Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 4: Doyle’s Roadhouse and Miss Daisy’s
A handsome chestnut mare pulled the rented buggy at a good clip over the recently paved county road. A full moon lit the way past cleared fields and a few truck farms sectioned off with wire fences. During the day, small farmers sold their produce at stands set up along the route.
The metronomic beat of hooves on pavement, the rumble of rubber-tired carriage wheels, and the incessant chirring of insects lulled Max to a state verging on somnolence. Gazing into the distance, he saw a series of telephone and telegraph poles converging at a vanishing point on the shadowy horizon. He rubbed his eyes to avoid dozing off.
About three miles outside the town limits, he came to a sparsely wooded area. An unpaved driveway appeared in the midst of a thicket; the smart little mare turned right onto the path as though she knew the way. They entered a broad clearing within a tall stand of trees. The place was brightly lit by the moon and electric lights powered by a generator. Buggies, buckboards, and two automobiles parked within the open space. A couple of horses were tied to a hitching rail.
The roadhouse was a large one-story frame structure with a false front painted bright red. The sounds of a brassy ragtime band blaring Redwing and a few female voices half-singing, half-shouting over a chorus of out-of-tune drunks, pierced the night. It seemed like a trap baited with the alluring scent of adventure, excitement and danger.
Max tugged the reins, set the brake and stepped down from the buggy. He opened the rear storage compartment and retrieved a cinder block fastened to a strap. He clipped the “anchor” onto the trace. Then he smiled, patted the mare and said, “Be a good girl. Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”
The horse turned her large brown eyes toward Max, snorted and shook her head. Max interpreted this as an affirmative response. He left the parked buggy and walked through the clearing to the saloon entrance. A few steps led up to a porch and an entryway with batwing doors.
The interior was a vast, brightly lit shed filled with a haze of tobacco smoke and noise coming from the band, the singing and dancing girls, and a boisterous clientele. To Max’s left, there was a long polished oak bar serviced by two hustling bartenders. Tables and chairs were set in the center, several feet from the bar, with enough room left over for dancing. To the right was a low stage for the entertainers.
Max headed for the bar, found an empty spot, stuck a boot on the brass rail, leaned forward and called out for service. A stout barkeep with sharp eyes, a huge black handlebar moustache, and a gravelly voice answered the call: “What’re you having, mister?”
“Shot and a beer chaser.”
The bartender seized a bottle of rye and a glass from the back counter, poured a shot, then grabbed a beer glass and stuck it under the pump. He served Max and deadpanned: “Two bits.”
Max smiled, reached into his pocket and flipped a silver dollar onto the bar. “That’s for this and one refill; you can keep the change.”
A large hand reached out and grasped the coin; a broad grin spread beneath the bushy upper lip. “Thanks, mister. My name’s Joe. Need anything, just holler.”
“All right, Joe. Pleased to meet you. I’m Matt.” Having made a friend of the barkeep, Max downed his shot, took a swallow of beer, and turned his attention to the stage.
The musicians had changed from Redwing to Cheyenne. Four scantily clad girl singer/dancers backed up a cute blonde lead singer with a strong set of pipes. They sang the verse and chorus straight and then switched the lyrics to a parody that had become popular following Upton Sinclair’s exposé of the Chicago meatpacking industry:
Cheyenne, Cheyenne, you sick old pony
We’ll take you
And bake you
And make you into baloney
And the folks who eat you won’t know
You’re that pony from old Cheyenne
This got a big laugh and a round of applause from the crowd. Afterwards, the musicians took a break and the girls mingled with the customers. Before long, Max heard the swish of silk and inhaled strong perfume that cut through the tobacco miasma.
The lead singer approached him with a sly smile on her heavily powdered and painted face and a sparkle in her light blue eyes. Her natural beauty managed to shine through the cosmetics. “How did you like the show, big fella?”
“I thought it was swell, Miss...?”
“Roxy. Roxy Blaine. And yours?”
“Matt Rogers. Pleased to meet you, Roxy. Care to join me for a drink?”
“Sure. I’m dying for one.” The smile widened to display a row of little white teeth.
“Name your poison, baby.”
“Champagne cocktail.”
Max whistled to get Joe’s attention. “Hey, Joe. A champagne cocktail for the lady and another round for me.”
“Bring ’em over there, Joe,” Roxy called out while pointing to an empty table. She grabbed Max by the arm and led him away from the bar. “C’mon, lover,” she said, “let’s sit down and get acquainted.”
Joe brought the drinks on a tray and Max added another generous tip, which further cemented the budding customer/barkeep relationship.
