The Carpetbaggers (14 page)

Nevada glared at him. The anger bubbled up again inside him. He lashed out quickly and Pierce hit the ground in shocked surprise. He stared up at Nevada. "What's got into you, Nevada?"

"What I want to know is how much the Cody show got into you!"

Von Elster stepped between them. "I’ve been looking for someone like you a long time, Smith," he said. "Sell your show and come to work for us. I'll pay you two fifty a week to start."

Pierce's voice came up from the ground. "Oh, no you don't, Von Elster. A thousand a week or nothing!"

Nevada started to speak. "You shut up!" Dan Pierce told him authoritatively. "I’m your agent and don't you forget it!" He turned back to Von Elster. "This stunt will be all over Hollywood in an hour," he said. "I could take him down the line to Universal or Warner's. They'd snap him up like that."

Von Elster stared at the agent. "Five hundred," he snapped. "And that's my last offer."

Pierce grabbed Nevada's arm. "Come on, Nevada. We'll go over to Warner's. Every studio's looking for somebody to give Tom Mix a little competition."

"Seven fifty," Von Elster said.

"For six months, then a thousand a week and corresponding increases semiannually thereafter."

"It's a deal," Von Elster said. He shook hands with Pierce and then turned to Nevada. He smiled and held out his hand. "What did you say your name was?"

"Smith, Nevada Smith."

They shook hands. "And how old are you, young fellow?"

Pierce answered before Nevada could speak. "He's thirty, Mr. Von Elster."

Nevada started to open his mouth in protest but the pressure of Pierce's hand on his arm kept him silent.

"We'll make that twenty-nine for publicity." Von Elster smiled. "Now, you two come on with me down to the front office. I want to tell Norman we finally found the Sheriff of Peaceful Village!"

Nevada turned away to hide a smile. He wondered what the men down on the prison farm so many years ago would have said had they known he'd finally turned up wearing a badge. Even if it was only in the movies.

"MY GOD!" THE WARDEN HAD SAID WHEN THEY brought Max into his office. "What do they think they're doin' down there? This is a prison, not a reform school!"

"Don't let his looks fool you none, Warden," the tobacco-chewing deputy said, throwing the papers on the desk for the warden to sign. "He's a mean one, all right. He killed a man down in New Orleans."

The warden picked up the papers. "What's he up for? Murder?"

"Nope," the deputy replied. "Unlawful use of a weapon. He beat the murder rap — self-defense." He let go a wad into the spittoon. "This guy caught him in some fancy lady's bedroom."

"I was the lady's bodyguard, Warden," Max said.

The warden looked up at him shrewdly. "That didn't give you the right to kill a man."

"I had to, Warden," Max said. "He was comin' at me with a knife an' I had to defend myself. I had no clothes on."

"That's right, Warden." The deputy cackled lewdly. "Naked as a jaybird he was."

"Sounds like a genuine case of self-defense to me," the warden said. "How come they hang a bum one like this on him?"

"It was a cousin of the Darcys he croaked," the deputy said quickly.

"Oh," the warden said. That explained everything. The Darcys were pretty important people in New Orleans. "In that case, you're lucky you didn't get the book." He signed the papers and pushed them across the desk. "Here y'are, Deputy."

The deputy picked up the papers and unlocked Max's handcuffs. "So long, rooster."

The warden got to his feet heavily. "How old are you, boy?"

" 'Bout nineteen, I reckon," Max answered.

"That's kinda young to be bodyguardin' one of them fancy women down in New Orleans," the warden said. "How'd you come to that?"

"I needed a job when I got out of the Army," Max answered. "An' she wanted someone who was fast with a gun. I was fast enough, I reckon."

"Too fast," the warden said. He walked around the desk. "I'm a fair man but I don't hold with no trouble-makers. You-all just get up every mornin', do your work like you're tol' an' you'll have no trouble with me."

"I understand, Warden," Max said.

The warden walked to the door of his office. "Mike!" he roared.

A giant Negro trusty stuck his head in the door. "Yassuh, Warden."

"Take this new man out and give him ten lashes."

The surprise showed on Max's face.

