Coyote (36 page)

He slobbered in fear.

I had to get a grip. ‘Who's blackmailing you, Seymour? Who did this?'

‘I don't know, I told you!' Seymour wailed. ‘I just get threatening letters with instructions on where and when to drop the cash off.'

I brooded silently for a moment.

‘Show me the letters,' I ordered.

He shook his head. ‘I burnt them all.'

‘Idiot!' I thought again. ‘Where do you make the drop?' I demanded.

‘There's an old cemetery where most of the victims from the original Portsmouth Square disaster are buried. The blackmailer must've picked it to scare me into paying.' He shivered. ‘I hate the place. There're rows and rows of graves carved with weeping angels … all little kids from a school that was destroyed —'

He stopped at the expression on my face.

River was killed by someone with sniper training … Seymour was being blackmailed by someone with a hell of a lot of historical detail at her fingertips.

I nodded to myself. Gilda, the ex-Navy SEAL, had a second job …

Blackmailer.

I felt strange … as though I was losing control and gaining momentum all at the same time. Without a word I made for the door.

Gilda was going to pay …

It was a foggy night but the streets were still busy in the Barbary Coast. The Hue & Cry was closed for business. I rattled the front door, but could see through the glass it was padlocked on the inside. I listened. There was noise … voices. I rattled the door again.

No one knew where I could find Gilda. And I'd tried every means I could to contact Gideon Webb but he wasn't answering his phactor. There was someone in there and I wasn't leaving until they answered my questions … and told me where Gilda was.

I circled the building, looking for a less exposed place to break and enter.

There was another entrance in the side alley. But there, a grim-faced bouncer blocked the firmly closed door. He watched me with thinly veiled suspicion as I made my way up the stairs then curtly informed me that The Hue & Cry was closed for business tonight. When I asked about Gilda he became even less cooperative and grunted an impatient negative, jerking his head back at the street.

The message was ‘get lost or there'll be consequences'.

A deep growl rumbled in my throat.

He squinted at my face, alarm registering.

My hands curled into fists.

He shoved his hand under his jacket, ready to draw …

Then I heard the sound of hurried footsteps, clattering up the stairs behind me.

Two men, both in tailored business suits, rudely pushed past me to appeal to the bouncer for entry. They were impatient, but the bouncer refused to even acknowledge them until I'd backed out of earshot and the alleyway. He'd kept his hand on his gun the whole time.

I watched from cover, across the street. The two men gave the bouncer tickets and, satisfied, he finally opened the door and let them past.

Over the next ten minutes, multiple groups of twos and threes repeated the same little dance. They looked both ways before they entered the alleyway, like naughty kids about to smoke behind the school toilets, and the bouncer gave them — and their tickets — a thorough once-over before they made it through that side door.

All were extremely well dressed.

All were male.

Hmm. So it was Men-Only Night at The Hue & Cry …

I heard a car door slam.

To my left three women exited a parked car. They'd worked hard to maximise their natural assets with firm bodies and perfect hair but where nature had failed them they'd taken matters into their own hands. There wasn't a wrinkle between the three of them and they each wore enough make-up to mask
a burn victim. Their seductive clothing proclaimed their profession: high-class hookers.

They went to the trunk of their car and each pulled out a matching make-up case. Now armed, they trotted across the road in their vertigo-inducing stilettos and into the alleyway.

They swayed up the alley to the bouncer. He gave them a cursory glance and opened the door. This time no tickets needed.

Hmm. Looks like the staff were still arriving.

I went back to my car, found my own make-up bag and pulled out the bag of tricks Des had given me.

There was a ritzy hotel in the block around the corner from The Hue & Cry, so I went in. It was jammed full with some kind of convention. Lots of men and women wearing the same grey conservative suits with an S-shaped logo on the pocket.

I made my way through to the restroom.

By the time I was changed and adjusting my make-up, the women passing through the restroom were giving me hasty glances and leaving at the double.

My eyes glinted a molten gold glare back at me in the mirror.

I didn't look anything like Kannon Dupree any more. This woman was completely …

Wild.

I had Brigitte Bardot eye make-up, pouting red lips and a square-fringed black wig that hung straight down my back. I stood five inches taller in my black thigh-high boots, the black leather miniskirt barely covered my bottom, and the red halter top showed that I wasn't wearing a bra. My gun was in my shiny black shoulder bag.

