Forty-one

 

No one was in the hallway upstairs, so Sam slipped out of room number two, shutting its door carefully. Coal oil lamps were affixed to the corridor’s walls, illuminating the carpet runner down the wooden hallway. Behind door number one across the hall Sam could hear mattress springs squeaking and a brass bed clinking. Some cowboy riding a downy couch, grinned the outlaw.

He took a chance at the next door, another of what looked like three bedrooms along each side of the hallway in this upstairs brothel, six rooms total. Sam didn’t knock, his only chance being surprise in any affray. To sharpen that edge, Graham kept his long knife hidden up the shirtsleeve of his left arm, point forward. As he opened the door, a young woman lying fully clothed atop her brass bed rose slightly off her pillows and lifted several green leaves with purplish edges from her eyes to see who was at her door? Experienced prostitutes used belladonna leaves to make their irises big and glassy, dilating their pupils and giving their eyes a “bedroom look” Western men liked. Sam realized this big blonde wasn’t the Mexican gal he’d seen in Gillom’s photographs.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am. Wrong room.” He pulled his head back.

“Okay, cowboy. Change your mind later, come back and see me, won’t you?” She winked a glassy blue eye.

“You bet.” Sam smiled as he shut her door.

*   *   *

Ease Bixler followed his disgruntled companion through the heavy front door. No glass front windows or swinging doors into this brothel, only a solid oak door which could be barred from the inside to stall unwanted armed entrance by irate customers or the authorities. The Blue Goose was more like a fortress than an open saloon. Gillom was surprised to find no gambling going on, although there were chairs around tables where poker could be played. Instead, the Blue Goose operated as a brothel where the profit was made trading in flesh rather than pasteboards. Two tough-looking men wearing pistols sat drinking at one of the tables, not talking. Across from them was a long, black oak bar with the requisite brass cuspidors and foot railing. Behind it presided a burly colored bartender.

The young men stood near the front door, returning the stares of the few other patrons this early evening. Gillom noticed the action seemed to be in the back half of this main floor in a parlor sectioned off from the main barroom by neck-high wooden partitions. A portiere, a fancy gold braided rope hanging from a brass bar across the ceiling, provided a decorative barrier in the threshold between these two barrier walls.

They couldn’t just stand there, so Ease nudged Gillom and they walked to the bar and ordered short beers. These they merely sipped, focusing on the music and singing coming from the back parlor. The boys couldn’t see over the partial walls, but through the roped entry they could see a white man in a dark suit and derby hat tinkling an upright piano. It had to be the whores singing “Oh Heavens!,” a popular ditty.

Don’t you think she’s awful,

Slightly on the mash?

See how close her lips are

To that young man’s mustache.

Oh Heavens! He has kissed her!

Her parents are away

But if they saw her actions

What do you think they’d say?

Titters of laughter from the parlor caused the anxious Mr. Bixler to grin. His partner nudged his arm and picking up their beers, the young men walked back to the parlor. Gillom noticed one of the toughs had left his drink and walked through a doorway at the bar’s end to their left, leading to rooms on the alley side of the building.

*   *   *

Sam Graham was in a quandary. The girl had to be in one of these upstairs rooms, for if she was still in this brothel, where else would they hide her? Trying to keep his spurs from jingling, he tiptoed across the hallway to listen at the fourth doorjamb. Silence, except for musical accompaniment drifting up from downstairs. The gunman moved in what felt like slow motion to the last door on this far side of the hall, next to the upstairs back door. Ear again to the door, but still no sounds.

Breathing frustration, Sam moved across the hallway again, pausing to unbolt the back door in case he had to flee—fast. This final door, number six, he now noticed was farther apart from the door next to it than the ones across the hall, indicating perhaps a larger room. Behind this last door Sam heard low voices, murmuring. He realized he was nervous, not concentrating well enough. He sucked in a lungful, held his breath and then released it, trying to calm his beating heart. Luckily these bedrooms didn’t have bolts inside their doors, so the women couldn’t hide from the brothelkeepers if they didn’t feel like fornicating.

Sam opened the door. Two women sat on a king-sized bed, the nearest, with her back to him, in crimson silk bloomers and a partially untied corset. This big-boned gal was also a blond. She appeared to be heating the bowl of a long-stemmed opium pipe with a small oil lamp.

The other woman looked Mexican. She had on a white blouse with puffed sleeves too big for her and men’s woolen pants held up by leather galluses. This younger girl with long black hair did resemble the gal in Gillom’s photographs, and her borrowed clothing indicated she’d come from somewhere in a hurry. She looked asleep until her eyelids fluttered atop her pillow when the blonde leaned in to place the pipe’s metal tip between her lips.

“Suck, honey. That’s a girl. Suck up all this good yen shee smoke.”

The Mexican was a looker all right, and Sam stood transfixed in the doorway, neither of the women aware of his presence. The American gal began to cook another bowlful of opium for herself when Graham interrupted.

“Hey, girls. Havin’ fun?”

The blonde looked over her shoulder. “We’re havin’ us a little smoke here, cowboy. Come back later.”

The gunman smiled as he moved inside and closed the door.

“I’m to look up Anel Romero, and I’m pretty damned sure that’s you, miss.”

Hearing her name, the Latina sat up to give him a sleepy hello. This irritated her keeper.

