Sundance (14 page)

“New immigrants show up every day, you sure he means me?”

The Chinese boy made a face. “You're different. So is he.”

“Okay. Where is he now?”

“In front. Watching for you. Very patient.”

“Who'd he talk to?”

“Came in a circle. Started two blocks east, asked stuff.” The Chinese boy pointed his finger in a new direction. “Then went south, same questions, then west and north. Then he came closer, one block in, east again. More questions but a smaller circle. Like he knew you were here.”

“Clockwise. Who did he talk to?”

“Cart vendors. Deliverymen. Boys on steps.”

“Squeeze till I'm in a pinch. What was he wearing?”

“Cowboy stuff. But no hat.”

“No. That would be too obvious.”

Longbaugh started toward his room, and Levi said, “Stay away from windows.”

Abigail looked at Levi with surprise.

Someone came in the front door, and Longbaugh stepped back into the shadow of a doorframe and saw it was another boarder. He could see nothing outside through the briefly open door.

He went to his room and left the lights off. Without moving the curtains he looked out and took in as much street as possible. His
limited view revealed nothing, and he could not confirm the identity of his stalker. But he knew. Siringo was the only one smart enough to follow him here. In retrospect, he saw how Siringo must have tracked him. He had gone to Rawlins after the boy was killed, spoken to the warden, learned about the letters. Somehow gotten the address, although he wasn't sure how. Longbaugh was lucky to have the Chinese boy. He left much of his gear in his room, but took his holster and his gun. He would need them now.

He went downstairs.

He stopped in front of Levi. “Doubt or trust.” Then he pointed to the red, swollen jaw and said, “And ignore that loudmouth.”

He looked at Abigail. “If you see her . . .”

“I'll tell her,” said Abigail.

He glanced out the window, again without moving the curtains. The Chinese boy shook his head, clucking. “Not that way, cowboy.”

“I know,” said Longbaugh. Then to Abigail, “Is the light on by the back door?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Longbaugh saw the Chinese boy giving Abigail a long, disapproving look, as if he couldn't believe she had even considered sleeping with the odious tall man he so utterly despised, and Longbaugh moved to get the boy out of there before he gave it all away.

He led the Chinese boy past the back door to a window at the far end away from the light. He opened it quietly and put his head out to look both ways, then slipped out into the backyard. The Chinese boy followed.

They stopped in a shadow. They watched and listened. Neither moved, as if they both ran on the same inner clock. They made eye contact and went together across the street.

They found another shadow and stopped to listen. He saw movement a few doors down, then recognized a cat stretching.

“You see him?”

The boy shrugged. “Maybe still out front.”

“What's your name?”

The boy was surprised to be asked. “Han Fei.”

“Nice to know you, Han Fei. Harry.” Longbaugh watched the shadows. “I'm starting to appreciate the neighborhood conscience. Good that you mentioned Paris instead of that other thing.”

Han Fei gave him a look that said,
Do I look stupid?

“How did you get onto him?”

“I watch things. What's he want?”

“He's a lawman and he thinks I'm a killer.”

“Guy you killed deserved it.”

“Just like that?”

“You saying he didn't?”

“You didn't know him, why take my side?”

“You helped the woman.”

“Okay.” He reached in his pocket for the piece of hard candy. The boy took it but put it in his pocket.

“Not hungry?”

“Don't like those. I give them to my mother.”

“Which do you like?”

“Ginger.”

“Next time.”

“From a place near Five Points.”

“I'll get more for Mama.”

“Probably best, cowboy.”

Longbaugh had been staring at one particular shadow, finally convinced it was empty. “I want to get close to him.”

“Under-arrest close?”

“I need to be sure.”

Han Fei led him two blocks away, where they looped, just as Siringo had done, but counterclockwise, and came back toward the front of the boardinghouse. A block out, they went in the back door of a tenement and up the stairs to the roof. Keeping their heads low, they moved to
where Han Fei pointed at a fire escape, then realized it was empty. He was surprised, and looked back and forth. “He was there.”

“I believe you.”

“For a long time.”

“I know. He's good.”

Longbaugh looked behind him, then up and down the street. He looked across to other rooftops. “Let's go.”

He and Han Fei went down the stairs and out the back door to the street and away from the boardinghouse through an alley. Longbaugh felt a presence in every window, every doorway, on every rooftop, in every shadow. Nevertheless, he was sorry to go. If she came back, she wouldn't find him.

