The Dublin Detective Read online

  McBeth turned as one of the other men was getting up. They faced each other, each holding a knife. Then the sailor—not liking the new one-to-one odds—jumped back and ran away.

  Clint ejected the spent shell from his gun, replaced it with a live one, then holstered the gun and walked over to where McBeth was leaning over the felled body of the last attacker on the gangplank.

  When Clint reached him, McBeth straightened up.

  “He fell on his knife.”

  Clint looked toward the water. The man he’d shot was floating facedown. The other man who had fallen into the water was gone. He had probably crawled out farther down the block and run away.

  “You need one of them to tell you who hired them?” Clint asked.

  “No,” McBeth said picking up his bag. “It was the captain of this ship.”

  “You want to go aboard and get him?” Clint asked. “I’ll back your play.”

  “No,” McBeth said, “As I told you, he was a friend of mine.”

  “Was?”

  “Well, he tried to have me killed,” McBeth said. “I think the friendship is over.”

  “But you’re going to let him go?”

  “Aye, I am.”

  “How come?”

  “He was paid to hire it done,” McBeth said. “Make it look like a robbery.”

  “And doesn’t that upset you?”

  “It tells me I’m on the right trail.”

  “Trail?”

  “I’m looking for a man,” McBeth said. “A killer. He came to this country to escape me.”

  “Okay.”

  “He probably offered the captain more money than he’s ever seen,” McBeth went on. “I can’t blame him for taking it.”

  “That’s very understanding of you.”

  “There’s just no point in going back aboard that ship,” McBeth said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Work?”

  “I’m a Garda.”

  Clint frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” McBeth said. “Here you would say I’m a policeman—or lawman.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Do you know of a hotel near here?” McBeth asked.

  “I know of a lot,” Clint said, “but they’re not fit for any kind of extended stay.”

  “Oh, I only need a room for one night,” McBeth said, “perhaps two.”

  “What about a drink? And a meal?”

  “That would be brilliant.”

  “Come on,” Clint said. “I know someplace you can get all three.”

  FOUR

  Clint walked McBeth away from the Barbary Coast, closer to Portsmouth Square. They stopped in front of the Black Diamond Hotel.

  “I can’t afford this, boyo,” McBeth said,

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I know the owner, and I have a room here. They have great steaks. When’s the last time you had a steak?”

  McBeth laughed and said, “A long time.”

  “Come on,” Clint said, “it’s on me.”

  “On you?”

  “I mean that I’ll pay,” Clint said. “For the dinner. And I’ll get you a good price on a room. Come on. We’ll talk over a couple of thick steaks.”

  McBeth shrugged and they went inside.

  The Black Diamond was a smaller version of the grand hotels and gambling halls on the square. It catered to the crowd that existed between the plushness of Portsmouth Square and the squalor of the Barbary Coast.

  Clint had been staying at the Black Diamond for four days, taking most of his meals there. He usually got the same waiter, Billy, and he was glad to see the young man again.

  “Billy,” he said, “my new friend needs a thick steak, and I’ll take one, too.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Adams. He just get to town?”

  “Just got off the boat, Billy,” Clint said. “And we’ll take a couple of cold beers to go with it.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “Adams?” McBeth asked. “That’s your name?”

  “Clint Adams, yeah,” Clint said.

  “And what are you doing in San Francisco?” McBeth asked. “You said on the dock you were lookin’ for someone. Who was it?”

  “Just somebody who was supposed to have some information for me.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you wearing a gun?” Clint asked. “I think I can see a rig under your coat.”

  “Aye, I wear one,” McBeth said, “but that feller with the gun got the drop on me, so now I have a holster and no weapon. It’s in the water.” He held his coat open to show the empty holster.

  “That won’t be a problem to replace,” Clint said, “unless it was a favorite of yours.”

  “Don’t have favorite guns, Mr. Adams,” McBeth said. “It’s just a tool to me.”

  “Probably a good way to think of them,” Clint said.

  Billy came back with two cold beers and set them down on the table.

  “Steaks are comin’ up, gents.”

  “Good, Billy, good,” Clint said.

  McBeth wasted no time picking up the beer and drinking half of it down.

  “Oh, aye,” he said, setting it down, “I needed that, I did.”

  Clint drank some of his and also set the mug down.

  “You want to tell me about this fellow you’re hunting?” Clint asked. “Maybe I can help.”

  “How long have you been here?” McBeth asked.

  “About four days.”

  “The man I’m after probably got here about a week ago.”

  “Maybe he stayed in San Francisco long enough for me to spot him.”

  “His name is Jamie Dolan.”

  “Jamie?”

  “It’s an Irish name.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Big, ugly, mid-thirties,” McBeth said. “Likes to kill with his hands.”

  “Who?” Clint asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean who does he like to kill?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, women and children.”

  “Children?”

  “Young girls mostly.”

  Clint shook his head.

  “I can’t understand men like that,” he said, “and I’ve known a lot of them.”

  “This one’s an animal.”

  “Why did he come to this country?”

  “He knows I’m following him,” McBeth said. “Wherever he goes, he knows I’ll follow.”

  “But why come here?”

