“Well, okay, but can you tell me who Sweet might have spent time with?”
“Check the Broken Branch Saloon, and Maisie’s whorehouse. I think he spent most of his time in those places.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Lancaster said. “I appreciate it.”
“Watch yourself,” Manning said. “He might have made some friends while he was here.”
“Thanks for the warning, Sheriff.”
Manning opened the door to go into the three-story brick City Hall building, but stopped short.
“Let me know what happens, will ya? And when you leave town?”
“Sure,” Lancaster said. “I’ll check in with you.”
“Obliged if you would,” the lawman said, and went inside.
Forty-six
Lancaster had some direction now, so he decided to take the time to have something to eat. He hadn’t had a good meal since the beef stew in Peach Springs—the only memorable thing about that visit, unless you call killing four men memorable. The meal he’d had during the few hours he was in Seligman left much to be desired.
He stopped into a saloon for a beer and some advice from the bartender on where to eat.
“Got a few good places in town,” the young man said, “but my pick is Jilly’s. Go out the door, turn left, and walk two blocks. It’s small, but really good.”
“Thanks.”
“Ain’t you gonna finish the other half of your beer?” the bartender asked.
“Half is good for me,” Lancaster said. “Thanks.”
After a good steak at Jilly’s, he went to the Broken Branch, the saloon the sheriff had said Sweet frequented while he was in town. If it wasn’t the largest, busiest saloon in town, it had to be close. Somebody was pounding on a piano in the corner—badly—while girls worked the floor, bringing drinks to men who were either gambling or just sitting at tables, laughing and drinking.
The bar was crowded, but as usual Lancaster was able to find a space big enough for him. He got the bartender’s attention, ordered a beer, then proceeded to nurse it while listening to the conversations going on around him. In a bar this crowded, there was no point in starting to ask questions about a man named Sweet. It made more sense to wait for the place to empty out some. The only thing was, he didn’t think he could nurse one beer that long.
Of course, it would take a lot less time to question women than men, since there seemed to be about five girls working the floor. Maybe one of them would remember.
He still decided to wait a while, though. He’d attracted a little attention entering as a stranger. Better to give the novelty some time to wear off, give people a chance to forget that he was there.
There were two bartenders working the long bar, and he noticed one of them watching him. The man was experienced, in his forties, with eyes that saw everything. He noticed Lancaster was taking a long time to finish one beer, so Lancaster called him over.
“Can I get a fresh one?” he asked. “This has gone kind of warm.”
“Sure thing.”
The man drew him a fresh beer and brought it over.
“Don’t let that one go warm,” he advised.
“I’ll try not to,” Lancaster said, “but two is usually my limit. I’m afraid I’ll have to make this one last.”
“Well,” the bartender said, “you only drank half of the first one, so you got another half to go.”
There were too many customers for the bartender to spend too much time with one, but Lancaster noticed the man kept an eye on him even while serving others. A man like that would notice everything that happened around him. Lancaster might not have to ask anyone questions if he started with the bartender.
But the barman would be busy most of the night. Lancaster decided to finish the beer and head over to the whorehouse. Maybe somebody there would be able to give him something.
“Leavin’?” the bartender asked. “How about that other half a beer?”
“I’ll be back for it,” Lancaster said.
The bartender nodded, and Lancaster left.
Forty-seven
Maisie’s was a two-story building that had seen better days. Shutters were either hanging or missing, but all the windows were intact, and they were clean. There were other buildings in the area the same age, but in a more advanced state of disrepair. Lancaster had a feeling the rent was cheaper than somewhere else in town.
Lancaster entered and was immediately approached by the madam.
“Are you Maisie?”
“That’s me, honey,” she said. She had heavy makeup on her face to try to hide her wrinkles, but unsuccessfully. The fact that she was closing in on sixty was obvious. “What kind of girl do you like?”
He decided to play this differently than he had done in Henderson.
“I’m tracking a man. I understand he was in town a couple of weeks ago, and I know he likes prostitutes. Somebody told me you have the best girls in town.”
“Well, that’s true,” she said. “What’s your man look like?”
“Average-lookin’, but his name is Sweet. I’m hoping one of your girls will remember him.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “He was here—twice. After that I banned him.”
“Why?”
“He hurt one of my girls.”
“Which one?”
“Her name was Carla.”
“Was?”
“She’s gone,” Maisie said. “Left town right after that. Might have left the business, too.”
“When did she leave?” Lancaster asked.
“A few days after the sheriff ran Sweet out of town,” she said.
“Where’d she go?” he asked. “Do you know?”
“Why?”
Lancaster shrugged. “I’m just curious.”
Maisie gave him a long look.
“You’re good at this,” she said. “You think maybe she liked bein’ hurt and followed him?”
“It’s possible.”
She frowned at him.
“Haven’t you ever known women who liked being hit?” he asked.
“Unfortunately,” she said, “yes.”
“What about this one?”
“She wasn’t here long enough for me to get to know her that well,” Maisie said, “so I can’t say.”
“Was Carla her real name?”
“Yeah. She was new to the business, so she used her real name.”
“Did she make any friends?”
“Not one,” Maisie said. “Nobody liked her.”
“All the more reason she might have followed him,” Lancaster said.
“You married?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Why not?”
“You seem to know women too well for one to want to live with you.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ve never been accused of that before. And I don’t really lead the kind of life a woman would want to share.”
“You like the hunt too much, huh?”
“No,” he said. “This is personal.”
“Got anything to do with the cut over your eye?”
“Definitely. I don’t suppose Sweet said anything while he was here that you might’ve heard, that would tell me where he went?”
“No,” she said, “but Carla did say somethin’.”
“What?”
“She said she thought she might do better for herself someplace like Amarillo.”
Amarillo, he thought.
The Texas panhandle.
He left the whorehouse with a good feeling. All he needed was something from the bartender to confirm that Sweet headed for Texas. The man watched and he listened. If Sweet said anything useful, the bartender would have heard it.
As he was approaching the saloon again, he noticed the sheriff coming from the other direction.
“Lancaster,” he said.
“Sheriff.”
“A minute of your time?”