•   •   •

H
E STRETCHED OUT
on a lumpy bed in a dark hotel room, light from streetlamps, advertising signs, and automobile headlights reflecting to the ceiling. He inspected the patterns in peeling paint, and saw mountains, valleys, rivers, as might be portrayed in a cartographer's drawing. After he'd looked at them longer, the shapes became faces that reacted to the moving light, and seemed to change expressions, grim to surprised, curious to pleased. Siringo's face was there, or how Longbaugh remembered it. He thought of Siringo alone in the confusing city, and wondered if he had friends or family here, if he had a place to stay. Then he wondered if Siringo had contacted the local police. But it was pointless to try to outthink him. Longbaugh's only move was to leave altogether, find another city. But that was not an option. Siringo would find him because he knew what Longbaugh was after. Longbaugh would have to quit his search if he was ever to lose him. As that would never happen, his next best hope was to stay a few steps ahead.

Longbaugh listened to the conversations around him, through the ceiling, from across the hall, then was surprised by a voice almost against his head, inches away, on the other side of the paper-thin wall. Siringo could be in the next room and he wouldn't know. As could Etta.

•   •   •

T
HE NEXT MORNING
he started out in the area of the city that had been known as the Tenderloin, playing the ignorant bumpkin, an out-of-towner looking for a honey and a good time. He told everyone of the type of lady he liked, describing Queenie to the best of his ability, and let the word spread. Eventually he found a neighborhood where she had worked, and the people who knew her told him her name. I know what you want, mister, as if by some magic they had conjured up an exact match. But she had been missing for days. Not unusual, they said, she might be on a bender or just sleeping one off. She would eventually turn up, at which time he was welcome to her, and in the meantime offered him a consolation companion. He waved them off. He insisted on Queenie or no one until someone said if he was that determined, he ought to speak to a guy named Joe, and might find him at a certain bar.

He went to the Tall Boot Saloon in Little Italy that
night.

H
is suit labeled him out of place; the clothes bought to help him blend in now betrayed him. He inched his bowler low to shield his eyes, and scanned his neighbors. Every joker in the place was gut-checking his resolve, as here was a prime pullet to be plucked. It would be tricky to get out, but that was for later.

The saloon called Tall Boot was a few steps down from the sidewalk. When a man was standing in the doorway, his eyes were level with pedestrians' knees. Indifferently secured planks were flooring, naked bulbs threw raw shadows, the walls were undecorated, and the bar ran long under a close ceiling, crowded with shoulder-to-shoulder drunks. Longbaugh smelled bathtub booze and smoke, puke and syrupy hair oil, and the rank, nervous sweat of heavy, unwashed men. It was familiar, homey, comfortable, and he liked it just fine. He'd known many similar bars, especially one particular hole in Boise. The bartender slid a glass of something in front of him. He bent to it, and the smell of ammonia snapped his head up. He heard laughter at his expense and realized how closely he was being watched. He pushed the
glass an inch to the side with the back of his hand and the lug next to him snatched it, downed it, and slammed the empty back between Longbaugh's elbows inside a pair of blinks.

Longbaugh glanced at him sideways. “Easy, professor, you'll bruise the gin.”

The fellow grunted and went away. The bartender poured him a second and hovered for his reaction, expecting payment for both.

Longbaugh reached for change in his pocket. “So where's Moretti tonight?”

The bartender collected Longbaugh's face along with his coins, offered a disinterested sniff, and walked away. Longbaugh watched him bypass customers brandishing empties to get to the far end of the bar, where he spoke into the ear of a slick, the only other patron wearing clothes as good as his own. The bartender never looked back, but the slick darted his eyes to Longbaugh, then ducked into the crowd.

Longbaugh waited, and the second drink waited on the bar with him. No one touched it, and he had elbow room, as if Moretti's name had suspended him in a bubble. Nearby conversation was uninformative, so he let it all fuzz into a hum. Someone would come, but it would not be Giuseppe Moretti.

A full ten minutes passed before he felt the fingers that pinched his wallet. This time he did not grab the hand that fleeced him. The lift was second rate, but as it was the opening move, he suffered it like a mark. He stared ahead and waited. It was a full two minutes before a space cleared beside him, and another minute after that before the ample lad with the demeanor of a festive bear crowded in beside him. The bear held out Longbaugh's property.

“These are the times that try men's souls,” said the bear. “As well as their mistresses, livers, and wallets.”

Longbaugh stared ahead. The bear was not drunk, but his words crowded his ears, as if they had volume and weight and a surface covering of fur.

“Ought to be more vigilant, tourist. Got your purse appropriated—but I gloved the fingers.”

