18

Siringo snatched the paper from Hammett and read:

SAN FRANCISCO, March 18—(AP) Michael A. Feeney, familiar to many local residents as a “jobber” for the Democratic Party, has been identified as the man whose lifeless body was discovered floating beneath a pier in San Francisco Bay yesterday evening. It is believed he lost his way in the morning fog and fell in.

Feeney was a familiar sight in establishments still associated with Barbary lore …

“We was still in town yesterday morning,” Siringo said, tossing the paper on the table. “Time enough for the eel to run an errand for Clanahan before he followed me to L.A.”

Hammett nodded. “Dropping Doheny’s name in the Shamrock Club was a bad idea. It tipped Clanahan off that we’re sniffing around the oil scheme.”

“I get a heap of ideas, half of ’em bad. How’d this one work its way around to Feeney is what I’d like to know.”

“That call I made to Beauty Ranch had an eavesdropper on the line: Clanahan’d make it a point to know what goes on there. It isn’t hard to trace a long-distance call, or to link the caller in this case to Pinkerton. That’s when he put Feeney on us, to find out what we’re up to. I’m local, you’re not, so Feeney played a hunch and followed you when we split up. When Clanahan found out we knew the name Doheny, he knew we had to have gotten something out of his boy.

“You saw how easy it was to crack him open. After the eel got what he wanted, he threw Feeney into the bay like so much garbage.”

“He’d of wound up there anyway. The Feeneys of this world always do.”

“The question is, what’s Clanahan got in mind for us?”

“He’s a careful man, or I don’t know nothing about playing cards. But there’s a lot more ways to be cautious than there is to go off half-cocked. Is he going to watch how we play and figure out our hands before he bets, or is he going to play the percentages and serve us like he did Feeney before the odds change?”

“All I know is he won’t waste time. Lanyard’s too valuable an asset to throw away on a simple tail job. Clanahan’s competition might get the bright idea he’s left his flanks exposed. There’s all kinds of new talent in town since Prohibition came in. They’re not as discreet about disposing of an obstacle as the eel.”

“I was in Chicago during the Haymarket riot. A bomb blew a company of police officers into so many pieces they still ain’t sure how many was kilt. I don’t see a nickel’s worth of difference in slaughtering for politics and slaughtering for money.”

“We agree on that at least. Mr. Siringo, I think there’s a radical in you waiting to bust out.”

The old detective gulped Irish coffee, looked sour; not necessarily in that order.

“That’s the danger of living alone. You get a dumb idea, nobody calls you on it, you get a dumber one later, nobody calls you on it, and before you know it you got a head full of dumb ideas and you run around like a blind horse till you smack up against the side of a barn. Where’s that gal you’re fixing to marry?”

“Montana, where she was raised. Why?”

“You ought to go pay her a visit. There’s nothing like a woman or a slap with a two-by-four to right a man’s thinking.”

“Jose can swing a two-by-four. She’s little, but she’ll surprise you. She practically carried me on her back when I came down with TB in Tacoma. She was a nurse before I knocked her up.”

“That was a right romantic story till the end.”

“I didn’t get to the end. The end part is I’m not hiding behind anybody’s skirts while you deal with Clanahan and his gunny. They aren’t as easy to buffalo as a common horse thief like Butterfield. That homemade hooch has got you thinking you’re half your age and twice your size.”

“I didn’t say go to Montana. I said you ought to. If Clanahan knows you was with the Agency he knows your personal situation too. He won’t think it odd you got a hard-on and decided to smuggle it east. The eel won’t follow you any farther than the state line. He’ll count that proof enough you’re headed where it says on your ticket. Get off in Carson City, then take the next train back and meet me in Frisco.”

“What good’s splitting up?”

“While he’s busy making sure you’re a-courtin’, I can pay a visit to this fellow Kennedy and ask him what kind of deal he made with Clanahan that’s got Clanahan putting the boots to Charmian London for seed money.”

“Why Kennedy?”

