This Gun for Hire Read Free Page B

some more, and heaved him onto the bed together. Whit made unintelligible guttural sounds but never woke up.
    “He’s a big one,” Quill said. “What did you use to put him down?” When she did not answer, he surveyed the room again, overlooking the scattered clothes and gun belt this time. His eyes fell on the whiskey bottle on the bedside table and the twin tumblers beside it. Only one of the tumblers still had whiskey in it. “Remind me not to drink from that bottle.”
    “Suit yourself.” She picked up the glass that held a generous finger of liquor and knocked it back. Smiling ever so slightly, she replaced the tumbler on the table.
    Eyeing the bottle again, Quill said, “I don’t suppose he is worth laying a bottle of good whiskey to waste, not when you can drop chloral hydrate into his drink.”
    She gave him no direct response, pointing to the door instead. “You are supposed to tell Mrs. Fry about getting Joe Pepper.”
    “Right. The sheriff.” His eyes darted briefly to Whitfield. “He’s going to come around soon, a big man like that. Will you be—” He did not finish his sentence because she gave him a withering look. “I am going now.”
    Quill did not have an opportunity to close the door; she closed it for him. He had not yet taken two steps when he heard the telltale sounds of a chair banging against the door and then being fitted securely under the knob. Shaking his head, he went in search of Mrs. Fry and discovered that the twin parlors on the first floor were largely deserted.
    Honey, he saw, had found another lap to warm. He meant to give her a wide berth, but she put out a hand to stop him when he would have walked by. “If you’re looking for Mrs. Fry, she’s gone for the sheriff herself. I warned you not to interfere.”
    He frowned. “What are you saying? She’s not bringing the sheriff here for me.”
    “You certain about that?”
    “He’s coming for Whitfield.”
    Honey shrugged, dropping her hand. “Two birds. One stone.”
    Quill looked to Honey’s companion for confirmation, but the lanky cowboy had his face in the curve of her neck and was rooting like a piglet to his mama’s teat. He regarded Honey’s guileless expression and wondered what he could believe. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “I’ll take my chances.”
    She merely smiled and ruffled her cowboy’s hair. “Upstairs, lover. You can nuzzle at your leisure.”
    Quill stood back as the pair got to their feet. He watched Honey pull her cowboy along just as she had pulled on him. It was as choreographed a move as any he had seen in a Chicago dance hall, and while he could appreciate, even admire, the practice needed to acquire the skill that made such moments appear spontaneous, he had a deeper regardfor those moments between a man and a woman that
were
spontaneous.
    He turned away before Honey and her new partner reached the stairs. No one was at the piano. The brothel was as quiet as it had been when Whit came calling. He approached a pair of whores drinking beer in a dark corner of the main parlor. Although they looked up when he came upon them, neither gave an indication they welcomed his attention. Just the opposite was true. Their expressions were identically sullen.
    “Mrs. Fry,” he said. “Where can I find her?” At first, Quill thought they did not mean to answer him, but then they traded glances, shrugged simultaneously, and pointed to the front door.
    “She’s really gone for Joe Pepper?” he asked.
    They nodded, and the one with a drooping green velvet ribbon in her hair was moved to add, “Had to, what with you causin’ such a fuss. The menfolk that took off kicked up dust like stampeding cattle. You cost us some earnings there.”
    The whore who wore a cameo pendant around her neck said, “The ones who stayed skedaddled to the rooms. I expect they’re under the beds, not on them.”
    Quill frowned, but he said, “All right. I suppose you can tell the sheriff that I am