Hart the Regulator 9 Page 8

  Hart had a parcel of them but none would help find Robert MacPhail. All they had was a two-week old trail that might turn out to be a lie but it was the best they’d got. ‘Not me,’ he said, ‘you’re the detective round here. I’m just watchin’ your back, remember?’

  Fowler remembered. He coughed and spat and got the hell out of Pleasant Valley just as quick as he was able.

  Chapter Nine

  The blanket hung over the back of the bed, draped down from the slightly sagging rail. Woven in red, white and dark blue, striped with a row of stretched stars along its center and down the edges, it had been in Hart’s possession more than ten, eleven years. As he sat trying to recall exactly how many, the time slipped from him, eluding him like straw cast on water and spiraling further whenever his hand plunged towards it. All that remained were fragments, snatches: the face of He Who Runs, tight and proud as he handed Hart his own chiefs wearing blanket. Dogs, lean and long-toothed, curling their legs by the fire. Women pummeling corn while the young warriors sharpened their arrowheads.

  ‘You have made peace for my people. Peace from your heart.’

  Three days later the army captain had led his troop out of the fort and He Who Runs had been hacked down by a trooper’s sabre. He had crawled towards the stream and let the water draw his blood out. Still it had taken him two days to die. Days of pain in which to think about his words to Hart. Peace from your heart.

  The close colors of the Indian blanket blurred and for an instant Hart felt a little of the dying chiefs pain and understanding. He knew himself and maybe it was his good fortune that he did not need to take a mortal wound in order to be certain: there was no peace. Least of all peace of the heart.

  He realized now that he had been concentrating on the blanket to keep from thinking about something else.

  The envelope was neatly folded now and lay between his spare shirt and the bottom of the drawer. Not too close to the heart, yet close enough.

  He splashed water up into his face and shook his head before wiping it on the rough cotton towel. He pulled on his boots and buckled on his gun belt, lifting up the pistol and checking its load automatically, the gun’s balance perfect in his hand.

  Eyes staring down at the Colt still bolstered at his side; that strand of hair dark across the face.

  Hart lifted the Meteor off the bed and slid it down into the opposite side of his belt. The blanket he fastened over his shoulder like before. He pushed his flat-brimmed hat down on to his head and had one last quick look around the room. He opened the door, turned the key in the lock, dropped the key down into his pocket and set off for the downstairs lobby.

  Fowler was sitting in a leather armchair smoking a small cigar and cradling a glass in his hand. Hart stood watching him for a few moments, thinking how little like any kind of lawman he looked. Maybe considering where they were planning on spending the evening that was just as well.

  The detective turned his head as Hart approached.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Later. Let’s be goin’.’

  Fowler downed the remains of his bourbon. ‘Pretty anxious, ain’t you?’

  ‘Anxious enough. Let’s do it.’

  Fowler pushed his fingers up through the sides of his beard, levered himself out of the chair. Outside the streets were busy with people, the evening was warm and would have been more so but for the breeze lifting off the bay. It didn’t take them long to cut north of Market Street on to Montgomery, moving with some urgency between dawdling sightseers, their coats constantly tugged at by the hands of filthy-faced children begging.

  As Hart hesitated for a moment outside a sporting goods store, glancing at the array of hunting rifles artistically arranged among a display of stuffed game birds, he sensed a movement behind him.

  ‘Like to come home with me?’

  The voice had a slight rasp to it, an edge to the invitation which suggested an uneasy urgency. Hart stared at the woman and found it difficult to believe that she was a prostitute. Perhaps the bodice of her dress was cut a little too low and revealed too much of her breasts, possibly the rouge and lipstick on her face were applied too heavily and shone too bright, her hair had an artificiality of color that suggested paint. But she stood there smiling at him, both hands resting on the curved handle of a parasol, a small kid bag hanging from a strap about her wrist.

  ‘Come on, dear. Only five dollars.’

