Virgil Earp, Private Detective Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  Naked Justice

  At that moment all three of them heard something from the front of the house. Apparently, the flimsy shack had a good front door, and Virgil had been unable to force it without making some kind of noise.

  The man’s head jerked around. Clint saw his face, but didn’t recognize him.

  Through the window Clint heard a woman’s voice.

  The man didn’t answer. He got off the bed and grabbed his gun, moved toward the bedroom door, which was also closed. If Virgil came through that door, he’d be dead before he knew it.

  Clint smashed out the window, pointed his gun into the room, and said, “Hold it!”

  The naked man turned his head toward the window, then brought the gun around. At that moment the bedroom door crashed open. The girl had screamed at the sound of breaking glass, and screamed again when the door slammed open.

  Clint fired once. The bullet hit the man in the chest, driving him backward until the back of his legs hit the bed. He fell over on top of the girl, who kept right on screaming.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  VIRGIL EARP, PRIVATE DETECTIVE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / September 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-13564-8

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  ONE

  Colton, California, was a coming town, but it was also a town concerned with being as modern as possible. For this reason there were no bordellos, and liquor was only served in a few licensed saloons.

  These were things Clint Adams didn’t know yet as he rode into town. He had been in San Diego visiting his friend Wyatt Earp. Wyatt had told him that his brother Virgil had opened a detective agency in the northern California town of Colton. While Clint’s association with the Earps always boiled down to his friendship with Wyatt, he’d decided to ride north and see how Virgil was doing in his new profession.

  “James and Nick are also there,” Wyatt told him, “although I’m not sure what they’re doin’ with themselves these days.”

  James was the youngest of the Earp brothers, while Nick was the Earp patriarch. More often than not, Nick Earp was a saloon owner. Clint assumed this was the profession he would find the older Earp plying in Colton.

  As far as Clint could tell, none of the Earps had yet recovered from the murder of their brother Morgan in Tombstone, which had followed the whole O.K. Corral debacle. He knew that Wyatt blamed himself for Morgan’s death, but he assumed that Virgil would also be shouldering some of that guilt, even though Virgil himself had been shot and crippled.

  Clint reined Eclipse in as they reached a hotel and he decided to go inside and get a room before taking the big Darley Arabian to the livery stable.

  The Hotel Colton, on Pennsylvania Street, was a new building and still smelled of fresh-cut wood. The lobby was spacious, well furnished, and the clerk behind the desk even seemed well scrubbed, his hair slicked down and parted in the middle.

  “Good day to you, sir,” he said in greetin
g.

  “I’d like a room.”

  “Certainly, sir. We are happy to oblige. Please sign the register.”

  The clerk, in his forties, was way too enthusiastic for his age, as far as Clint was concerned. He turned to pluck a key from a rack behind him.

  “And how long will you be staying with us, sir?” the clerk asked.

  “Don’t rightly know yet,” Clint said, writing his name. “I guess that will depend on what kind of town you’ve got here.”

  “This is a fine town, sir, a fine town,” the man said. “Of that I can assure you.”

  Clint put down the quill pen, accepted his key, and said, “I guess I’ll have to make up my own mind about that, won’t I?”

  “Certainly, sir, certainly,” the clerk said. “Have a pleasant day”—he paused to turn the book over and read Clint’s name—“Mr. Adams.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Adams?” the clerk said again, as Clint went up the stairs.

  Clint didn’t turn back. He went to the second floor, found his room, and entered. It was neat and clean. He tried the mattress, found it pleasing. He walked to the window and looked out over the main street. From this vantage point even the hard-packed dirt street looked clean. Maybe Virgil Earp, his father, and his younger brother had found themselves a nice, quiet place to settle down.

  He left the room to go back downstairs and take Eclipse to the livery stable. As he crossed the lobby, the clerk was less enthusiastic than he had been earlier. In fact, he seemed to shrink back from Clint.

  He found the livery where towns customarily put it, at one end of town. The liveryman was properly impressed with Eclipse and promised to see to his every need.

  “Don’t normally get animals that look like this,” the man said. “I’m gonna move some of the stock around and give him the best stall.”

  “Suits me,” Clint said.

  “Speakin’ of best stalls, where are you stayin’?”

  “Hotel Colton,” Clint said. “First one I came to.”

  “Also the best,” the man said. “I ain’t never heard nobody complain about the beds there.”

  “You know the town well?” Clint asked.

  “I been here since before they decided to change everything,” the man said. Clint thought the man could be anywhere between fifty and seventy. “Now we ain’t a town no more, we’re a city.”

  “And you don’t like that?”

  “I liked things the way they used to be,” the man said. “I ain’t a big fan of progress, mister.”

  “Can you tell me where I can find Virgil Earp?”

  “Virgil Earp? Whataya want with him?”

  “I understand he’s set up shop as a private detective hereabouts.”

  “And you need a detective?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well . . . Mr. Earp lives over on West H Street. I think it’s 529—no, 528 West H Street.”

  “And does he have an office?”

  “Sure,” the man said, “got one on Main Street, second floor, right over the hardware store.”

  “I must’ve missed it,” Clint said. He grabbed his rifle and saddlebags and let the man lead Eclipse deeper into the stable.

  “You want me to pay you now?” Clint called after the man.

  “You can settle up with me when you decide to leave,” the man called back. “Don’t figure you’ll walk off and leave this animal behind.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Clint muttered, as he walked away.

