Ralph Compton The Robber Barons

THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

This is respectfully dedicated to the American Cowboy. His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

—Ralph Compton

CHAPTER ONE

Two things Luke Lessing knew for certain about his boss. First, whenever he called Luke into his office, told him to shut the door, Eric Cash had some awful job to assign him. The Pinkerton Agency equivalent of finding a lost cat for a Nob Hill spinster or settling some bigwig’s son’s gambling debt to a Mission District loan shark.

The other thing Lessing knew for certain. Cash ranked levels below Luke’s contempt for the potatoes au gratin served with the lamb chops at John’s, his favorite San Francisco restaurant. He couldn’t get John’s to use Lessing’s own special recipe for a baked Idaho stuffed with buttery shrimp. That meant he had to order the spinach soufflé, pay for it as a side dish, and leave the potatoes au gratin untouched as a statement.

Eric Cash. Potatoes au gratin. Luke Lessing. Irreconcilable forces.

He responded to Cash’s summons, stood before his desk, waited for him to play out his ritual examination of some document, fiddling long enough to convey Cash’s authority. Only thing missing: Cash didn’t shoot his shirt cuffs beyond the coat sleeves. Ah, Lessing. Good of you to come. Shut the door before you sit. Lowered his voice to the secretive range. Got something I don’t want the others to hear.

Lessing closed the door as requested, returned to Cash’s desk, stood long enough to see the irritation run into Cash’s face like a soup stain on a shirt. No way he’d sit. Sir, he said, his first step in turning a command performance into a pissing contest.

If we of the Agency allowed bonuses—speaking as an equal to the Pinkerton brothers—you’d have a big one for that last job. Brilliant work. Fast, effective. A nasty shooting, but you came out unscathed. Lots of good fallout for the Agency. But bonus? No can do. In our organization, policy comes first.

Sir, Lessing said. How many times could he use that response before ol’ Eric broke the chain?

Cash pushed a file across his desk to the place he wanted Lessing to sit. The other operatives would kill for an assignment like this. Ten days at a top resort, Lessing. Nice rooms, fancy meals—a wink—creature comforts.

Sir.

No danger, Lessing. No one shooting at you like last time. Lovely people, these clients. Not a hard case among them. Lovely assignment.

Sir.

Damn it, man. I’d like some appreciation here. I’m showing you extraordinary preference.

Sir.

Cash smacked the top of his desk. If you’d sit for a moment and read the assignment description—

That an order, sir?

It’s a suggestion, man. Trying to set you up with a memorable assignment. Look what it gets me.

Impossible to ignore the opportunity. Sir. A pause to savor the trace of tension in Cash’s jawline. Already late for a meeting with a confidential informant.

A quick chorus of fingernail polka on the desktop. No operative in this office uses that excuse as often as you do.

Due respect, sir. With the possible exception of Derek James, no operative has my record for closing cases.

Will you take that damned file, read it, and give me your answer by tomorrow morning?

Is that an order, sir?

Yes, that’s a damned order. Tomorrow, Lessing. Tomorrow by nine.

*   *   *

Lessing stopped by his desk, hoping to catch Derek James across the aisle at work on a case report, to lure him away for a coffee at the Tosca. No luck. No James. No one in except Dale Sharp, the new kid from Baltimore, pounding on a noisy Sholes & Glidden typewriter. Lessing grabbed the leather portfolio issued to Pinkerton operatives to carry their case files and notes, stuffed Cash’s job description into it, marked himself out on the operatives’ bulletin board.

Next, over to Columbus and Broadway. Got a rear booth at the Tosca in order to read the damned job description in comfort, see what new assignment Eric Cash wanted him to fail at—or get so bored by that he’d turn in his badge, quit the Agency.

Fred Volpe asked if Lessing wanted a spritz of brandy in his coffee. A step toward comfort. Lessing gave a why-not? nod, pulled the job description from the folder, began to read, his lips already curling by the time Volpe brought his coffee.

That folder of yours, Volpe said. My kid, Al, he’d kill for one of those. Got it in his head to join the Pinkertons.

And you’d let him? The hell kind of father does that make you? Better to send him to Naples, let him intern with a crime family.

Volpe took nervous glances toward a group of old duffers playing dominoes with ominous smacks of the tiles on the table. Not a good subject for funning, Luke. Some of those guys, they may look old, but they still got connections.

