Longarm and the Deadly Restitution (9781101618776) (3 page)

Chapter 3

Longarm bought a second round of whiskey, figuring that his boss wouldn't be too upset when he sought reimbursement. By then it was getting well into the afternoon and the saloon was starting to get real busy. So far, no one had approached the pair of federal lawmen, but Longarm knew that would change soon enough.

“How long do we have to stand here and wait before something happens?” Plummer griped, looking red-eyed and hungover. “Waiting in this shit hole has grown old in a hu
rry.”

“Patience is one of the most important virtues of a good lawman. Didn't your father ever tell you that, given that he was a detective?”

“He never once told me that part of being a lawman was to stand around buying drinks in a lousy, stinking saloon.”

“Well, the next time you see him, ask him about my methods, and I'll be interested to hear his comments.”

“Hey.”

Longarm turned to see a thin, ragged, and unshaven man about his own age standing with an empty glass in his hand. “Yeah?”

He leaned forward, smelling like a sewer. “Don't you even remember me? Monty Higgins?”

“No. Should I?”

“Yeah. You arrested me about four years ago for trying to rob a bank. I botched the job, only got about ten dollars, and after I was caught, I went to prison for a couple of years.”

“You break the law and you pay the price,” Longarm said, edging off the bar and putting a little more distance between himself and the filthy man. “You have an issue with me for doing my job?”

“Nah,” Higgins said. “I deserved what I got.” He looked around Longarm to stare at Henry Plummer. “Who the hell is
he
?”

“He's a marshal same as I am.”

“Looks like a choirboy.”

“You got anything important to tell me, Monty?”

Monty had a few drinks in him and made quite a show out of pretending to look around to see if anyone was paying attention. “Not in here, I don't. You buy me a full bottle of whiskey and meet me around behind the saloon and we can talk.”

“Someone has been robbing banks and doing a better job than you ever did at it,” Longarm said in a low voice. “We hear they've also been terrorizing people in this neighborhood.”

Monty took a furtive glance over his shoulder and then whispered, “Out back in thirty minutes. Bring a bottle of Old Barrelhead and leave the choirboy here.”

“I'll think about it,” Longarm said, turning away from the man.

When Monty disappeared, Henry Plummer asked, “Is that really the kind of man that you'd trust to help us?”

“Yeah. He's a drunk and he's desperate. Monty also knows that I'll send him straight back to prison if he leads us astray.”

Plummer shook his head. “I don't like this . . . not any of it.”

“Then give me your badge and get the hell out of here,” Longarm said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“Too soon. Right now it's in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You can quit anytime you want,” Longarm told the green deputy. “I won't brook any insolence or interference. We play it my way or you are out.”

“I'm still in.”

“Good. Stay sober when I'm gone.”

• • •

Ten minutes later, Longarm was in the back alley with a bottle. When Monty reached for it, Longarm shook his head. “I'm not St. Nicholas and you're not getting a Christmas present. Tell me what you have and I'll decide if it's worth what you've asked to be paid.”

Monty took a ragged breath. They were in the deep shadows of the nearby buildings, surrounded by garbage and the powerful stench of piss and shit. Flies buzzed frantically, and it wasn't a place where anyone wanted to linger and talk about the weather.

Although they were clearly the only ones in the alley, Monty leaned closer and whispered. “They call themselves the Shamrock Gang.”

“‘Shamrock'?”

“Yeah. They're mostly Irish toughs. Some have jobs, some don't. They play rough and for keeps.”

“How many? And give me the names of their leaders.”

“I don't
know
how many,” Monty replied. “They move about, and I don't think that they're ever all in one place at one time. Their leader is supposed to be a man named Bully O'Brien.”

“You've seen him?”

“Oh, yeah. He's a big, mean bastard with a busted nose and a quick temper. He's missing most of an ear and has an ugly scar across one eyelid. People walk way around Bully O'Brien.”

“Was he in that saloon?”

Monty shook his head vigorously. “Hell no! Do you take me for a complete idiot?”

