Placing Out (2 page)

"Says you." A blast of shot shredded the wooden strut he crouched behind. Wood chips dusted his face and the sleeve of his uniform jacket.

"Says me, asshole." Ben emptied his pistol in the direction of the last shot. Silence, and not all of it from the blast sound. "Jeb! There's more where that came from. Come out with your hands reaching for air."

Silence. He could almost hear the warehouse breathe and settle around him. His neck hairs rose and he held his own breath. Footsteps behind him and he glanced over when Cody half crawled, half scrambled up beside Ben.

"You get him?"

"Don't know." They were both silent for a minute, listening. "Gonna have to go check."

After reloading his .45, he dropped onto his haunches. In a semi-crouch, pausing every few seconds to listen for anything that would tell him what was in front of him, he moved forward. A stray shaft of light pouring through an overhead window created ladders of light that revealed an empty floor. He saw footprints in the thick dust. And something that might have been blood.

He crept closer. Leaning over, he held his breath against the dust he was kicking up and studied the two spots. Already drying, their color was leached out by the low light, but whatever it was, it was still wet. Thicker than water. A faint, coppery smell came out of the darkness.

Not about to touch the spots, he moved on toward a shadowed alcove between two stacks of wooden barrels. The place reeked of whiskey. The fumes tugged at his nose and werestrong enough to bring tears to his eyes. He blinked them away and willed himself not to sneeze.

Something scraped across the floor in front of him. A shape resolved from the darkness. It staggered and slumped into a disheveled pile in front of him. Still holding the Colt, Ben edged toward the lump. There was more blood and now another, sharper smell. Urine. Jeb had voided himself.

Still in a semi-crouch, Ben moved cautiously over to the body. A finger on the neck confirmed his suspicions. Red Jeb McIntosh was dead.

Cody limped across the floor, ignoring the blood under his boots. He spat a plug of tobacco juice toward the corpse.

"Good riddance."

Ben holstered his pistol and picked up the shotgun, tucking it against his hip, muzzle aimed at the ceiling. "Let's go find a call box. Tell the captain what happened. He oughta be happy."

They remained at the crime scene until long after dawn. Only then did they find the other two bodies, one a kid, barely fifteen. Jeb's youngest son. Ben didn't know who was the biggest fool--Jeb for letting him come, or the boy for probably thinking it was a lark. Jeb had been shot twice. The killing shot went through his throat. The boy was worse. He died of a gut shot. He kept quiet the whole time he was dying. If they'd know he was there, they might have got him to a doctor in time.

Either way, both of them were dead. Along with a third one. Probably Jeb's muscle or more family. Buried in Potter's field, he heard, when no other family came forward to collect the remains. They never identified the third man. Not local, as far as Ben could tell.

Instead of cleaning out the warehouse, the decision was made to burn it to the ground. A quick inventory found a thousand barrels of Canadian whiskey and enough equipment to set up a dozen stills. The
Times
and
Evening Herald
sent photographers to watch rubber coated cops smash open a half a dozen barrels. The golden deluge flooded everywhere and stern-faced Roy Steckel, Chief of Police, looked on in grim satisfaction. And got his photo taken standing with Mayor Porter.

The fire drew a crowd, even in the Tenderloin. Ben watched a few pickpockets work the mob. When one of them lifted a tin flask from One-Legged Tom, Ben snaked through the oblivious crowd and put his hand on the pickpocket's shoulder.

The alarmed man glanced back, saw the uniform and tried to smile. "Terrible thing, isn't it, officer? Heard a man got killed in there. That true?"

"It's true. Same thing might happen to a man out here."

A cry went up; they both looked over to find Tom frantically looking for his missing flask. When Ben looked back at the pickpocket, he found the man trying to fade into the crowd. He hauled him back.

"I think you found something belongs to this man."

The pickpocket shook his head, a scrap of oily hair falling over his forehead. "No, sah. Not me."

"We can walk down to Central and you can tell me there while I search you."

"No, that's not--" He stopped, his shaking hand touched his breast pocket. He pulled out the tin flask. "Oh, you mean this?"

