The Gunsmith 387 (9 page)

Hal Chance walked around town for several hours, never saw anyone matching the description they had been given. He ended up in front of the cathouse, decided to take a break and go inside.

The place was well stocked with Mexican girls and nothing else, which suited him just fine. He had planned on sampling as many Mex gals as he could while down here. So far, though, Rydell had kept him from doing that. But now, with Rydell not around, he was free to sample all the Mex gals he could.

“Señor?” an older lady asked. She wore a black dress and had a black comb in her hair, from which hung a black veil. “Come in, come in, señor. The girls are waiting.”

She led Chance into a parlor, where black-haired, dark-skinned gals of all sizes and shapes sat.

He was in heaven.

 * * * 

Rydell put a fresh pot of coffee on the fire as darkness fell. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Chance was doing something stupid. But he hoped it was something like spending hours in a bordello, rather than finding their man and facing him alone.

But knowing his partner as he did, his money was on whores. Chance probably didn't have the gumption to face their man alone, but he was stupid enough to be spotted.

Just go to a whorehouse and fuck all night, he thought. It was the safest thing for both of them.

 * * * 

Clint finished his beer with Vazquez, turned down the offer of a second, and said, “I'm going back to my hotel. Thank you for the supper, Domingo.”

“
Por nada
, señor,” Vazquez said.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

Vazquez nodded, and as Clint went through the batwing doors, Vazquez signaled the bartender for another beer.

The door to the office opened and Ernesto Paz stepped out. Vazquez wondered if the man had been watching him and Clint Adams at the bar.

Paz came to the bar, and without being asked, the bartender put a glass of whiskey on the bar. Customers at the bar cleared out and gave the two men a wide berth.

“So?” Paz asked. “How was supper?”

“Very good,” Vazquez said. “We went to see my sister.”

“Ah, the lovely Carmen . . .” Paz said.

“Don't say it,” Vazquez said warningly. He did not like that Paz was constantly trying to hire Carmen to work in his cantina.

“
Lo siento
,” Paz said, raising his hands. “I am only interested in what you and Señor Adams talked about.”

“He agreed to help me, if it comes to that,” Vazquez said.

“Really?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Well . . .”

“Because you sent your man, Santana, to try to provoke him?”

“And he did not.”

“He did not wish to kill a man—or three men—over a chair,” Vazquez said.

“Or he is not the man we think,” Paz said, “and he was frightened.”

“Trust me, he is not frightened.”

“So you say,” Paz said. “And I suppose, for your sake, we better hope not.”

Paz drank his whiskey, turned, and walked back to his office.

Hal Chance put his hands behind his head and watched the Mex gal's head bob up and down in his lap as she gobbled his cock.

He had asked in the parlor for girls who would do this sort of thing. Not all whores provided what they called “French” services, and in Mexico, a lot of them had not even heard of such a thing. But this girl, Pilar, was not only willing, but anxious to do it for him. At least, that was how he saw it. In point of fact, Pilar was known by the other girls as someone who would do anything to anybody for money.

Pilar said, “Mmmmmm,” as she sucked Chance's cock wetly, sliding one hand beneath his balls to fondle them at the same time. As he erupted into her mouth, he thought he had sure picked the right whore this time . . .

 * * * 

Pilar sat back on her heels on the bed and smiled at the gringo with the small
polla
. She knew he wouldn't last long, and she was right. As soon as she sucked him and touched his
cojones
,
he was finished.

“How was that, señor?” she asked.

“That was amazin'!” he said breathlessly. “Are there any other girls here who would do that?”

“No, señor, just me.”

“What about . . . you know . . . from the back?”

“The back, señor?”

“You know, putting my johnson in your . . . back hole? Any girls do that?”

“Ohhh,” she said, giving him a sly look, “señor, you are a very bad man.”

“Yeah, I am,” Chance said, still trying to catch his breath after she had sucked him dry. “So, are there any of the girls that'll let me do that?”

She smiled, turned around, and shook her big, bare ass at him.

“What about me, señor?”

His eyes bugged out as she reached back and separated her ass cheeks, presenting him with her little pink anus.

“Oh my God!” he said, reaching for her, but she scampered away.

“Hey!”

“Señor,” she said, shaking her index finger at him, “you must pay me for what we did, and then we will talk about what else we will do.”