“Give me some more names.”

“There is Crazy Mick O'Toole and Bad Barry Hannigan. Those are the main ones to worry about.”

“Where do they live?”

“All over this neighborhood.”

Longarm considered this information and thought he had heard of all these men, so maybe Monty was telling him the truth. “Is there any way that I can spot them before they spot me?”

“No. But I'll tell you this much, Marshal. Any one of them would slit your throat for a mug of green beer.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“That's it.” Monty licked his lips and ran his hand across his dirty stubble of a beard. “Marshal, I got to get out of here. Someone could be watching us right now!”

“We're in deep shadows.”

“Yeah, but they might have seen us round the corner and come back here. Come on! Give me that bottle and let me get away from you. I did my part of the deal.”

Longarm could see that Monty was starting to get real nervous. “All right,” he said, handing over the bottle. “Do you know where the Federal Building is located?”

“Sure. Everyone does.”

“I work with the deputy I was with on the second floor. If you can get me any good information, come by and I'll pay you fairly for your trouble.”

Monty yanked the cork off the bottle and upended it. He took a long, shuddering gulp and choked, “I'll keep that in mind.”

Monty was gone before Longarm could say anything more. He waited five minutes and then started out of the alley. Just as he was about to get to the street in front of the saloon, he heard a shriek followed by a strangled cry and then the sound of a bottle shattering on cobblestones.

Longarm carried his Colt revolver on his left hip, butt forward. He drew it and jumped forward to see a man in a dark overcoat disappear around a corner, running hard, while in his wake lay Monty Higgins facedown, toes dancing on the dirty sidewalk.

“Monty!”

Longarm knelt in a spreading pool of blood and turned the ex-convict over. That's when he saw that Monty had gotten his throat cut from ear to ear. The poor bastard was gurgling and shaking, and his blood gushing was like a park fountain.

Longarm's head snapped up and the murderer was gone. When he looked back down at Monty, the ex-convict was gone, too.

• • •

Longarm and Plummer had summoned people to come and collect Monty's body. There wasn't anything on it to pass on to relatives or even friends.

“He had
nothing
,” Henry Plummer said as they entered the Federal Building.

“That's right,” Longarm agreed. “Monty Higgins rolled the dice and lost.”

“Because of us.”

“His choice, Henry.” Longarm looked at his shaken companion, who seemed to have aged dramatically since they'd first met that very same morning. “Why don't you go home and we'll start fresh in the morning.”

“I'm not sure I want to wait until morning.”

“I need to think this out,” Longarm told the new hire. “Plan a strategy.”

“What's to plan? We go back to that neighborhood, find those men, and either arrest or kill them.”

“And you think it's just that easy?”

“Why not?”

“Get out of here and come back early tomorrow morning. We'll do something then.”

“But . . .”

“Go!”

Deputy Plummer's face flushed with anger and his lips drew tight at the corners, but he said nothing as he stomped back out of the building.

• • •

Longarm glanced toward Billy's office, saw that it was empty, and decided that he would call it a day himself. There was blood on the knees of his trousers, and he felt tired, dirty, and depressed. He had wanted his first day with the new man to be a good one, and it could hardly have been worse. Now, as he headed for his room, he wondered if Monty had even given him real names . . . or just ones made up so that he could get the bottle of cheap whiskey.

• • •

Irene Wilson was checking her mail when Longarm entered the foyer of his modest rooming house. “My gawd, Custis, you look awful!”

“Thanks.”

“I'm sorry. Listen, Custis, I've got a full bottle of pretty good whiskey and a strong shoulder to cry on. Interested?”

“I might be after I clean up.”

“Come join me for a while and we'll talk.”

Longarm dredged up a smile. “Irene, I'm not sure that
talk
is what I need.”

Irene winked. His new landlady was in her mid-thirties, had shapely legs, a small waist, and long brown hair. By any man's standard, she was good-looking, and she never tried to put hooks into a man when he was down or in dire need of some comfort.

