Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens (9 page)

“That man that just left the saloon,” Slocum said, “did you see him?”

“I saw him,” Swain said.

“I don't know, but I think that might have been—”

“It was,” Swain interrupted. “That was Morgan Sombra.”

“You know him?”

“I've seen him a few times. He don't say much, but he's always someplace you don't expect him.”

“Well, he works for the saloon owner, doesn't he?”

Swain swung down from the saddle, his left hand gripping the saddle horn until both feet touched ground.

“Some say he works for Scroggs, but to me he's just another no-account drifter, a saddle bum with a six-shooter.”

“He made no move against me yesterday.” Slocum touched down and walked around to face Swain. “He just sat his horse until I shot the kid, then turned away with the kid in tow and headed back to town.”

“Well, you had your pistol out, Slocum, and Sombra was facing you. That's not Sombra's way. They don't call him Shadow just 'cause that's his Mex name. That's where he lives. In shadow, where he can get a good look at your back and you can't see him.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Slocum said as the two mounted the boardwalk and headed for the batwing doors and the buzz of conversation floating on the smoke and yellow lights from the saloon lamps inside.

On the opposite side of the street, a paneled wagon was parked. Two horses were hitched to it. On the side panel, the legend ORIENTAL PLEASURES was painted in large cursive lettering. Below that, these words were spaced evenly in a rainbow arc:
Incense, Exotic Teas, Elixirs, and Perfumes
. At the very bottom there appeared the name Wu Chen Fong, braced on either side by Chinese characters. Slocum glanced at the wagon and saw a man on the seat, smoking a cigarette. The glow left orange traces as it moved from hand to lips. Slocum said nothing, but the wagon prickled his curiosity and he filed the memory of it away in his mind.

Just before they reached the entrance to the saloon, Swain stopped. He put a hand on Slocum's elbow to stop him.

“Before we go in there, Slocum, there's something you ought to know.”

“What?”

“Scroggs has two gunmen inside. There are three of them that I know of, but there are always two on duty at one time. One is a tall rawboned Swede named Olaf Thorson. Blond hair, wide shoulders, slim waist, tied-down holster. Another is a thick-necked German named Gustav Adler. They call him ‘Gus.' And the third one that I know of is a short, wiry, skinny man who goes by the name of Ruben Loomis. The bartenders, whose names I don't know, although I think one of them is named Cal—anyway, they always have a sawed-off Greener and a club within reach. I've seen them clear the room when the patrons got rowdy.”

“Sounds like a saloon I visited in Dodge City,” Slocum said.

“The Mexicans got Injun blood in them and don't hold their likker too good sometimes. They've carted a few of them out of there feet first.”

“I'll keep my eyes peeled,” Slocum said.

The two men entered the saloon, stepped to one side as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the light from the lamps.

“Let's head for the bar,” Swain said. “I'll buy you a drink.”

“Obliged,” Slocum said and followed Swain as he walked to an empty space at the long bar.

One of the bartenders came up and wiped the bar top with a dirty towel. He looked at Slocum, then at Swain.

“Swain, isn't it?” the barkeep said. “I don't recollect seein' your friend in here.”

“Cal, is it?”

“Yeah. Cal Meecham, Mr. Swain. Ain't you Jethro's brother?”

“How do you know my brother?”

“Oh, I seen him in here a few times. Ain't seen him lately, though.”

“You're a goddamned liar, Meecham,” Swain said, his voice pitched low so that it didn't carry beyond the three of them.

Cal reared back as if he had been struck. Then he looked toward the end of the L the bar made. Slocum swung his head to track Cal's line of sight. In the dark corner at the end of the L, he saw a short wiry man who was smoking a cigarette.

“You call Ruben over here, Cal, I'll drop you where you stand.”

Slocum readied himself to draw his pistol if the dispute went any further.

“What's your pleasure, gents,” Cal said, a slight quaver in his voice. He was a short burly man with a beer belly and a small square moustache that looked as if he had a mouse in his mouth. His hair was thinning on top, and his sideburns were patchy as if they had fed a colony of moths.

