The Killing Look Page 3

  Cade heard the sound of footsteps scurrying down the hallway. A short woman with an unruly mop of red curls beneath a maid’s cap appeared in the doorway. She was thin, her face pinched and suspicious. She looked at Samuel with a fierce expression. When she spoke, it was with a pronounced Irish accent.

  “You can just lay off the shoutin’, Samuel Clayborne,” she snapped. “I don’t work for you.” She regarded Cade as if he was a beggar on the doorstep. “An’ who might this ruffian be?”

  Cade took the hat back off. “L.D. Cade, ma’am. I just took employment with Mr. Hamrick.”

  The woman, who Cade assumed was Bridget, snorted as if offended by the information. “And what are we supposed to do with him, is what I’m askin’.”

  “We can start with figuring out where I’m supposed to sleep,” Cade offered.

  “Well, it won’t be with me,” Bridget declared. “You can put any thought of that out of yer mind, do you hear?”

  “Can’t put that thought out of my mind, ma’am. It never entered there.”

  She scowled at him, clearly turning the words over on her head to sift for an insult. She turned away, that question still open. “He can take the red bedroom,” she called back over her shoulder. “It’s already made up.”

  Cade looked at Samuel, who regarded Bridget’s retreating back with baleful eyes before turning to Cade. “I guess you can follow me.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cade followed Samuel up the stairs to the second floor, then turned left down a long, dim hallway. A stained-glass window set high in the end of the hall provided the only illumination. He stopped at the last door on the left, swung it open, and walked away, brushing past Cade without speaking further. Cade watched him go for a moment, then entered the room and looked around.

  The red bedroom lived up to its name. The deep scarlet flocked wallpaper and the peacock feathers in a large urn by the bed reminded him uncomfortably of a New Orleans cathouse. He walked over to the window, looked down on the street a story below, and wondered what in the ever-living hell he was doing here. There was something about the atmosphere of this house that put him on edge. No one seemed happy, and certainly no one appeared pleased to see him.

  The door opened behind him and he turned, instinctively putting a hand on the butt of the Colt pistol. Samuel came in, staggering a little under the weight of the clothing he had slung across his shoulders. He stopped as he noticed Cade. “These belonged to Mr. Hamrick’s former manservant. He asked me to see if they’d fit you.”

  “Thanks,” Cade said. “But before I go putting on another man’s clothes, I’d kind of like to find out what happened to him.”

  The black man’s face was like stone. “You would have to ask Mr. Hamrick.”

  “Samuel,” Cade said, “I don’t want to pry, but I feel like I need to ask. Have I done somethin’ in particular to get under your fingernails or are you just this angry all the damn time?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  Cade shook his head in frustration. “Awright. But we can at least be civil. That too hard?”

  “Sir,” Samuel said as he went to the door, “I am always civil.” With that, he left.

  “Prickly bastard,” Cade muttered. He briefly considered picking up his trunk, hauling it down to the street, and catching the first ride out of this place. But ten dollars a week… He sighed. Many men have lost their way here over the glitter of gold, the parson had said. Cade didn’t think he’d ever lost his way, but that was more because there hadn’t been that much glitter on offer. This town was all about gold. It has been a sleepy seaside village, he’d heard, before the glitter was found in the nearby hills, and now look at it. If that’s what gold could do, Cade thought he might need to give this losing his way thing a try.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The seawater scent of fish from the front of the shop hung in the air, making McMurphy want to gag. He hated dealing with these yellow heathens, even if their interests did overlap at the moment. He cleared his throat and spoke.

  “I’m not pleased with the pace of things,” he said to the man behind the curtain, who he could only see in silhouette.

  He saw the shadow moving. There was a brief glow, like a match being struck, and a slow intake of breath that let him know the man behind the curtain had lit and was drawing on one of the long clay pipes the Chinese favored. McMurphy scowled. Was the man smoking opium? While discussing business? But when the man behind the curtain spoke, his voice was free of the dreamy slurring of the opium smoker.