Lessing pushed the folder across the table. Take this home to your kid. Maybe it’ll help get that nonsense out of his head while he’s still young.

Geez, Luke. That’s a big-ticket item. Generous of you and all, but I can’t let you do that.

Not so big-ticket. Two, three months ago, a pawnshop over on Polk gave me five dollars.

You hadda live on the pawn?

Not at all. Looking to see how much my association with Pinkerton brought. Go ahead. Take it. Tell him I said hi.

You’re a prince, Luke.

Hope you’re not thinking Machiavelli.

Volpe shot another nervous look toward the domino players. Southern Italians got long memories, Luke.

Not to worry. Machiavelli was from Florence.

Nevertheless. From now on, your eats and drinks here don’t cost you.

Not like that anymore, Fred. A gift’s a gift. You don’t believe me, ask old Niccolò.

No gift, this job. Cash wanted Lessing to travel to Salsipuedes, New Mexico Territory—not that it was a bad location, so far as Lessing knew. His theory about travel: You didn’t like a place, leave. Not difficult to recall dozens of places he’d done just that because the food or the people didn’t agree with him. He set the job description down, took a long hit of the coffee, waved Fred over, motioned for more brandy in the coffee.

Hey, Luke, you come in, ask for coffee, I pour coffee. You want a drink, don’t be bashful, okay?

Lessing tapped the job description on the tabletop. You want to do everything in your power to keep your kid from going to Pinkerton. They’ll break his heart. They’ll—

Easy, Luke. I’ll get your drink.

First, take a look at this. See what they want the operative with the most solved cases in the office to do for his next job. You want your kid working stuff like this?

Fred waved off the paper Lessing proffered. Making you the special, Luke. Double shot espresso, a big splash of cream, a shot of brandy, and a floater of crème de cocoa.

Bring it on, Lessing said.

This was Eric Cash’s idea of a reward? The Pinkerton recognition of his record of cases solved? Guarding the gifts for the wedding of Laird King, owner of the Elephant, a high-end saloon, and Mathilde Matty Mahood, owner of Chez Cheval. Who’d name a stud farm and horse hotel Chez Cheval? Someone who thought himself clever, that’s who. Laird King the odds-on favorite for that.

Hell with this. He took sips from the concoction Fred had made, allowed it to make a dent in the boil the Salsipuedes job had stirred within him. He decided to go back to the office. Maybe this time he’d find James. Share the awfulness of the Salsipuedes job with him, get him to join forces. They’d both quit. Small office somewhere on Telegraph Hill. Lessing and James, Investigations.

The walk through the afternoon chill to the Pinkerton office burned off some of Fred’s drink and Lessing’s temper, but not enough of either to leave Lessing where he’d hoped.

All the other operatives were out except that new kid, Sharp. The blinds in Cash’s office were closed. No clue if Cash’s coequal, Hall Bevington, roamed the premises. Bevington never closed his blinds.

He approached his desk. Maybe James had left a note. But nothing.

Hate to interrupt you, he told Sharp, which drew a lurch of surprise from the kid. Great to be able to focus like that. Didn’t mean to startle you. Been here long?

The kid flashed an uncertain look, like he expected to be accused of something. Most of the afternoon. The uncertain look spilled over into guilt. I got carried away. Look, I’m sorry.

Too long on the job to cut off this burgeoning confession or any confession under any circumstances. Lessing offered what he considered a sympathetic nod. And silence.

I’m all caught up on my work, Sharp said. I guess the temptation never goes away once it gets started. I’d be obliged if you didn’t report me.

Another thing Lessing learned on the job: how to space out the way you said Well or Okay. Allowed the person to think you were considering your options.

Okayyy, he said, but you’re going to tell me if James stopped by today, even if only for a moment.

The mention of Derek James caused the kid to speak even faster. All that furious typing he did yesterday—he came in early, started right up—got me thinking he’s in it, too.

He’s in what?

No question the kid’s face flushed. True crime. Yeah, I know. He laughed. Just like you. Said I didn’t know the half of it.

"All this typing of yours—you’re writing true crime stories?"

The kid found a convenient place on the floor to direct his attention. I’ll stop. I want to make good here. Your friend James, he said he’d keep it quiet. I assumed he’d tell you.

Last time you saw him?

Early yesterday.

How early?

Five thirty.

Made sense. Kid’s only shot at a typewriter. But James there at five thirty a.m.? Crazy.

