Free Longarm 422 by Tabor Evans Page B

my houses. I’m careful to
not
give them any more of the same here, which is why they learn to trust me and why some would want to tip me off if they saw or heard anything that could hurt me.”
    â€œYou live an interesting life, Helen. It must be eye-opening in a lot o’ ways,” he said.
    â€œMore than I ever expected when I, um, entered the business,” Helen said.
    Longarm chuckled at the thought of how disconcerting it must have been for a prim and proper bookkeeper, which Helen had been at the time, to inherit a whorehouse.
    â€œSo go on, Custis. Tell me about the sheriff and what he wanted with you,” Helen said.
    Longarm polished off the glass of rye and looked Helen in the eye. He sighed and said, “Trouble.”

Chapter 32
    â€œSo they’re starting with you now,” Helen mused, “and they are using the sheriff. I wonder if that miserable son of a bitch even knows who he’s working for. And why.”
    â€œHe can be bought?” Longarm asked.
    Helen grunted her disdain for the Quapah County sheriff. “Like a can of beans,” she said. “Probably about as cheap too.”
    â€œHave you tried to buy him?” Longarm asked.
    â€œOh, I do. I pay him off the first day of each and every month. Ten dollars for each girl.”
    â€œSo he works for Collins,” Longarm said.
    â€œYou would think so, but to tell you the truth I’m not sure about that. I’ve heard rumors that suggest there may be someone else pulling the strings behind Anderson.”
    Longarm rose and helped himself to a small refresher on his drink, then leaned down and kissed the large woman lightly on the forehead. “We’ll figure it out,” he assured her.
    â€œI hope so. My girls got some more of those letters. More of the same. Do you want to see them?”
    â€œThey’re the same bullshit as before?” he asked.
    Helen nodded. “The same. Same envelopes, same penciled handwriting, same old crap.”
    â€œNo need for me to look at them then, not when I have one of my own to admire.”
    â€œIs there any way to trace mail back to its origin?” Helen asked.
    â€œNot that I know about, but I think it’s about time that I talk with the postmaster here. Maybe he knows something that would help.”
    â€œShe,” Helen said.
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œI said ‘she.’ Our postmaster is really a postmistress. We have a woman in the job. Her late husband was a big supporter of the governor. Big contributor too, I gather. When he died, the widow discovered that the rat had been living well beyond their means. She was broke. Either she told the governor or someone else did, because he found out about it and secured an appointment for her as postmistress. Now she lives on what she earns in that capacity.”
    â€œUnusual,” Longarm said, taking first a drag on his cheroot and then a swallow of Helen’s good rye. He wished he could keep a bottle of whiskey that good in the Star, but if he did, someone was bound to pour from it for a bar patron, and in his opinion that would be a hell of a waste. Set a bad precedent too, because soon everyone would want the good stuff, and any chance of making a profit would go out the window.
    â€œDo you need any more money to run your joint?” Helen asked.
    Longarm aimed his cheroot toward the satchel he had set on the floor earlier. “There’s your answer. I don’t know that we’re making a profit yet. Probably not. But we’re bringing in money. Won’t be long until the setup costs are met and you should be pulling in a profit.”
    Helen laughed. “Not me. You’re the proprietor there.”
    â€œWe both know better, darlin’. I’ll be gone before long an’ you’ll have the place all to yourself.”
    â€œWill I be able to trust Robert to run the place for me when that happens, Custis?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Robert