LONGARM AND THE LAST MAN
By
Tabor Evans
Jove Books
New York
Copyright (C) 1994 by Jove Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. ISBN: 0-515-11356-5 Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc. Printed in the United States of America If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.” Printing History: Jove edition / April 1994
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Chapter 1
Longarm crossed his legs, uncrossed them, leaned back in his chair and yawned, and crossed his legs again. He wasn’t bored exactly. But he wasn’t real far from it either. It didn’t help that he was getting hungry now. He’d spent his lunch hour getting a haircut at a new shop over on Sheridan near the State Capitol Building that was the centerpiece of downtown Denver. But that had been a mistake. The barber obviously intended to cater to the desires of rich legislators, not working guys like Longarm. He charged fifty cents for a haircut. And over and above that thoroughly outrageous fee, he chattered incessantly about politics while he snipped. Longarm had no interest whatsoever in politics of any stripe or flavor, but a dandy who was waiting to be chopped on sure did. He and the barber got to talking, and it had taken damn near the entire hour before Longarm could get out of that chair and make his way back here to Billy Vail’s office in the Federal Building.
U.S. Marshal Vail had left word that morning that he wanted to see his number-one deputy—well, number-one by Longarm’s somewhat prejudiced designation—immediately after lunch. That meant Longarm hadn’t been able to sneak in some extra time for a quick sandwich or some eat-and-run pastries on his way back. He’d hurried straight from the barbershop to Billy’s office.
And now here he sat with his stomach growling. Billy wasn’t back from his own lunch as yet.
Longarm sighed and tried to quell the intestinal revolt with a smoke. He pulled out one of his slim cheroots, an extrafancy grade with a pale wrapper and excellent-quality filler tobacco, and carefully nipped the twist off the end of it, spitting the bit of surplus tobacco into his palm after he did so. He flicked the twist end in the direction of the cuspidor placed beside Billy’s big desk, then dipped two fingers into a vest pocket to extract a sulffer-tipped wooden match. The matches shared that pocket with the tag end of a gold chain that crossed his belly from one pocket to the other. One side of that chain was attached to the expected pocket watch, in this case a railroad-grade Ingersoll. The other end, however, did not hold the usual watch key. Instead that end of the inoffensive-seeming chain was soldered to a small but powerful .44-caliber derringer with a brass frame and a big bite. In Longarm’s line of work, which had to do with crooks, crime, and the privilege of continued life and freedom, he’d found use for the hideout gun more than once in days past.
He sat for a few minutes enjoying the flavor of the cheroot. The smoke was indeed helping to hold the hunger pangs at bay.
Not even a good cigar, though, can do much to send impatience packing. There still was no sign of Billy Vail.
Longarm stood and paced about the marshal’s office, stopping now and then to tap ashes into a marble ashtray on Billy’s desk.
He would have gone through the papers on the desk without qualm … except there weren’t any. Billy kept his desktop bare and barren, innocent of anything that prying eyes might find. Darn it.
Once Longarm paused to examine himself in the decorative mirror that hung on the wall over the cabinet that Longarm knew, innocent appearances to the contrary, held a small but select stock of beverages. He examined the results of the talkative barber’s efforts, and reluctantly admitted that the so-and-so could cut hair pretty well. But then, at fifty cents a visit the guy ought to cut hair, sing, and maybe dance a few steps too.
Longarm turned his head this way and that, trying to find something to complain about. He couldn’t. At least not anything that the barber was responsible for. As for the rest of it, well, he supposed he had no real kick coming there either.
His hair and eyes were brown, and he had a sweeping, handlebar mustache to match. His face was deeply tanned by wind and weather, and to him seemed on the wrinkled and craggy side, certainly nothing of great interest or importance.
On the other hand, a good many persons of the female persuasion seemed to find his looks fetching enough. That was something he was willing to acknowledge without conceit. And to appreciate whenever the results warranted.
Apart from what he could see in the mirror, Longarm was of better than average height, measuring some inches over six feet in stocking feet. He had a horseman’s lean build, with narrow hips and broad shoulders. His hands were powerful, with long fingers that were comfortable when wrapped around the butt of the double-action .44 Colt revolver he carried in a cross-draw holster just to the left of his belt buckle. He wore a tweed coat, calfskin vest, and checked flannel shirt with a string tie loosely knotted at his throat. His trousers were brown corduroy. His gunbelt and stovepipe cavalry boots were black. A snuff-brown Stetson hat with a low, flat crown lay on the floor beside the chair he’d been occupying.
He cleared his throat and leaned close to the mirror. By damn he’d been right. A single, spiky hair had escaped from the seal-sleek flow of mustache and been left to curl back and up toward his nostril. Why, another fraction of an inch or so of growth and that hair would be tickling the bejabbers out of him. That damn barber should have noticed the hair and snipped it. Now Longarm was going to have to yank it out. The offending follicle was sticking upright at a funny angle, and was growing in an awkward spot to begin with, immediately underneath his nose. He’d have to kind of twist and wiggle some to trap the little SOB between his thumbnail and the nail on his middle finger. He figured he was going to have to get a pretty good grip on the thing to pluck it out, and did his best to get a handle on the situation, scowling and twisting his jaw and probing under his nose with one big hand.
Billy Vail chose that moment to walk in from his lunch. And he wasn’t alone.
“Sam, this is, um, the deputy I was telling you about. Deputy Marshal Custis Long, this is Assistant U.S. Attorney Sam Beckwith.”
The government lawyer hesitated about half a heartbeat before he nodded and shoved a hand out for a shake.
Shit, Longarm couldn’t blame the guy. It sure had to have looked like he was standing there picking his nose—and admiring himself in the damn mirror while he did it—instead of trying to cull an errant mustache hair.
No point in trying to explain, he realized. He wouldn’t be believed anyhow and words would just make it worse. So he settled for making this Beckwith fella feel at least a mite better. Longarm hauled a bandanna out of his back pocket and carefully wiped his hands before he accepted the bravely offered shake. “Pleasure to meetcha, Sam.”