Once the flask had been returned to the grateful Tom, Ben kept hold of the pickpocket's arm and pulled him away from the still gawking crowd. He bent over him and whispered, "Get out of here, or I'll haul you in for real. I hear about you doing this again, I won't be so polite next time." He shoved him toward Alhambra. The pickpocket scurried down an alley, opposite from the still burning bootleg warehouse.

Ben went back to make sure the cripple, Tom, was okay. He slipped him a deuce. "Get yourself a fill-up, old man. And don't let those young punks get one over on you."

One-Legged Tom grinned at him, revealing a mouth full of broken and rotting teeth. "Yes, sir. Thankee, sir." Weaving and bobbing, he hobbled through the crowds, back to his room at the Christian Men's mission. Ben had been there once, it was a hovel, but a surprisingly neat hovel. Tom might not have anything, but he kept his nothing clean. He managed to survive on the cheap corn lightning he bought off a local bootlegger with the money he begged off strangers and whatever scraps the mission ladies gave him.

Ben had heard once the man used to be an oil baron who owned a dozen wells in Compton. Somewhere along the way he had lost his money and his leg. No one quite knew how, or even which came first. Or even if anything he did admit to was true.

Lieutenant Stansell approached him. "Your partner's in the hospital. He's going to be okay."

"Guy's too stubborn to let crazy Red Jeb get the best of him."

"Hmph, I suppose you're right. Are you finished here?"

"Yes."

"Then go home. Write up your report tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

He meant to go home. But the rush of the gunfight and the take down was still with him. He knew he'd never rest if he didn't get that edge off. Only one way to do that fast.

It was full dark by the time he slipped in the backdoor of Johnny's and trotted down the stone steps. He nodded at Peaches behind the latched door. She grinned back at him, blew him a kiss and pulled the door open. Jazz spilled out of the dark room, along with the enticing smell of people, cigars and beer. Her gaze traveled down his uniformed body and stopped at his .45. She licked her scarlet lips.

"When you gonna let me check the caliber of that thing, sweet pea?" Her voice was like black silk, rolling down his spine to lodge at the base of his swelling cock.

"I'll sure let you know, honey."

"You're such a tease, Dutch."

Everyone at Johnny's called him Dutch. Most everyone in the speakeasy had a different moniker while they were in this dark, secret place.

Judson brought over his beer. "You're early today."

"Actually, I'm late."

"Ah, a night like that."

Ben drained his beer. "Like that."

He was going to ask for another until he grew aware of someone behind him. The familiar scent of spice and brandy came to him a heartbeat before two arms came around his waist at the same time a rigid cock pressed against his ass.

"I thought you'd never come," Kevin whispered. His teeth nipped Ben's neck. "I hope you didn't have any trouble today."

Ben swung around and pressed their hips together. Behind them, on the tiny dance floor, a number of men were slow dancing to
Rhapsody in Blue.
"Nothing a good, hard fuck can't take care of."

Kevin cradled Ben's ass. "I'm just the man for the job. Come on, my place is closer." As if they ever went anyplace else.

After waving at Peaches and getting a huge air kiss from the feathered and bejeweled drag queen, they walked up to the street, only stepping out of the alley when they were sure the road was empty. Careful to walk apart, they never came close enough to each other to touch.

It took them less than ten minutes to reach Kevin's place, a small house set back and half hidden by palms and lemon trees. There was no light above the door. Kevin and Ben slipped inside, knowing none of Kevin's neighbors would see them in the dark, the only time Ben visited.

Kevin had barely shut and locked the door when Ben pushed Kevin's suspenders off his slender shoulders and opened his shirt one button at a time. He splayed both hands over Kevin's heavily furred chest before leaning forward and sucking one swollen nipple, then the other. Kevin pulled Ben's police hat off, then worked on freeing the heavy belt with all its equipment. He had Ben's dick out in his hand before Ben could strip off the belt on Kevin's cotton trousers.

It didn't take them more than two minutes to shed their clothes. Ben's swollen cock was wet with pre-cum. So was Kevin's. Their mouths met and tangled tongues while their thickening dicks slid together, drawing a gasp from Kevin. He guided them through the house to his bedroom, only breaking apart when Ben lowered him down onto the feather bed. He crawled down his belly, licking the skin around his navel, then slipping past his navel to take Kevin in his mouth. He circled the fat head, pushing back the foreskin and gently nibbling the soft skin. Lapping up the fluid and tracing the thick veins encircling the rigid length, Ben plunged his mouth up and down until Kevin bucked under him and spilled cum into his mouth.

