Whistle Pass (2 page)

A Black Cat shoe heel came at him too quickly for Charlie to react. The blow caught him between the eyebrows.

Charlie slammed against the wall. Pain exploded in his head. Blinded from shock, he swung the duffle. The weight of the bag in his left hand pulled him to his right, so he let go of it, balled a fist, and blasted it back across his front. The backhand blow struck pay dirt in a jaw. The attacker cursed. Charlie followed up with a right fist to the shadowy figure coming into focus. His fist hammered into a rib cage. Charlie pumped two more quick jabs into the ribs.

“Gack.” The man’s torso leaned left.

Charlie reached out, grabbed two handfuls of shirt, and flung the man past him, into the wall. Staying with his target, he planted his feet and loosed a flurry of punches onto the exposed back, over the kidneys.

The snap-brim-hatted attacker’s knees bent, and he sank to the floor.

 Click. Click.
Charlie whirled. At the top of the stairs, two more men. Young. Late teens, early twenties maybe. Each wore blue jeans and a black leather jacket, and… each held a switchblade knife.

“Enough of this crap.” Charlie snarled, stuck his left hand into his coat pocket, and pressed the barrel of the gun against the cloth. “First lesson, assholes. Never bring a knife to a gunfight.”

The two youths froze in place. They exchanged looks. One turned and ran. The other, red hair swept back under layers of grease, gulped a prominent Adam’s apple, then took off in the direction of the first.

Charlie bolted up the stairs, rounded the turn to the hallway, and saw the young men scamper out an open door at the end of the hall. He scrambled to the open exit and found himself at the top of an iron fire escape. The clanking footfalls of the duo were already two floors below him.

Charlie stood and waited. The two men hit the alley and continued running. He pulled the hand gun from his pocket, took careful aim, and fired.

“Bang. Bang,” he softly said, then he blew on the fingernail of his index finger gun barrel. “Idiots.”

He went inside the hotel to the stairway. The first one, the cigar smoker, was gone as well. He retrieved his duffle, located room 412 next to the fire escape, and unlocked the door.

Charlie set the duffle on the metal-framed bed and went back to the hall. The bathroom was across from his room. His brows rose in satisfaction. Entering the water closet, he pulled the dangling chain. A bare, single lightbulb clicked on in a ceiling lamp. In the small mirror on the wall, he examined his face. Not bad. The blow had struck more forehead than anything else. He rubbed the reddened skin, then turned on the faucet, cupped his hands full of cool water, and lightly scrubbed his face. He grabbed the sides of the sink and stared at his reflection. His jaw trembled, his teeth chattered, his gut knotted, and his chest tightened. He flung his arms around him and sat on the toilet, shaking in fear.

In the war, he’d reacted the same way. Always calm when the shit went down, and always fell apart after. The men around him had learned to stick to him when the bullets flew. Charlie Harris could fight and shoot. You wanted to live, you needed to be wherever Charlie was. Only Roger ever sat with him after. Only Roger ever put his arms around him and held him until the terror passed.

He closed his eyes. How he wanted Roger’s arms around him right now, his breath on his skin, the taste of him on his lips. A tear rolled down his cheek.

The door swung open. “You Harris?”

Charlie looked up. A uniformed cop stood in the doorway, badged cap resting at an angle on the man’s head. Still shaking, Charlie only nodded.

The cop walked to him, placed a hand under his arm, and helped him to stand. “Come on. Let’s get you to your room.”

Grateful, Charlie staggered to his room. The door clicked closed behind him. Charlie sat on the bed, his hands stuck between his thighs as he tried to control the tremors. The cop walked over and stood in front of him. Charlie glanced up. “Did someone call you? I got attacked on the stairs.”

The cop reached into a pocket sewn into the lower leg of the dark blue uniform trousers and produced a leather sap. “Nobody called me, boy.” The cop reared back and slapped the lead-filled sap across Charlie’s thigh.

