Clive Cussler - The Chase

“Well, that was certainly arousing,” Margaret said sarcastically.

A small band began playing and couples moved onto the dance floor, stepping lively to a dance called the Texas Tommy. Butler and Margaret swirled around the floor with gay abandon as if they were one. Marion felt a self-conscious sense of embarrassment at being held close to her boss. In all the years she had worked for him, this was the first time he had ever asked her out. He was an excellent dancer, and she followed his lead gracefully.

The band changed tempo at different times so the dancers could move to the steps of the Turkey Trot and the Bunny Hug. Soon the dancers began to sweat in the confined, airless quarters of the basement. The champagne began to make Marion’s head reel and she asked Cromwell if she could sit down for a few minutes.

“Would you mind if I left you for a little while?” Cromwell asked courteously. “I’d like to go upstairs and play a few hands of faro.”

Marion was vastly relieved. She was on the verge of exhaustion, and her new shoes were causing discomfort to her feet. “Yes, please do, Mr. Cromwell. I could stand a breather.”

Cromwell climbed the wooden stairway and walked slowly through the bustling gambling section until he came to a table where there were no players except the dealer. Two burly men stood behind the dealer and discouraged any customer from sitting at the table.

The dealer looked like he was born from a bull. His head sat like a chiseled rock on top of a neck that was as thick as a tree stump. His black hair was dyed, plastered down with pomade, and parted in the middle. His nose was flattened across his cheeks from being broken numerous times. His limpid eyes looked oddly out of place on a face that had seen more than its share of fists. He had the torso of a beer keg, round and abundant, but hard, without fat. Spider Red Kelly had been a fighter and had once fought James J. Corbett, knocking down the former heavyweight champion twice but getting knocked out himself in the twenty-first round. He looked up at Cromwell’s approach.

“Good evening, Mr. Cromwell, I’ve been expecting you.”

Cromwell opened the cover to his watch and glimpsed the hands on the dial. “Forgive me for being eight minutes late, Mr. Kelly. I was unavoidably detained.”

Red Kelly smiled, showing a mouth full of gold teeth. “Yes, I would have also been detained if I was in the company of such a lovely lady.” He nodded at the table. “Would you care to try your luck?”

Cromwell took out his wallet and counted out ten fifty-dollar National Bank notes printed by his bank under contract with the federal government. Kelly casually placed the bills in a small stack on the side of the table and pushed a stack of copper tokens advertising the saloon across the table. A typical faro layout of a suit of thirteen cards was painted on the table’s green felt cover. The suit was in spades from ace to king, with the ace on the dealer’s left.

Cromwell placed a token on the jack and one between the five and six in a bet called splitting. Kelly discarded the top card from the dealer box, displaying the next card, called the losing card. It was a ten. If Cromwell had bet on it, he would have lost, since the house wins any wagers placed on the displayed card. Then Kelly pulled the losing card out of the box, revealing the winning card. It was a five. Cromwell won the full bet, not half.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said as Kelly pushed the winning tokens across the table.

“What is your pleasure, Mr. Cromwell?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“You asked to see me,” said Kelly. “What can I do to return the favors you’ve given me over the years, the generous loans and the help in keeping the police out of my place?”

“I need someone eliminated.” Cromwell spoke as if he was ordering a beer.

“Here in the city?” asked Kelly as he dealt another hand.

“No, Denver.”

“A man, I hope,” said Kelly without looking up from the dealer box. “Place your bet.”

Cromwell nodded and moved a token between the queen and jack. “Actually, he’s an agent with the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Kelly paused before pulling a card from the box. “Taking out a Van Dorn agent could have serious repercussions.”

“Not if it’s done right.”

“What’s his name?”

“Isaac Bell.” Cromwell passed across the picture his sister had given him. “Here’s his photo.”

Kelly stared at it briefly. “Why do you want him removed?”

“I have my reasons.”

Kelly pulled the losing card and revealed the winning card as the queen. Cromwell had won again.

Kelly gazed across the table at Cromwell. “From what I’ve heard, everyone who’s killed a Van Dorn agent has been tracked down and hung.”

“They were criminals who stupidly allowed themselves to be run down by detectives from the agency. If done in an efficient manner, Van Dorn will never know who killed Bell or why. Make it look like a random killing or even an accident. Leaving no trace would make it impossible for Van Dorn’s agents to retaliate.”

Kelly sank slowly back in his chair. “I have to tell you, Cromwell, I don’t like it.” There was no “Mr. Cromwell.”

Cromwell smiled a grim smile. “Would you like it if I paid you twenty thousand dollars for the job?”

Kelly sat up and looked at Cromwell as if he was not sure if he believed him. “Twenty thousand dollars, you say?”

“I want it done by a professional, not some two-bit killer off the street.”

“Where do you wish the deed to take place?”

There was never doubt that Kelly would do the job. The saloon owner was knee-deep in any number of criminal activities. Coming under Cromwell’s spell for financial gain was a foregone conclusion.

“In Denver. Bell works out of the Van Dorn office in Denver.”

“The farther away from San Francisco, the better,” Kelly said quietly. “You got yourself a deal, Mr. Cromwell.”

The “Mr.” was back, and the transaction agreed upon. Cromwell rose from his chair and nodded toward the tokens on the table. “For the dealer,” he said, grinning. “I’ll have ten thousand in cash delivered to you by noon tomorrow. You’ll get the rest when Bell is deceased.”

Kelly remained seated. “I understand.”

He pushed his way downstairs and through the dancers, who had stopped dancing. He saw they were watching his sister perform an undulating and provocative hootchy-kootchy dance on the stage, to the delight of everyone present. She had loosened her corset and let her nicely coiffed hair down. Her hips swiveled and pulsed sensually to the music of the band. At the table, Butler was sprawled in a drunken haze while Marion stared in awe at Margaret’s gyrations.

Cromwell motioned for one of the managers, who also acted as bouncers.

“Sir?”

“Please carry the gentleman to my car.”

The bouncer nodded, and with one practiced motion lifted the thoroughly intoxicated Butler to a standing position and threw him over his shoulder. Then the bouncer proceeded up the stairs, carrying Butler’s bulk as lightly as if he were a bag of oats.

Cromwell leaned over Marion. “Can you walk to the car?”

She glanced up at him as if angry. “Of course I can walk.”

“Then it’s time to leave.” He took her by the arm and eased her from the chair. Marion, unassisted but wobbly, went up the stairs. Then Cromwell turned his attention to his sister. He was not amused by her scandalous behavior. He grabbed her by the arm hard enough to cause a bruise and hauled her off the stage and out of the saloon to the waiting car at the curb. Butler was passed out in the front seat with Abner while Marion sat glassy-eyed in the back.