"There's nothin' personal in it," the warden said quickly. "An ounce of prevention, I always say. It kinda sticks in your mind if you ever think about makin' any trouble." He walked back around his desk.

"C'mon, boy," the Negro said.

The door closed behind them and they started down the corridor. The trusty's voice was warm and comforting. "Don' you worry none about them lashes, boy," he said. "I knocks you out with the first one an' you never feels the other nine!"

* * *

Max had reached New Orleans about Mardi Gras time early that year. The streets were filled with laughing, shoving people and somehow he absorbed the warmth of their mood. Something about the whole town got inside him and he decided to stay over a day or two before riding on to West Texas.

He put his horse in a livery stable, checked into a small hotel and went down into the Latin Quarter, looking for excitement.

Six hours later, he threw down a pair of tens to three sevens and that was that. He had lost his money, his horse, everything but the clothes on his back. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet.

"That cleans me, gents," he said. "I’ll go roun' to the stable an' fetch my hoss."

One of the gamblers looked up at him. "May I be so bold as to inquire, suh, what you intend to do after that?" he asked in his soft Southern accent.

Max shrugged and grinned. "I dunno. Get a job, I reckon."

"What kind of job?"

"Any kind. I'm pretty good with hosses. Punch cattle. Anything."

The gambler gestured at Max's gun. "Any good with that?"

"Some."

The gambler got to his feet casually. "Lady Luck wasn't very kind to you tonight."

"You didn' help her much," Max said.

The gambler's hand streaked toward his coat. He froze, staring into the muzzle of Max's gun. It had come out so fast that he hadn't even sensed the motion.

"A man can get killed doin' foolish things like that," Max said softly.

The gambler's face relaxed into a smile. "You are good," he said respectfully.

Max slipped his gun back into the holster. "I think I've got a job for you," the gambler said. "That is if you don't mind working for a lady."

"A job's a job," Max said. "This ain't no time to be gettin' choosy."

* * *

The next morning, Max and the gambler sat in the parlor of the fanciest house in New Orleans. A Creole maid came into the room. "Miss Pluvier will see you now." She curtsied. "If you will please follow me."

They followed her up a long, gracious staircase. The maid opened a door and curtsied as they walked through, then closed the door after them. Max took two steps into the room and stopped in his tracks, gawking.

He had never seen a room like this. Everything was white. The silk-covered walls, the drapes at the windows, the woodwork, the furniture, the canopy of shimmering silk over the bed. Even the carpet that spread lushly over the floor was white.

"Is this the young man?" a soft voice asked.

Max turned in the direction of the voice. The woman surprised him even more than the room. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, and her face was young, very young; but her hair was what did it more than anything else. It was long, almost to her waist, and white, blue-white like strands of glistening satin.

The gambler spoke in a respectful voice. "Miss Pluvier, may I present Max Sand."

Miss Pluvier studied Max for a moment. "How do you do?"

Max nodded his head. "Ma'am."

Miss Pluvier walked around him, looking at him from all angles. "He seems rather young," she said doubtfully.

"He's extremely capable, I assure you," the gambler said. "He's a veteran of the recent war with Spain."

She raised her hand carelessly, interrupting his speech. "I'm sure his qualifications are satisfactory if you recommend him," she said. "But he does seem rather dirty."

"I just rode in from Florida, ma'am," Max said, finding his voice.

"His figure is rather good, though." She continued as if he hadn't spoken. She walked around him again. "Very broad shoulders, almost no hips at all. He should wear clothes well. I think he'll do."

She walked back to the dressing table where she had been standing. She turned to face them. "Young man," she asked, "do you know what you're supposed to do?"

Max shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"You're to be my bodyguard," she said matter-of-factly. "I have a rather large establishment here. Downstairs, we have several gaming rooms for gentlemen. Of course, we provide other discreet entertainments. Our house enjoys the highest reputation in the South and as a result, many people are envious of us. Sometimes, these people go to extremes in their desire to cause trouble. My friends have persuaded me to seek protection."

"I see, ma'am," Max said.