“Because Clanahan was head skunk till Kennedy spoke up. Paddy knows too much about us, and all’s we know for sure about him is he’s fat and plays a cautious game of poker. I aim to even the odds, but I can’t do it with no eel wrapped around my ankle.”

“Why don’t you go east, see that little boy of yours, while I pump Kennedy?”

“Three reasons. One, I don’t know where Lillie took him when she left. Two, how do I know while I’m gone you won’t do something dumb to show off in front of Becky London? I seen you tripping on your pizzle every time she came into the room.”

“I’ve got eyes too, old-timer. That wasn’t Washoe Ban’s ass you were admiring in the stable.”

“Charmian turned out different from what I had pictured, that I’ll warrant. I wouldn’t object to making her the third Mrs. Siringo if she’d consider it. But the advantage of being an old-timer is you’ve learned to follow your brain instead of your pizzle.”

“What makes you so sure she’d consider marrying a gimpy old saddle tramp with a roof full of holes?”

“I ain’t, but there’s no hobbles on either of us. You got a gal picking out kitchen curtains and a loaf in the oven.”

“Are you telling me you never stepped out on your wife while you were on a case?”

“That was in the line of duty. Mamie never had a reason to think me disloyal; Lillie neither, if she’d only gave me half a chance to prove it. You’re just a young goat with blue balls.”

“I ought to knock you on your ass.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“’Cause it’s still sore.” Siringo brought his hand up from under the table and drew back the hammer on the Forehand & Wadsworth.

“You won’t shoot me.”

He raised the revolver an inch and fired.

The slug burrowed into a plank behind Hammett’s head as the young man, moving already, launched himself across the table, tipping it over under his weight, while Siringo threw himself off his chair to the floor. They rolled around among the beans and dust bunnies, grappling for the gun. Hammett lanced his fist against the old man’s jaw in a short right cross that put Siringo’s eyes out of focus; but as he did so he loosened his grip on the wrist belonging to the weapon. Siringo bared his teeth and swung the revolver to the left, laying the barrel alongside Hammett’s temple. A gong rang and the room broke up into black-and-white checks. The white checks kept shrinking until it was all black.

Something wet dashed his face. He sat up, his lungs turning themselves inside out, and tasted coffee and grain alcohol. He looked up at Siringo, standing with his feet spread, the revolver in one hand and his empty cup in the other. The old cowboy was panting with his hair in his face.

“Never back a man into a corner,” he said. “He’s got no direction to go but straight through you.”

Hammett finished coughing, got out his handkerchief, wiped his mouth, and studied the square of linen. Then he applied it to his temple and looked at the pink smear. He stuck the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Any other wisdom?”

“Always make sure your left hand knows what your right’s up to.”

“Okay. Now I got one for you.” Hammett placed his palms flat on the floor and butted him in the crotch.

The cup hit the floor first, followed a moment later by the man who’d been holding it. He landed on his knees and tipped over onto his side, hugging himself between his thighs, one hand still holding the gun.

“He-he-he,” he said a minute later, in a voice that held no timbre.

“What are you laughing about, you old hyena?”

“I was thinking how bad this’d hurt if I still used it every day.”

Hammett laughed then. It brought on another coughing fit, and for a while there was no telling whether he was enjoying himself or hemorrhaging.

“You all right?” Siringo asked, when he fell silent.

“No. You?”

“Tell you when one of ’em drops back down.”

“Were you really going to shoot me?”

“I don’t recollect. But it seemed to me you’re pretty agile for a lunger.”

“You’re lucky I’d parked the thirty-eight.”

“Not lucky. I seen you do it, though I wasn’t sure about them persuaders you carry in your pocket.”

He reached into it, felt the brass knuckles. “I forgot I had ’em.”

“Then they’re no good to you. See what I mean about dumb ideas?”

“You said yours was good for three reasons. What’s the third?”

“I got it first.”

“So what?”

“So you know what they call a writer who steals his ideas.”

“Rich?”