Lessing promised to keep Sharp’s literary activities secret, decided to check the large status board showing each operative’s current assignment, with room for notes and requests for information from the other operatives.

Nothing but blanks in the Derek James column. A few chalked-in comments had been rubbed out. Directly under James’s name, Al Kirkpatrick. A bunch of squiggles and abbreviations, something to do with dog racing. Directly below that, his own name: Lucas Lessing. Salsipuedes, NM. Security.

An operatic baritone sent out a challenge that gave Lessing a jump. The living hell you doing here?

He turned to face Hall Bevington, every bit his superior as Eric Cash was, but light-years away from Cash in attitude and bearing. Hoping to find James, lure him out for a drink.

And no doubt complain about the unfairness of the Salsipuedes assignment. Right?

A nod of acknowledgment.

Bevington shrugged bearlike shoulders, but the bearlike presence remained in the man. Tell me this, lad. Do you trust me?

Of course. Because of you, I’m here in the first place. You recruited me—led me to believe—

Led you to believe you were valued for your problem-solving abilities as well as your expertise with the Colt revolver and the Remington rifle—

Henry, sir. World of difference between the Henry and the Remington.

Bevington mashed his hands together with deliberate loudness. Try not to interrupt me when I’m making a serious point on your behalf.

Which is, sir?

Ah, stop with the bloody ‘sir’ business, would you? You’ll have me thinking I’m bloody Eric Cash. My point on your behalf? You want a career with this organization, keep your answers terse. You understand?

And noncommittal.

Bevington started a smile at Lessing’s response, corrected his approach with a shift to seriousness. You can be noncommittal as you wish with Cash. You’ll do well to pay as much attention to management details as you do to tracking horses. Deal with facts. Be wary of things that sound like facts but are quite the reverse. Keep your instincts sharp. A toss of his shaggy head. Fellows with your instincts? Too often they’re promoted away from what they do well and into management.

Are you speaking about me or yourself, sir?

Bevington’s face clouded, reminding Lessing of a sudden storm in the Southwest. Take the bloody Salsipuedes job and stop making such a ruckus about it. Won’t take more than a week or so out of your career. May move you closer to the kind of promotion you’d regret in time.

Then why—

You’d surely regret anything to do with administrative duties. You’re too good with guns to truck with such nonsense. But keep your wits about you. Take the job. In the end, it will give you the edge against being promoted above your preferred areas of performance. Quid pro quo. Clear?

I get it, but I don’t have to like it. He kept eye contact as long as he could go without blinking.

Bevington arched a furry brow in a display of suspicion. Don’t even think to ask if I’m talking about myself when I’m talking about you.

CHAPTER TWO

A visit to Derek James’s apartment on Russian Hill gave Lessing a leg cramp, thanks to the climb over the Vallejo Street crest, but no trace of James, just his sometime paramour, Heloise Levesque, parading about in James’s bathrobe as though their relationship had reached a higher plateau than the one on which she spoke.

A diminutive sort whose thinness and good posture gave the impression of greater height than she had, Heloise fussed her way through preparing a pot of tea, offered him a chance at a cup. You’re more than welcome to wait around for him, although I can’t promise he’ll be back soon. You know how it is with these Pinkerton special assignments.

Lessing didn’t really know how things went with Pinkerton special assignments, saw no reason to share that fact with her.

You think he tells you everything, don’t you? Slight scorn or possibly flat-out superiority in her attitude.

We’re partners. Partners often confide vital information.

Suppose you discovered he has other partners.

The hell’s going on here? Lessing thought. What’s Heloise Levesque’s beef with me? You’ll tell him I stopped by? he said casually, but he came away from this exchange thinking she’d do no such thing.

One last place to search for James before calling it a night. James favored a North Beach dive bar, the Laughing Cow, presided over by its legendary host, Conrad Burnaby.

Not a trace of the scoundrel for days, Burnaby said.

Lessing caught a touch of irritation. Some problem?

Have to sit that fellow down and give him a talking-to. All number of persons have been in here looking for him, asking me to relay messages like I’m his personal secretary. A tall, angular man who appeared on Scottish holidays in full dress regalia including kilt, sporran, and dagger, Burnaby beckoned Lessing closer, then leaned over the bar to speak in confidence. I dearly enjoy your patronage, right enough, but his combative behavior of late, Luke—

Combative?

You’re close enough mates. You’re the man for this task. You need to pressure him to sort out whatever afflictions are governing this sudden lack of civility, and I must say— A long pause.

