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Authors: Matt Braun

BOOK: The Spoilers
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The next stop on Starbuck's itinerary was a posh jewelry store. His shopping list was itemized, though flexible, and the purchases required only a few minutes. He selected a diamond pinky ring, with a stone only slightly smaller than a sugar cube. Then he chose a garish horseshoe-shaped diamond stickpin, with matching cuff links. His last purchase was a diamond-studded pocketwatch the size of a teacup. When the lid was opened, it chimed a musical rendition of
“Darling Clementine.
”
There was no haggling, and he again paid in bills
of large denominations. He stuffed the new watch into his vest pocket and threaded the heavy gold chain through a buttonhole. The old watch, along with the other items, were casually dropped into his jacket pocket. The jeweler watched the whole procedure with an expression of bemused wonder. He was still clutching a fistful of hundred-dollar bills when Starbuck hurried out the door.
One last stop completed Starbuck's shopping spree. The store was located on a sidestreet, with a small wooden sign pegged to the wall. The gunsmith's name was John Bohannon, and his work was known to lawman and outlaw alike. He was a master craftsman of the concealed weapon.
The inside of the store looked like an ordnance depot. The walls were lined with pistols of every description, and a double-shelved showcase was filled with pocket derringers and cut-down revolvers. Bohannon rose from a workbench at the rear of the store and moved to the showcase. He was a short, rotund man, with a shock of white hair and metalframed glasses that magnified his eyes like a telescope. He greeted Starbuck genially.
“Afternoon. What can I do for you today?”
“I need a couple of guns,” Starbuck told him. “One belly-gun and one hideout, the smaller the better.”
“What caliber?” Bohannon asked pleasantly. “I've got everything from twenty-two to forty-five.”
Starbuck's mouth curled. “Large enough to stop a man when he's centered the first shot.”
Bohannon's eyes gleamed behind the bottle-thick glasses. “I take it you're an experienced shootist?”
“I generally hit the mark.”
“Then something in forty-one ought to do the trick.”
Bohannon bent over the showcase and took out a Colt Lightning. Only recently introduced, the revolver was double-action and fired a .41-caliber slug. The barrel and ejector rod had been trimmed to three inches. For a hideout gun, he suggested the Colt New House Model. A stubby five-shot revolver, it was chambered for .38 caliber. The birdshead grip was framed with ivory handles, and the sheathed trigger was activated by cocking the hammer. The barrel length was one and a half inches, and the entire gun could be covered by a normal handspan.
Starbuck handled the guns, testing them for balance and smoothness of action. The workmanship was flawless, and he quickly approved both selections. Bohannon outfitted him with a shoulder holster for the Lightning, and a clip-on boot holster for the hideout gun. A box of cartridges for each gun completed the deal, and Starbuck gladly forked over nearly two hundred dollars. They shook hands and parted, never once having exchanged names.
Outside, Starbuck checked his new timepiece. The watch chimed three and merrily trilled “Darling Clementine.” He smiled and mentally reminded himself to wire Mattie Silks, a Denver madam who owed him a favor. Once the message was sent, all that remained was to collect his wardrobe and the gold
tooth. His disguise was set and his cover story would bear scrutiny. The northbound train departed at six, and from there it was on to San Francisco and his next stop.
The Barbary Coast and Denny O'Brien.
Starbuck arrived at the Palace Hotel late the next morning. A doorman approached, but he bounded down from the hansom cab without assistance. Slipping the man a five spot, he jerked his thumb at his luggage. Then he stepped back, craning his head upward, and ogled the architecture.
Considered San Francisco's finest, the hotel was a structure of Olympian proportions. The building occupied an entire city block, and construction costs were reported to have exceeded $5,000,000. The entrance-way was an immense courtyard, surrounded by galleries lofting seven stories high. Overhead, a domed skylight flooded the courtyard with a brilliant rainbow of colors. Already a legend to world travelers, the Palace was a home-away-from-home for visiting royalty and other people of wealth.
With the doorman at his heels, Starbuck swept into the lobby. He was attired in a getup of spectacular vulgarity. He wore a pearl-gray suit, with a
sapphire-blue cravat and a brocaded vest to match. Diamonds sparkled from his ring and cuff links and stickpin with tawdry opulence. A cigar was wedged in the corner of his mouth, and his gold tooth gleamed like a lighthouse beacon.
Halfway to the front desk he suddenly stopped. The lobby floor was paved with silver dollars set in dark marble, and he gazed down on the sight with a look of pop-eyed wonder. The fashionably dressed men and women strolling through the lobby meanwhile paused and stared at him like a sideshow freak escaped from a circus. An interval of absolute silence stretched to several moments. Then, with a loud snort, he shook his head.
“Jeeezus Christ! Flat knocks your eyes out!”
Puffing clouds of smoke, he munched his cigar and proceeded across the lobby. He halted at the desk and knuckled his fedora onto the back of his head at a rakish angle. Grinning broadly, he nodded to the clerk.