“Mister, you’re not supposed to be in here. This girl’s not in the lineup yet.”

“You’re right about that. She ain’t ready yet for whorin’.”

Sensing trouble, the busty blonde put her opium kit down and turned round, but Sam was already pulling his pistol.

“Hey, fella, this is a private session. Go downstairs and pick one of the other girls, you’re feelin’ frisky.”

“Shut up!” The outlaw backhanded the broad across the mouth with the butt of the gun in his fist, rattling her front teeth and bloodying her lips. The big whore was so shocked she forgot to scream.

“Get off that bed and unhook your corset.”

The blonde felt her lips with her fingertips, tasted her own warm blood, and looked like she was going to cry. “What?”

“You heard me. Do it.”

The American girl was too drugged to move fast and Miss Romero had roused herself, but the younger girl was so doped up from the opium, her movements were in slow motion.

“Easy, missy. Boyfriend’s looking for you.”

*   *   *

The young pistoleros pushed through the hanging gold ropes to the back parlor. The gals had stopped singing, but the “Professor” was still tickling the ivories.

“Company in the parlor, girls!” yelled a middle-aged brunette bulging from her corseted yellow dress. This older gal was evidently the madam, supervising her flock. Her loud call was the signal to assemble, for all four younger girls stood up and arranged themselves in a loose line. Gillom saw Anel wasn’t among them. Ease, more interested in the saloon’s business, noted that none of the brocade chairs and red velvet sofas the girls had been sitting on matched. He did like the smaller crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, though, and the hand-cranked victrola on a side table.

A clatter on the stairs leading down from the second floor landing heralded the arrival of the big blonde from room number one, her bedroom eyes glistening.

The madam came toward them, took the friendlier looking Ease by the elbow, leading the young men into her lair.

“You young gentlemen haven’t visited us before. Don’t recognize either of you?”

“No, ma’am. Never been to Clifton before. I’m Ease Bixler and this is my pard, Gillom.”

“Welcome, boys, to the Blue Goose. Finest girls in all the Arizona Territory. Where you handsome fellas from?”

“Uh, Bisbee,” answered Ease, not thinking too quickly.

“Texas,” nodded a tense Mr. Rogers, chewing his lip again.

The hefty brunette brushed back some wanton hair. “Uh-huh. Wandering cowboys. You didn’t look like miners to me.”

“No, ma’am. What about these girls?” asked Ease.

“Ah. To business. Five dollars an hour, twenty for the entire night. Tip what she deserves for your pleasure. Can you handle that?”

“Little higher than I pay in Bisbee,” offered Mr. Bixler.

“Well, this is a high-end house, boys, not some cheap crib. You get what you pay for in the Blue Goose. Why don’t you have a drink with us, meet these nice girls. I’m Ethyl, the madam, and this blond just joined us is Kitty. Our redhead here in the flame dress is Irish Mary, this elegant brunette is Lady Jane Grey, she’s English, and this busty little spitfire answers to Sweet Annie.”

“Howdy, cowboys!” enthused the latter, who was chewing gum.

The stout madam was still shilling. “Sit down, boys, enjoy your beers, have another and we’ll get acquainted, then you can make your selections.”

Ease did as commanded, sitting down in an overstuffed armchair and resting his beer on a side table, so his hands remained free. Gillom remained standing beside him.

“I’m partial to Mexican girls,” said Gillom. “Got any?”

“Why no, young man, we don’t.”

Gillom frowned. “Thought you’d have a brown-skinned gal or two, all these Mexican miners in Clifton.”

“Oh, they’ve got their own cribs in Clifton. We don’t cater to colored customers. Our painted cats are too expensive.” Trying to be genial, the plump brunette winked at Ease and Gillom relaxed a little. He wasn’t going to get any information out of this wily flesh peddler.

Upstairs, the blond whore had removed her straight-front corset so she was naked above her silk bloomers. Sam had unstrung her boned corset and was using the strong cord from its back to wrap her ankles and tie them to a brass bedpost. He cut the cord with his knife and her wrists were next. This tight binding between bedposts stretched her out full-length on the covered horsehair mattress.

“Now don’t get feisty, try to move around or you could roll off this mattress and really hurt yourself,” he warned.

Miss Sherrie wasn’t happy. “Why you tying me up half-naked? I’m not gonna screw you now. You ain’t getting a free ride offa me, cowboy.”

Something had to be done about her big mouth, so Sam pulled up the corner of the cotton sheet and started slicing it into wide strips with his knife.

“Or you gonna rob us sweet girls? Take advantage of poor, helpless women.”

“Not a bad idea,” he muttered.

The big blonde was trussed like a steer for branding, but Graham had to shut her up or they’d never get away clean. The Mexican girl managed to rouse from her drugged languor and was moving on the bed, trying to rub pipe dreams from her eyes.

“What happens? Why you doing thees?”

The outlaw balled up sheet strips to cram between Sherrie’s bloody lips, while questioning the other. “What’s your name, honey? ‘Anel’? Your sweetheart, Gillom, wants to see you.”

Sam wrapped cut sheet in layers around the prostitute’s head like a mummy, to keep her from spitting out her gag and yelling for help.

The Latina struggled to shake off her languor.

“Gil-lom? Gil-lom ees here?”

“You betcha. I’ll take you to him. Give me a momentito.”