  “You are too impatient,” the man behind the curtain said, his voice clear, high pitched, with a heavy accent. “Things are moving at their own pace.”

  “Hamrick knows something is brewing. He’s hired some gunslinger to protect him.”

  “Yes.”

  McMurphy heard the man draw on the pipe again. “This doesn’t bother you?”

  “No.” The word hung in the air. The shadow on the curtain didn’t move. Just as McMurphy was reaching the end of his patience, the man spoke. “Hamrick has taken a step he thinks will make him safe. Now, he will relax.” Another puff on the pipe. “Things are proceeding as they are meant to proceed.”

  McMurphy wanted to grind his teeth. “I haven’t got time for your mystical Chinese bullshit.” And I’m running out of money.

  “Mr. McMurphy.” The voice was still soft, but the force behind it drew McMurphy up short. “You would be well advised to remember to whom you are speaking.”

  McMurphy felt suddenly cold. He’d heard stories of what this man was capable of, of enemies having their limbs chopped off one by one and set up still alive on pedestals to serve as warnings. Of enemies skinned alive and thrown into pits of maggots to be devoured screaming. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But Hamrick cheated me. Ruined me. I want some justice.” And a piece of his fortune. A big piece.

  “You will have it,” the man said. “And a lesson will be taught that will not be soon forgotten. You have my word on that. Just be patient.”

  There was nothing else McMurphy could say. He saw himself out, through the long corridor that led to this back room in one of the shops that dotted Chinatown. The bins on the street outside that usually held a variety of fish and shellfish were empty, only the lingering and pervasive scent remaining. The Chinese in the street looked away from him as he walked through the bustling streets lined with shops and businesses that advertised themselves in a riot of colorful Chinese lettering. This may have been their territory, but there was no profit in antagonizing an unknown gwai loh. Not in this city. Not at this time.

  Lost in angry reverie, McMurphy barely took notice of where he was until he stood before the steps of his boarding house. Like he had a hundred times before, he looked the exterior over with an angry eye: the peeling paint; the missing shutter on a downstairs window; the warped boards. He deserved better. His father deserved better. But the last of his once sizable bank balance was going to grease the wheels of his revenge.

  His father. He realized he wasn’t sure how long the old man had been left alone. He mounted the steps to the front door two at a time and did the same on the interior stairs. He was relieved when he opened the door and saw his father sitting by the window, looking out on the street. Relief turned to dismay as he saw the clerical collar and parson’s hat. He caught the faint whiff of horse manure as he drew closer, then saw the shit caked on his father’s black boots.

  “Daddy,” he said, keeping his voice even, “did you go out?”

  His father turned toward him. With rising dread, McMurphy looked into the watery blue eyes, wondering if he’d see recognition there. That had been hit or miss in the past month.

  “Patrick,” his father said. Well, that was something. The next words, however, filled him with dread. “I tried to talk some sense into that man.”

  “What man, Daddy?” McMurphy knelt by his father and began pulling off the soiled black boots, nose w
rinkling at the smell. Getting the boots off didn’t make the aroma any better.

  “That man. Hamrick’s man. The gunslinger.”

  McMurphy dropped the boot he was holding and looked up, aghast. “You spoke to him? You let him know who you are?”

  His father reached out with a trembling hand and squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. He doesn’t know me from Adam’s off ox.”

  McMurphy wasn’t reassured. “What did you say?”

  His father smiled beatifically. “I let him know he was following a bad man. That his immortal soul was in danger.” He looked at the expression on McMurphy’s face and his religious fervor crumpled. “I felt it was my duty to try.”

  McMurphy stood up, trying to restrain his rage. He reached out and took his father’s stubbled chin between ungentle fingers. “Now you listen here, Daddy,” he grated, “you leave Hamrick to me. That includes his family, and it especially includes anyone who’s working for him. And their immortal souls? Damnation is too good for them.”

