The Dublin Detective (15 page)

The lieutenant frowned, but said, “Well, okay. We got about half a dozen cathouses, but there are also some saloons—”

“I just need the whorehouses,” Clint said. “Which three are considered to have the best girls?”

“Well, there's . . .”

 

Clint met up with Weaver and McBeth back at the hotel, told them what he'd found out from the local police.

“They got a police department?” Weaver asked.

“Yeah, a pretty modern one,” Clint said. “Might be something you could look into, Ben, when this is over.”

“What about the whorehouses?” McBeth asked.

“I've got the names and address of the three that are generally considered to have the best girls—and the one we passed on the way into town is one of them.”

“So what do we do, take one each?” Weaver asked.

“That's exactly what we do,” Clint said. “And nobody tries to take them alone.”

“Well,” Weaver said, “we ain't gonna know Santee on sight.”

“I will describe Dolan so either one of you will recognize him,” McBeth said.

“But nobody moves without somebody to watch their back,” Clint said. “If one of us sees Dolan, we follow him, find out where he's staying, and then we'll approach him together.”

“I don't care what you do with Santee,” McBeth said. “The two of you can take him, but Dolan is mine. I've come too far, too long, to let somebody else have him.”

“That's not a problem, McBeth,” Clint said. “He's all yours.”

“Fine.”

“Let's get a meal,” Clint said, “and a good night's sleep, and we'll start watching tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why not tonight?” McBeth said.

“Because we need some rest.”

“I'm fine.”

“Okay, then Ben and I need some rest,” Clint said. “Come on, McBeth, I have the feeling this is all going to end right here in Shreveport. You can wait one more night.”

“I don't know—”

“I'll buy you some gumbo,” Clint said.

“I can go for that,” Weaver said, “even though I ain't never had it.”

“All right,” McBeth said, “we'll go have some gumbo.”

It took Jamie Dolan and Santee two days to collect three extra men while they were in Natchitoches, which is the reason they arrived in Shreveport two full days after Clint, McBeth, and Weaver.

“Let's get some hotel rooms, and then something to eat,” Dolan said, “and then Santee, I want to see one of these whorehouses you were tellin' me about.”

“As you wish.”

They stopped at the first hotel they came to, which was not the hotel that Clint was in. And because they had killed Grey and Ludlow and stolen their share of the bank job, Dolan generously got his three new men—Edwards, Hicks, and Morris—their own rooms. They thought he was the best boss they'd ever had.

“Where do we get the best steak in town?” Dolan asked the clerk.

“Down the street, sir,” the clerk said. “A place called Constantine's.”

“Okay,” Dolan said. He turned to his men and said, “Get settled in your rooms and meet me and Santee at that restaurant. Got it?”

“We got it, boss,” Morris said.

They went upstairs to their rooms thinking, best boss they ever had.

 

Weaver, McBeth, and Clint had been having their meals at different times, so that they weren't off the street all at the same time. Once Weaver had found Constantine's, he decided to have all his meals there—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So he was sitting at a table, devouring a steak, when the three men walked in and asked for a table for five. They looked like they had just come in off the trail. He kept a wary eye on them until two more men arrived to join them. A Mexican, and a big man who matched McBeth's description of Dolan to a T.

And to add to it, the Mexican was favoring one leg.

The left.

 

“It's a helluva coincidence, huh?” Weaver asked Clint two hours later.

Clint hated coincidences, so he said, “No, it's just . . . a lucky break. Instead of having to wait for him to go to a whorehouse, he ends up in the same restaurant with you.”

“But . . . that's a coincidence.”

“Let's go.” Clint stood up from the table he'd taken in the café across from the whorehouse. “Let's go and collect Mr. McBeth and tell him the news.”

 

McBeth had chosen a storefront across from the second whorehouse on their list and was sitting on a wooden chair, watching.

He started to get up when he saw Clint and Weaver approaching, but Clint waved him back into his seat.

“What are you doing here?” the Irishman asked.

“Weaver found them.”

“Them? Dolan?”

“Dolan, Santee, and three others.”

“Three more?”

“They must have enlisted them along the way.”

“Where were they?” McBeth asked.

“They walked into the restaurant where I was eatin',” Weaver said. “And I followed them to their hotel.”

“Where is it?” McBeth asked excitedly.

“Right across the street from ours. But they're not there now. They went to a saloon down the street.”

“What are we waitin' for?” McBeth said, standing.

“Wait, wait,” Clint said. “There are five of them, McBeth. We can't just walk up to them.”

“Why not?” McBeth asked. “Maybe there are five of them, but I have the Gunsmith on my side. You and Weaver take care of the others. I'll take care of Dolan.”

“And what do you want me to do?” Clint asked. “Kill them all? He's just collected these three men since he killed the other two. We don't even know if they've done anything.”

“Yet,” McBeth said. “You know it's only a matter of time.”

“I'm not going to kill them because they might do something,” Clint said.

“Fine,” McBeth said, “Stay here, or go to the hotel. Weaver and I will handle it.”

“What?”

“He killed my wife!” McBeth said to Weaver.

Weaver, shocked because he had not heard that before, said, “I'm really sorry about that, McBeth, but I'm not about to face five guns with only you to back me up.”

McBeth glared at the two men.

“Fine,” he said finally, “what do you suggest?”

“We get him away from the others,” Clint said. “Either him alone, or with Santee.”

“How do we do that?”

“I have an idea.”

Santee didn't know how he did it, but he talked Dolan out of going to a whorehouse that night.

“You smell like a horse,” he said.

“Believe me, boyo,” Dolan said, “the lass I pick isn't going to mind.”

“This is Shreveport,” Santee said. “They won't even let you in before you take a bath.”