Charlie screamed in pain.

“Shut up,” the cop growled, and he hit his thigh again.

Pain seared, burned through his bones. Charlie fell back on the bed. Tears flowed, snot rolled out of his nose. He wanted to puke. He stuffed a hand in his mouth and bit into it to muffle his cries.

The cop hit his thigh again. Then again.

Charlie went fetal, whimpering. He clamped his eyes closed against the twisting daggers flowing through his blood, shredding his nerves, clawing at his brain.

A whisper at his ear. “You watch yourself, boy. One step—just one step—out of line, and you’ll be turtle food.”

The sap bludgeoned his thigh again. Charlie dug his teeth into his hand. Blood washed over his gums and tongue. The door opened and closed.

Charlie pulled his knees even tighter to his chest and sobbed. “Roger. Where are you?”

Chapter 2

I
N
THE
covered doorway of the hotel’s entrance, Gabe Kasper shook the rain off his fedora. Looking toward the river a mere block and a half beyond the street corner the hotel rested on, he frowned. The rain veiled the city park housing a gravel lot for boat trailers. The barely visible edge of the river at the docks was flannel gray.

“Damn.”

For once, the weathermen had been right, and on the wrong weekend—opening day of goose season. Not even geese hunters would come out in this soup. You can’t shoot what isn’t there to kill. The geese would all be hunkered down in fields and around marshy ponds until the skies cleared and they could continue their southbound exodus.

A shrill, air-powered whistle scratched through the air. Gabe waited. A second, though an octave lower, whistle soon followed. Two freighters employing a tradition started by the now long-gone paddlewheel riverboats. The deep-water channel narrowed in the middle of the river. On days like this, where the captains couldn’t see each other, they whistled their presence. The freighters would hug the channel’s starboard edges to avoid colliding.

The sternwheeler captains had dubbed it a “whistle pass.”

Gabe sighed at the prospect of low revenues and opened the door. “Morning, Mrs. Brewer.”

The silver-haired woman looked up from the lobby counter. “Good morning, Mr. Kasper. Eight cancellations so far.”

As expected
. He strode around the end of the counter. “When are you going to call me Gabe while we’re at work?”

She continued dusting and tidying up the work area. “When you start calling me Olga.”

He slipped off his coat and hung it on a peg, then set his hat to dry on top of the oak filing cabinet. He gently touched palms to the sides of his hair, ensuring no strands were out of place. “But your name isn’t Olga, it’s Betty.”

She snapped the cloth. Dust billowed in the air. Gabe watched it float back onto the area the pillow-shaped woman had just cleaned.

“Why do you do that? Why do you refuse to shake the rag outside like I’ve asked you to?”

She brushed past him. “Job security.”

He chuckled. “I could fire you for not following instructions, you know.”

She stopped, turned, and patted his cheek. “You couldn’t replace me. Nobody else would put up with your attitude.”

His brow dropped. “Attitude? I don’t have an attitude.”

Bzz, Bzzz.
The elevator’s buzzer meant a guest was ready to come downstairs
.

“I have to go to work. Maybe you should think about actually earning your pay, Mr. Kasper.” Betty waddled off, wiping chairs and sofa backs as she made her way to the elevator. She closed the iron gate, sat on the stool, and pulled the metal handle of the controls.

Gabe watched the elevator rise and disappear. Every manager of the Larson soon learned Betty Brewer came with the upholstery. As far back as anyone still living could remember, the Larson had been her one and only job. The restaurant next door ran a pool for the person who could get Betty to reveal her true age. Last time he’d checked, there was $164.35 up for grabs. Two of it had come from his unsuccessful attempt.

He parted the curtains and entered the back room. The down cushions on the couch were dented. Edgar, the night man, had napped again. When the new factory opened its doors, employment had spiked. Recently retired from the railroad, Edgar had been the only applicant for the hotel’s night job. The man hadn’t missed a shift in three years, and the till was never so much as a nickel off. A few catnaps had become acceptable activity.

