Riverboat Blaze (2 page)

“You have?”

“Your room is taken care of,” the clerk said. He was very Southern, in his thirties, well-groomed, and probably better educated than most desk clerks in the West.

“By who?”

“Mr. Dillon, suh,” the clerk said. “He left strict instructions that your money is no good here. Everything will be paid for by him.”

“That’s very nice of him,” Clint said.

“Yes, suh.”

A bellboy came over and grabbed Clint’s carpetbag. He had decided a trip to New Orleans was worth more than just his saddlebags packed with a couple of extra shirts.

Clint followed the boy to his room, which turned out to be a two-room suite. Dillon must have been doing real well. Or he was showing off.

“Thank you,” Clint said, tipping the boy and ushering him out of the room.

He went to his window, which overlooked Bourbon Street. He was trying to decide what restaurant to eat in when there was a knock on the door. He walked to it and opened it with his gun in his hand.

“’Bout time you got here,” Dillon said, barging in.

“I got people for you to meet.”

“Nice to see you, too, Dean,” Clint said. “Thanks for the room.”

“Nice, huh?” Dillon asked. “Top of the line for you, Clint.”

“Dean, I’ve already agreed to be on your boat,” Clint reminded him.

“And that’s why you’re gettin’ treated so well,” Dillon said. “Come on, you must be hungry.”

“I am.”

“I got some people waitin’ at a restaurant down the street, it’s called Remoulades.”

“What is that, somebody’s name?”

“No, I think it’s some kind of sauce,” Dillon said. “Come on, time’s wastin’.”

Dillon was wearing a white suit and white fedora. Clint was in trail clothes.

“Don’t you think I ought to change into something clean?” Clint asked.

“Well, make it quick,” Dillon said. “I got people waitin’.’

Clint went into the other room to wash up and change.

 

He had nothing like Dillon’s white suit, but he did have clean trousers and shirt. He also kept his gun on.

“You really need that?” Dillon asked, as they walked along the paved sidewalk.

“Have you met me?” Clint asked.

“Yeah, okay,” Dillon said, “but try not to shoot anybody.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

Dillon took Clint down to the street, where they walked two blocks to the restaurant.

“Who are the people we’re meeting?” he asked, as they walked.

“Investors,” Dillon said, “other passengers. Friends. Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Clint grabbed Dillon’s arm, halting their progress down the busy street.

“Dean, don’t introduce me as the Gunsmith,” he said. “Introduce me by name.”

“Somebody’s gonna know you’re the Gunsmith, Clint,” Dillon said.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Let them ask. I’ll answer them.”

“Okay,” Dillon said, “whatever you say.”

They continued on and Clint followed Dillon into Remoulades. It was busy, all the tables occupied. Dillon led him to the back of the room, where there was a table for twelve holding ten people at the moment.

“Hey, there’s our host!” somebody yelled.

“I thought you were gonna stick us with the bill, Dean,” another man called out.

“Not a chance,” Dillon said, sliding in to sit next to a blond woman. That left one seat for Clint, across from the woman.

“Hey, baby,” Dillon said. He leaned over and kissed the woman’s cheek, but she was looking at Clint.

“Clint, this is Angela,” Dillon said. “Best damn blackjack dealer on the Mississippi. Baby, meet my good friend Clint Adams.”

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Adams,” she said. Clint guessed she was in her late twenties, a girl just coming into womanhood.

“Down the table you got Hal Miller, Danny Rawlins, and Bill Kennedy. They’re my investors.”

“And our money is safe with you, right, Dean?” Miller asked.

“Safe as can be, Hal,” Dillon said.

Miller and Rawlins were in their forties, Kennedy about ten years older than that. They were all well-dressed, looked like businessmen.

“Across from them are some of our passengers,” Dillon said. “Troy Galvin, poker player.”

Galvin, a handsome man in his thirties, inclined his head a few inches.

“That’s his lady next to him, uh . . .”

“Kathy,” she said.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dillon said, “Kathy.”

Kathy had a pretty if sullen face, looked about twenty-five, and didn’t seem very happy to be there.

