Longarm had been drifting along behind Brantley, listening in with roughly equal parts of curiosity and disdain. After all, he already knew that friend George was a walking, talking asshole. And Longarm more or less expected this sort of behavior from the fellow.
When George decided to punch Norma Brantley, Longarm decided it was time for him to take a hand.
George threw what he no doubt believed was a wicked right, but he wasn’t half quick enough. Longarm stepped in front of the madam and knocked George’s blow aside with a sweep of his forearm.
Longarm grinned into the man’s teeth. “Afternoon, Harry. Nice to see you again.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Y’know, Harry, you really oughta be careful who you say a thing like that to.” Longarm punctuated his opinion with a short little left-handed body shot so quick and unobtrusive it was likely no one else so much as saw it. George, on the other hand, felt it. There wasn’t much question about that for it sank wrist-deep into the man’s belly. His jaw dropped open and his complexion turned a mild and rather pleasant shade of green.
Longarm was not sure what, if anything, George might have done next. Before that could be determined, the resident bouncers had time to respond to the commotion. Three of them, each big enough to yoke, surrounded the combatants and put sure-handed come-along holds on George, on Longarm, and just to be sure, Longarm supposed, on the bleeding girl too. Since they didn’t yet really know what the hell was happening, Longarm gathered, their method was simply to grab the whole damn flock all together and start tossing out everyone.
“That one,” Brantley said, pointing at George. “Out.”
“Yes’m,” the biggest bouncer said. His voice sounded something like what Longarm imagined would be the sound of a volcano beginning to erupt. “What about his pants, ma’am? He ain’t wearing no pants.”
“Out,” Brantley repeated.
The big man picked George up with no visible effort whatsoever and started off down the hall with him under one arm, George’s naked, hairy ass bobbing in rhythm with his captor’s stride.
“Not this one,” Brantley said, and Longarm found himself back on his own two feet, hardly the worse for wear.
“And you, Lissa. Clean yourself up and get back to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The whore turned to leave.
“Lissa,” Brantley said in a surprisingly soft tone.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I don’t want to have any more complaints, dear, about you saying no to a gentleman.”
“Yes, ma’am, but-“
“Ah!” Brantley held a finger up to caution the girl. “When the situation arises again, dear, you may explain that some services cost extra. But don’t you ever tell a gentleman you won’t please him. You know what will happen if that ever happens again.”
Lissa turned the same approximate shade of green that George had when Longarm sank a fist in his belly. The gentle Miz Brantley, it seemed, ran an exceptionally taut ship here.
“Thank you, boys. I don’t think I will be needing you any more.”
The two remaining mountain-sized lads wandered off into the shadows—which was where Longarm would just as soon they stayed; damn but they were big and quick and mighty efficient at what they did—and the madam turned her attentions finally to Longarm.
“All right, goddammit, let me see your warrant.”
It’s always nice to feel welcome, Longarm thought.
Chapter 11
“Either show me a warrant or get your ass outa here,” the big madam demanded. She acted more pissed off with Longarm than she had with old George, he thought. Which hardly seemed reasonable.
But then who the hell ever said that people were supposed to be reasonable. No peace officer would ever make such a stupid claim, that was for sure.
“No warrant,” he said, “and nothing official.” He paused for half a heartbeat. “Yet. Right now all I’m asking for is a few minutes of conversation. I doubt it will ever have to go any further than that.”
“I told you, bub. If you don’t have a warrant you got no business here.”
Longarm sighed. Loudly. He tried to look sad, resigned. “Whatever you say, ma’am.” Then, brightening, he looked around and smiled just a little. “Y’know what I bet? I bet your clientele here has included some good ol’ boys who’re wanted by the federal court down in Denver. Yes’m, I could almost swear from some of the descriptions I’ve heard that you’ve harbored that gang of mail thieves that hit the Denver and Rio Grande express cars last month and—what was it? Last August? Something like that. I expect Judge Franklin could be talked into giving me a warrant based on that suspicion. And if he does, well, I reckon I might hafta put a seal on the doors and impound your records, bank statements, all the stuff like that. I dunno, lady, we could be onta something good here. A mite hard on you and your people, of course. But don’t you worry. I know you can afford a good lawyer. Give him six, eight months to work with and he’ll get all your stuff released by the court again. Unless we find something in the evidence we collect. What the hell. Let’s go ahead and give it a shot.”
“Wait. You said … federal?” The woman looked worried. Longarm couldn’t hardly figure out why. You bet.
“That’s right.”
“You aren’t from Cheyenne?”
“Me? No, ma’am.” Longarm introduced himself, this time managing to complete the task.
“I thought … Jessie only said you were the law. I suppose … I assumed …”
Longarm understood what the problem was. Locally, and apparently at the state level too, this woman obviously had enough pull, somehow, somewhere, that she could safely ignore most attempts at official interference. But she wouldn’t have a damn speck of leverage when it came to United States Marshal William Vail. Nor, for that matter, to anyone else in the federal court system or the Attorney General’s office. The federal boys in this neck of the woods—barring the odd congressman here and there and an occasional lunatic senator, and none of them counted anyway—were as honest as they come.
“You say you only want to talk a little?” Brantley asked.
“That’s right.”
“Follow me.”
The office was small, bare, and about as attractive as the woman who occupied it. Longarm was shown a straight-backed wooden chair with a wicker seat that needed replacing. One thing he was sure of. The profits from this business weren’t being squandered on luxury appointments for the madam.
“You want a drink, Marshal?”
“No, thanks.” He would have liked a rye whiskey well enough, but this was not a person he wanted to be beholden to. Not even in the smallest of ways. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Go ahead.”
Longarm was busy trimming, warming, and lighting a slim, dark cheroot when there was a soft tap at the door and one of the huge bouncers—Longarm was not sure which this one was, but then they seemed pretty much interchangeable—stuck his head inside. “I thought you’d want to know, ma’am. I threw that fella out like you said an’ tossed his clothes after him. He might could squawk when he warms up.” The big man grinned. “I made him take his money out and count it before he got dressed. Just so’s he’d know we don’t put up with thieving here. He admitted to me that all his money was where it should be, an’ there was a couple local gents handy to witness what the man said.”
“Thank you, Jason. Close the door behind you now and pass the word. I don’t want to be disturbed while the marshal is here with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jason withdrew obediently, and once again Longarm had the impression that this was a very tightly run ship indeed. Whatever else Norma Brantley lacked—beauty, social graces, stuff like that—she damn sure seemed to understand the value of discipline. “Now, Marshal. Where were we?”