Gaffney, Patricia (9 page)

"Miss Cady," he murmured, dipping his head to kiss her
on the neck. "When you're through tonight?"

"Mmm?"

"If you don't have any other customers..."

She felt his lips, then his teeth on the bony-soft side of her
ear. "Customers," she breathed, pressing her palms against the tops
of his hands to keep them still.

"If you'd save tonight for me, I surely would appreciate
it." She stole a glance at him in the mirror. He had his eyes closed, his
smiling lips pressed to her temple. "I don't know what you charge for toying
with your affections," he whispered. "But whatever it is, it's not
enough. Luckily, I can cover it."

Her eyes flew wide open. Everything changed. A second ago she'd
liked the feel and the look of him, black-clad, hatless and long-haired, a
sturdy wall of warm muscle and bone at her back. He looked predatory now, his
roving hands ready to take what she no longer wanted to give. She didn't even
like his handsome profile anymore.
Don't be angry,
she commanded
herself. After all, it wasn't as if this had never happened before.

"You've made a mistake," she said calmly, mildly,
turning in his arms to face him.

"I don't think so." He still looked drowsy, dreamy-eyed.

"Oh, yes. I'm afraid so." Slipping past him, she walked
to the open back door and stood by it. "Would you excuse me, Mr. Gault?
I've still got a few things to do."

He came toward her uncertainly. He didn't get it. "What's
wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, everything's fine. I told you, you made a
mistake."

"What? What mistake?"

His total bewilderment was undermining her resolve not to lose her
temper. "It's not for sale," she said through her teeth, smile
hanging on by a thread. "What you can get here at the Rogue is beer,
whiskey, pool, and poker. That's it. That's all I sell. Sorry if you were
misled."

"Aha." He bent his head and rubbed the back of his neck,
glancing up at her through his eyelashes. His lips quirked in a wry, one-sided
smile. "Oops."

"Yeah, well." She waved her hand, indicating the open
doorway. After a loaded second or two, while he seemed to be making up his mind
about something, he walked out.

She started to close the door when he turned and said,
"Sorry. Hope I didn't offend you."

"Not in the least. Not the least little bit."

"Good. That's good."

She wasn't angry, she wasn't offended. Why would she be? She was
used to this; it or something like it happened about once a week.

"Cady—"

" 'Bye."

Nope, she wasn't angry. Slamming the door in his face was an
accident.

Two days went by, and two more people gave Jesse money so he
wouldn't kill them. Paradise was turning into a flaming cesspool of guilty
consciences. He'd never had luck like this before, not even in bigger towns
like Medford or Crescent City. One of the sinners had stolen his mining buddy's
poke two years ago in Silverado, and been more or less on the run ever since.
The other, a woman, had emptied her husband's bank account and lit out with a
piano tuner, who'd had his fun and then stranded her in Paradise last December.
Ethel Payne, her name was. She'd landed on her feet, though, had a good job now
in the insurance agent's office. But she was scared to death of her husband,
and after she told him a few things about him, Jesse was scared, too. So he
only took ten dollars, and told Ethel they were square.

Gault had his flaws, but bilking frightened runaway wives wasn't
one of them.

Besides, now that he was filthy rich, he could afford to be
generous. He could start a damn foundation. He could become a charitable trust.
Instead, for the time being, he was redistributing the wealth by losing it at
poker. Not on purpose—a run of bad luck. He didn't mind. He had so much of it,
it felt like play money. And losing it widened his circle of acquaintances,
which was a nice side benefit. At first the men he sat down to play stud with
were scared to beat him, but they got over it as soon as they figured out he
wasn't going to shoot them for it. Then they started to like him. He tried to
tone down his own natural friendliness, act surly and dangerous and half-nuts,
but his heart wasn't in it. He was lonesome.

It was all Cady's fault. Every time she saw him she gave him the
same polite, freezing-cold smile and moved on. If he managed to corner her, she
said polite, freezing-cold things, and always turned down his offers to sit or
have a drink with him. Politely. She was killing him with politeness. Last
night he tried to get a rise out of her, maybe torture her a little, by sitting
down at her blackjack table, but he only ended up torturing himself. She
wouldn't even look at him. Slapped his cards down like she was trying to kill
flies with them, and took him for two hundred thirty dollars before he knew
what hit him. After that he stayed with the boys, his new poker pals, glowering
one-eyed at her over the head of a beer or the lip of a whiskey glass.

Okay, so he'd made a mistake about her. So shoot him. What exactly
was the big deal? If he'd phrased his suggestion to her just a little
differently, left out that one tiny, unfortunate reference to commerce, she
might have said yes. She sure had seemed to be heading in that direction. He
remembered how she'd felt leaning back against him, all soft and blowsy with
her pretty hair down, no corset, smiling and dreamy-eyed in the mirror. He
thought about her bed a lot, too, how big and soft it was, how it didn't
squeak. Cady McGill, saloon proprietor and blackjack dealer. Period. Not whore,
and not madam. She didn't sell it, she gave it away. Just not to him.