  TWO

  Clint carried his gear back to his hotel room. He noticed as he went through the lobby that the clerk was not at his post. Either that or he was crouched down, hiding behind the desk. He didn’t particularly care, so he didn’t bother looking.

  He left his saddlebags and rifle in his room and went in search of Virgil Earp’s office. Along the way he came to a saloon, so he decided to get a cold beer first.

  The saloon had none of the new smell some of the other buildings in Colton had. It smelled as if it had been around a long time.

  There were only a few men inside, seated at tables and one standing at the bar with the bartender.

  “What’ll ya have, mister?” the bartender asked.

  “Beer.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “Yer lucky ya found yer way in here,” the man at the bar said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Only a few places in this city have a license to serve liquor.”

  “A license?”

  The bartender brought the beer.

  “Somebody’s idea of improvements,” he said. “No whorehouses, very few saloons.”

  Clint drank down some of the beer.

  “Who’d come up with a stupid idea like that?”

  “Politicians,” the bartender said.

  “Naw,” the other man said, “politicians’ wives. Dried up old biddies who don’t want their men to have any fun, any pleasures.”

  “You got one of those of your own?” Clint asked.

  “I did,” the man said. “I left ‘er.”

  “Best move you ever made, Lee,” the bartender said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “You?” the bartender asked Clint.

  “Never took the plunge.”

  “Smart man,” the barman said. “What brings you to town?”

  Clint decided not to mention Virgil’s name until he found out the standing of the Earps in town. That family had a penchant for making enemies.

  “Thanks for the beer,” Clint said.

  “Just one’s enough?” the bartender asked.

  “For now,” Clint said. “It cuts the dust. I’ll be back later.”

  “Remember,” the man behind the bar said, “only a few places hereabouts can serve liquor, and we’re one of them.”

  “And you’re close to my hotel,” Clint said. “I’ll remember.”

  Clint left.

  He walked to West H Street, then started looking for 528. He couldn’t see the numbers, so he cut over to Main Street and started looking for a hardware store. When he found one he stopped and looked. Out in front were rakes, pickaxes, all kinds of tools for sale. The second floor had a big plate glass window that said “VIRGIL EARP, PRIVATE DETECTIVE.”

  “This must be the place,” he said to himself.

  “Lookin’ for Virgil?” a man asked, from the doorway.

  “That’s right.”

  “Stairs are around the side.” He was a big man, wearing a white apron over a bulging stomach. “You got some business with him, I hope?”

  “You hope?”

  “Only way he’s gonna be able to pay his rent is to get some business.”

  “I see,” Clint said. “Well, thanks for the directions.”

  “His brother’s Wyatt Earp, ya know,” the man called out, like it was a selling point.

  Clint ignored him and kept going.

  THREE

  Virgil Earp was considering going over to his father, Nick’s, saloon for a drink when the door to his office opened. Maybe this would be some business. Lord knows he needed some in order to pay his rent on the office. His wife, Allie, had been telling him to give the office up and work from home, but he’d been resisting the suggestion for weeks. It was only today he’d been thinking it might be a prudent idea.

  He sat back in his chair, resting his aching shorter left arm on the armrest, and waited for his client to appear.

  As Clint entered, he saw Virgil seated behind a pitted, wooden desk that appeared too small for him.

  “Clint Adams?” Virgil said.

  “Don’t sound so disappointed,” Clint said.

  “Sorry,” Virgil said, standing, “I thought it might be a payin’ client.”

  “I think I met your landlord downstairs,” Clint said. “He was hoping the same thing.”

  Virgil extended his right hand and Clint clasped it in a handshake. Virgil was wearing a black suit that was frayed at the collar and cuffs. His left arm was noticeably s
horter than the right.

  “Have a seat,” Virgil invited. He seated himself behind his small desk and patted it with his good hand. “Got this from the old schoolhouse. Looks a little small, I know, but . . .”

  Clint looked around the office. It was also small, so the plate glass window looked even bigger. Other than two chairs and a desk there was a file cabinet, and no room for anything else.

  “What brings you to Colton?” Virgil asked.

  “I stopped to see Wyatt in San Diego,” Clint said. “Wasn’t heading anyplace special when I left there, so figured I’d drift up here.”

  “How’s Wyatt doin’?”

  “He’s fine,” Clint said. “Dealing some faro. He said one or two of you might be here.”

  “Three,” Virgil said. “Little Brother James is running a boardinghouse, and Nick runs the Gem Saloon. He claims he serves the best Tom and Jerry in town.”

  “Tom and Jerry?”

  “Yeah, it’s, uh, eggs and sugar beaten together, then he adds brandy and puts the whole thing in some hot water.”

  “Yuck,” Clint said. “Does he serve beer? I heard that the liquor licenses hereabouts are few.”

  “Oh yeah, he serves everything,” Virgil said. “Wanna walk over?”

  “Only if I can buy.”

  “Yer on,” Virgil said, standing up quickly. His height also made the room seem smaller. “Let’s go.”

  Virgil looked much more comfortable outside, as they walked to the Gem Saloon.

  “So I guess business isn’t booming,” Clint said.

  “Nope,” Virgil said, “I ain’t givin’ Allan Pinkerton no nightmares, yet.”

  “Why didn’t you just go and work for Allan if you wanted to be a private detective?”

  “Couldn’t do it,” Virgil said. “Been workin’ for myself for too long—that is, when I wasn’t wearin’ a badge.”