“Did you.”

“No no, now don't hurry to thank me,” said the bear with honeyed sarcasm.

Longbaugh moved his eyes without reaching for his property. “Looks familiar.”

“Ought to, since it belongs to you.”

“You sure?”

“Let's just say I watched the fingers swipe it.”

“And where is the swiper?”

“Oh, way too slippery for an old bear. Be grateful for the important things in life, which include the return of your property.”

“Open it,” said Longbaugh.

“It's all there. Got him before he turned it inside out.”

“Indulge me.”

The bear scratched himself, then looked inside. The billfold was empty. No money, business cards, or club memberships. A lot of nothing.

The bear pawed through it. “Now wait just a damn minute.”

“Is that
my
empty ‘purse'?”

“Bastard Flexible was only supposed to—aha, yes, there it is, I see it now.” The bear was instantly jolly, his embarrassment forgotten, a thing of the past. “You that much smarter'n you look, tourist, or just dumb lucky? Neat trick, emptying it up front. You don't look the clever type. But trust me, in this I am innocent as a puppy's nose. Got a name?”

Longbaugh said nothing.

“Well, you have earned mine. Agrius Hightower will now carry your skimmer . . . and buy you a drink.”

“You must know a place that serves alcohol.”

Agrius Hightower certainly was merry. “We'll manage all right.” He nodded to the bartender, pushed Longbaugh's untouched second glass away, and two fresh glasses arrived with liquid that appeared respectably brown. Longbaugh watched Hightower lift his glass. Hightower saw him watching and paused with his lip on the rim. “Do what you like, tourist, but my policy's to drink the real juice when it's offered.” He drank.

Longbaugh raised his glass to his nose. Creditable whiskey. He drank.

The slick was back at the far end of the bar, pretending not to notice Longbaugh and Hightower. Longbaugh understood then that the slick was Moretti's boy, but probably not muscle. Hightower was likely to handle that, although he was too smart to be just an enforcer. Perhaps he also did something else for Moretti. Longbaugh imagined the slick was Moretti's messenger. If so, Moretti was smarter than he expected, keeping layers between himself and the gang's operations.

“Didn't take long to find me.”

Hightower was not insulted. “Was I looking? I happen to live here.”

“No,” said Longbaugh with abrupt, harsh certainty, “you don't.”

Hightower shot him a wintry look, and met menace with menace. His words grew thicker still, more substantial. “I owe allegiance to nobody.”

Longbaugh returned an innocent smile. “No doubt. But you moonlight for
il
Mano Nera
.”

Hightower looked him over as if he would not underestimate him again. “Mind you, I care not at all, but what would you do with Giuseppe Moretti if he were here?”

“Nothing to cause you any trouble.”

“He do something to you?”

“He knows my wife.”

Hightower's manner changed, as if his respect for Longbaugh vanished with those words. “Oh, tourist, I sincerely do hope not.” He stood back from the bar. “There's my problem, I trust my instincts, got to learn to wait before I befriend a man.” He hitched his trousers and stood taller, delivering boilerplate: “If your wife chooses life on the boulevard, that is her decision and we cannot be held responsible.” Hightower stepped back to leave.

“You already know her name.”

“I sincerely doubt it. Not her name, nor any other of her physical advantages or attributes.”

“Etta Place.”

Longbaugh watched his words' impact. Hightower came back to the bar.

“Interesting name.”

“So it is.”

“But she had no husband. We would have known.”

“You'll take me to him.”

Hightower nodded. “I will. And I hope that will make you as happy as it's going to make him.” He knocked on the bar twice to get the bartender to refill his glass. The bartender turned his broad back to him. Hightower smiled and nodded his head without satisfaction, having come to the limit of his leash.

“Shall we?” he said.

Longbaugh followed Hightower away from the entrance and toward a rear door. He felt the collective disappointment of the other patrons that he was leaving under escort. He saw, blocking the door, a small Italian
paisan
in a loud checked jacket who presented a toothy, liquid smile that brought Longbaugh no warmth. Here, likely, were the fingers that had lifted his purse. The smiler turned and was out the door a few steps ahead of them. By the time they reached the alley, he was not to be seen.

“By the way.” Longbaugh ducked under a fire escape a step behind Hightower. “I don't own a skimmer.”

“And I would never carry one,” said Hightower knowingly.

Longbaugh followed warily through the narrow, ill-lit alley. He wanted to slow down, observe and memorize, but Hightower was quick for a bear. He let Hightower get ahead, trying to memorize the route.