“Harry Lovett's the name. I want the classiest suite you've got.”
The clerk peered down his nose. “Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“Hell, no!” Starbuck trumpeted. “Harry Lovett don't need no reservation. Now hop to it, sonny! Fix me up, and none of your sass.”
The clerk flushed and quickly produced a registration card. Starbuck signed his alias with a bold stroke and then dropped the pen on the desk. With
obvious distaste, the clerk picked up the card and studied it at length.
“Have you stayed with us before, Mr. Lovett?”
“Nope,” Starbuck said briskly. “This here's my first trip to Frisco.”
The clerk flinched. Only seamen and people of low station referred to the city by the bay as “Frisco.” By his expression, it was apparent he had already relegated Harry Lovett to that category. He tapped the registration card on his fingertips.
“One moment, please.”
Turning away, he walked to a door at the end of the desk. A small sign identified the room beyond as the manager's office. He knocked softly and entered. Starbuck rolled the cigar to the opposite side of his mouth and looked bored. Then he noticed a stack of brochures on the counter, emblazoned with the hotel's name. He took one off the top and made a show of moving his lips while he read.
The brochure, meant to delight and inform, was a compendium of statistical trivia. Built by William Ralston, one of the city's leading industrialists, the Palace was an eclectic blend of rococo Victorian and ornate Louis XV. The hotel could accommodate twelve hundred guests and there was a fireplace in every room. A total of twenty thousand silver dollars were inset into the lobby floor, and there were nine hundred cuspidors scattered throughout the hotel. A hallmark of service, there were four hundred thirtynine bathrooms, which provided the luxury of one bathroom for every 2.7 guests. In keeping with the
overall decor, the toilet seats were specially crafted by Chippendale, that most revered of British imports. The cost of the toilet seats alone exceeded—
Starbuck stopped reading. He thought to himself he really wasn't out of place at the Palace. He was acting the part of a coarse, loud-mouthed vulgarian. The hotel, bragging about its toilet seats, was somewhat in the same league. For all their pretensions, the rich crowd wasn't above flaunting their built-for-a-king- crappers.
The office door opened and the room clerk bustled forward. He stopped and carefully laid the card on the desk. His expression was dour.
“Mr. Lovett, the manager has asked me to inform you of hotel policy. A guest who hasn't stayed with us previously is required to pay at least two days in advance. As you can appreciate, our suites are commodious and therefore quite expensive. So if you would care to look elsewhere—”
“Sounds fair.” Starbuck took out his wallet and fanned ten one-hundred dollars bills across the counter. “A thousand ought to do for openers. You tell me when that runs out and I'll pony up some more.”
The clerk sighed and reluctantly scooped the bills into a cash drawer. Without a word, he walked to the letter boxes, fished out a room key, and returned to the desk. He snapped his fingers, signaling a bellboy.
“Bellman! Suite four-o-six for Mr. Lovett.” Starbuck started away, then turned back. “Say, almost
forgot to ask. Which way's the Barbary Coast?”
The clerk looked aghast. “Simply walk in the direction of the waterfront, Mr. Lovett. I'm told it's difficult to miss.”
“You mean to say you've never been there?”
“No.” The clerk drew himself up stiffly. “Never.”
“Damn shame,” Starbuck said with a waggish grin. “You ought to turn loose and live a little. We only pass this way once, and that's a mortal fact.”
Starbuck pulled out his diamond-studded watch and popped the lid. The strains of “Darling Clementine” tinkled across the lobby. Hotel guests standing nearby turned to stare and the clerk rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Starbuck snapped the lid closed and replaced the watch in his vest pocket.
“How long does it take to walk there?”
“A matter of a few minutes, no more.”
“Much obliged.”
“All part of the service, Mr. Lovett.”
Starbuck flipped him a salute and strode off toward the elevators. The bellboy hefted his luggage and hurried along behind. Watching them, the clerk passed his hand in front of his eyes, and slowly shook his head.
 
Shortly after one o'clock Starbuck pushed through the doors of the Bella Union. The noontime rush had slacked off, and there were perhaps a dozen men strung out along the bar. He hooked a heel over the brass rail and nodded pleasantly to the bartender.
“Your boss a fellow by the name of Denny O'Brien?”
“Six days a week and all day on Sunday.”
“Where might I find him?”
The barkeep ducked his chin. “See that gent down there?”
Starbuck glanced toward the end of the bar. A man stood hunched over the counter, staring dully into a glass of whiskey. He was wide and tall, with brutish features and a barrel-shaped torso. His head was fixed directly upon his shoulders, and he appeared robust as an ox. Starbuck recognized him instantly as a bruiser. One of a breed, bouncers and strongarm men, who maintained order with sledgehammer fists.
“Yeah, so?” Starbuck asked. “What about him?”