“Old Taylor for me,” Swain said.

“You got any Kentucky bourbon?” Slocum asked.

“We got bourbon,” Cal said. “I don't know where it was born.”

“Bring whiskey and bourbon then.” Swain plunked a five-dollar gold piece on the counter. Cal's eyes widened. He turned and left to fetch the bottles. Swain turned around, his back to the bar. Slocum did the same.

“You see him over there in the corner?” Swain asked in a low voice. “Loomis?”

“I saw him,” Slocum said.

Swain scanned the room. He stopped when he saw Scroggs and another man at Scroggs's usual table in the far corner of the room.

“That's Scroggs over yonder,” Swain said. “That back table. He's the pudgy one with the gold vest. Don't know who he's with.”

“I see him. He's the owner, eh?”

“Yeah.”

Cal set glasses on the bar top and poured drinks.

“Bourbon's from Tennessee,” he said. He grabbed up the gold piece and went to the cash register. He plunked the change, in silver, down on the counter.

“Leave the bottles,” Swain said.

Cal slunk to the center of the bar and looked the other way. Slocum followed his line of sight clear to the end of the bar. There, he saw a tall blond man who looked Swedish. The man stood with his muscular arms folded across his chest as if he was looking for trouble to break out at any moment.

“That's Thorson down there,” Swain said. “He's hoping for the chance to break a couple of heads.”

“His muscles have got muscles,” Slocum said.

Swain laughed.

“He used to wrestle for a livin',” Swain said. “Story is he killed a man in the ring.”

“I wouldn't want him to give me a bear hug,” Slocum said.

“Let's saunter over and have a word with Willie Scroggs.”

“You looking for trouble, Obie?”

“If there's goin' to be a ball, might as well open it.”

Slocum followed Swain across the sawdust-strewn floor, past empty tables. One or two Mexican drinkers looked at them, and a glitter gal or two flounced past in front of them, their eyes outlined with kohl, their lips plump and red as ripe cherries, their cheeks smeared with rouge.

Scroggs looked up when Swain approached.

Littlepage turned his head, looked at Slocum.

“I hear you been lookin' for me, Willie,” Swain said. He stood so that he could see both Thorson and Loomis with a slight turn of his head. Slocum stood with his back to the wall, so that he could see if either man left the bar and made a move toward them. He looked at Scroggs, then at Littlepage. The latter's face was a blank. Scroggs looked slightly apoplectic.

“Why no, Mr. Swain,” Scroggs said. “I ain't paid you no mind whatsoever. What brings you to town?”

“Dynamite,” Swain said, much to Slocum's surprise. Obie hadn't mentioned it to him.

“Well, you won't find none of it here,” Scroggs said. He looked at Slocum.

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meetin' your friend here.”

“His name is Slocum and it would not be a pleasure for him to meet you, Willie.”

Scroggs drew back in his chair, stung by the frank insult.

“Name's familiar,” Scroggs said. “Face, too. I think I've seen it on a wanted poster.”

Slocum said nothing. He watched the two men at either end of the bar, Thorson and Loomis. They still stood there, like cigar store Indians, stolid, blank-faced, but somehow threatening.

“John Slocum?” Littlepage asked.

Slocum did not reply or acknowledge Littlepage's presence at the table. He continued to watch the two gunmen, as if he were outside the hostile sphere of the table where Scroggs and Littlepage sat.

“I heard tell of a John Slocum when I was in Silverado,” Littlepage said. “You were pretty handy with a gun, as I recall.”

Slocum stood impassive, as if unwilling to acknowledge Littlepage's pointed remarks.

Scroggs looked up at Swain.

“You might be keepin' bad company, Obadiah,” Scroggs said. “People are known by the company they keep.”

“Scroggs, I'm just giving you fair warning. Leave my brother and his daughter alone. And as far as finding out where I live, I'll kill any of your men who come within range of my gun sights.”

“Are you threatening me, Swain?”

Slocum turned and fixed Scroggs with a stabbing stare.

