“Thank you,” the tall man said.
“I should thank you.”
“I don’t think so,” the other man said.
“Why?”
“Because that rig will probably get you killed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s obvious to me you need that gun because you’re going into a nest of vipers.”
“So why will I end up getting killed?”
“Because it’s been my experience with vipers,” Christopher said, “that one of them will usually take a bite out of you.”
“I’ll let you know what happens.”
“I’ll probably read about it in the newspapers.”
“Either way,” Decker agreed, “you probably will.”
When Decker and Rosewood came out of the gun shop, Largo was across the street, out of sight. His sharp eye picked up the heavy hang of Decker’s jacket immediately.
Decker appeared ready to go and have a drink at the Bucket of Blood.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“This is your last chance to change your mind.”
Rosewood had stopped the cab down the street from the Bucket of Blood, and he and Decker had walked to the door.
“You make this sound like the gate to hell, Billy,” Decker said. “How much worse could this be than some of the places I’ve been to on the Barbary Coast?”
“In San Francisco they just shanghai you,” Rose-wood said. “Here they kill you.”
“Let’s go inside.”
“One final word of warning.”
“What?”
“You’re not a regular,” Rosewood said. “Leave the women alone, no matter how hard they try.”
“How hard is that going to be?”
“Hard,” Rosewood said, “believe me—but do it without insulting them. Even the women in here carry knives.”
“Jesus,” Decker said and opened the door.
The first thing that hit him was the smoke. It was thick, most of it floating close to the ceiling, with tendrils of it coming down here and there because it had nowhere else to go.
After that, it was the heat. Not exactly oppressive, it was the kind of heat given off by many bodies in a small space—not that the Bucket of Blood was small, but it was doing a land-office business at this time of day.
If Armand Coles
Decker had to hope that seeing him in one of his own drinking places would push Coles’s timetable up, make him move before he was ready.
Decker entered first and went to find a spot at the bar. He had a beer in his hand when Rosewood came in a few minutes later. Decker had to give the younger man credit. If he was scared, he certainly didn’t show it. He found a spot down the bar from Decker and ordered a beer.
Looking around, Decker saw that Rosewood had been right about the women. They were all young and provocatively dressed, so that much of their breasts were showing—and they all had big breasts. It seemed to be a requirement for the job.
Decker knew he was drawing curious glances—from the bartender and several of the patrons—but he ignored them and looked around the room, occasionally sipping his beer. He figured that the clientele here knew a strange face could always be law, and he figured they were all trying to decide about him.
Rosewood was not drawing as much attention as Decker was. Either Billy Boy had been here before, or he simply didn’t present the aura of physical danger Decker did.
Decker had been there about ten minutes when one of the women gave him a try. Actually it wasn’t her idea. She had been sitting on a man’s lap when he leaned over and whispered in her ear. She looked up at the bar, saw Decker, then nodded and got out of the man’s lap.
The man was a big fella with a potbelly and a heavy beard. He could have been Bookman’s brother, but there was no food grease in his beard. Also he hadn’t nearly as much hair on his head as he had on his face, and his nose was bigger and redder than Bookman’s. Where Bookman’s vice was food, this man’s obviously was whiskey.
The girl was a real beauty. She had long dark hair, hoop earrings, a wide mouth painted thickly red. She was wearing a blouse that fell way off her shoulders, so that the upper slopes and a lot of cleavage showed. She had large, firm, pear-shaped breasts, and Decker found himself wondering what was holding the blouse up.
“Hello, stranger,” she said, moving in close to him.
“Hello.”
She pressed right up against him, so that he could feel the heat of her and the pressure not only of her breasts but of her large nipples, which were hard. Her perfume was thick and heady and hung around her like a cloud.
“You’re new here.”
“Yes, I am.”
“My name is Lola.”
“Hello, Lola.”
“Don’t you have a name?”
“I do,” Decker said, “but I don’t give it out at the drop of a hat.”
She pouted, pushing out her lush lower lip. She was so close he could bite it, and was sorely tempted to do so.
“You’re not very friendly.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have other things on my mind.”
“You’re not a lawman, are you?”
“No, honey, I’m not a lawman.”
“That’s good,” she said, “because this bunch would have you for lunch if you were.”
“From the looks of them,” Decker said, “they might, anyway.”
“Not if you’re nice to me,” she said. She shifted around so she could press herself flat against him and, in doing so, came into contact with the shotgun.
“Whoa,” she said. “Mister, you’re looking for trouble.”
“Who’s the man who sent you over here?”
Without turning to look at the bearded man, she said, “His name is Mosca. The others called him King Mosca.”
“What’d he want to know?”
“Your name.”
“He also wanted to see how I’d react if you pressed your gorgeous body up against me, right?”
“You’re pretty smart,” she said. Then she licked her lips and asked, “Do you really think I’m gorgeous?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re nice,” she said. “It’s too bad Mosca’s gonna kill you.”
“No, he’s not,” Decker said. “You go back and tell Mosca I’d like to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“That’s between him and me, Lola. Just go and tell him, all right?”
“What’s in it for me?”
