The Devil's Collector (10 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

When Clint got to the saloon in his hotel, Sonnet was already there, nursing a beer.

“Beer,” Clint said to the bartender.

The bartender set one up.

“What'd you get?” Sonnet asked.

Clint showed Sonnet the list.

“I got the same names,” Sonnet said, “except for these two.”

“Those are ranchers,” Clint said.

“You got this from the newspaper?”

“From the lady editor herself.”

“So we've got . . . what, seven names.”

“Right.”

“Seven men who might have the sheriff in their pocket?” Sonnet said. “Seven men who could have been sending me those telegrams.”

“We could take them alphabetically,” Clint said, “but I think we should check on the ones in town first. Save the ranchers for later.”

“And how do we do that?” Sonnet asked. “I mean, how do we check them out?”

“Well,” Clint said, “we could ask them.”

“And they'll tell us the truth, right?” Sonnet asked sarcastically.

“First of all, you're too young to be that sarcastic,” Clint said, “and two, yeah, they'll tell us the truth—at least, six of them will. That seventh one? He's not going to be too happy to see you.”

“So where do we start?”

“Well, there's an Emmett Toth on this list.”

“We already talked to him.”

“Right,” Clint said. “He's the one who owns the feed and grain. According to this list, he also owns several other businesses in town. Let's talk to him again.”

• • •

Benny Nickles took a bill from the envelope Michael Albert had given him and handed it to Marcy Wilkes.

“Oooh,” she said, “money.” She grabbed it between her fingers, then rubbed it between her small breasts and over her already turgid nipples. She was a black-haired girl with very dark brown nipples, and accepted the fact that she was Benny's girl—that is, when he wanted her to be.

“Ha ha!” Nickles laughed. “And lots more where that came from.”

He leaned forward, took one of her nipples between his teeth, and rolled it there.

Marcy dropped the money to the mattress and grabbed his head with both hands.

“I love it when you do that,” she said.

She slid one hand beneath them and grabbed hold of his hard, jutting cock.

“Mmm,” he growled deep in his throat, “and I love it when you do that.”

“That?” she asked, sliding down between his legs. “Or this?” She swooped down on him with her mouth, taking him all the way inside, then bobbing up and down on him, gobbling him up.

“Oh,” he said, putting one hand on her head, “definitely that.”

• • •

Michael Albert was having much the same experience, except that the girl on her knees in front of him was not there by choice, and she wasn't being paid for her services. Actually, she was on salary as a saloon girl, but sucking her boss's cock was just something she had to do every once in a while to keep her job. All the girls there had to be willing to do it if they wanted to keep working there. And since he paid so well, none of them really complained about the extra duty—much.

“That's it,” he said, guiding her head by putting one hand behind it, “nice and wet and slow.”

Sex served two purposes for Albert. Sometimes, he was just mindless in his pursuit of pleasure for pleasure's sake. Other times—like this—going nice and slow helped him to relax, and to think.

That's what he was doing in that moment. He had his head back, and was letting his thoughts work themselves out. Clint Adams . . . Jack Sonnet . . . Benny Nickles . . . even Sheriff Koster, were all in there, being sorted out. Actually, having each one of those men dead would not have done anything to ruin his day. But it was better to take one thing at a time.

“Slower,” he told the girl, Emmy, “slow down, I don't want to finish yet.”

Emmy let his penis slide from her mouth, happy to do so. She took some deep breaths.

“In fact,” he said, “hike that skirt up and come and sit on this thing for a little while. There's a good girl . . .”

THIRTY-SIX

“I ain't got nothin' to say to you two,” Emmett Toth said. “I told you last time I didn't hear nothin'.”

“That's true, Mr. Toth,” Clint said, “you did tell us that. What I want to know is, why?”

“Huh? What's that?”

They were standing in the middle of his feed and grain, rather than in the privacy of his office. His other employees were watching.

“Well, sir,” Clint said, “the shooting took place right outside this building. How could you not have heard anything?”

“I was busy,” Toth said, “workin', and so was everybody else. You're gonna have to find your answers someplace else.”