“You want to see Mr. O'Brien, you start with him. His name's High Spade McQueen.”
“Sounds like a gamblin' man.”
The barkeep smiled. “If I was you, I wouldn't bet against him. You might try talking real polite, too.”
“That tough, huh?”
“Mister, he's a cross between a buzz saw and a grizzly bear. You never seen anything like him.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
Starbuck shoved away from the bar and walked toward the rear of the room. He braced himself to appear bluff and hearty, a man of dazzling good humor. Working undercover, he always turned actor, assumed a role, and it wouldn't do to slip out of character. He rounded the end of the bar and halted.
Smiling affably, he showed High Spade McQueen his gold tooth.
“Mr. McQueen?”
“Who're you?”
“Name's Harry Lovett,” Starbuck replied. “I've come all the way from Denver to see Denny O'Brien. The barkeep told me to check with you.”
McQueen swiveled his head just far enough to look around. An ugly scar disfigured one cheek and his eyes were like ball bearings. He fixed Starbuck with a sullen stare.
“You got business with Mr. O'Brien?”
“I bear greetings from a mutual friend, Mattie Silks. She was of the opinion Mr. O'Brien and me might do one another a favor.”
“Such as what?”
“I'm here to buy some whores. I need advice, and I'm willing to pay handsomely to get it.”
McQueen's mouth split in a grotesque smile. His teeth were yellow as a row of old dice, and the scar distorted his features. He pushed off the bar.
“You should've said so to start with. C'mon, I'll take you up to the office.”
He crossed the room and mounted the staircase. Starbuck obediently tagged along. From the rear, he was even more aware of the man's massive shoulders. He reminded himself to strike the first punch if ever he locked horns with High Spade McQueen.
Upstairs, McQueen turned into a small alcove off the central hallway. There was a door at the end of the alcove, and the balcony afforded a commanding
view of both the theater and the barroom. He rapped on the door and a muffled voice from inside responded. Entering, he waved Starbuck through the door.
Denny O'Brien was stooped over a steel floor safe. He shot McQueen a look of annoyance, then quickly closed the safe door and spun the combination knob. Before the door swung shut, Starbuck caught a glimpse of several ledgers and neatly stacked rows of cash. His expression betrayed nothing.
“Sorry, boss,” McQueen apologized in a low rumble. “Thought you'd be done by now.”
“You're not paid to think!” O'Brien said curtly. “What do you want?”
“This here feller's named Lovett. Says he come all the way from Denver to see you.”
“Yessir, Harry Lovett.” Starbuck moved forward, hand extended. “And let me say it's an honor to meet you, Mr. O'Brien! Heard lots about you, and all of it good.”
O'Brien held out a square, stubby-fingered hand. He shook once, a hard up-and-down pump, then let go. He gave Starbuck's getup a swift appraisal, noting the diamonds and the dapper cut of the clothes.
“Who's been telling you all these good things?”
“Mattie Silks,” Starbuck lied heartily. “She says there's only one man to grease the wheels in Frisco, and that man's your very own self.”
“Did she, now?” O'Brien sounded flattered. “I
haven't laid eyes on Mattie in four, maybe five, years.”
“Well you made an impression on her, Mr. O'Brien. I'm here to tell you she tagged you for a real stem-winder.”
“Have a seat.”
O'Brien crossed behind the desk and lowered himself into an overstuffed judge's chair. His churlish manner seemed to moderate. His ruddy features thawed slightly and his eyes were friendly but sharp. Very sharp.
Hat in hand, Starbuck took a chair directly before the desk. Once more he marked that O'Brien's whole being was charged with energy, alive and very shrewd. Up close, there was a strong sense of animal magnetism about the man. A sense of lightning intelligence and feral cunning, underscored by a sharp odor of danger. Starbuck was also aware that O'Brien's gorilla had taken a position by the door, immediately behind him. Apparently a stranger was to be trusted no further than arm's length.
O'Brien eyed him in silence for a moment. “You a friend of Mattie's?”
“Yessir, I am,” Starbuck said stoutly. “Mattie and me go back a long ways.”
“You're from Denver, then?”
“On again, off again.” Starbuck flipped a palm back and forth. “I drift around, generally the mining camps. A man in my line's got to go where the action's the hottest.”
“What line would that be, just exactly?”
“Confidence games. Leastways, it was. You might say I've retired from the profession.”
“Oh?” O'Brien said lazily. “How so?”
Starbuck gave him a jolly wink. “Hooked myself the prize sucker of all time. Took him for a bundle and figured I'd make a clean break, put my flim-flam days behind me. So I decided to go legit.”
“I get the feeling legit doesn't mean reformed.”
“You bet your socks it don't!”
“You've got a new line in mind, is that it?”
“Yes, indeedee!” Starbuck said with great relish. “I aim to open a string of cathouses like nothing nobody's ever seen. Corner the market, in a manner of speaking.”

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