Max and Roxy began a conversation that was soon interrupted by a pair of roughnecks; Max smelled them before he heard them.
“Hey, Roxy,” the bigger and smellier of the two said, “You’re wastin’ time with this dude. He looks like a pansy to me.” To this individual, anyone who bathed and shaved more than once a month looked like a “pansy.”
“Yeah, a pansy,” the skinny sidekick echoed his pal like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Excuse me,” Max said to Roxy with a smile. He got up from his chair and planted his feet. Max’s left jab was a lightning bolt; it caught the big guy on the ear and rang his bell. The right cross that followed knocked the loudmouth on his ass.
“Don’t even think about it, bub,” Max said to the skinny sidekick.
“No... no offense, mister. We... we was jist funnin’,” he stuttered. The little guy shook like a hophead needing a fix.
A burly bouncer with a shaved head and a nasty scar on his right cheek, came over. He glared at Max. “What’s the trouble, mister?”
“These bums insulted the lady,” Max replied.
“Is that right, Roxy?” the bouncer asked.
“Yeah, Mike. They insulted me.”
Mike turned to the little guy. “Git, and don’t never come back.”
The trembling sidekick got the message. He scampered for the door to laughter and a round of applause.
The bouncer turned his attention to the big guy on the floor. “This one’s down for the count,” he announced to no one in particular. Mike lifted the groaning, semi-conscious loudmouth into a fireman’s carry and headed for the back exit where they threw out the garbage.
Max sat and gazed at Roxy without saying anything.
“You got sand, mister,” she said.
“So do you, kid.”
Joe brought the shot on a tray. “This one’s on the house. That was a swell one-two. Tommy Burns couldn’t have done it better.”
“Thanks, pal.” Max grabbed the shot and downed it. Then he pulled out a silver dollar and flipped it onto the tray. “Another round for the lady and me.”
After Joe left for the bar, Roxy said: “Do you like to gamble, Matt?”
“I like a game of poker, provided I get a square deal.” Max guessed Roxy was about to propose a game where he would get anything but.
“I know a nice little game going on right now. You can buy in for a hundred. Think you can handle that?” Roxy grinned like a cat contemplating a mouse.
“I can manage a C-note. Where is this ‘nice little game’?”
“In back. Come on, lover. I’ll introduce you to the boys.”
“Will you stick with me for luck?”
“Sure, handsome. I’m not letting go of you.” She reached over and placed her hand on his.
Max stroked her soft, perfumed hand. I wonder how many suckers she’s hooked with that line. “All right, baby,” he said. “I’m ready for some action.”
Joe came with the drinks. Roxy turned to him and said, “We’re going to the back room, Joe. You can serve us there.”
“OK, Roxy,” the bartender replied with a knowing smile.
* * *
The round, green felt-covered poker table was set in the center of a small, smoke-filled room. A shaded, three-bulb electric ceiling lamp and a couple of wall sconces lit the area. There were five, including the dealer, already seated and at play when Max entered the room. Roxy made the introductions.
Max was mostly interested in the dealer, a shifty-eyed chain-smoker with his sleeves rolled up and gartered, and a fellow called Red. Was he Earl “Red” Rivers, the Santa Teresa town marshal? The man at the table sure looked the part: mid- to late-fifties, neatly but not ostentatiously dressed, red hair and trimmed moustache streaked with gray, and the leathery skin of a man who had spent more time on the trail than behind a desk.
But what tipped you off were his eyes, like the cold, blued steel barrel of a gun. They were the eyes of a man who struck first and squared things later. As for Gil Doyle, he wasn’t to be seen, but Max sensed the gangster’s proximity, perhaps in the next room, close to the action.
Roxy stood behind Max, “for luck,” and it soon became obvious to him that she was partnering with the dealer, a skilled mechanic. Max knew all the card sharp’s tricks, the false cuts and shuffles, culling, bottom deals, second deals, the various methods of marking cards, and the subtle, virtually undetectable signals passed between a dealer and a partner, typically a distractingly pretty one like Roxy Blaine.
As they got into the flow of the game, Max noticed how the mechanic gave him a couple of winning hands to suck him in. As an added incentive to play, Roxy whispered encouraging words in his ear while rubbing her hip against his shoulder and fingering the hair on the back of his neck. He also noticed Red’s continuing “good fortune” and he figured this was Doyle’s way of greasing the marshal’s palm with other people’s money.
The play progressed, Max’s pile grew slightly and then gradually diminished until the hundred-dollar stake was almost gone, mostly into Red’s winnings. One of the players withdrew, and then another. Then, after Red beat Max’s full house with four kings, he figured it was time to go. He got up from the table with a sportsmanlike smile: “Well, gentlemen, I guess that does it for me. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Likewise,” Red said. “Maybe we’ll do it again, sometime?”