  “Because this gets me away from the other Garda—from my colleagues. Here it’s just him an’ me.”

  “And that suits you?”

  “That suits me just fine.”

  “Here ya go, Mr. Adams.” Billy set their plates down in front of them. “Fresh beers?”

  “Yeah, Billy, thanks,” Clint said.

  The young waiter left. McBeth cut into his steak, stuck a huge chunk into his mouth. He chewed, regarding Clint across the table.

  “What is it?” Clint asked.

  “Adams . . .” McBeth paused. “Clint Adams. Why do I know that name?”

  “Give it some thought.”

  They tucked into their steaks, and halfway through the meal McBeth sat back and said, “Saints preserve us.”

  “You got it?”

  “Even as far away as Ireland we’ve heard of the Gunsmith,” McBeth said. “I thought that draw of yours was fast. Fastest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Lots of fast-draw artists in Ireland?” Clint asked.

  McBeth laughed.

  “No,” he said, “not a lot.”

  “So wait until you see some others here,” Clint said, “before you rush to judgment.”

  FIVE

  After the meal, both men pushed their plates away and sat back. When the waiter appeared, Clint asked McBeth, “Coffee?”

  “Is it good?”

  “Passable.”

  McBeth looked at the waiter.

  “Black.”

  “Same as Mr. Adams,” Billy said. “Comin’ up.”

  “Well, I described Jamie to you,” McBeth said. “Do you think you’ve seen him?”

  “Can’t say,” Clint answered. “Big and ugly matches too many men I know. How do you expect to find him?”

  “I’ll find him,” McBeth said. “It’s what I do. I hunt men.”

  “Like a bounty hunter?”

  “I told you,” McBeth said, “I am a lawman.”

  “Not here, you’re not,” Clint said.

  “That’s true enough,” McBeth said, “but I don’t intend to take any money when I find Jamie Dolan.”

  “What do you intend to take?” Clint asked.

  “His life.”

  After coffee they went out to the front desk and Clint got McBeth a room. The desk clerk—a young man named Ben who looked just like Billy, the waiter, because they were brothers—knew that Clint was friends with the owner, Lucky Hansen. So when Clint told him to give McBeth a room, he did it.

  “Stow your bag in your room,” Clint said, “and we can go and get you a gun.”

  “Why you doin’ this for me, Clint?” McBeth asked.

  “You’re a visiting lawman from another country,” Clint said. “I’m just trying to show you some hospitality.”

  Clint remained in the lobby while McBeth went up to his room. During Clint’s wait, Lucky Hansen came out of his office. Hansen, who recently turned fifty, had been a gambler all his life. Now he was trying his hand at running a hotel—not that he was giving up the gambling.

  “Where you been?” he asked Clint.

  “Me?” Clint asked. “Why, Lucky, I’ve been out making a new friend.”

  “Ain’t you got enough friends?”

  “How many is enough, Lucky?”

  “Well,” Lucky said, “consi
derin’ you’d go to the wall for a friend, I’d say you got too many already. Where’d you pick this one up?”

  “The docks.”

  “What was he doin’ there?”

  “Getting off a boat from Ireland.”

  “An Irishman?”

  “That’s who usually comes from Ireland.”

  “And what did he do to earn your friendship and help?” Lucky asked.

  “He needed a friend,” Clint said. “I just decided to give him the help.”

  Lucky shook his head.

  “Always buyin’ into other people’s trouble, Clint,” he said. “That’s gonna get you killed one of these days. I’ll lay odds.”

  Clint laughed.

  “That’s not a bet I’m willing to take, Lucky,” he said. “I’m going to die from a bullet before I die in bed. I resigned myself to that a long time ago.”

  “Me,” Lucky said, “I’m gonna die at a poker table. I prefer it to either of your options.”

  SIX

  Jamie Dolan flipped the girl over on her back. He didn’t know what excited him more, her big tits or her split lip. He finally decided it was the split lip. God had given her the tits, but he’d given her that.

  He reached down with his big hands and grabbed her breasts. He pinched her nipples, hard enough to make her bite her lip, to force tears from her eyes.

  His huge penis was poking her. Her eyes were afraid. She thought he was too big for her. Surely, if he tried to put it in her it would hurt and maybe even damage her.

  “Please . . .” she said.

  “Please what?”

  “Please . . . don’t . . .”

  He squeezed her breasts tighter, grinning.

  “I like when they beg.”

  He removed one hand from her breast, slid it down her body. Even though she was small—barely five feet—she had a voluptuous body. She was like a child and a woman at the same time.

  He slid his finger into her, wiggled it around. She became wet in spite of herself.

  She was barely nineteen, but he knew she was no virgin for the simple reason that she had been sent over from the whorehouse. Unless this was her first time—but he doubted it. Sure, she felt tight, but she’d been fucked before.

  Only not the way she was about to be.

  He grabbed her thighs, spread them open, and drove his rigid penis into her. Her eyes widened and she screamed—not from pleasure but from pain.

  Which was his pleasure . . .

