“That’s exactly who I’m talking about,” Pamela said. She frowned. “Good heavens, Hawke, don’t tell me you know that loathsome creature?”
Hawke shook his head. “No, although I did see him in the saloon the other day. What does he have to do with Bailey McPherson?”
“He is her bodyguard. She probably needs one. Nobody can be as conniving and as manipulative as she is without making enemies. But why she chose a cold-blooded killer like Dancer, I’ll never understand.”
“Yes, well, enough discussion about that unpleasant fellow,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Hawke—”
Hawke held up his finger. “Couldn’t you just call me Hawke?”
“You prefer to be addressed by your surname, as opposed to your Christian name?”
“I’m used to it,” Hawke said.
“Very well, Hawke. You said you wanted to play the piano. I have something that may interest you.”
“I’m listening.”
“How would you like to go to Chicago?”
“Chicago?”
“To play the piano.”
“Mr. Dorchester, for reasons I’d rather not go into, I have no desire to go back on the concert tour.”
Dorchester laughed. “If you accept this job, you’ll be touring, all right. But not at all the way you think.”
“I must confess that you do have me curious,” Hawke said.
“Hawke,” Pamela interjected. “Before you and father get into all that, would you play the piano for us?”
Dorchester reached out to touch his daughter on the arm. “Now dear, I promised Hawke that he would not be expected to play for his supper like a performing monkey.”
Hawke chuckled. “That’s all right,” he said. “I would like to play your new piano for you. You should see some of the things that pass for a piano that I’ve had to play over the last few years.”
“I can imagine,” Dorchester said. “You’re sure it would be no imposition to have you play?”
“None at all,” Hawke replied.
The piano was in the corner of the parlor, and Hawke walked over to it. He stared down and ran his hand over it. “Do you play, Mr. Dorchester?” he asked.
“Heavens no,” Dorchester said. “I leave that up to Pamela.”
“You play, Pamela?”
“No. Not very well.”
“Nonsense, my dear. You are an excellent pianist,” Dorchester insisted. “Of course, you aren’t as good as Hawke, but few are.” Then, to Hawke, he added, “She is just intimidated by you, that’s all.”
Hawke saw a piece of music on the music fret: Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 21.
“You’ve been playing this?”
“Yes.”
Hawke sat on the piano bench, then moved to the left and patted the bench beside him. “Let’s play it together,” he suggested.
Pamela smiled, nodded, and joined him. “What part will I play?” she asked.
“Just play the music as it is written,” Hawke said. “I’ll fill in around the edges.”
“All right,” she replied hesitantly. She put her hands on the keyboard, paused for a second, then began to play. Hawke began playing as well, providing counter melodies and trills, filling the parlor with such music that it almost seemed that an orchestra was playing.
Terry Wilson, Dorchester’s valet, came to the door of the parlor and stood in the hallway to listen to the music. Then one by one others came as well. Seeing this, Dorchester motioned for them to come on so they could better hear the music. Hesitantly, quietly, they did so.
Hawke was pleased to learn that Pamela was actually quite skilled. She was so good, in fact, that he was pressed to match her with his improvised chording. But he did so, and at the conclusion of the piece, Dorchester and the servants who had come into the room applauded. So did several cowboys, who had gathered on the porch outside.
“Bravisimo,” Dorchester said with a broad smile. “The two of you were magnificent!”
“You played very well,” Hawke said to Pamela.
“Oh, I’ve never enjoyed playing as much,” she replied. Spontaneously, she kissed him, quickly, on the lips.
“You’d better watch that, young man, or I shall start inquiring as to your intentions,” Dorchester teased. He laughed, and, because Hawke didn’t know what to say in response, he laughed with him.
“Now,” Dorchester said, “let me tell you about Chicago.”
Chapter 9
HAWKE HAD BEEN IN CHICAGO FOR THREE DAYS, and though he had neither the desire or intention to remain much longer, he’d found his time there enjoyable. He had attended a play and a concert, visited a couple of art museums, and enjoyed the cuisine of some of the city’s finer restaurants.
It was just after sunset, and he was walking down State Street when he heard a woman cry out.
“No! Please, don’t hit me again! Please, don’t hit me again!”
Looking up an alley, he saw a man shove a woman, hard, into a brick wall.
“You’re holdin’ back on me, whore,” the man growled.
“No, I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
Hawke hurried up the alley toward the two. “What’s going on here?” he called.
The man who had pushed the woman against the wall turned toward him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore a low-crown, wide-brimmed hat, and his waxed moustache curled up at each end like the horns of a steer.
“Get the hell out of here, mister, this is none of your business,” the man warned.
Hawke saw that one of the woman’s eyes was black and puffed shut. Her lip was swollen and bleeding.
“Get away from her,” Hawke said.
The man laughed. “What did you say to me, you dandified little piece of shit?”
Hawke, who was wearing a suit with a vest, flipped his jacket to one side, showing his pistol.
The big man just laughed and, reaching around behind him, pulled out a knife. “Mister, you think you can scare me by showing me a pistol? Why, if you actually shot it, you would be so afraid that you would probably piss in your pants.” He bent forward at the waist and held his knife hand in front of him, palm up. He moved the knife around in little circles. “Now I aim to carve off your ears, just for the fun of it.”
“Wrong,” Hawke said. In a lightning fast move, he drew his pistol and fired, the bullet clipping the big man’s right elbow. The man dropped his knife and grabbed his elbow. Hawke put his pistol back in his holster. “Now, like I said, get away from the woman.”
“Why, you bastard, I’m going to gut you like a fish!” the man shouted. He bent down to retrieve his knife, and Hawke shot again. This time, his bullet hit the knife and sent it sliding down the alley.
“This is the last time I am going to ask you,” Hawke said. “Leave the woman alone.”
The man glared hatred at Hawke, who pulled the hammer back and pointed the gun between the man’s eyes.
“I just nicked you the first time,” he said. “If you don’t go away and leave this woman alone, I’m going to kill you,” he said coldly.
The man turned and started up the alley, walking at first, then breaking into a run.
Hawke looked at the woman. “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked.
“Are you crazy?” the woman replied angrily. “Now you’ve made him really mad.” She turned and yelled at the retreating man. “Johnny! Johnny, wait! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
Hawke watched in surprise as she chased after him. Shaking his head in disbelief, he left the alley and returned to the Palmer House Hotel for his last night in Chicago. Tomorrow he would take the train back West.
Hawke sat in the waiting room of Chicago’s Union Station, reading the Chicago Tribune. His attention was particularly drawn to one article.
SPECIAL TO THE TRIBUNE: