Crossfire by J. A. Johnstone

Author:J. A. Johnstone [Johnstone, J. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp
Published: 2011-10-03T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

Frank had the feeling he was being followed even before he reached the Golden Gate Saloon. The instincts developed over a long, hazardous life sensed the eyes watching him.

But when he glanced around on Grant Street, he didn’t see anybody particularly suspicious. The sidewalks were busy on both sides of the street, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to him. A man dressed in range clothes was something of an oddity in the big city, but not enough to make most folks stare.

Most of the people bustling back and forth on the other side of the street were Chinese, since Grant Street was the boundary line between the Barbary Coast and Chinatown, but none of those scurrying figures even glanced at Frank. Their heads were down as they went about their business.

Frank spotted the saloon up ahead. It was large and prosperous-looking, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much of it had been paid for by Pamela Tarleton’s money.

It was early in the day, but even so the Golden Gate was busy when Frank went in. Quite a few men were lined up drinking at the long, horseshoeshaped bar. To the right were tables where more men sat with glasses and bottles, and to the left were the poker tables, faro layouts, roulette wheels, and other games of so-called chance. The place was elegantly furnished with lots of polished hardwood, gleaming brass fixtures, and crystal chandeliers. The air in the Golden Gate practically reeked of money, along with the usual saloon smells of sawdust and beer.

In the rear of the room a broad, carpeted staircase led up to a second floor. Frank took note of that, but went to the bar and ordered a beer from a bartender in a red silk shirt. All the bartenders wore shirts like that, as did the men running the games. The women were clad in low-cut red gowns. The colorful getups made the workers easy to identify.

“There you go, cowboy.” The bartender set the mug of beer in front of Frank. He didn’t let go of the handle, however. “That’ll be four bits.”

Frank frowned. “Sort of expensive, isn’t it?”

With a sigh of weary patience, the bartender said, “If you can’t afford it, there are plenty of other places in San Francisco where you can get a drink, Tex.”

“Didn’t say I couldn’t afford it,” Frank grumbled. “Just said it was sort of high, that’s all.”

He dug a fifty-cent piece out of his pocket and slid it across the hardwood. The bartender let go of the beer mug and made the coin disappear.

The fella would be more than a mite shocked if he knew what this customer who looked like a down-on-his-luck grub line rider really could afford, Frank mused. He didn’t waste a lot of time thinking about the riches he had inherited from Vivian Browning, but his lawyers assured him he was one of the wealthiest men west of the Mississippi. Lawyers had been known to lie, of course, but Conrad kept a pretty close eye on the ones who worked for him and his father.

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