Go ahead, say it.

Empathy. Your friend’s lost his empathy. He nodded like a night court judge rendering a verdict on combative behavior. Reached behind him and, without looking, pulled out a bottle of Laurel Crown Old Bourbon. He splashed a generous inch into a small glass, shoved it to Lessing. Some of San Francisco’s finest for the fine lad you are. This will see you home and no damage to your monthly tab.

Lessing savored sips of the Laurel Crown, a bourbon too pricey for his regular use. Burnaby offering it as a gift meant he was worried he’d leaned too hard on his irritation with James, wanted to make some amends.

Another sip or two while Lessing tried to put a lid on the pileup of irritation and suspicion that he associated with that damned Salsipuedes job. He made sure to catch every last drop of that lovely amber bourbon, tipped a one-finger salute to Burnaby, then strode out toward home, only to discover after less than a block that he was being followed.

*   *   *

Lessing took off at a brisk pace toward Telegraph Hill, walked two blocks before he stopped to pretend an interest in a pawnshop window. First rule when you thought you were being tailed: make sure your Pinkerton instincts were the ones sending you the message rather than your tendency to suspect everything around you. Pinkerton rule two instructed you to follow, not to let someone follow you; rule three was not to let them catch you following them.

After a day like today, he couldn’t find much to trust. That awful job assignment. Cash’s take-it-or-leave-it attitude. Bevington’s advice of terse clarity when he’d been anything but terse and clear. Questions and insinuations about his close friend—from two different sources. Couldn’t blame a guy for his edgy feelings, right?

But he was sure he’d just detected a movement behind him, someone ducking into a doorway the moment he’d stopped at the pawnshop. An individual not practiced in the art of tailing. If it had been Lessing on the tail, he’d have kept on walking past the pawnshop, looked for a plausible reason to stop, rather than darting into the first available cranny.

After another block, Lessing knew it was time to show the tail his deficiencies. He headed east on Greenwich toward the excavation and scaffolding for Coit Tower, found the Italian family restaurant beyond Stockton, sat at one of the two outside tables, gestured for coffee. Picked up a copy of the Alta California on the empty seat. Bad move. Page three article, Pinkerton announced Lessing’s assignment in Salsipuedes. Made it seem like a big promotion. More like the Pinkertons splashing their name among the newcomers to San Francisco.

The waiter brought out his coffee, tried to sell him a pastry. Lessing pushed him aside when he saw his tracker ambling across Stockton Street, doing his best to look inconspicuous. Lessing grunted frustration, ordered a second coffee, then called out to Dale Sharp. Damned kid.

Sharp sat across from him in the other empty seat, looking bewildered when the waiter brought out the coffee and set it before him. Sharp called after the waiter. Lessing knew what that was all about. The kid was about to ask for milk or cream. Good Lord.

The waiter scowled at Sharp. You got any idea what time it is? He strode off with operatic shrugs of irritation.

Sharp, already over his head with bewilderment, threw a silent plea for help to Lessing.

You don’t want to go asking for milk in your coffee after ten in the morning, not at any Italian place. Maybe the French, but Italians consider coffee with milk breakfast. Period.

Wow, Dale Sharp said.

And if it falls to your lot to tail someone, first thing you want to do, don’t go making unnecessary evasive moves. A person doesn’t fully know you’re following them until you tip your hand.

Got a lot to learn, don’t I?

Lessing spent a few minutes trying to get a read on the kid. At the moment, his performance left a pang of doubt: awfully good or seriously green? Had to be some reason he’d been hired. Took a pull of coffee.

Going to ask you a question. Your answer will have a direct bearing on any future contact we have. You understand me?

Yes, sir.

Why were you following me?

The kid didn’t bat an eyelash. Eric Cash asked me to.

He could as easily have said he’d been practicing his technique and learning his way around San Francisco. Likely Lessing would have believed that. He finished his coffee, thanked the kid for his honesty, made a point of not in any way suggesting the kid should keep this conversation a secret from Cash. He’d wait, see how that played out. For the moment, he could trust Dale Sharp. One of the few encounters he’d had all day that didn’t set the dust devils of doubt and uncertainty whirling within him.

CHAPTER THREE

Lessing lurched out of sleep, yanked by scratching sounds in the living room. The sound of a cat wanting out. Long time since Lessing had had a cat in his room or his life.

He lumbered to the living room in time to catch the thunk of retreating