Only when the dick softened did Ben pull off it. He crawled back up and clung to Kevin, feeling both their hearts slow and grow steady. His still-hard cock pressed between them. He rose on his knees and nudged Kevin over on his stomach. The other man thrust his rump into the air and Ben smoothed his hand over the enticing globe. He parted Kevin's cheeks and probed a finger up his hole. Kevin moaned and humped upward.

Reaching over for the Vaseline on the bedside table, he smoothed the lubricant over his dick and worked a greased finger up inside Kevin. When he pushed the head of his cock across Kevin's prostate, Kevin whimpered.

Ben thrust inside, shuddering as the tight passage stroked his erection. He grabbed Kevin's shoulders and pumped his hips steadily, grunting as his thrusts grew more frantic. With a drawn out groan, he shuddered and filled Kevin's ass with hot cum.

He collapsed, kissing the back of Kevin's damp neck, licking the sweat off his cheek. "Man, you are hot." He pulled off and went in to the bathroom, emerging a minute later with a warm towel that he used to clean them both.

Ben sat on the end of the bed, pulling his uniform back on. While he adjusted his gear, he watched Kevin out of the corner of his eye. He was sprawled across the rumpled quilt his grandmother had made during the Civil War in some long forgotten place down south, his limp dick laying across his hairy thigh. Kevin had one hand loosely wrapped around it. He stroked it back to semi-hardness.

"Stay a little longer. It's early."

Ben glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. He'd been up since ten in the morning, yesterday. He was running on fumes. He shoved his fingers through his short hair before jamming his hat back on. He knew he could go home and sleep now. Kevin gave him a sated smile when he bent down to kiss his lover one last time.

"I'm on day watch next week. I can probably make it back on Friday."

Kevin nodded. "I'll see you there then."

Ben let himself out, paused to check the road both ways, and hurried down the street to where he'd catch the Red Car home.

Nebraska, 1927

I mostly remember the Chatterfields being cold. They was solid Methodists, Nebraska born and bred. They were always Missus Chatterfield and Mister Chatterfield. They were real strict on that. We weren't ever to think of them as our Ma and Da. They had plenty of sons and daughters of their own. We were the placed out kids, there in the name of their good Christian charity. We weren't ever to forget it.

Never did, neither.

Jacob, Joseph and James never let us forget, neither. They were the oldest and biggest of the Chatterfield boys. Hulking oxen they were. But I remember Caleb most of all. He was near my age, couple years older, but where I was all lodgepole legs and arms, no muscles at all accordin' to the Mister, Caleb was filled out. Beautiful, like a young, strong colt. Harvest-wheat colored hair and eyes so blue they was like they captured the summer sky in them.

I never knew why, but I used to find myself watching him when we were working side by side in the fields, stacking new harvested wheat, or slopping out the half dozen pigs Mister Chatterfield bought at market every year as shoats and raised to market weight. I watched him when we slaughtered the pigs each fall and hung them over the boiling kettles, scraping the bristly hair off their pale pink bodies. Even with the flies and the smell of blood and offal, I couldn't take my eyes off the boy as we both became men under the cruel Nebraska sky.

Becky was the oldest Chatterfield girl. Christine was the youngest, still a baby when we came to them as indentured boys. Becky was my age. A yellow-haired brat, always being where she wasn't supposed to be. Missus Chatterfield whupped that girl more times than I could count for following us around and getting into trouble doing things like climbing the old twisted cottonwood tree down by the watering hole. She'd go all the way to the top and peer down at us through the whispering leaves, laughing and daring us to come up. When we did, she'd throw stones she'd put in her apron pocket and laugh harder when we cussed her out.

If Missus Chatterfield catched us cussing, she washed our mouth out with lye soap and sent us to bed without supper. If Mister Chatterfield caught us, our backsides be whipped bloody so we had to stand to eat breakfast the next day.

That first winter, poor Sean got the Spanish Lady same as James and they both passed. James got buried in the Chatterfield ground, Sean got sent home on the train, just like we come west. Don't know where he got buried.