Not yet, anyway. The sixth sense that never let him down was
telling him he was finished here, Paradise had given up everything it was going
to, and if he was smart he'd ride out today. But all the other senses, the ones
McGill seemed to have pretty much taken over, told him he couldn't leave,
because he had unfinished business.

Five to one.

"Uh, so, Mr. Gault, I see you read our little paper. That's,
uh, very flattering. Sir."

Jesse, half dozing, daydreaming of Cady, lifted a corner of the
hot towel Cuomo the barber had slapped over his face. He blinked up at a pair
of horn-rimmed spectacles perched on a skinny nose over a wisp of a mustache.
"Who're you?"

"Will Shorter, Mr. Gault. I'm with the Paradise
Reverberator."

"Junior," Cuomo stuck in, stropping a straight razor
behind Jesse's left shoulder. "Will Shorter, Junior."

Will Shorter, Jr., acknowledging that with a testy nod, stuck out
his hand. Jesse ignored it, and the kid—he couldn't have been more than twenty
or twenty-one—bobbed his head and blushed. "Sorry to bother you, Mr.
Gault, but I was wondering if by any chance you'd mind posing for a photograph.
For the
Reverberator."
He pointed to the newspaper lying open on
Jesse's sheet-covered lap.

"Why?"

"Why? Um, because our readers would be very interested, you
being a notor—a famous personage and everything. It would only take a minute or
two. At your convenience. It's a nice sunny day—we could do it outside."

"Who'd take it?"

"Why, I would, sir. I'm the paper's junior reporter
and
official
photographer."

"Hm." Jesse twitched his nostrils; Cuomo the barber was
trimming his mustache, making his nose itch. "What's in it for me?"

The reporter looked flummoxed. "We're not allowed to pay
you."

"Why not?"

"Um... ethics. Sir."

Jesse reared up and sneezed, blowing mustache hairs off his chest.
"Then I'm not interested."

"What about lunch?" Cuomo suggested. "Buy him lunch
at the Frenchman's."

Will Shorter, Jr., widened hopeful eyes behind his horn-rims.
"The two-dollar lunch, Mr. Gault. Steak and potatoes, best in town."

Jesse fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully while Cuomo flicked at
his shoulders with a brush. "Vinegar pie for dessert?"

"Absolutely."

"Let's go."

****

It took a lot longer than a minute or two to have his picture
made. Will had to go get his camera at the
Reverberator
office, then set
it up on the sunny corner of Main and Noble Fir. While he waited, Jesse idled
in the shade, smoking cigarettes, staring back at people who stared at him. He
could sense a change in the average Paradise resident's attitude, and knew it
was still another reason why it was time for Gault to move on. People weren't as
afraid of him as they used to be. He'd been here for days and hadn't shot a
single person, so now they were more curious than scared. That was bad. He
ought to do something to stir them up, but he just didn't feel like it.

In truth, he was getting a little tired of Gault. Sure it was fun
to scare people, and sure it was nice to walk into a room and have it go all
quiet and cautious, while everybody checked him out and decided not to mess
with him. But then again, there were aspects of Gault that struck him at times
as pretty damn silly. Face it: sometimes Gault was a real horse's ass.

A man on crutches came hobbling toward him in the street. He had
his head down, concentrating on his good foot, swinging his splinted right leg
through the beat-up crutches clumsily, jerkily, like a beginner. Jesse didn't
recognize him till he'd passed all the way by, and then it was more the smell
than the sight that tripped his memory.

"Shrimp Malone."

The red-haired prospector stopped, teetered, hopped around in a
half circle, squinting into the sun. "Gault?"

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Fell down a cliff, broke my damn leg. You ain't gonna shoot
me, are you?"

Will Shorter was watching them with interest. Jesse said, "Be
right back," and left him to join Shrimp in the street. They started
walking together. "Where you headed?" Jesse asked, shortening his
steps to match the miner's gimpy shuffle.

"Church."

"Church."

Shrimp slanted him a funny look from under the bushy ledge of his
ginger eyebrows. "They give out stuff," he muttered.

"They what? Give out what?"

"Soup," he clarified shortly. "Once a day. They
dole it out to the poor an' the infirm. Which I'm both of these days." He
clamped his chicken lips together and concentrated on walking. He looked
terrible, worse than the first time they'd met, and that was saying something.
He smelled worse, too. Moving along on crutches in the hot sun made him sweat;
his dirty undershirt was soaking wet.