“Did you have something against my brother?” Sonnet asked. “Or my family?”

“What are you talkin' about?” Toth demanded. His eyes were red-rimmed beneath bushy white eyebrows, and his thick cracked lips and yellow teeth were surrounded by a huge, white beard. “I didn't even know your brother.”

“But you know who the Sonnets are, don't you?” Clint asked.

“Huh? The Sonnets? Gunfightin' family, ain't they?” the man asked.

“That's their reputation, yeah,” Clint said. “But Carl, he wasn't any kind of hand with a gun. Fact is, one man with a gun could have shot him down. There was no need for five to do it.”

Toth's eyes became less angry, and a little wary.

“I wouldn't know nothin' about that.”

Clint looked at Sonnet and nodded.

“Mr. Toth,” the younger man said, “I've been huntin' down the men who killed my brother. Fact is, I been getting telegrams giving me their names, one at a time.”

“That right?” Toth said. “Sounds like somebody's tryin' to help you, boy. You should be grateful.”

“The only problem is,” Clint said, “they may have been the wrong names.”

“Which means,” Sonnet said, “I may have killed the wrong men.”

“Why come to me with this?” Toth asked.

“Because,” Sonnet said, “if it turns out you were sending me those telegrams, there'll be hell to pay. And I'll be the devil's collector.”

Sonnet turned and walked away.

Toth looked at Clint.

“You got something to say?” Clint asked.

Toth opened his mouth, but nothing came out. In the end, he shook his head. Clint turned and followed Sonnet outside.

• • •

After Clint Adams and Jack Sonnet left the feed and grain, Emmett Toth took his apron off and tossed it aside. The gesture was both angry and impatient.

“Willie!”

A young boy about seventeen came running over. He was also wearing an apron.

“I have to go out,” he told the boy. “I'll be back shortly.”

“Okay.”

Toth started for the back of the building.

“Where are you goin'?” Willie called. “I thought you said you were—”

“I'm going out the back!” Emmett Toth snapped impatiently.

Willie watched his boss go with a confused frown on his face, then went back to work.

• • •

Benny Nickles put Marcy on her back, straddled her, and beat his hard penis on her belly. The sound of flesh smacking flesh filled the room.

“What are you doin'?” she asked.

“Teasin' you.”

“Uh, why?” she asked. “You've never teased me before.”

“I'm in a good mood,” he said. He took the head of his penis and pressed it to her moist slit, slid it up and down, wetting her even more.

“Jesus,” she said, “that feels good.”

He stuck the head of his dick into her, then withdrew it.

“You bastard!” she said. “Stop teasin' me, or I won't be in a good mood.”

“What do you want, then?” he asked with a smile.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said, “hard!”

“You don't like the gentle Benny?” he asked.

“I hate the gentle Benny!”

He smiled and said, “Okay, then,” and drove his hard cock into her.

She gasped and opened her legs wide . . .

• • •

Emmy bounced up and down on Michael Albert's lap until he thought he had his thoughts organized. Then he grabbed her beneath the arms and began bouncing her even harder. She was a petite girl and was completely helpless in his hands. Her head bounced around on her neck, and just as she thought her neck would break, he exploded inside her.

In the next moment he literally lifted her off his cock and tossed her aside. She landed painfully on her butt on the floor.

“We're done,” he said. “Go back to work!”

She got to her feet, straightened her dress, and left the office. He closed his pants, turned his chair so that he was facing his desk.

He needed to see Benny Nickles, because he had changed his mind. He was tired of waiting . . .

• • •

“What do you think?” Sonnet asked.

“He may not be the one who sent the telegrams,” Clint said, “but I think he knows something. He went from angry to worried pretty quickly.”

“Then maybe we should go back in and press him,” Sonnet suggested.

“We've got other people to talk to,” Clint reminded him. “And maybe one or more of them will know something, too. By the time we're done, somebody may want to talk to us.”

“You think one of these men will give another one up?”

“If only to keep himself in the clear,” Clint said. “And it may be more than one. I've always found that rich men will work together almost as much as they'll compete with each other.”