In the hotel foyer the convention crowd parted like the Red Sea. The women turned away, whispering;
the men watched me — a cross between stunned and aroused.

Good. I had the right look.

I strode down the alley, while the bouncer watched me like I was a cold drink on a hot day.

‘Hallo, gorgeous.' He didn't even challenge me, just gave me a pat on the rear and opened the door. ‘Save some for me,' he whispered as I passed.

I didn't reply.

 

Once inside there were two doors.

And two more bouncers, both armed …

I wasn't about to risk a shoot-out with a maniac like Gilda around. If she'd set fire to Portsmouth Square, she wasn't likely to look out for innocent bystanders. I had to get the jump on her, and the black wig should make sure she didn't see me coming. If I could just get her within arm's reach, I'd knock her out and drag her out the door … bouncers be damned!

While I hesitated, the external door behind me opened again and two chattering females, about my age, walked in. They took the right-hand door, so I followed.

It was a change room. One side held a long rack stuffed to exploding with nineteenth-century women's clothes, the other held a doorway that led through to a bathroom with old-fashioned mirrors and basins.

Okay, so tonight was when the male tourists got the real deal, the authentic experience — a Barbary Coast whorehouse.

An older woman hurried in to snap at us. ‘You girls hurry up! You're very late. The auction's due to start in ten minutes and Gilda will have all our hides if it doesn't start on time.'

Frightened, the two girls peeled off their streetwear down to their bras and pants and padded through to the bathroom. I followed suit. They washed off all their make-up, wiping their faces completely clean, and brushed out their long hair. I did the same. Then I trooped behind them, back into the next room.

The older woman inspected us like cattle. ‘You,' she barked at the taller girl. ‘You've put on weight since last time!'

I gawked. The girl was slim.

‘Take off your bra,' ordered the older woman.

The girl complied.

She grabbed the girl's breast and hefted it. ‘No, you're not going in! You look too old!'

The girl started to argue. They exchanged some pithy four-lettered words, but the girl threw her clothes back on and stormed out.

The older woman started on the next girl. She was flat-chested and without her make-up she looked like a kid … maybe twelve, prepubescent at least. But I was betting she was older than me.

The woman nodded approvingly. ‘Good, good. Put your hair in braids this time. And find those pink ribbons … they like that.'

Okay … It was clear, whatever was about to happen the madam wanted girls that looked underage. Very underage.

Damn. I had a baby-face, but the rest of me was all curves. I looked down. Actually, that wasn't true. Maybe I'd dropped enough weight in New Mexico to mean this could work.

While the girl sorted through the costume rack, the madam turned to me. She seemed puzzled more than anything. She walked around me, prodding and poking, then lifted my chin to gaze into my eyes.

She stood back and tapped her chin. ‘Sweetheart, your body sure doesn't look like you'd fit into the Virgin Auction …' She paused. ‘But that face will blow their sick little minds.'

She slapped my butt and said, ‘I'd like to get you up on that block anyway and see what happens. Take off your underwear; I'll see how you look in costume and then have a talk to Gilda.'

I nodded submissively.

Softly I whispered, ‘Oh yes please …
do
bring Gilda within arm's reach!'

While the other girl pulled on a nineteenth-century kid's dress and tied ribbons in her hair, the madam personally fitted me out in a long white nightdress.

It was almost sheer.

She checked me over and laughed. ‘I can't wait to see their faces.'

Satisfied, she led me and the other girl down a narrow passage to the stage. There, behind the heavy green curtain, stood about ten more girls. They looked like a bunch of nineteenth-century schoolgirl dropouts.

The madam warned me to stay put and went to look for Gilda.

The other virgins were bored — chewing gum, smoking and picking their noses to calm their lack of stage fright. In the centre of the stage was a fake marble block with fake iron chains attached. I was guessing that was ‘the block' the madam had been talking about.

I could hear a heavy sound from the other side of the curtain. I peeked out. It was the sound of moaning. The main hall of The Hue & Cry was exactly the same as I'd last seen it, and yet totally different.

This was definitely the X-rated tourist show.

Below the stage a bare-breasted woman was unzipping a businessman's fly. He had both hands locked around her head, pressing her down. At the next table, a working girl took her customers at both ends, flexing the two men into a raucous climax with practised ease. Everywhere I looked the pseudo-nineteenth-century whores worked the customers' groaning faces into that same rictus of pleasure.