Chance grabbed for his pants, took out some money, and handed it to her.

“Okay, so now . . . how much?”

She smiled as she stood up, walked to her dresser, put the money in the top drawer, then walked back to him, making sure he got a real good look at her going and coming.

“Now, señor,” she said, “exactly what do you want to do to me?”

“Well . . .”

 * * * 

After Paz walked away, Sheriff Vazquez started to wonder where the other gringo in town had gone. According to the hotel register, his name was Hal Chance. He'd never heard of the man, and still didn't find him on the wanted posters by name. If he wasn't in the cantina, looking for a girl or a game, what was he doing?

The only other place he thought he might be was the whorehouse. If he was, then he was no danger to anyone but those girls, and they had their own way of taking care of things there.

“Another one,
Jefe?
” the bartender asked.

“No,” Vazquez said. “Have you seen Santana?”

“No,
Jefe
.”

“Tell him I am looking for him.”

“I will,
Jefe
.”

Vazquez knew the bartender would “yes” him 'til he was blue in the face, and then do whatever Ernesto Paz told him to do.

“
Buenas noches, Jefe
,” the man said.

Vazquez turned and walked out.

 * * * 

When Clint got to his hotel room, he kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his shirt, and sat down on the bed. He ran through his conversation with Domingo Vazquez, wondering if the lawman had told him the truth the whole night. And if not, why lie? Of course, the one who could tell him if Vazquez was lying was Carmen—and that was if she would tell him the truth. And if she would even come to him tonight, considering her brother had seen them together.

He picked up the Alexandre Dumas novel from the table next to the bed, decided to read until either Carmen showed up or he started to fall asleep.

He was dozing when there was a knock on the door. He roused himself, set the book aside, took his gun from the holster on the bedpost, and walked to the door.

“Who is it?”

“It's me,” Carmen said. “Who were you expecting?”

Well, since the three men had tried to provoke him into a fight earlier, he couldn't be sure. He opened the door, still holding the gun ready, and saw Carmen in the hall, alone. He opened the door.

“You are being very careful, señor,” she said, slipping in. “Is there something wrong?”

“Just some men showing an interest in me,” he said. He walked to the holster and slid the gun home.

“Why did you and my brother come to the cantina today?” she asked, removing the shawl from her head.

“I didn't take him there,” Clint said. “He took me.”

“Did you tell him about us?”

“No,” Clint said, “but I didn't know if you had.”

“I do not tell my brother all about my life, Clint,” she said, “and he does not tell me all about his.”

“I see. Well, he sure made it sound like he knew about us,” Clint told her.

“Why? What did he say?”

“Nothing obvious,” Clint said. “Just some veiled threats about what he'd do to anyone who hurt his sister.”

“Domingo plays the doting big brother when it suits him,” she said.

“Well, I guess it's suiting him, then,” Clint said.

“Did he frighten you?”

“No,” Clint said.

“Did he ask you for help again?”

“Yes.”

“Help with what?” She sat on the bed.

“He told me some men he arrested several years ago have escaped from prison and might be coming here.”

“But why? Everyone in Mexico knows my brother and is afraid of him.”

“Not these men, apparently,” Clint said. “He said there were three of them, and they've recruited some other escapees.”

Carmen looked concerned.

“If these men come for my brother, will you help him?” she asked.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He sat next to her on the bed.

“Carmen, is he telling me the truth? Did he send those men to prison years ago for bank robbery and murder?”

“My brother has sent many men to prison.”

“For bank robbery? And murder? Here in town?”

“I—I was not here—I only came back to Laguna Niguel two years ago, Clint.”

“Where were you?”

“Mexico City,” she said. “I thought I could make a life there, but it did not happen.”

“Why not?”

“Men,” she said. “They wanted me to . . . to do things. To work for them. For money. Things that I would not do for money. Even here, Ernesto Paz constantly tries to get me to come to work for him.”

“I'm sorry,” Clint said. “I know what men can be like.”

“But not you,” she said. “Why is that?”

“I just see the world differently, I guess,” he said. “I see women differently.”

She leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder.

“Do you think we could sleep tonight?” she asked. “Just sleep, holding each other?”

“Sure, Carmen,” he said. “We can do that.”