“Then we’ve got Johnny Kingdom—”

“I’ve heard of Johnny Kingdom,” Clint said.

“I’m flattered,” Kingdom said. He was in his late thirties and had had a reputation in poker circles for about ten years. “I’ve heard of you, too, Mr. Adams. The Gunsmith, right?”

Dillon gave him an “I told you so” look.

“That’s right,” Clint said.

“Oh really?” Angela said, looking at him with even more interest.

“Is Mr. Adams going to be a passenger?” another man asked. He was so slender his clothes looked too big for him. And his hands shook. Clint didn’t know if he was nervous, or if they shook for another reason.

He was also sweaty, and held a white handkerchief in his hand, which he used to wipe his brow.

“Yes, Mr. Corso, Clint is gonna be a passenger,” Dillon said.

“T-that’s good to hear,” Corso said. “I mean, that you hired a man like the Gunsmith for security.”

“I’m not for hire, Mr. Corso,” Clint said.

“That’s right,” Dillon said. “Clint is coming at my invitation. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“I see,” Corso said. “Still . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence.

There were three more people to be introduced, two men and a woman. They were passengers. The men were brothers, Sam and Lou Warrant. The woman, although she was sitting between them, did not seem to be with them. She was introduced as Ava Cantrell.

She leaned across Lou Warrant to shake Clint’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Adams.”

“My pleasure, Miss Cantrell.”

She had black hair and thick, luxurious lips.

“Ava is our singer,” Dillon said. “Sam and Lou . . . well, they’re friends of mine.”

The Warrant brothers looked to be in their twenties, and if Clint was any judge, they
were
for hire. Even though Dillon was introducing them as friends.

They both nodded at Clint. He leaned back and was able to ascertain that they were wearing holsters on their hips. A couple of the other men—Kingdom and Galvin—obviously had guns beneath their jackets. The three businessmen—Dillon’s investors—did not seem to be armed.

If any of the three women had guns, they were not readily evident.

“Now that we all know each other, let’s have some drinks,” Dillon said.

“We’re here to find out the details of our boat’s first cruise, Dean,” Miller said.

“Sure, sure, we’ll go over that,” Dillon said. “I’ll tell everybody when to be there. But first let’s get some drinks for the table. Waiter!”

A waiter came over and took drink orders. Clint noticed that Dillon ordered for both Angela and Ava. He also noticed that both women were looking at him, while the men at the table were looking at them. Kathy seemed to grow more and more sullen.

Clint ordered a beer.

While they had their drinks, they got acquainted, although it was hard for Clint to talk to anyone but Dillon, who was on his left, and Lou Warrant, on his right. When Ava wanted to speak to him, she’d lean across Lou, who didn’t seem to mind at all.

Angela sat across from Clint, eyeing him in a way that made him nervous. If she was Dillon’s woman, then they were headed for trouble.

Or maybe Ava was his woman. Either way there’d be trouble. He’d have to talk to Dillon about it before he got on the boat.

Over a second round of drinks Dillon told everyone when to be at the docks to either see the boat off or get on board. Apparently, none of the three investors was going to be on board. Clint wondered if that was because they weren’t all that confident about how safe the big boat was. Maybe, like Clint, they had found out how much the boat really weighed.

After about an hour the three businessmen left. After that Troy Galvin and his sullen girlfriend Kathy left, saying they’d see Dillon on the boat.

That left Dillon, Clint, Angela, Ava, Johnny Kingdom, and the Warrant brothers.

“We’re all gonna be on that boat,” Dillon said. “And we’re gonna be family.”

“Family?” Clint asked.

“Sam and Lou work for me. So do Angela and Ava.”

“And Johnny?” Clint asked. He looked at Kingdom.

“I don’t work for Dean,” Kingdom said, “but we do have an arrangement.”

“Well, I don’t work for you,” Clint said to Dean.

“No, you don’t,” Dillon said, “but you’re my guest.”

“What about Galvin? And his girl?”

“You call that a girl?” Angela asked. “More like a mouse.”

“She’s nice,” Ava said, “just a little shy.”

“You friends with her?” Angela asked.