  Hart moved away with a stiff shake of the head, a certainty that for some reason people were staring at him, that the woman herself was laughing at his haste.

  ‘Three dollars, dear,’ came her voice, but by now she could have been propositioning someone else.

  ‘Thought you’d got hooked,’ grinned Fowler, waiting for him at the corner of the block.

  Hart said nothing. He was beginning to realize that both sides of the street were busy with whores, most of them as well dressed as the women who strolled between them with their men, and paused from time to time to pass comments on what they saw in the store window. Most of the people on the street, though, were men: men in pairs, in groups of half a dozen, louder and more strident thanks to drink and the security of a crowd, men walking more furtively on their own and eyeing the prostitutes deliberately.

  ‘Ain’t shocked, are you?’

  ‘I’d heard what Frisco was like. Just never expected it to be so obvious, I guess.’

  Fowler shook his head. ‘Compared to what we’re like to see before we’re done, this is real discreet.’

  Hart shrugged the blanket across his shoulder and felt the hardness of the shotgun stock against the inside of his left arm. His hat was angled down across his forehead and the faded blue eyes took their slight shine from the street light.

  ‘Hey, cowboy!’ called a woman softly from a shop doorway. ‘Why don’t you come an’ ride me?’

  A couple of passers-by laughed as Hart shook his head and moved away, following Fowler as he threaded his way along Montgomery and right on to Pacific. Here there were less folk walking and the buildings seemed to be hotels and rooming houses rather than shops; they were a sight smarter than those they’d visited earlier in the day, steps coming down on to the sidewalk well lit from above. Occasionally a frame family house suggested that people might actually live in that city, live ordinary decent lives amongst the hordes of visitors and hustlers and down-and-outs.

  A carriage rattled past and Hart glimpsed a man’s face peering out, heard his voice shouting instructions to the driver.

  Piano music jangled from windows and the raucous sound of male voices caroled a bawdy ballad. Fowler stepped round a drunk asleep on the boardwalk and signaled to Hart they should cross the street. The place they were heading for was three stories high and built from brick. A man in a uniform jacket and with a gun at his hip looked both Hart and Fowler over as they approached. He didn’t take to the Colt in Hart’s holster and eyed the Indian blanket with a mixture of amusement and suspicion.

  Fowler, though, he seemed to recognize and greeted him with a curt nod.

  The two of them stepped under the red light that glowed above the paneled door and into a circular entrance hall. A Negro girl wearing a black and white maid’s uniform, its skirt short enough to show the tops of her stockings, came smiling forward and asked if they’d like to leave their hats and coats. When neither did, she led them into a small parlor directly off the hall and left them there with a giggling swish of her brief skirt.

  ‘Hello, Fowler. I thought you’d given up on us.’

  The madam was sitting back of a mahogany table, long, fingerless lace gloves pulled high up her arms, a burgundy colored dress that was more lace and ruffles than anything else piled around her body. A cigarette smoked at the corner of her mouth, jiggling up and down when she spoke.

  ‘Where you been these months?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  She removed the cigarette from her lips, ash falling on to the polished surface of the desk. ‘Always did like to be mysterious
, didn’t you?’ She laughed and turned her attentions to Hart, looking him up and down with what appeared to be approval.

  ‘Got a nice one there, Fowler. Friend of yours, is he?’

  ‘Name’s Hart,’ Fowler introduced him. ‘Wes Hart.’

  The madam pointed at Hart’s blanket. ‘Ain’t expectin’ to be cold tonight, cowboy?

  Hart grinned a little and shook his head.

  ‘We got some girls here’d warm up a man three days dead!’ She laughed at her joke, the cigarette back in her mouth and shedding more ash across the desk and the lace of her gloves. If she noticed either, she didn’t seem to care.

  ‘Martha workin’ tonight?’ Fowler asked.

  The woman looked at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘You an’ that Martha. What is it between you an’ her, Fowler? One of these times you’re goin’ to walk in here and she’ll have gone. You know what these girls are like. Though I’ll allow, Martha’s a lot more dependable than most.’ She waggled a finger at the detective. ‘An’ not just dependable, eh, Fowler?’