The smell nearly knocked me to the floor. The place stank of sex.

I shook my head to clear it. Where the hell was bloody Gilda?

As I watched, Captain Shaker walked up onto the stage, in front of the green curtain. ‘Well, my hearties,' he joked. ‘It's time for the main event. Our yearly Virgin Auction.' He leered at the crowd. ‘I hope you're all ready to spend big. This year we've gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure you get the unripened fruit you came to personally pick from the tree.'

Customers and working girls alike disentangled themselves to watch the stage with unhealthy anticipation.

‘Yes, my hearties, tonight you are lucky enough to see my very special Virgin Auction.' He waggled his heavy fake eyebrows. ‘My highly illegal auction, I might add, that you've all paid extremely well to witness.' He waggled his shaggy eyebrows again. ‘And some lucky men will be lucky enough to experience … first-hand.'

The crowd boomed its pleasure.

‘Yes … all our fresh young beauties are certified untouched and under …' He coughed. ‘Too young to know better. These delicate flowers are yours for the
plucking … to do with as you will … for the right price.'

I looked over at the other bored virgins. Sure they looked underage but they were all older than I was.

The curtain opened far enough to reveal the auction block.

Captain Shaker commanded, ‘Bring out the first offering.'

The men got to their feet to crowd around the front of the stage, some pushing and shoving for a good place. Two pirate-clad bouncers bounded up to where we were waiting at the side of the stage and grabbed the first girl. With high drama she made them drag her, weeping and wailing, to the block.

I winced. Her shrill shrieks gave me a headache, but seemed to excite the crowd.

She was small, maybe five foot with almost boyish features.

Captain Shaker looked up. ‘What a delicate bloom. She doesn't yet know what dark pleasures await her.' He chuckled.

A grey-haired man began the bidding. The more the girl wept and shrieked for mercy, the higher the bidding went. Reluctance seemed to be an aphrodisiac.

That same pattern continued on for the rest of the girls …

Where the hell was Gilda? I was getting sick of waiting for her to come to me.

Then it was my turn.

 

The pirate bouncers took one look at my pissed-off expression and quailed. They exchanged an ‘oh no' glance and carefully took my wrists. They didn't attempt to drag me, merely accompanied me to the
block. They left the chains alone and hightailed it off the stage.

When the spotlight hit my sheer nightgown, the cheering crowd went completely silent.

Captain Shaker caught the mood and turned back to look at me.

I surveyed him coolly from the block.

Shaker looked startled. He signalled to one of the pirate-clad bouncers at the back of the room. He whispered an order into the man's ear and he took off at a run.

‘Yeah, go get Gilda!' I muttered.

‘Well,' boomed Shaker. ‘For lucky last we have a very special present for you all tonight. A young one … but perhaps not a flower.' He gave me a quick glance. ‘More a tiger cub, I'd say.' He chuckled. ‘One who will give you as much resistance as you could desire. Now what am I bid?'

‘I'll tame her!' grunted a leering fool at the front. He bid twice what the last girl had gone for.

I gave him a cold, hard stare. He wilted under it.

But it seemed to excite the rest of the audience. The bids moved up in increments of one thousand.

‘I'll triple that last bid,' came a deep voice from somewhere in the crowd.

That shut them all up.

I was accompanied off the stage to a table in the middle of the room. I briskly slapped away the fingers of every questing idiot I passed, but they seemed to enjoy it.

My eyes, still adjusting from the stage lights, couldn't focus.

‘Sit,' demanded a deep voice. A strong arm grabbed me and hauled me onto a hard lap. I knew that musky, male scent only too well.

He kissed my neck with relish. ‘Hallo, darlin' …'

It was Honeycutt.

 

‘What are you doing here?' I growled into his ear.

‘And here was I thinking you'd be pleased to see me,' Honeycutt growled back. ‘I know I'm very pleased to see you.' He looked down. ‘And so much of you too.'

‘Shut up and tell me!' I demanded.

‘I arrived at Seymour Kershaw's office just after you'd left. He looked like a train had hit him — so I knew you'd beaten me there. I persuaded him to tell me what he told you …
et voila
. Here I am.'

I eyed him with suspicion. Occasionally Honeycutt lapsed into the French he'd learnt at his Paris-educated mother's side. She was Creole, a proud descendant of the first French settlers of New Orleans. Its appearance usually meant he was about to cause a whole lotta trouble.