But there was work to do, and a last cup of coffee—spiked with a healthy dollop of Maryland rye from a bottle that the waiter brought in from the bar next to the dining room—perked up Longarm enough so that he thought he could make it through the day.
He started by asking Senator Padgett what his plans were. “I’m going to take it easy today,” Padgett replied as he fired up one of those Havana cigars. He didn’t offer one to Longarm this time. “Tomorrow I’m supposed to make a courtesy call on the mayor of El Paso, but today I intend to rest.”
That sounded good to Longarm too, but he didn’t have time for it. “Go to it,” he told Padgett. “Just lock your door and don’t go wandering around.”
“What will you be doing, Marshal?”
“Thought I’d look up an old friend or two whilst we’re here. Don’t worry, Senator. I can almost guarantee that nobody will take a shot at you again.”
“Almost guarantee? What do you mean by that?”
“I think that fella from Albuquerque is long gone. He didn’t expect anybody to shoot back at him. I could tell he was mighty spooked when I returned his fire. Could be he ain’t even stopped running yet.”
Padgett laughed. “I sincerely hope you’re right, Marshal. Very well, I’ll be in my room if you need me. I assume Mercer is allowed to work with me?”
“Sure,” Longarm said with a casual wave of his hand. “I don’t think it’s very likely he’s the one out to kill you.”
The senator looked pained for a second, as if he wished Longarm hadn’t reminded him that he was targeted for death. But then the familiar cocky grin reappeared on his face, and he headed upstairs with Leon Mercer trailing him. The assistant was already talking about those legislative reports the two of them needed to go over.
Longarm needed some information too, but not the kind he could get from a report prepared by some fella like Mercer who practically had to be dragged away across the Potomac. What Longarm needed was to find out where the high-stakes card games were held in this town.
But as he turned toward the front entrance of the hotel, he saw Cy slipping out the back. There was definitely something furtive about the jockey’s movements.
A grin spread across Longarm’s face. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go in search of the information he wanted.
Maybe Cy would lead him right to it.
Chapter 7
Longarm gave Cy time to get a little lead on him, then walked quickly through the hotel bar to the rear entrance. He stepped out onto a side street and looked in both directions. It was a little difficult to pick out Cy’s figure among the pedestrians along the busy street, since for the most part the Mexican inhabitants of El Paso were both shorter and more slender than the whites. Longarm spotted the checked shirt Cy was wearing, though, about a block and a half away. He walked after the jockey, not hurrying now. He didn’t want to get too close.
Cy turned right at the corner, which took him straight toward the Rio Grande. Maybe he was going over to Juarez, Longarm thought. That brought a frown to his face. He had been to Juarez several times in the past, and he’d been shot at there more than once. Not only that, but he’d never gotten along very well with the Mexican authorities either, probably because of the times when circumstances had led him to give a hand to various groups rebelling against the dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz. The common folks on the other side of the border liked Longarm and called him Brazo Largo; more than one lawman over there would have been happy to see him in front of a firing squad.
As it turned out, Cy wasn’t bound for Mexico after all. He stopped at a three-story frame building that housed a saloon and brothel. Longarm recognized the structure. He’d been there before, when it had been called the Antelope Saloon. Obviously it had changed hands since then, because now it was the Crystal Star.
As Longarm headed toward the big saloon, he cast a glance at a shop he passed. Displayed in the window were several Stetsons, including one like the hat he’d lost on the train. But he couldn’t stop long enough to buy a replacement now. He had to make sure Cy wasn’t just ducking through the Crystal Star in order to throw anybody who was following him off the trail.
That wasn’t the case at all, Longarm saw a few moments later as he paused just outside the establishment’s batwing doors. Cy was at the bar, lifting a mug of beer to his mouth.
A good-sized saloon in a border town never really closed. Drinkers would be at the bar twenty-four hours a day, and the roulette wheels, the poker tables, and the faro layouts would never shut down. There would be a nearly steady stream of traffic up and down the stairs leading to the second and third floors where the bar girls plied their other occupation. But there were slack times, and this mid-morning hour was one of them. There were less than a dozen men at the bar, and only half the tables were occupied. That would make Longarm more conspicuous if he went inside, he realized. It might be better for him to keep an eye on Cy from out here on the boardwalk in front of the saloon.
Cy downed the mug of beer hurriedly and asked for another. A drink juggler in a wrinkled vest, limp tie, and soiled shirt drew the beer, cut the foamy head off with a paddle, and shoved the mug across the bar to Cy. The jockey seemed content to nurse this one along, and since the place was not busy at the moment, the bartender was content to let him do just that.
After a few minutes, though, Cy motioned for the bartender to come closer, and he leaned across the bar to speak quietly to the man. It was difficult for Longarm to judge expressions in the dim light, but he thought the bartender looked skeptical at first. Then whatever Cy was saying convinced the man, because he nodded and jerked a thumb toward a door at the end of the bar.
Hallelujah, thought Longarm. It was about time he got a break in this case.
Carrying the mug of beer, Cy went to the door, knocked on it, then spoke to whoever called out to him from the other side. The door swung open, just wide enough for Cy to slip through, then closed behind him.
Mighty interesting, Longarm told himself. The rangy lawman pushed through the batwings and ambled toward the bar.
The bartender saw him without really seeing him. Longarm was just another nameless, faceless drinker to the man. “What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Beer,” said Longarm. “Is it cold?”
“Coldest in El Paso,” the bartender replied listlessly, obviously not believing the testimonial and not caring if Longarm believed it either. He drew the beer, cut off the head, and pushed the mug across the bar. “Six bits.”
Longarm dropped a silver dollar on the bar and watched it disappear like magic. No change was forthcoming, nor had he expected any. Longarm lifted the mug to his lips and took a swallow. The beer was middling cool and not too bitter.
Not wanting to hurry things along too much, Longarm let the bartender drift away to wait on other customers while he sipped the beer. Eventually, the bartender worked his way back along the hardwood, and as Longarm drained the mug, the man asked, “Another?”
“Believe I will. Thanks.” Longarm waited until the mug had been refilled and paid for, then said idly, “Is there anywhere around here a man can sit in on a game of cards?”
The bartender frowned at him for a second, then laughed. “Hell, mister, look around the room. There’s a couple of games going on right behind you.”
Longarm shook his head without looking around. “I ain’t talking about some cowpokes playing penny-ante. I’m looking for a real game.”
“Kind of early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
“The gents I’m talking about don’t rightly care if it’s day or night, so long as the cards are being shuffled and dealt.” Longarm took a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket and casually tapped it against the edge of the bar. “You know the sort of fellas I mean.”