  ‘She’s here, then?’

  ‘Sure, she’s here. Why don’t the pair of you go through and buy a drink. The champagne’s improved since you were here last.’

  Fowler moved towards the parlor door. ‘I’ll bet you’re still waterin’ down the bourbon, though.’

  The woman laughed and turned her attentions to the man the black maid had just brought into the room. Tall and erect, his silver hair was brushed flat to his head and he was wearing a striped dress suit that looked immaculate. The cigar in his hand was the size of a Colt gun barrel. He made an extravagant bow towards the madam and started to speak to her in a mixture of German and English, his accent clipped and brisk.

  Hart followed Fowler through into the first of two main rooms where the girls and their customers sat and talked and drank champagne between trips up the winding staircase between the rooms.

  He stopped a short way into the room and looked round in surprise. He’d figured to have been in some pretty fancy whorehouses in his time, but this was special. The sofas and armchairs were upholstered in leather, the carpet thick enough to absorb most of a man’s boot. The ceilings were high and patterned, painted pink and blue. Large oil paintings – landscapes or tigers at bay – hung in gilt frames on the walls. Through in the second room a four piece band played on a small stage, at that moment a brisk polka which had one girl dancing with a stiff-backed man with a military moustache.

  Fowler caught hold of Hart’s sleeve and pointed towards a woman with deep red curly hair and a round face rich in make-up. She was standing at the back of a settee negligently stroking the nape of a customer’s neck and chatting to another of the girls at the same time.

  When she saw Fowler, she stopped both activities and hurried over to greet him. Fowler wiped the lipstick from his mouth and introduced her to Hart before the three of them found a table and chairs in the back room.

  The band was playing a waltz and a couple of the girls were dancing lazily in one another’s arms, each wearing a few garments of satin underclothing and nothing else.

  Martha had on a green dress that was open all the way down the front to reveal a great deal of her body and not very much of any other clothing. She seemed to look at Fowler with genuine affection, rubbing her fingers along the inside of his thigh as they talked.

  Fowler ordered bourbon for himself, beer for Hart and champagne for Martha—partly because she genuinely liked it, but also as each girl received a bonus for every bottle of champagne one of her customers bought.

  ‘Did she tell you when you came in?’ Martha asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bad news.’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘She’s raised the prices.’

  ‘On the bourbon?’

  ‘On me. On all of us.’

  ‘How much now?’

  ‘Fifteen dollars.’

  Fowler almost choked into his drink; Hart whistled and shook his head.

  ‘You don’t think I’m worth it?’ Martha pouted, withdrawing her hand.

  ‘Maybe,’ admitted Fowler grudgingly.

  She nuzzled up to him playfully. ‘One of the things I’ve always liked about you most is how charming you can be with a lady.’

  Fowler shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘I pay you fifteen dollars and then I’m the one who has to be charming?’

  ‘That isn’t funny.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be.’

  Martha finished one glass of champagne and poured another. She was balancing a green slipper on the end of her toes, one leg crossed over the other. Hart had stared at her legs long enough to be certain how good they were; not wanting to cut in on Fowler’s obvious interests, he turned and looked over the other girls in the room and stopped when he saw one with her back to him in silver stockings and high-heeled shoes and black underthings. Long, dark hair hung low down her back and she stood with one hand to her hip, legs slightly apart.

  ‘That’s Helen,’ said Martha leaning forward. ‘I’ll introduce you. You’ll like her.’ She laughed. ‘We can all go upstairs together.’

  ‘Not this time,’ said Fowler and as he spoke the band came to a halt and his voice cut through the general sound so that a number of people looked round.

  ‘Not this time,’ he repeated more quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean this ain’t a social call.’

  Martha let her hand rest on his leg, looking at him and waiting.