“If he isn't, Scroggs, I am,” Slocum said. “I saw what you did to Jethro Swain. To me, you're nothing but scum, something I'd scrape off my boot in a cow pasture.”

“Slocum,” Scroggs said, “I want you and Swain to leave my establishment. If you don't, I'll have you thrown out.”

“Fuck you, Scroggs,” Swain said, and started walking back toward the bar.

Slocum waited another second before he followed Swain.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Scroggs,” Slocum said. “If there's anything I hate, it's a man who tortures another the way you tortured Jethro Swain.”

Scroggs glared at Slocum.

But Slocum turned his back on the two men and followed Swain to the bar.

A tall, voluptuous woman entered the saloon through the back door and made her way toward Scroggs's table. She had raven black hair with a red carnation affixed to one side. She wore a slinky silk dress that clung to her curves like a second skin of bright blue. She carried a small beaded purse and wore a pearl choker that emphasized her delicate neck and shone like stars above her bosom.

She walked straight up to Slocum, her gaze sweeping up and down him like a searchlight.

“My,” she said, “you make the saloon look like a gathering place for midgets. I like a tall man and I see you know my uncle.”

“No, I don't believe I know your uncle,” Slocum said. “Or you.”

She smiled at him and touched a pair of fingertips to her chest.

“Why, I'm Linda Littlepage, and I saw you at my uncle's table.”

“I was there,” Slocum said, “and if you had been there, I'd probably still be there.”

“And who are you?” she asked.

“The name is Slocum. John Slocum.”

She stiffened then, as if he had slapped her face with a wet towel, and her expression turned dour.

“It seems I've made a mistake,” she said.

Slocum doffed his hat and took a step toward the bar, where Swain waited for him.

“Not yet,” he said, and winked at her.

Swain wore just the trace of a smirk on his face when Slocum joined him at the bar.

“Obie,” Slocum said, “don't say it. Just pour us another drink of that Tennessee likker.”

“Oh, I wasn't goin' to say nothin' in particular.”

“Like hell you weren't.”

“I just saw you bump into the Queen Bee of the Socorro Saloon, that's all. She was shuckin' your duds with her eyes for fair.”

“She's the boss lady here?”

“She runs the glitter gals. I reckon that's her uncle she's jawin' with right now.”

Swain poured fresh drinks in their glasses and laid a tendollar bill on the bar top.

Slocum saw Linda talking to Scroggs and Littlepage. Every few seconds she glanced in his direction.

“I wonder if she knows what her uncle does for a living,” Slocum said.

“Do you know?”

“When I was in Silverado, he was running an opium den. We didn't cross paths, but I saw men come out of a shady saloon there like sleepwalkers. Someone told me they were smoking opium. The way I heard it, they were puffing the drug through a tube stuck in a water-filled fishbowl of some kind.”

“That's the Chinese way, I hear. Didn't know there was opium dens 'cept in New York and Frisco.”

“Well, there was one in Silverado, and it wasn't a Chinese place.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Swain said. “Well, there's your drink, Slocum. Then we'd better light a shuck. Loomis and Thorson look like two hungry dogs a-watchin' us.”

Slocum lifted his drink and glanced at the gunmen standing at both ends of the bar. And they were glancing in his direction, as well. He upended the glass just as Hiram Littlepage arose from Scroggs's table and walked toward the door. Linda stayed with Scroggs and sat down in her uncle's chair.

Littlepage walked through the batwing doors and Slocum forgot about him.

He was just finishing his drink when the batwings swung open and two men entered, Littlepage and a small Chinese man wearing a derby hat.

“Who's that with Littlepage, Swain?” asked Slocum.

“Damned if I know. Some Chink.”

Littlepage and Wu Chen walked to Scroggs's table. Linda rose from her chair and left without a word to either her uncle or the Chinese man. She headed straight for where Slocum and Swain were standing, ignoring the other male patrons, who slid their glances over her like so many groping hands.

She wore a stern expression on her face that turned it rigid, as if it had been waxed. There was a paleness beneath her rouge, and her teeth were scaling off some of the lipstick on her lower lip.