Gabe fluffed each cushion to perfection, then nodded approval at the couch. He walked over to the dressing mirror, checked the knot of his red tie, straightened his vest, and inspected the sleeves of his white shirt for any discoloration—his personal morning appraisal. He patted his sculpted black hair, though it clearly didn’t need it, the final touch before starting his duties.

Returning to the front desk, he picked up the telephone receiver, tapped the cradle three times, and waited for the operator to come on the line.

“Good morning, Gabe.”

“Morning, Ruby. Can you connect me to the Burlington, and then the Milwaukee?” With the hunters’ room cancellations, he’d have to offer the vacancies to the railroads at a two-thirds discount to buffer the loss of weekend receipts.

“I already called the yard offices for you, Gabe. What with the rain and fog, I figured you’d be needing the railroad business.”

The telephone operator’s forethought brought a smile to his lips. “Thank you, Ruby. Stop in sometime and I’ll buy you lunch next door.”

“I’d prefer buttered popcorn and a helping of Johnny Wayne. Fred over at the theater says he got his hands on a bootleg copy of
Hondo
and is going to show it again for a few days next week.”

Gabe chuckled. “Tell you what. I’ll talk to Fred and make arrangements for you, Bill, and all three of your children to have reserved seats the first night. I’ll even throw in a soft drink. How’d that be?”

Glee percolated out of the phone. “Oh, honey. You just made me one happy mama. You know, Mary Singleton’s cousin’s coming to town next week. Read it in the paper. Maybe I could get you an introduction. They say she’s very charming.”

The elevator clanged to a stop. Gabe shifted and looked left. “I have to go, Ruby. A manager’s work is never done.” He hung up before the woman could expand on the pointless attempt at fixing him up. Ruby wasn’t the only one who’d tried since he’d come home. And, regrettably, she probably wouldn’t be the last. A single man in such a small town set tongues wagging. Betty slid the scissor gate open.

Gabe’s chest froze. He nervously picked at his index nail with his thumb. The man stepping out of the elevator was… gorgeous, in a primitive sort of way.

The man’s unshaven jaw was as square as a right angle. Cave-dark eyes under heavy brow foliage. Thin, tight lips. Thick chocolate hair in need of pruning, a curled strand defiantly hung loose in the middle of the stony forehead. The only flaw to the breathing Rembrandt was a bump on the bridge of the nose, once broken, that obviously hadn’t healed properly. Gabe gauged him a solid six feet of as manly as the human form could achieve. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of a buttoned pea coat, the guest glided across the floor, though he wore heavy leather boots under jeans rolled at the cuffs.

Gabe clipped his stare short and tossed open the guest register. One new name had been added during the night. Charlie Harris. The mystery man had arrived. Gabe sucked in a breath. And what a man Charlie Harris was.

“You the manager?” The voice was gruff—sexy gruff—sexy like an orgasmic growl.

Gabe looked up into eyes as chocolate as the mass of hair. Matched hair and eyes. Gabe swallowed hard. Perfection had that effect on him. “Ye… yes, sir.”
Compose. Compose, Gabriel. Men like this aren’t interested in men.

“I’m looking for someone.”

Of course you are. And, of course, it’s not someone like me.

“Roger Black. Heard of him?”

Gabe tried to suppress the surprise. Why didn’t this man know Roger? Everyone in Whistle Pass knew Roger Black. “Yes, sir, I know Mayor Black.”

The face didn’t flinch, but the eyes slitted to predatory. Gabe’s toes wiggled in apprehension.

“Mayor, huh.” It wasn’t a question. “Which way’s city hall?”

“Make a left, and it’s two blocks down on the other side of the street.”

The man turned and walked out the door into the rain. Gabe sighed. He should have offered Harris his hat. At least he’d have had a reason to talk to him again.

Chapter 3