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘I thought you’d found her.’ She tried a smile but it didn’t quite fit.

  ‘A whore.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’ Hart was surprised at the steel in her voice and the mixture of anger and vulnerability in her eyes.

  ‘A breed. Half Apache.’

  Martha pulled her hand away and turned her back. ‘That’s what you fancy nowadays, is it?’

  ‘This is business.’

  She jumped to her feet and stood there gazing down at him. ‘So is this!’

  Fowler hesitated a moment before drawing his wallet from his pocket and setting it down on the table next to the champagne class. He watched Martha’s face as he slid out three five-dollar bills and pushed them towards her.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head; sat back down. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. Take the money. You’re entitled to it.’

  She folded it and pushed it back underneath his wallet. ‘What do you want to know?’

  Fowler told her. She thought for a short while and then excused herself and walked across the room and spoke with the girl she’d called Helen. After that she slipped out of sight and left the two men to their drinks and the music. She wasn’t away for more than ten minutes.

  ‘There was a girl. No one knows her name. She asked here for a job but we’ve only ever had one Indian girl and she ended up cutting a man’s throat because of something he tried to do to her. The police raided the place and we had to stay closed for a week. No Indians since then. She tried some of the other houses I think, without any luck. Helen says she thinks she saw her on the Coast.’

  ‘The Coast?’ said Hart.

  ‘The Barbary Coast. Up between Broadway and the waterfront. No fifteen-dollar whores there.’

  ‘More like fifteen cents,’ said Martha and went back to toying with the inside of Fowler’s thigh, only this time the painted nails seemed to be reaching higher up.

  ‘Helen says she was in one of the cribs. Someone like her, anyway. She couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘Thanks, Martha.’ He covered her hand with his own but made no attempt to move it.

  ‘We goin’ to look for her now?’ asked Hart.

  Fowler thought about it for a whole five seconds. ‘Later,’ he said, smiling with his eyes. ‘I reckon we can get to that a little later.’

  ~*~

  The street was crammed with shacks no more than six feet wide, most of them just a cou
ple of rooms, one front and the other behind. Most of the front wall was taken up by a large window and the girls sat on chairs or stretched on three-quarter sofas and posed and gestured for the men who walked past. Most wore as little as possible and those that didn’t were naked. A few were pretty and some were young, but for the most part the women were plain and worn, a few truly misshapen. One hunchback sat leering out, wetting her forefinger and rubbing it slowly and deliberately round her nipples. Behind them all you could see was a narrow bed and maybe a kerosene stove or lantern, sometimes a washstand or just an iron bucket.

  Hart and Fowler took one side of the street each and then the next and the one after that. They were beckoned and cajoled and cursed as they caught glimpses of men in the back rooms with most of their clothing still intact, a strip of oilcloth thrown over the foot of the rocking bed to keep the mud on their boots from dirtying the bedspread further. Hart saw one woman, a huge Negress with a scar down one side of her face, standing carelessly beside an enamel basin, one foot resting on the side of the bed as she washed with a flannel between her thighs.

  They went past the Apache’s crib as many as three times before Hart finally spotted her. Short, with stocky legs and wide hips but small breasts, she was shooing one customer out as she welcomed another inside.

  Breed Indians might mean trouble in the posher palaces near to the center of town, but out here on the Barbary Coast tastes were obviously different.

  Hart caught up with Fowler and they waited, discouraging more than one man from standing in line. When she’d earned another dollar they moved in fast, pushing past her protests, Hart drawing the shabby length of curtain close across the casement window.

  ‘Not two!’ Her eyes were dark with alarm and she backed towards the inner room, hands at her back. ‘Not two!’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Hart said, stepping past her.

  ‘Won’t take long.’ Fowler set his bulk in the doorway, blocking any attempt to escape.

  The girl pulled the flimsy dress round her, suddenly conscious of her nakedness, the vulnerability of her body. ‘Three dollars,’ she said. ‘Two men at once. Three dollars.’