  Later, he flipped her over again. She was limp, but it didn’t matter to him. He withdrew from her, glistening with her juices. He pressed the wet tip of his penis to her ass, spread her cheeks and pushed. The spongy head spread her anus, entered, and then was followed by the hard shaft.

  “Oh, God . . .” she moaned, because she was too weak to scream anymore.

  He lifted her up onto her hands and knees, grabbed her hips, and began to fuck her brutally.

  “There ya go,” he said, with glee. “Come on, lass. Love it!”

  She moaned again . . .

  Dolan stood at the window of his room, looked down at the Barbary Coast. As soon as he’d gotten off the ship that had brought him here, he recognized the coast as his kind of place. Behind him the girl lay curled up on the bed, crying softly.

  “Finish yer cryin’, gal, then get dressed, and get out.”

  “I-I can’t walk.”

  He laughed.

  “I figured I fucked you stupid,” he said, “but now you can’t walk either?”

  “N-no.”

  He turned to look at her. There was some blood on the sheet. Perhaps she had been a virgin, after all. Or maybe he’d just torn her up inside. He thought about killing her, but that would have started him off on the wrong foot in this new country.

  “I’ll go and get somebody to help you,” he said. Then he laughed and added, “Wait here.”

  He got dressed and left the room.

  In the lobby the desk clerk shuddered when he saw Jamie Dolan coming down the stairs. The man frightened him to death.

  “You!” Dolan said.

  “Y-yes.”

  “Send for someone from the whorehouse,” he said. “The poor bitch can’t walk.” He laughed and cupped his crotch. “Ya ever fuck a gal so she can’t walk, lad?”

  “N-no sir.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  The clerk was about thirty, but looked younger. He also—as far as Dolan was concerned—was so slight he looked more like a girl than a man.

  “I need somebody to get that gal outta my room . . . quick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dolan pointed a thick finger at the clerk.

  “Don’t make me wait too long, boy.”

  “No, s-sir.”

  “I’m goin’ back up,” Dolan said. “If somebody ain’t here in ten minutes ta get her, I’ll toss her out the window. And then I’ll come back for you. Understand?”

  “I-I understand.”

  Dolan grinned.

  “There’s a good lad,” he said, and then went back up the steps.

  SEVEN

  “It feels odd,” McBeth said.

  He was talking about the Western rig sitting around his waist.

  “Wear it a little lower,” Clint said.

  “Like this?”

  “You’ll be able to get it out more quickly,” Clint said.

  McBeth touched the Peacemaker in his holster and said, “I can see that.”

  “And you can stop wearing the empty rig around your shoulders.”

  “Yes. That would be good.”

  “It’s getting late,” Clint said. “You probably want to get some rest.”

  “Yes,” McBeth said, “I’ve been on the move for a very long time.”

  “Tomorrow you can get some new clothes,” Clint said.

  “I won’t need to take up any more of your time for that,” McBeth said. “You must have . . . a life?”

  “Well, yes, actually, I do,” Clint said. “I was planning on leaving tomorrow, since the person I was supposed to meet has apparently changed his mind.”

  “Then you should go,” McBeth said. “I’ll start my huntin’ tomorrow.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “if your hunting leads you out West, we may meet again.”

  “And if it leads me out East?”

  “Much less likely,” Clint said.

  “Well, then,” James McBeth said, “I hope it’ll lead me out West.”

  Jamie Dolan slammed the door to his room. The two men who had come from the whorehouse to retrieve the girl had barely gotten through the doorway in time.

  He turned, looked at the bedsheet with some of the girl’s blood on it. That didn’t bother him. Back in Ireland he had bathed in the blood of his victims. It wouldn’t bother him to sleep in it. In point of fact, he enjoyed the smell. It was sweet to him—especially the scent of a young girl’s blood.

  Dolan was naked. He hadn’t bothered to cover himself when the men from the whorehouse arrived. Hell, they worked in a cathouse. They’d seen naked men before.

  Of course, probably not like him. He looked in the mirror at himself. His chest was covered with a mat of black hair. He looked down. His penis jutted from a mass of black hair, and hair covered his legs as well. A woman had once—affectionately—called him a bear. That was before he’d fucked her and killed her.

  He turned and went to the bed, lay down on his back. His penis stood straight up. Maybe he should have sent for another woman. But no, he needed to get some sleep because tomorrow he’d start his journey. The Barbary Coast had been nice, but he knew James McBeth would be on his trail, and he wasn’t quite ready to face him. Not yet. There was still a lot to be done.

  He reached down, stroked his thickening manhood. He didn’t have time to send for a woman, so he’d have to take care of the thing himself. That was okay. He wouldn’t have to get rid of the woman after.

  He took care of his need, then rolled over. He hoped he’d fall asleep before the damn thing started demanding attention again.

  He really had no control over it.

  No control, at all.

  Clint looked out the window of his own room, thinking about what Lucky Hansen had said to him about getting involved in other people’s troubles.

  When he saw what was happening on the dock—four against one—there was no way he could have just sat by and watched. So he dealt himself in. Then, when he found out that McBeth was a lawman—the man had shown him credentials over their meal, even though they meant nothing in this country—he felt the need to get the man properly outfitted to deal with America, and to get him a room so he could get some rest.