ira,” the marshal said in
greeting.

“
Sam. I see you’re getting
around well.” Ira did not look at the marshal directly—it was more
a dismissive than an anxious gesture.

“
Well enough. Better than
Laird Jenkins.”

Sam watched Breedlove carefully,
hoping for a reaction, but received none.

“
Mister Jenkins got
himself backshot last night,” Sam added.

“
So I heard.”

“
No one seems to know much
about him,” Sam said. “Except Asa Pepper seems to think he was
working for you.”

“
Really.”

“
Oh yes, really. Normally
I wouldn’t trust Asa as far as I could throw his black ass—but he’s
not stupid. He certainly wouldn’t kill somebody right outside his
place and just leave him there. Though he may have had reason to—he
thinks Jenkins was there to pressure him about paying back a loan
you apparently floated him.”

Ira turned his head to
stare at the marshal. “And what do
you
think, Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t have enough
facts to think anything. Dab seems to believe I’m wasting time and
stirring up trouble even investigating this murder. Do you feel
that way?”

Ira let out a small sigh.
“Laird was an old friend of mine,” he said. “From my St. Louis
days. He was a confidence man, for the most part—he didn’t pressure
people, he didn’t need to. He
convinced
them, usually over a
little time.”

Breedlove took a pre-rolled cigarette
out of a silver case he kept in his vest pocket, and lit it. Sam
remained silent, letting the saloon owner go through his ritual.
After a few puffs of smoke, Ira continued.

“
Laird came in here a few
days ago, asking for work for old time’s sake. He wanted to get out
to Santa Fe, and needed a stake—despite his avocation, he was not
the sort of man who’d accept a loan as a favor, he’d want to earn
it somehow.”

“
So you sent him around
Asa’s?”

Ira nodded. “It wasn’t to get the loan
paid off, though. I had an offer for Asa—but I didn’t want to make
it straight off, I wanted to soften him up a little first. Let him
know I was watching him, give him something to think
about.”

“
But you didn’t want
anyone else to know,” Sam said. “So your man Laird didn’t go
straight to Asa. He spent a few days making the rounds of saloons,
spending a little time in each, to throw your competitors off the
trail. And he was perfect, because if you sent one of your regular
cronies it would attract too much attention.”

“
Something like
that.”

Sam chuckled. “Must’ve been a hell of
a plan you were cooking up, to take that much trouble in how you
went about it.”

Ira half-smiled. “Laird was going to
make the real offer to Asa tonight. In return for a cut of the
profits, I was going to start directing our girls’ overflow
customers to Asa. I wasn’t calling in the loan, I was going to
offer him another one, to hire more whores. After awhile I would be
willing to accept a half-interest in the place as repayment of the
loans.”

“
Why are you telling me
all this?”

“
Because I’m still going
to do it. And you have a stake in that sort of business, so it’ll
affect you.”

Sam shook his head appreciatively.
“Damn, Ira,” he said. “There’s only so many horny men in this
town.”

Ira smiled. “The town is growing.
There’ll be more.”

“
And if you expand, and
bring Asa’s operation into your own—that’ll give you the leverage
to cut the others out. Abby Potter, Dab Henry, Soo Chow, even
Virgil Calhoun, though he’s discreet about it. There’s a lot of
people selling ass in this town.”

“
Wouldn’t it be simpler if
there were fewer?” Ira said. “Abby would do fine, she caters to the
more established business folk, not the drovers. And Soo Chow
doesn’t have that many whores—it just makes sense to have a few
Oriental girls around when you’re selling dope.”

“
So it’s mostly Dab Henry
and Virgil Calhoun you’d be trying to drive out of
business.”

Ira shrugged. “You’d get the same cut,
no matter who gave it to you.”

“
It’s not the money, Ira.
The way I figure it, I’m entitled to a little bonus for keeping
everything running smooth around here. But my real job is keeping
the peace, and you and the others are edging closer and closer to a
war. It’s already starting—this is just the kind of shit I don’t
like. Somebody figured out what your amigo Laird was up to. Hell,
I’ve had two shootings in one day. If that keeps up it hurts
everybody.”

Ira nodded, and smiled. “I heard about
that little duel at Dab’s place.”

Realization dawned on Sam’s face.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “You had something to do with
that.”

“
I have no idea what
you’re talking about.”

“
It doesn’t
matter.”

Ira’s brow furrowed. “Sam, do you know
the real reason I’m telling you all this?”

“
I’m sure you’re about to
inform me.”

“
Laird was my friend. And
he died working for me. I do want you to get to the bottom of
it.”

“
So I can maybe put the
heat on one of your rivals.”

“
So you can do what’s
right,” Ira said.

Sam sighed. “I
probably
should
just drop the whole thing. It’s going to be nothing but
trouble.”

“
But you won’t,” Ira said.
“Because you’re not that sort of man. Your young deputy wanders
around Dogleg City, acting like Sir Lancelot, well meaning but
naïve as a church mouse. You’re more worldly, but you have a streak
of the same thing in you.”

Ira smiled at him, but not with his
eyes.

Sam stared back. “You may be right,”
he said. “But that streak, as you call it, applies to how I treat
everybody. You’d best not forget it.”

“
Oh, I won’t. I never
forget anything, Sam, you know that.”

“
It’s time for me to go
procure my supper,” Sam said, after a few uncomfortable moments.
“I’ll be back tonight.”

“
I’ll be here.”

Sam left the saloon, headed for
Isabella’s restaurant. Ira Breedlove turned to face the bar, cupped
his chin in his right hand, and was soon lost in
thought.