“Have you known a lot of rich men?”

“Enough to know that I usually don't like them.”

They started to walk away from the feed and grain building.

“I've got a question,” Sonnet said. “If I killed the wrong men, then there are still five men out there who killed my brother.”

“That makes sense.”

“And they might still be here in town.”

“Also makes sense.”

“So what if they come for us?” Sonnet asked.

“I think they'll find we won't be as easy a target as your brother was,” Clint said.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Clint and Sonnet talked to three more of Monroe City's wealthiest citizens. The banker, Thomas Benedict, seemed genuinely confused about why they would come to him. Clint decided he was not involved.

Louis Blake owned the general store, and two restaurants in town. He appeared nervous when they talked about the shooting, but then everybody did. When they talked about the telegrams sent to Jack Sonnet, he seemed baffled. Clint put him on the list with the banker.

And the third man was Benjamin Atwill, who was the mayor of Monroe City.

“I understand you've been talking to some of our prominent citizens,” Atwill said after he admitted Clint and Sonnet to his office.

“How do you know that?” Clint asked.

Atwill, a large, pale-faced man in his sixties, laughed and said, “Because they all came running to me after you spoke with them, starting with Toth. You frightened the poor man out of his wits.”

“The banker didn't seem very frightened,” Clint said.

“Oh, Tom Benedict was just confused. He thinks the sheriff should run you both out of town.”

“That might be harder than it sounds,” Clint said.

“Well, all right,” Atwill said, “you might as well give me the same treatment you gave them, and we'll see how frightened I become.”

“After this, we still have a few other men to see,” Clint said. “Will you be sending warnings to them?”

“Hell, no,” Atwill said. “I'll let each of them deal with you themselves. Now, come on. What's this all about?”

“I think you know what it's about, Mayor,” Clint said.

“The unfortunate shooting of Carl Sonnet.”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“Why does nobody in town admit to seeing or hearing anything?” Clint asked.

“I think you'll have to ask them that question,” Atwill said.

“We have. Repeatedly. What about you?” Clint asked. “What did you hear?”

“From here?” the mayor asked. They were in the second floor of the brick City Hall building. “I heard a barrage of shots.”

Clint and Sonnet exchanged a glance.

“You're the first one to admit that,” Clint said.

“It sounded like a battle,” Atwill said. “How could I lie and say I didn't hear it?”

“So what did you do?” Sonnet asked.

“I looked out my window.” Mayor Atwill indicated the plate glass window behind him. “I can actually see much of the town from here.”

“And could you see the scene of the shooting?” Clint asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” the mayor said.

“So what did you do?” Sonnet asked.

“Nothing,” Atwill said. “I'm a little out of shape and old to go running down there. Besides, that's not my job.”

“So the sheriff ran down there,” Clint said.

“It was his job,” Atwill said.

“But he found no witnesses.”

“That's what he said.”

“And you believed him?”

“Why not? Why would he lie?”

“Did you expect him to make an arrest?” Clint asked.

“If possible.”

“But he never did,” Sonnet said.

“I suppose he wasn't able to catch them,” Atwill said. “Or find out who they were.”

Clint just stared at the mayor.

“So,” the politician said, “what are your intentions, gentlemen?”

“I'm going to find the men who killed my brother,” Sonnet said, “and I'm going to kill them. And it doesn't matter to me who they are.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Clint said, “it could be a prominent citizen, it could be a sheriff, or . . . a mayor.”

“Now that's a threat,” Atwill said.

“No threat,” Sonnet said, “just fact.”

“Mr. Adams, you should caution your young friend, here—”

“I'm cautioning you, Mayor,” Clint said. “Somebody sent Jack here after the wrong man at least once. We're not only going to find the right men, but we're going to find him, as well.”

“You're going to force me to hire extra deputies,” Atwill said. “Special deputies.”

“Is that something you do a lot, Mayor?” Clint asked. “Hire special deputies?”

“When there's a need.”

“And how many do you usually hire?” Clint asked. “Five?”