But they sat that way for a while.

 * * * 

Later, while she was sleeping on his left shoulder, he listened intently for sounds outside the hotel, outside his room. He hated to think it, but what if Carmen was trying to keep him busy? After all, he'd only known her a short time. Had she been playing him all this time? Along with her brother? And if so, why? For Paz, the powerful man?

There were no sounds, no one sneaking down the hall to his door. Clint knew the smart thing for him to do was leave in the morning, head back to the border. But he had a friend here, Avery Castle, and his pregnant wife. He had to make sure they would be safe.

If Paz and Vazquez were up to something, why would Vazquez be asking him to stay?

He reached up with his right hand, touched his gun. His pistol and his horse, they were the only things he could truly trust.

In the morning he'd talk to Avery, and come to a decision whether to stay or go.

While Carmen slept soundly on his shoulder, he tossed and turned most of the night, until the morning sunlight streamed through the windows.

When Clint woke up in the morning, realizing he'd slept after all, he shook Carmen awake.

“Come on, honey,” he said. “I've got to go. There are things I have to do.”

“What about breakfast?” she asked as he ushered her out of the room.

“I'll be eating with a friend.”

Clint washed with the pitcher and basin in the room, dressed, and left his room. He walked to the beach, made his way to Avery Castle's house.

 * * * 

Meanwhile, another stranger rode into town, missing Clint by moments. Cord Rydell rode down the street, keeping his eyes peeled, and reined in when he came to the livery.

“
Buenos días, señor
,” the hostler said.

“Like to put up my horse.”

“For how long, señor?”

“A day or two. How many hotels you got in this town?”

“Two.”

“Okay.” Rydell took his saddlebags and rifle and left the stable.

Where the hell was Chance?

 * * * 

Hal Chance woke up in his hotel bed, his legs weak from the time he'd spent with the whore, Pilar. That gal had let him do anything he wanted, as long as he paid for it, and that was all right with him.

But the light coming in the window told him it was morning, and he hadn't found out a thing. Rydell was going to be upset with him. He had to get out there and find out where their guy was. But first maybe some breakfast . . .

 * * * 

Clint mounted the stairs to Avery's deck, found his friend sitting at the table.

“Lita!” Avery shouted. “We have a guest for breakfast!”

“
Bueno!
” she shouted back. “I will bring the coffee.”

“I'm here for more than coffee, Avery,” Clint said.

“I figured that,” the older man said. “What's up?”

“You know a man named Santana?”

“Yeah,” Avery said, “local muscle for hire.”

“Somebody sent him and a couple of friends after me yesterday.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Clint said, sitting. “I diffused the situation, but they sure looked disappointed.”

“He does a lot of work for Paz.”

“I figured that.”

Lita came out with a pot and two mugs, poured coffee for them, and then hurried back to the kitchen.

Clint told Avery about his conversation with Sheriff Vazquez.

“You've been here five years. Was there such a robbery here a few years back?”

“I've been in Mexico five years, Clint,” he said. “Not here exactly. I did hear something about a bank robbery several years back, while I was building this house, but I don't know the details. You think he's lying to you?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Maybe I'm being set up, or maybe I'm just overly suspicious.”

“Well, I say leave town,” Avery said. “Leave Mexico. Get out before something happens.”

“But what about you and Lita?”

“What about us?”

“Vazquez says he thinks there's more to you than meets the eye,” Clint said. “What if I leave and he turns his attention to you?”

“If he does, I'll handle it.”

“When was the last time you used a gun?”

“Doesn't matter,” Avery said. “It's not something you forget. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“Breakfast,” Lita announced, coming out with a tray of steaming plates. “It is wonderful to have you here again, Clint.”

“I think I'm becoming a pain in the ass,” Clint said.

“Not at all,” she said. “Avery has no friends here. I am happy you are here for him.” She surprised him by kissing him on the forehead before returning to the kitchen.

“She's quite a woman,” he said to Avery.

“Yeah, she is.”

“No way I can leave the two of you here without knowing you're safe,” Clint said.

“So what are you gonna do?”

“I'm going to have to make a statement.”

“How?”

Clint shrugged, picked up a tortilla that was filled with eggs and steak.

“Maybe,” he said before taking a bite, “it's time for me to go to confession.”