Her voice became more businesslike. "My hours will be your hours," she said, "and you will live here with us. Your wages will be a hundred dollars a month. Twenty dollars a month will be deducted for room and board. And under no circumstances are you to have anything to do with any of the young ladies who reside here."

Max nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Miss Pluvier smiled. She turned to the gambler. "Now, if you will be kind enough to take him to your tailor and have six suits made for him — three white and three black — I think everything will be in order."

The gambler smiled. "I’ll attend to it right away."

Max followed him. At the door, he stopped and looked back. She was seated at the dressing table in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. Her eyes glanced up and caught his. "Thank you, ma'am," he said.

"Please call me Miss Pluvier," she said coldly.

* * *

It was after three o'clock one morning when Max came into the foyer from the gaming rooms on his nightly tour of inspection. Already, the cleaning women were busy in the downstairs rooms. He paused at the front door.

"Everythin' locked up, Jacob?" he asked the tall Negro doorman.

"Tighter'n a drum, Mistuh Sand."

"Good," Max smiled as he started for the staircase, then stopped and looked back. "Did Mr. Darcy leave?"

"No, suh," the Negro replied. "He spendin' the night with Miss Eleanor. You don' have to worry, though. I move 'em to the gol' room."

Max nodded and started up the staircase. Darcy had been his only problem the last few months. The young man was determined not to be satisfied until he had spent a night with the mistress of the house. And tonight he had been rather unpleasant about it.

Max stopped at the top of the stairway. He knocked at a door and went in. His employer was seated at her dressing table, a maid brushing her hair. Her eyes met his in the mirror.

"Everythin's locked up, Miss Pluvier," he said.

Her eyebrows raised questioningly. "Darcy?"

"In the gold room with Eleanor at the other end of the house."

"Bon."
She nodded.

Max stood there looking at her, his face troubled. She saw his expression in the mirror and waved the maid from the room. "You are disturbed,
chéri
?"

He nodded. "It's Darcy," he admitted. "I don't like the way he's actin'. I think we ought to bar him."

"La." She laughed. "We can't do that. The family is too important."

She laughed again happily and came toward him. She placed her arms around his neck and kissed him. "My young
Indien
is jealous." She smiled. "Do not worry about him. He will forget about it soon. All young men do. I have seen it happen before."

A little while later, he lay beside her on the big white bed, his eyes delighting in the wonder of her lovely body. He felt her fingers stroking him gently, reawakening the fires inside him. He closed his eyes.

He felt her soft lips brushing his flesh; her whispering voice seemed to float upward to him.
"Mon coeur, mon indien, mon chéri."
He heard the soft sounds of her pleasure as she raised her lips from him. Through his almost closed lids he could see the blurred sensuality of her face.

"The weapon you carry has turned into a cannon," she murmured, her fingers still stroking him gently.

His hand reached out and stroked her hair. An expression of almost frightened ecstasy came into her face and he closed his eyes. He could feel the trembling begin deep inside him. How could a woman know so much? From what deep spring could such a fountain of pleasure come? He caught his breath. It was almost unbearable, this strange delight. It was like nothing he had ever known.

There was a soft sound at the door. He turned his head slightly, wondering what it could be. Suddenly, the door burst open and Darcy was there in the room.

He felt her roll away from him as he sat up; then her voice from the foot of the bed: "Get out of here, you damned idiot!"

Darcy stared at her stupidly. He weaved slightly, his eyes bewildered. His hand came out of his pocket and a shower of bills fell to the floor. "See, I brought a thousand dollars with me," he said drunkenly.

She got out of the bed. She stormed toward him regally, unaware of her nudity. She raised a hand, pointing to the door. "Get out, I said!"

Darcy just stood there staring at her. "My God," he mumbled huskily. "I want you."

Max finally found his voice. "You heard Miss Pluvier," he said. "Get out."

For the first time, Darcy became aware of him. His face began to flush with anger. "You," he said thickly. "You! All the time I was begging, pleading, it was you. You were laughing at me all the time!"

A knife appeared in his hand suddenly. He thrust quickly and Max rolled off the bed to the floor as the knife stabbed the satin sheets. Max snatched a pillow from the bed and held it in front of him as he backed toward the chair from which his gun hung.