Irene was the manager of a local grocery store, and she also made a little extra money and accepted gifts from a few favorite men . . . Longarm being one of them. She wasn't the marrying kind, and she usually sold the gifts that Longarm gave her or pawned them, without the pretense of sentiment. Irene didn't like children but had three cats in her own rooms, and she had an unusually bawdy sense of humor.

What more could a man like Longarm ask for after such a rotten day?

• • •

Forty minutes later, Longarm was drinking quality whiskey and undressing in Irene's bedroom.

“It's pretty obvious that you're in a hurry this time,” Irene said, tossing down a shot. “Usually, you like to talk a little first and let us work up to a good romp.”

“I've done about as much talking as I can stand for one day, Irene. Are you good with that or maybe I should . . .”

“Shut up and finish undressing. It hasn't been all that great of a day for me, either.”

He finished undressing and watched her do the same. But he was a curious man and had to ask, “So what went wrong with your day?”

“First thing this morning I stepped on a patch of ice and really took a hard spill. That big Irish palooka cop saw it and burst out laughing.”

“Tom Sullivan.”

“Yeah. He really made me mad! Even madder than I was for stepping on that ice and falling.”

“I'm going to figure out some way to get him,” Longarm decided out loud. “Something that will teach Officer Sullivan that people don't like to be laughed at when they take a bad spill.”

“Well,” Irene said, “when you figure out how to do that, let me know and I'll be in on it all the way.” She turned around and made a pose. “I'll bet you see a big, purple bruise on my butt, huh?”

Irene had a very shapely butt and it was noticeably bruised. “It still looks good to me, Honey. But for the sake of your comfort, I'll go easy on it.”

“You'd better not!” Irene flopped down on her bed, spread her long legs, and motioned him to join her. “Come on, Custis, let's do a little doggie and pony and have some fun. Make us both forget about what wasn't a very good day.”

Longarm would never tell Irene about his recent staring down at the gaping slash in Monty's neck and seeing the light die in the man's terrified eyes. Nope. That kind of thing a person in his profession learned to keep to himself. Irene might have had a bad day, but she would be shocked to learn how really bad Longarm's day had been.

“Why, Custis!” she cried with surprise. “You're not completely hard yet.”

He looked down at his manhood and flushed with embarrassment. “Damn, what is wrong with me?”

“Nothing Irene can't fix real quick. Come here.”

Longarm came to her, and she took his flaccid manhood in her mouth and began to make him feel very special. In less than a minute he was long and hard, and the terrible and gruesome vision that had been plaguing his mind was gone and replaced by raw desire.

“Well that big, hairy thing is sure looking a lot more healthy,” Irene said, taking him out of her mouth and studying him like a laboratory specimen. “I think it might actually be up to the moment now. What do you think?”

“Irene, you're just what the doctor ordered,” Longarm growled as he mounted his friend and his neighbor. He pulled those legs up, and she locked them around his hips with her ankles.

Irene kissed his face, then his lips, while he rutted on her like a lust-crazed pagan. She began to make little mewing sounds, then louder woman sounds, then after a while she let out a wail like a big she-cat on top of a mountain.

Longarm roared and filled her with his seed. Soon after, they sat naked, backs resting against Irene's bed, tins of sardines in their hands, cracker crumbs scattered—all while they munched and drank whiskey, finally feeling happy and content.

“Irene,” he said, “you are one hell of a woman.”

“Glad you finally noticed,” she told him. “You gonna want to do it to me again soon?”

“Soon as I finish this can of sardines.”

She looked at him intently and then shocked him by asking, “Do I smell like sardines down between my legs?”

When he recovered, he replied, “Not that I remember.”

“Maybe you forgot and need to find out if I do.”

“Jeez, Irene, you're always wanting more.”

“Yeah, just like you.” She laughed, biting his chest and then popping a drippy sardine into her lovely mouth.

Later that evening, Irene laid her head on his chest. “Something really rotten happened to you today, didn't it?”