  The old man blinked. “I…I can’t…”

  “You do as I say,” McMurphy said, “or go find your own way. Live in the street for all I goddamn care.” He hated himself for the fear he saw in his father’s eyes and for the tears he saw there. Still, it was necessary.

  “How?” the old man whispered. “How did I raise a child so full of hate?”

  “You didn’t raise me that way, Daddy,” McMurphy said. He released his father’s chin. “Life made me this way. Life and Hamrick.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In the back room of the fish shop in Chinatown, a man stood up and pulled aside the curtain he’d been hidden behind. He arched his back, the tendons popping and stretching. A young Chinese girl appeared in the doorway. “He is gone?” she asked in English.

  The man nodded. He reached down into a satchel beside where he’d been sitting and drew out a pair of gold dollars. “Yes. Thank your grandparents for the use of the room.” He held out the coins. “As always.”

  She didn’t take the coins. Her dark eyes regarded him with a suspicion he’d been expecting for some time.

  “They want to know,” the girl said, “why a man would pretend to be Chinese when he is not.”

  “Except they didn’t say ‘man,’ did they?” he asked. “They said gwai loh. White devil.”

  The girl looked away. “It is just an expression.”

  “I’m sure.” The man who was not Chinese looked amused. “Why do you think?”

  “I am only a stupid girl,” she said. “I wouldn’t know.”

  This time he laughed out loud. “Oh, little flower,” he said, using the English rendering of Mei, her given name, “you are far from stupid.” His smile vanished and he spoke to her in harsh Mandarin. “Answer my question. What is it that you think I’m up to?”

  She looked back at him defiantly and answered in the same language. “I think you’re going to do something bad. And blame it on the Chinese. People here hate us anyway.”

  He regarded her without expression. He really should kill her, he mused. She was far too perceptive to let live. But he found her intelligence intriguing. Most of white San Francisco regarded the Chinese as savage brutes, barely human. This girl, quick-witted and suspicious, made him question that. And she was pretty. It was a combination he found enticing.

  “Don’t worry.” He’d switched back to English. “Whatever else may happen, I assure you. No harm will come to you and your family. You have my word.”

  The suspicion never left the girl’s face, but she reached out her hand. He smiled as he put the coins in it. Everyone had a key, a desire that would unlock them. The key to McMurphy was his hatred and lust for vengeance. The key to Mei, he decided, was not the desire for gold, however her greed might appear on the surface. It was the need for safety. Understandable for someone whose life was so precarious. As he picked up his hat and nodded his farewell, he contemplated what further use he might make of a pretty, smart girl. And when he was done…he flexed his long, strong fingers in anticipation. There would always be the pleasure involved in disposing of her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cade had tried several of the suits that Samuel delivered to him. Whoever the previous owner had been, he’d been shorter and skinnier than Cade, and he split two pairs of trousers before he gave up. When Samuel appeared in the door again, Cade was dressed in the clothes he’d arrived in. He looked at the pile of delivered clothing on the bed and back at Cade with a heavy sigh.

  “Sorry I ain’t littler,” Cade said sourly.

  Samuel didn’t speak or change expression. He walked over, gathered up the pile, and walked out with it. He struggled a bit, but Cade had had enough of trying to be nice to the stiff-necked son of a bitch and didn’t offer to help.

  His next visitor was the girl, Bridget, carrying an armful of towels. “Mr. Hamrick says you’re to have a bath.”

  Cade looked around. “So, where’s the tub?”

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “Have ye been so long in the wilderness, then?” She crossed the room to a door Cade had assumed was a closet and flung it wide. “Here.”

  Cade walked over slowly and took in the room. A large ceramic tub with faucets perched over it took up one side of the space. To the other side was an enclosed space with a half-open door. Cade hadn’t seen an indoor jakes in some time, and in his experience, they tended to be unpredictable and inferior in sanitation to the simpler outdoor variety. Bridget noticed his dubious look. “The latest in siphonic water closets, I’ll have ya know,” she snapped.

  Cade had no idea what that meant. “Okay.”