"When did this happen to you?"

"Satiddy. Day after I give you all my money. Every dad-blamed
cent." He turned his head to hawk and spit.

"Where've you been staying?"

No answer.

"Where do you live?"

Shrimp stopped short and faced him, swaying slightly, splinted leg
cocked back at the knee. "Listen here, Mr. Gault. No offense, but you can't
git blood from a stone. Since I already done give you everything I own, I
figger that makes us even. I don't got to tell you all about my private
business anymore." He almost looked dignified when he straightened his
shoulders, turned around, and stumped away.

Jesse caught up to him in three long strides. "Sleeping
outside, huh?" Shrimp snorted and didn't look at him. "That's
rough," he went on conversationally. "Only happened to me once. After
a poker game in San Francisco. I didn't care much for it. Speaking of poker
games—let's go over here for a second, you mind? Out of the sun. Yeah, this is
better. Sit down, take a load off."

"I only got a minute," the miner grumped uneasily,
lowering his backside to a shady section of sidewalk. "They don't give out
soup all day long, y'know."

"In that case I won't keep you. Just wanted to mention—you
know that seven hundred dollars' worth of dust you gave me?"

"It rings a bell."

"Well, would you believe it? Last night I tripled it with
three jacks and a pair of queens."

"You don't say. Well, that brings tears o' joy to my eyes,
Mr. Gault, it surely does. Now, if you don't mind—" Jesse put a hand on
his arm when he tried to get up. Shrimp froze. "No offense," he
blurted. "I'll sit here an' jaw all day if you want, no problem
whatsoever. It ain't like I've got anything else to—"

"So the way I figure it, you're like my good-luck charm, Mr.
Malone."

"I am?"

"Now, I'm the kind of fellow who pays people back. Know what
I mean?"

"Uh..."

"Somebody does something bad, wrongs me in any way, I'm
inclined to shoot him. Or wound him, leastways—sometimes a good maiming's
better than an outright killing, you know?"

"Heh heh."

"Same thing if a man does me a good turn."

Shrimp started to scoot sideways. "You
shoot
him?"

"No, you idiot. I pay him back."

"Oh." His little pig eyes lit up. "You do?"

"Course, it'd have to be a secret between you and me."

"Sure, sure. Sure. How come?"

"How come! Because I got a reputation to think about. What
would happen if it got around that I was donating to the poor and the infirm?
Somebody might say I was soft, and pretty soon somebody else might decide to
call me out. Then I'd have to shoot 'em both, and maybe it wouldn't be
convenient right then. Maybe I wouldn't be in the mood."

"Yeah," Shrimp said thoughtfully. "Yeah, I can see
how that'd be a problem."

Jesse glanced around. The coast was clear. "So— here,"
he said, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket and stuffing it into the
miner's outstretched paw. "Quick, put it away. Anybody asks where it came
from, make up something good."

"I sure will." Stunned, dazed, Shrimp shoved the money
into his grubby dungarees. The sudden change in his fortunes hadn't sunk in
yet. "Thanks, Mr. Gault, thanks a lot. You're a real—"

"Okay, but keep that quiet, too. Last thing I need is people
hearing somebody
thank
me."

"Oh, right. Sure, sure."

When they stood up, Jesse had to stop himself from giving the
miner a helping hand. Gault had been saintly enough for one day, and then some.
"Well, so long."

"So long." He didn't move, though. "Uh, Mr.
Gault?"

"What."

"You been a real trump about this, no mistake, and I'm much
obliged—"

"Yeah, yeah. What?"

"Well, I was just wonderin' if by any chance you still got my
ear. And if you do, if you'd consider givin' that back, too."

"Your what?"

"My ear. You know. My ear?" He scowled, incredulous.
"My pig's ear! You done made me give it to you, and ever since then it's a
fact I ain't had nothing but bad luck."

"Oh. Your
ear." What had he done with it? Thrown
it out the window, he vaguely remembered. "Sorry, Shrimp,
i
sent it
to the Wilsons."

"Sent it to who?"

Oops. "The, uh..."

"Weavers?"

"Weavers, Weavers. Sent it to them to prove I'd killed you.
Remember? That was our deal? So then they paid me—which is another reason why I
don't need your piddling seven hundred bucks." He was babbling, but Shrimp
had a brand-new expression on his whiskery, pocked, pug-ugly face:
intelligence. "So I haven't got it. The ear. Sent it to 'em, and they
mailed back my pay right away. Real sweet deal, way I look at it. I don't even
miss killing you. In your way, you're not a bad sombitch. Well, so, good luck,
see you around—"

"What was 'er name?"

"Who?"

"Girl they wanted me to marry. You wouldn't recollect her
name, would you, Mr. Gault?"