I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Oh, I wasn’t taking the blame,” Short said. “I’m just sorry it all happened.”
“So am I.”
“But at least I can tell Bat and Wyatt when I see them,” Short went on, “that we have a good friend in common.”
“Yep,” Butler replied, “you can certainly say that.”
They approached the Anchor at eleven fifty-five. They hadn’t seen any sign that they were being watched or followed once the cab had dropped them off.
“This area looks dead now,” Butler said.
“Sailors are back on their ships, dockworkers are at work,” Short said.
They approached the front door.
“What if they’re not open?” Butler asked.
“We’ll pound on the door,” Short said.
But the place was open, and they went right inside. As they crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind them.
The bartender was behind the bar, bald head gleaming. Around the room about half a dozen men stood, armed with boat hooks, clubs, and a couple of guns. The bartender was bouncing a huge club in and out of the palm of his hand.
“Well,” Short said, looking around, “I guess we know where Al Newman stands.”
CHAPTER 54
“Welcome back, gents,” the bartender said. “We arranged a little reception for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Butler assured them.
“Oh, but we wanted to.”
“No,” Short said, “I don’t think you wanted to. I think you were paid to.”
“What’s the difference?” the bartender asked. “You’re here, we’re here. Let’s have some fun.”
“I don’t think that a bar fight where we’re outnumbered more than three-to-one is much fun,” Butler said. “I think we’ll pass.”
He tried the door behind him, found it locked.
The bartender smiled widely, revealing large, well-cared for teeth.
“We insist you stay.”
The circle of men behind them started to close in. Butler drew his gun and fired. The top half of a club in one man’s hand flew off. That stopped their progress.
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Luke Short said. “You’re all going to put your weapons down, and then we’ll talk.”
The man with half a club in his hand was staring at it. The two men present wearing guns put their hands on their weapons.
“You were probably told to hurt us, maybe kill us,” Butler said, “and make it look like a bar fight. If you two men touch your guns, we’ll kill you.”
Their hands froze near their weapons.
“I’ve got them,” Butler said, so Short looked at the bartender, who was still holding his club.
“Sutherland put you up to this, didn’t he?” he asked.
The big man blinked, looked around the room and said, “I still think we can take you.”
“I don’t think you’ll be alive to find out,” Short said. “We could all put our weapons down and have an old- fashioned bar fight, but you know what? We don’t want to. We don’t have the time.”
The bartender glared at him.
“If you had any balls you would.”
“Well, that’s just stupid,” Short said. “Let’s see who’s got balls. You and your friends come ahead, and I’ll kill you first. You’ll never see if we fall or not.”
“You move your hand any closer to that gun, friend, and you’re dead,” Butler said to one of the armed men. “In fact, drop your guns, both of you.”
The two men looked to the bartender for guidance.
“Your call,” Short said to him.
The bartender looked angry.
“He said you wouldn’t shoot unarmed men.”
“He knew we would,” Butler said, “to save our lives. He set us all up so some of us would die. You get paid enough for that?”
Now the two men exchanged anxious looks.
“Ah,” Short said to Butler, “they haven’t been paid yet.”
“He knew some of you wouldn’t be alive to get paid when this was all done,” Butler explained. “How do you all feel about that?”
“What do you say, friend?” Short asked the bartender. “We going to do this or not?”
When there was no answer, Butler said, “Okay, no more playing around. Guns on the floor—now!”
The two hesitated only a moment, then drew their guns from their belts and dropped them to the floor.
“Now, the rest of you drop whatever weapons you’re holding.”
Hooks, clubs, and knives hit the floor.
“You, too, baldy,” Short said to the bartender.
The man continued to glare at Short, then tossed his club over the bar. As it hit the floor he came out with a shotgun from beneath the bar. Apparently, he figured Short would watch the club in its flight and he’d be able to take both him and Butler with one shotgun blast.
His plan didn’t work. Short had spent too many years watching the man doing the bluffing, and not the cards on the table.
He drew and fired. The bullet hit the bald man in the chest. He coughed, dropped his shotgun, and then fell to the floor behind the bar.
“Anybody else?” Butler asked.
The other six men all shook their heads.
“Now, we think we know who hired you for this,” Short said, “but somebody better step up and give us a name, or a description.”
One of the men did just that—stepped forward and said, “You got it right, Mister. His name’s Sutherland.”
“You happen to know where he is now?” Butler asked.
“No, sir,” the man said, “but I can tell you where he lives.”
He pointed his index finger at the ceiling.
CHAPTER 55
Butler kicked in the door and Short went in with his gun out.
“Not here,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
“It’s one damn room.”
Butler stuck his head in the door and saw for himself. He had his gun in hand, as he was covering from the