  Bridget dropped the towels on a table by the door. “Get cleaned up. Mister’s tailor will be along directly to fit you for a new suit of clothes.” She bustled out without looking back. Cade sighed. He’d paid for a bath a week ago at his boarding house, and he wasn’t due for another for some time, but he supposed there was no harm in having one now, especially for free.

  It took him a few minutes to figure out the taps, but before long he was soaking luxuriously in the tub, scrubbing the sweat and grime of the last week away. When he finally exited the water closet, rubbing his chest with the towel, he was stunned to see a man perched on the edge of the bed, smiling ingratiatingly. He quickly wrapped the towel around his waist. “Who the hell are you?”

  The man jumped off the bed, still smiling, and Cade could see he was truly small, a hair over four feet tall. His suit, however, fit him perfectly. When he spoke, it was in an accent Cade had learned to associate with upper-class Englishmen. “My name is Simonson. Mr. Hamrick asked me to fit you for some new clothes.” He bent to a satchel on the floor and pulled out a tape measure.

  “Well, sonny, do y’mind if I put on some of my old ones first?”

  The smile vanished. “I’m forty-one years old, sir. I would appreciate not being called ‘sonny.’ If you don’t mind.”

  Jesus, Cade thought, does everybody in this town have some kind of stick up their ass? “Okay,” he said. “But can I at least put on my drawers?”

  The smile had returned, a little less enthusiastic and more professional than before. “That would be fine.”

  Cade hurriedly pulled his undergarments on, suddenly self-conscious about how ragged and malodorous they’d become. “Guess I’m going to need some of these, too.”

  “Yes,” Simonson said dryly. “I’d say so.” He gestured to the middle of the room. “Stand there, please.”

  Feeling like a man in a bad dream, Cade stood where he was told, raised his hands when he was told, turned this way and that when he was told, as the tailor measured his chest, his waist, his neck, and his inseam. Cade felt more than a little uncomfortable at that part, so he tried to lighten the moment. “I knew a midget in Tulsa once,” he said. “Worked in a bar down on…OW! Goddamn it!”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Simonson said with transparently false sincerity. “I’m so clumsy sometimes.” He held
up the large-headed pin he’d “accidentally” jabbed into Cade’s thigh.

  “Okay, okay,” Cade muttered. He just wanted this ordeal over with. The tailor returned to his work, quickly and silently finishing his measurements. When he was done, he nodded. “I can get you completely kitted out in three days.” He looked over to where Cade’s old clothes were laid across the bed and made a face. “In this case, I shall endeavor to accomplish it in two.”

  “Thanks,” Cade said. “But don’t put yourself out.”

  “I’m not. I just can’t bear the thought of you wandering the city in the company of my other client, by which I mean Mr. Hamrick, dressed like that.”

  “Now wait a damn minute,” Cade began to protest, but the tailor broke in.

  “Here, now.” He walked over to where Cade’s pistol and gun belt lay in the untidy pile of clothes on the bed. “Are you intending to wear that,” he gestured at the Colt, “as part of your employment?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  The little man sighed. “No one tells me anything.” He gestured at the center of the room again. “We have to do all the measurements over again for proper fit. And I have a leatherworker next door to my shop who can design you a shoulder rig for better concealment.”

  “That’s okay,” Cade said. “I’m used to it on my hip.”

  The tailor nodded. “And thanks to the late influx of,” he made that face again, “Celestials, open carry of firearms is not only legal again, but back en vogue.”

  “Celestials?”

  “Chinamen.” Simonson said it like a curse. “Do you carry a blade as well? A second firearm?”

  “Been known to,” Cade said. He thought of the little derringer he’d taken.

  “Show them to me.”

  Bristling a little at the tone, Cade fished the little derringer out of his coat, then rummaged through his trunk for his knife. The tailor took them, looked them over, then nodded as he handed them back. “We can fit you with pockets to conceal those as well. Now, if you’ll stand back where you were before.”