Read Online Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens by Jake Logan - Free Book Online Page B

posse and go after John Slocum.
    A thousand dollars would buy a passel of drinks at the Socorro Saloon.

9
    Wilbur Scroggs slipped into his gold brocade vest and admired himself in the full-length mirror in his office on the second floor of the Socorro Saloon. The mirror was attached to one door of the wardrobe, and there were two such mirrors attached on the inside of both doors. Scroggs opened both doors and stepped between them. Now he could see his back reflected in one and his front in the other. He turned in a full circle.
    â€œStill too fat,” he decided.
    â€œJust a little at the belt,” a feminine voice replied. “That is a sign of success in Mexico.”
    Miranda Echeverria spoke from the sofa, where she reclined like some Mexican statue, her black stockinged legs stretched out, one cocked at an angle so that her short skirt slid down to her hips.
    â€œThe paunch?” Scroggs said. “It’s a curse. I can’t get rid of it. Spoils my profile.”
    â€œYou look good, Willie,” Miranda assured him.
    She was a black-haired beauty, with dark sloe eyes and a flawless neck encircled by a red velvet choker. She had long black hair and the horse’s tail was secured by two tortoiseshell barrettes, polished to a high amber sheen. She spoke with the accent of her native Jalisco, where she was born.
    â€œThat gut will go away once I put on my coat,” Scroggs said, more to the mirror than to Miranda.
    â€œYou look very splendid, Willie,” Miranda said. “ Muy guapo .”
    â€œThem Mex words sound like some kind of disease,” he said in a humorless tone.
    â€œThey sound very pretty in Spanish.”
    There was a knock on the door. Scroggs slipped into his gray coat with velvet trim and continued to admire himself in the twin mirrors.
    â€œSee who it is, Miranda,” he said.
    She swung her legs off the sofa and walked to the door. A small balding man wearing a string tie and red garters on the sleeves of his white shirt stood at the door.
    â€œThe Chinaman’s here,” he said.
    Miranda turned to Scroggs.
    â€œWillie?”
    â€œSend him up, Freddie,” Scroggs said.
    â€œYes, sir,” Freddie Wilcox said, and turned on his heel. Miranda left the door open and they both heard Freddie’s footsteps thud in an uneven tempo on the carpeted stairs. A few minutes later, a small Chinese man trudged up the stairs with mouse-like furtiveness, his head turning to look down at the saloon floor, his eyes blinking as if they were afflicted with a nervous tic.
    â€œHello, missy,” Wu Chen Fong said as he reached the door.
    â€œCome in, Wu Chen,” she said. She closed the door as Wu Chen quick-stepped to the table. He was dressed in a tight black pin-striped suit that made him look like a diminutive banker.
    â€œWhat have you got for me, Wu Chen?” Scroggs said as he stepped away from the mirrors and closed both of the wardrobe doors.
    â€œOh, very good opium, Mr. Scroggs,” Wu Chen said. “Very good quality.”
    â€œLet’s see it,” Scroggs said.
    Wu Chen opened the drab carpetbag and began pulling apothecary bottles from its innards. Strands of cotton trailed like smoke wisps from the bottles, indicators of the bedding in which he had placed them. He produced the bottles like a magician pulling objects from a top hat, his eyes animated in his acorn-shaped face with his small derby an almost comical allusion to that image. With delicate fingers, he arranged the bottles in a row like pawns on a chessboard, as if realizing that he was displaying secrets to human consciousness that could only be obtained by a selected few, for a price.
    â€œAh, you see,” Wu Chen said as he passed a hand over the bottles, “I bring you the essence of the poppies that grew in China only few months ago.”
    â€œIs that all you brought, Wu Chen?” Scroggs asked, as if to deflate Wu Chen’s confidence in his