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Authors: Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller
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in to her. And brought it back in less than two minutes. “Miss DeBrett does not wish to see you and requests that you do not call here again,” she said, and closed the door firmly in Sabina’s face.
7
QUINCANNON
Quincannon’s humor was black and smoldering when he left his rooms Saturday morning. In addition to the indignities he had suffered the night before—a mushy and painful wound on his temple where Bob Cantwell had clubbed him, a knot on his forehead from his collision with the fence, torn and beer-drenched clothing, and despite a bath, the faint lingering scent of a derelict—he had spent a mostly sleepless night. Cantwell would pay and pay dear when he got his hands on the little weasel. A $3,500 reward for professional services rendered was all well and good, but there were also satisfactions to be had in repaying thumps and lumps in kind.
Hammond Realtors, Battery Street, was not open for business—a slipshod operation, in Quincannon’s opinion, if its doors remained closed on Saturdays. From there he went to Drake’s Rest, but Cantwell had not returned to the lodging house even long enough to gather up his belongings. Yet another silver dollar bribe to the harridan owner bought Quincannon entry to Cantwell’s room, which he searched quickly and fruitlessly. There was nothing there to suggest where the young fool might have fled to, or to further link him to the Wells, Fargo Express robbery and the whereabouts of the man named Zeke and the missing money.
His next stop was the Western Union office, where he sent a wire to Clem Holloway at the Holloway Detective Agency in Los Angeles requesting information on Jack Travers—current address, criminal record, any known alliances in San Francisco. He and Holloway had exchanged business favors in the past; Clem knew almost as much about the Southern California underworld as Quincannon did about Northern California’s, and would respond with all possible dispatch.
Quincannon’s mood continued to darken as the morning progressed. A visit to Ezra Bluefield at the Scarlet Lady proved futile; the deadfall owner could tell him nothing about Cantwell or Jack Travers, or who the Kid or Zeke might be, the monikers being not uncommon among Barbary Coast and other underworld denizens. Bluefield promised to put the word out on Cantwell, but without his usual enthusiasm. Favors as repayment for the debts he owed only went so far for a man of his hard-bitten temperament—even more hardbitten since his unsuccessful bid to purchase a more respectable saloon in the Uptown Tenderloin—and it was plain that he was beginning to feel put upon. Quincannon warned himself to be careful not to ask too much too often in the future.
During his years with the U.S. Secret Service and then as a private investigator, he had made the acquaintance of a long list of minor criminals, both in and out of the Barbary Coast, who were willing to peddle information for cash. But he had no more luck with any of these he managed to locate. Not even the most reliable, the bunco steerer known as Breezy Ned and the “blind” newspaper vendor called Slewfoot, had any information for him. Nor did Charles Riley at the House of Chance. Riley had not seen Cantwell since the clerk’s abortive attempt to sell him information about the Wells, Fargo robbery in exchange for gambling credit; wherever Cantwell had gone to roll the bones the night before, it had not been to the Tenderloin.
Quincannon had his lunch, as he often did, at Hoolihan’s Saloon on Second Street. Hoolihan’s had been his favorite watering hole during his drinking days and he continued to patronize it because it was an honest place, both staff and regular customers friendly, a challenging game of pool or billiards could always be had, and the free lunch was of a higher standard than many. Usually his appetite was prodigious; in his present gloomy state, he managed to down only two corned beef-and-cheese sandwiches and
7
QUINCANNON
Quincannon’s humor was black and smoldering when he left his rooms Saturday morning. In addition to the indignities he had suffered the night before—a mushy and painful wound on his temple where Bob Cantwell had clubbed him, a knot on his forehead from his collision with the fence, torn and beer-drenched clothing, and despite a bath, the faint lingering scent of a derelict—he had spent a mostly sleepless night. Cantwell would pay and pay dear when he got his hands on the little weasel. A $3,500 reward for professional services rendered was all well and good, but there were also satisfactions to be had in repaying thumps and lumps in kind.
Hammond Realtors, Battery Street, was not open for business—a slipshod operation, in Quincannon’s opinion, if its doors remained closed on Saturdays. From there he went to Drake’s Rest, but Cantwell had not returned to the lodging house even long enough to gather up his belongings. Yet another silver dollar bribe to the harridan owner bought Quincannon entry to Cantwell’s room, which he searched quickly and fruitlessly. There was nothing there to suggest where the young fool might have fled to, or to further link him to the Wells, Fargo Express robbery and the whereabouts of the man named Zeke and the missing money.
His next stop was the Western Union office, where he sent a wire to Clem Holloway at the Holloway Detective Agency in Los Angeles requesting information on Jack Travers—current address, criminal record, any known alliances in San Francisco. He and Holloway had exchanged business favors in the past; Clem knew almost as much about the Southern California underworld as Quincannon did about Northern California’s, and would respond with all possible dispatch.
Quincannon’s mood continued to darken as the morning progressed. A visit to Ezra Bluefield at the Scarlet Lady proved futile; the deadfall owner could tell him nothing about Cantwell or Jack Travers, or who the Kid or Zeke might be, the monikers being not uncommon among Barbary Coast and other underworld denizens. Bluefield promised to put the word out on Cantwell, but without his usual enthusiasm. Favors as repayment for the debts he owed only went so far for a man of his hard-bitten temperament—even more hardbitten since his unsuccessful bid to purchase a more respectable saloon in the Uptown Tenderloin—and it was plain that he was beginning to feel put upon. Quincannon warned himself to be careful not to ask too much too often in the future.
During his years with the U.S. Secret Service and then as a private investigator, he had made the acquaintance of a long list of minor criminals, both in and out of the Barbary Coast, who were willing to peddle information for cash. But he had no more luck with any of these he managed to locate. Not even the most reliable, the bunco steerer known as Breezy Ned and the “blind” newspaper vendor called Slewfoot, had any information for him. Nor did Charles Riley at the House of Chance. Riley had not seen Cantwell since the clerk’s abortive attempt to sell him information about the Wells, Fargo robbery in exchange for gambling credit; wherever Cantwell had gone to roll the bones the night before, it had not been to the Tenderloin.
Quincannon had his lunch, as he often did, at Hoolihan’s Saloon on Second Street. Hoolihan’s had been his favorite watering hole during his drinking days and he continued to patronize it because it was an honest place, both staff and regular customers friendly, a challenging game of pool or billiards could always be had, and the free lunch was of a higher standard than many. Usually his appetite was prodigious; in his present gloomy state, he managed to down only two corned beef-and-cheese sandwiches and
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