“A bath?” Dolan looked appalled. “I don't see you taking a bath.”

“I don't want to go to a whorehouse,” the Mexican pointed out.

“Okay,” Dolan said reluctantly, “I'll take a bath . . . but in the mornin'.”

“
Bueno
,” Santee said. “Now have another drink.”

The Mexican and the big Irishman were standing at the bar while the other three had taken a table together.

“Those three are not very smart,” Santee said.

“That is exactly why I chose them,” Dolan said, waving to the bartender.

 

Clint thought they lucked out when Dolan passed on going to a whorehouse that night. He, Santee, and his men, after a few drinks, gave in to the fatigue from riding all day and went to their rooms.

Weaver followed them from the saloon to their hotel, then crossed the street to meet with Clint and McBeth at their hotel.

“If we're gonna do this,” he asked, “why don't we also do it to Dolan?”

“I'm going to take Dolan in the street, face to face,” McBeth said.

Weaver looked at Clint, who just shrugged.

“What about Santee?” he asked.

“Dolan may not leave the hotel without Santee,” Clint said. “Remember, he's his guide.”

“Okay,” Weaver said, “if that's the way you wanna do it.”

“You got the room numbers?” Clint asked him.

“Yup.”

“Then let's go,” Clint said. “And remember, this has to be done without a shot.”

 

Clint went down the hall to room seven. Farther along Weaver stood in front of room nine, and McBeth in front of ten. While Dolan's men had their own rooms, they did not have large rooms like he and Santee did, so those two were on a different floor.

All three men drew their guns, knocked on the door lightly with the barrel, and waited. Clint hoped that none of the men had acquired the habit of answering the door with a gun in their hand. As it happened, all three men had been awakened and stumbled to the door blearily.

The door to seven opened, a filmy eye appeared, and Clint pressed the barrel of his gun against the man's forehead.

“Back up and don't make a sound.”

The man's eye widened and he did as he was told . . .

Within minutes Edwards, Hicks, and Morris were trussed up on their beds—tied securely and gagged.

“Be back sometime tomorrow,” Clint said to Morris. “Meanwhile, get a good night's sleep.”

He stepped into the hall and, from the lack of any shooting, assumed things had gone well in rooms nine and ten. In moments both McBeth and Weaver appeared.

“Okay, we're all set,” Clint said.

“I still think we should take Dolan this way, and the Mexican,” Weaver said.

“If you want to sit this out tomorrow, I'll understand, Ben,” McBeth said.

“I didn't say that!” Weaver snapped. “Don't worry, I'll be there.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said, “first light in the lobby.”

They went to their own rooms, although none of the three of them expected to get any sleep.

Clint was in the lobby when McBeth came down the steps, looking wide awake. On the other hand, Weaver stumbled down the stairs.

“Ben, take up a position across the street,” Clint said, “in front of the hardware store. I'll be in front of the empty storefront. James . . .”

“I'm going to wait right out front,” McBeth said. “I want to be right there when Dolan walks out.”

“Are you any good with that hogleg, McBeth?” Weaver asked nervously.

“I could ask you the same question, Ben,” McBeth said.

“I guess we're going to find out the answer to both questions,” Clint said, “aren't we?”

 

They had to wait two hours, and then things did not go quite as planned, mostly because Santee was not a fool.

When Dolan appeared, coming out the front door, he had Santee next to him, and then coming out behind him, wearing their guns, were Edwards, Hicks, and Morris, all smirking.

“Crap,” Clint said.

Dolan stopped as McBeth stepped into the center of the street.

“It was a good plan, James,” Dolan said. “Lucky for me, Santee doesn't sleep real well. He saw you and your friends skulking around the lobby and the halls and then checked on Morris, Hicks, and Edwards.”

“This has been a long time coming, Jamie,” McBeth said.

“Aye, it sure has,” Dolan said. “Dublin to Shreveport. I've really liked the American West. Have you?”

“Very much,” McBeth said, “and I'd like it more if you weren't in it.”

“So,” Dolan said, “how do we do this? I assume you want to go man to man, since you didn't try to tie me up in my room last night.”

“We've always known it would be you or me, Jamie.”

“Aye, but we didn't think it would come to this,” Dolan said. “A Western shoot-out. Exciting, eh?”

“If you want to see it that way.”

When the pedestrians realized something was going on, they got off the street, looking for cover.

Once Clint realized what was happening he stepped into the street, signaling Weaver to do the same.

“Ah, crap,” Weaver said, stepping down from the boardwalk.

 

As Clint moved up to McBeth's right, Dolan said, “Do ye want to introduce me to yer friends, James?”

“This is Ben Weaver on my left,” McBeth said. “Used to be a lawman in El Paso. And on my right is someone you may have heard of since you came to the West. This is Clint Adams.”

“Clint Adams?” Dolan asked, frowning.

Santee leaned in and said something to him.

“Ah, the famous gunfighter, the Gunsmith,” Dolan said. “You've done yerself proud, Jamie. Five against three doesn't seem like such a disparity in the odds now, does it?”

“Four against two, Jamie,” McBeth said. “You and me, that is something separate.”

“Santee?” Dolan asked. “You got any problem facing the Gunsmith?”

“I would consider it an honor,” Santee said, “to be the man who kills the Gunsmith.”

Clint decided to keep silent and let McBeth do all the talking.

“I'm sure Clint is not all that worried about Mr. Santee, who he had never heard of before this. But enough talk, Jamie. The talk and the huntin' is done. I'm just glad I caught up to you before you could kill any more women.”

“You know,” Dolan said, “I've come to like the American West so much that even after I kill you and I'm no longer on the run, I think I'll stay awhile. There are many, many women whose acquaintance I still need to make.”