He knew he had misjudged the situation when he reached a fork in the alley and Hightower was nowhere to be seen. He walked a few steps to the left, then came back and tried the right. Hightower might have gone either direction. Now he listened for something else, because he had been played for a sucker and had walked right into it. He wasn't surprised, had in fact expected it, but he'd hoped his lesson would come
after he'd gotten to talk to Moretti. Now it would be harder. He stayed by the corner, but left his gun hidden against his low back. Three hard boys stepped out. He had overheard talk in the bar that most of the men there were Sicilians, and these boys were dressed the same. He felt but did not see one more behind him. Four. No. There was a fifth, up ahead in the shadow, hovering behind the first three, the
paisan
with the teeth and the loud checked jacket. That the
paisan
kept a discreet distance suggested he had the wisdom of a coward and the wiliness of a bully. The
paisan
would be happy to kick him, but only when he was down.

“You got something belongs to us,” said the hard one who was their leader.

“Wait, don't tell me,” said Longbaugh. “My life or my money?”

He leaned sideways to contact the wall closest to him, a side glance at the boy behind. A young one, tall and lanky, with pimples.

“Take 'em both, if you don't mind,” said the hard one.

“You may need to work a bit.”

The corner gave him an advantage, and none of the boys were showing firepower. Why bother, when the odds were so in their favor. He waited for their move. The three in front spread out and closed in. The one in back would also be moving. Longbaugh watched for any flinch, twitch, or tremble.

Hightower came up behind the
paisan
and slapped him so loudly on the ear that the others all turned. The
paisan
said, “Ow,” and grabbed the side of his head. “You never learn, do you, Flexible? This one's mine.”

Longbaugh saw the silent message signaled from Hightower's eyes to each of the boys in turn. The main four went sullen, trudging now, slow as erosion, losing that catlike step that had impressed him. When they did not scatter quickly, Hightower signaled the leader with an abrupt jerk of his head. Once they were gone, his irritation turned on Longbaugh.

“Maybe you best stay close, tourist.” He moved near enough to bring Longbaugh into the pull of his gravity. This time he walked ahead more
slowly. “Thought I had you pegged in there. Now not so sure. You're a little green for being that Place woman's husband.”

“You think I was in trouble?”

“If they'd wanted to hurt you, they'd have had guns.”

“In their pockets?”

“You truly are a tourist. There's a city law against carrying. The Sullivan Law, automatic jail sentence if you get caught with a gun. Punks like that sew their pockets closed so cops can't plant one. They get their girlfriends to carry. If they're willing to risk that little cop trick, that's when they're serious.”

Longbaugh smiled mirthlessly. Curious that Agrius Hightower had more respect for his woman than for him. He brought his hand out from under his jacket, leaving his pistol hidden. Hightower watched Longbaugh's hand, but Longbaugh knew Hightower had not seen the Peacemaker.

“What did you call him, Flexible?”

“His name's Felice,” Hightower pronounced it in perfect Italian, feh-LEE-chay, “but I don't speak Wop, and he's a twisted little turd, smile at you one minute, kick your cheek in the next. That makes him flexible.”

“Giuseppe live around here?”

“Signor Moretti moves around. If he stays in any one place more than a night, I'd be surprised,” said Hightower over his shoulder. Then he stopped, turned, and came at Longbaugh to look him directly in the eye. “Moretti is a man so thin-skinned, he bleeds when he takes off his shirt.” Longbaugh thought about the warning, knowing it had meaning without knowing why.

They entered a building and navigated tight hallways with scant light. Longbaugh smelled frying onions and garlic, heard a juicy cough through a wall and an aborted scream over his head. He had absorbed the lesson and stayed close to his guide. That way, if anyone took a shot, they risked hitting Hightower. Again to the outdoors, but before he found a street sign they went into another building, out the back, then through another alley. Longbaugh quit trying to memorize the way.
They could be anywhere, they could even have circled back to the same building that housed the Tall Boot. He followed until they were into another doorway, up stairs, down a second-story hall to an unmarked door, where Hightower knocked.

Time passed. No sounds came from within. Hightower waited without knocking a second time. Longbaugh heard nothing until a girl opened the door, a lean and pale creature, not unattractive, with hair unruly as if she'd been interrupted during strenuous exercise, breathing through her slack and puffy mouth. A thin robe hung to her knees, her nipples a distinct shape against the cotton, her bare, thin legs standing on large feet, making her seem young and coltlike. She resented the intrusion, but one look at Hightower and she nodded her head to come in, opening the door wider.