“Not friends,” Ava said. “We just talked.”

“Let’s have another drink,” Dillon said.

“Not me,” Clint said. “I’m going to walk around a bit. It’s been a while since I’ve been in New Orleans.”

“Will you walk me?” Ava asked.

“Where do you want to go, Ava?” Kingdom asked. “I’ll walk you.”

“No,” Ava said, standing up, “I’ll go with Clint. You stay here with Dean and the boys.” Clint noticed that Ava had not referred to Angela. He had a feeling the two women would never be friends.

“Will you walk me?” she asked Clint.

“Sure.” He looked at Dillon. “Dean, see you at the boat.”

“That’s two days, Clint,” Dillon said. “Let’s have dinner tonight.”

“Tomorrow night,” Clint said. “I want to spend a day in the city.”

“Okay, then,” Dillon said. “Tomorrow night. Meet me at Jacques’ at seven.”

“I’ll be there.”

“So will I,” Angela said.

“Yeah, baby, you’ll be there,” Dillon said to her.

“See you then,” Clint said to both of them.

Clint walked out with Ava hanging onto his arm.

“Where do you want to go, Ava?” he asked when they were on the street.

“Wherever you want to go,” she said, squeezing his arm.

“I thought you had to go somewhere,” he said.

“Well, I wanted to get out of there,” she said. “Johnny Kingdom had his hands on me under the table. And I don’t like Angela.”

“You were sitting between the Warrant brothers,” he said.

“Well, then maybe it was Sam’s hands,” she said. She slid her arm from his. “I just wanted to get out of there, with you.”

“Why me?”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

Now it was Clint’s turn to shrug.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I want to go over to Jackson Square,” he told her, “take a look at St. Louis Cathedral, maybe have some jambalaya.”

“I know a great place for jambalaya,” she said.

“Well, all right, then,” he said. He took her hand, looped it back inside his arm. “Let’s go.”

She did, indeed, know a place for some great jambalaya. They stopped there after going to Jackson Square, stopping in St. Louis Cathedral, walking down by the river. They talked the whole time. Clint found out that she was twenty-four, from New Orleans, had been singing in bars there for years. Her father was white, but her mother was Creole, so she was a half-breed. He figured that was where she came by her coffee-colored skin, and her luscious thick lips, and those big brown eyes. She could pass as white if she wanted to, but she never lied about her background.

“I ain’t ashamed of it,” she said.

“You shouldn’t be,” he said. “Do you sing as good as you look?”

She laughed and asked, “How good do I look?”

“Damn good,” he said. “You’re a beautiful girl, Ava. You know that.”

They were walking down Bourbon Street as the light began to fade, and she said, “If you take me to your room, I’ll let you see how good I really look.”

That was an offer he couldn’t pass up.

 

Dean Dillon’s hotel was smaller than Clint’s, but more expensive. It was also closer to the docks.

Down in the bar he sat with the Warrant brothers and Angela.

“What about Adams?” Sam asked.

“What about him?”

“Is he gonna help or not?” Lou asked.

“He’s my friend,” Dillon said. “If there’s any trouble, he’ll be there. But don’t forget who I’m payin’ to provide security.”

“Us,” Sam said.

“That’s right.”

The Warrants reached out for their drinks.

“You boys can go now. Angela and I want to be alone.”

They stopped short of their glasses, exchanged a glance, then grabbed their drinks, stood up, and walked away.

“We want to be alone?” she asked.

“Don’t we?” he asked.

“I’m a dealer,” she said, “not a whore.”

He smiled, put his hand on her leg, and replied, “Who said I was gonna pay you?”

 

As Clint closed the door, Ava moved to the center of the room. There was only a little light left outside, but it was enough to see her. He started to reach for the gas lamp on the wall.

“No,” she said, turning, “leave it.”

“I want to see you,” he said.

She smiled.

“You will see me,” she said.

The dress she wore had a scooped neck, but only showed a bit of her cleavage. However, it clung to her closely enough to outline large melon-shaped breasts. She seemed to need only to shrug her shoulders for the garment to fall to the floor. Next, a wisp of fabric from around her waist, and she was naked.