CHAPTER FOUR

Some men were born to step in shit as
they went about the business of earning their daily
bread.

Ira Breedlove was not one of
them.

Ira had come to that realization at an
early age. He had been so young when his father Tobias came west
from Missouri to establish a cattle spread that Ira didn't remember
any childhood home other than the T Bar B. He didn't remember his
mother at all, since she had died giving birth to him.

Because of that loss, Ira had been
raised by a crusty old cattleman and a crew of wild young cowhands,
and he had seen with his own eyes how hard they worked—from dawn to
dusk, from can to can't, most days—and how dirty and smelly they
always were. He hadn't been very old when he realized that such a
life was not for him. When his father suggested sending him to St.
Louis to complete his education, Ira had agreed to the idea without
hesitation. He knew what Tobias had in mind. The old man figured
Ira would come back to the ranch when his schooling was done and
take over running the T Bar B, and he would be able to do a better
job of that if he knew more things.

Ira had learned plenty of things in
St. Louis, but how to run a ranch successfully hadn't been included
in his chosen curriculum.

“
You want a drink,
boss?”

The question broke into Ira's musings.
It came from Mack, the bartender on duty at the moment, who had
seen the owner of the Wolf's Den leaning on the bar and figured
maybe he was thirsty. It was a reasonable assumption.

Ira straightened from his casual pose
and shook his head. “Not right now.”

“
Couple of the girls ain't
busy. You could take one of ’em up to your room if you was of a
mind to.”

Anger surged through Ira. He put both
hands on the bar, glared at the bartender, and said, “Of course I
can take one of those whores upstairs if I want to. They work for
me, after all.”

“
Sure, boss, sure,” Mack
said, quick to try to soothe Ira's ruffled feelings. Everybody who
worked at the Wolf's Den knew it was a good idea not to get Ira
Breedlove mad. “I just thought you looked a mite . . . pensive, is
all.”

“
Pensive?” Ira's anger
evaporated, at least the momentary annoyance he had felt at the
bartender, and was replaced by curiosity. “Where did you learn a
word like that?”

“
Read it in a book, boss.
Fella went off and left it in here one day, and I started to throw
it away but then I thought, hell, I might as well read it. I had a
little schoolin' when I was a kid, but I don't get to put it to
much use workin' here, you know.”

“
No, the Wolf's Den isn't
exactly what you'd call a bastion of culture, is it?”

“
I wouldn't call it any
sort of a name like that, boss. I like workin' here.”

“
Good, good.” Ira lightly
slapped a palm on the hardwood. “If anybody's looking for me, I'll
be in the office.”

“
Sure thing,
boss.”

Ira went through a door at the end of
the bar. Behind it was a short passage with another door on each
side. The one on the right led into a storage room where crates of
liquor and other supplies were stacked. The left-hand door opened
into the small office where Ira kept a desk. He had another desk
upstairs in his living quarters and did most of his accounting up
there, but he liked having a place down here where he could get
away from the barroom for a few minutes without having to climb all
the way to the second floor.

The room had a single window covered
by a yellow curtain. The pane was open a few inches at the moment,
but there wasn't much breeze. The curtain stirred every now and
then, but only a little.

Ira sat down at the desk and unlocked
one of the drawers. He made sure there was always a bottle of
decent whiskey behind the bar for his personal use, but when he
really wanted something better to drink he came here. He was the
only one who knew about the bottle of cognac in the drawer. He took
out a glass along with it and poured a couple of fingers of the
smooth, fiery liquor. After replacing the cork in the bottle, he
lifted the glass, and even though he was alone in the office, he
spoke aloud as he said, “Here's to you, Laird . . . and to St.
Louis.”

* * *

—
Twelve years
earlier—

The Birdcage was the fanciest
whorehouse in town, catering to men who had plenty of money to
spend. That suited Ira, because his father provided him with a
generous allowance, and it suited his friend Laird Jenkins because
men with money were Laird's favorite targets for his
schemes.

Some confidence men liked to prey on
lonely women, but as Laird had explained to Ira, that didn't hardly
seem fair to him. A woman aching for the touch of a man just
couldn't think straight enough to watch out for her own best
interests.

Ira suspected that such women didn't
provide enough of a challenge for his friend. To Laird Jenkins,
bilking folks out of their hard-earned cash wasn't just a way of
earning a living. It was also a game.

At the moment, Laird had a carpetbag
full of phony stock certificates he was selling, but his actual
stock in trade was his ability to convince people to believe
whatever he told them about how rich he was going to make them.
Eventually his marks would catch on and realize he was selling a
lot more certificates than there was stock to go around, but by the
time that happened he would be long gone from St. Louis.

“
Knowing when the hand is
played out,” Laird had said to Ira more than once. “Developing an
instinct for that awareness is the most important skill a man can
learn. Whether it's romancing a woman or skinning a mark, know when
it's time to take your leave.”

Of course, they didn't have to worry
about that here at the Birdcage, Ira thought. Laird wasn't working
tonight, and romance didn't apply in a whorehouse. The two young
men were out for an evening's entertainment, that's all.

A stocky, gray-haired Negro in
servant's livery met them just inside the door and took their hats.
“Good evening, Mister Breedlove, Mister Jenkins," he said in a
deep, cultured voice. "I trust you young gentlemen are doing
well.”

“
We're doing splendidly,
Thaddeus,” Laird said, grinning. “But I expect to be doing even
better soon if Mademoiselle Jessica is available.”