“Maybe,” Max replied.
Roxy grabbed hold of his arm. “It’s still early,” she said with an artful expression of concern, “I’m sure your luck will change.”
“No, baby. It’s late and I know when I’m licked.”
Roxy glanced at the dealer and looked back at Max. “All right, honey. I’ll walk you to the door.” They passed into the saloon, which was gradually emptying as it neared closing time. Max turned to her and said: “They say lucky at cards, unlucky in love. Maybe we can turn that around?”
Her face brightened at the suggestion. “I’m done here for the evening, lover. I know a nice, private place where we can go.”
“Sounds swell to me.”
Roxy turned back toward the bar, caught Joe’s attention and gave him the high sign. Then she led Max out into the soft, quiet California night.
* * *
Doyle’s bordellos were located near the railyards, on the wrong side of the tracks not far from the town limits. Miss Daisy’s was considered the better of the two, which is to say the girls were prettier, the premises cleaner, the clientele tonier and the prices proportionately higher.
Nevertheless, the unpaved streets, garbage-strewn vacant lots, shunting cars, steam whistles, barking strays and wandering vagrants detracted from the romantic ambience. A single lamp mounted on a nearby utility pole acted as an advertising beacon, spotlighting the sporting house.
Max dropped the “anchor” and tied the mare to a hitching post next to a horse trough. The sounds of a freight train chugging through the switching yard mingled with ragtime piano and laughter coming from the front parlor.
Miss Daisy’s bordello was a three-story Victorian clapboard, painted canary yellow and topped with turrets and gables. It seemed out of place in this seedy neighborhood. Max followed Roxy up a flight of stairs to a small, unsheltered front porch; she turned the doorbell, a shrill tinkling sound.
There was a window set into the oak door, and behind the glass hung a flower-patterned chintz curtain. The edge of the curtain moved slightly, revealing a dark, inquisitive eye. They heard the click of locks, the sliding of a bolt, and the squeaky-hinged door opening a crack until caught by a brass chain. A lean, black woman peered out suspiciously until she recognized Roxy. She smiled, undid the chain and said, “Come on in.”
Max and Roxy wiped their muddy boots on a mat in the vestibule; the pause gave Max time to examine the maid. She was unusually tall and thin — almost as tall as Max — clothed in a crisp calico dress over which she wore a bright white apron. An old-fashioned mob-cap covered her jet-black braided hair; the stark whiteness of her bleached apron and headdress made a sharp contrast to her smooth ebony skin. “You can take your gentleman up to number six, Miss Roxy,” she said with what Max recognized as a Creole accent.
They walked down a shadowy hallway, past the closed parlor doors, to a carpeted stairway that led up to the second and third floors. Roxy led Max down the second landing, its floral-papered walls decorated with sylvan scenes of sportive gods and goddesses, satyrs, nymphs and chubby-bottomed cupids, designed to put customers in the mood. Such paintings were favored by both the academic salon juries and cathouse proprietors.
Number 6 was the last room on the floor. They entered, Roxy closed the door and switched on the lights. The windowless room smelled like her warm body after a scented bath. The same floral patterned paper covered the walls with a few cheap chromos added for decoration. The large bed appeared freshly made and inviting.
Max grabbed Roxy by the shoulders, pressed his mouth against her rouged lips, reached around and unhooked her dress. The garment slipped to the floor in a cascade of red silk. She stepped over the dress and carefully kicked it out of the way.
“You’re in a hurry, aren’t you, lover?” she gasped as she came up for air. She felt the hard pressure of his erection against her almost naked thigh.
“Yeah, baby; I don’t like to waste time.”
“Better get you some protection, “ she said as she eased away from him and moved toward a dresser drawer.
“That’s a swell idea, kid,” Max said with a wry grin. “I wouldn’t want to catch some loathsome disease.”
Roxy winced at the “loathsome disease” crack but shrugged it off. She guessed it was just his twisted sense of humor. Plenty of her johns liked to crack wise; it made them feel manlier, as though they remained in control.
She opened a drawer, retrieved a condom from its packet and slinked over to him with a suggestive smile. Then she dropped to her knees and unbuttoned his fly. Her eyes sparkled as she sighed, “Goodness, you are big.”
Max said nothing. He stroked her hair gently while she fitted the condom over his pulsating erection. She was stripped down to an embroidered lace and ribbon-trimmed camisole, diaphanous linen drawers, black silk stockings and high heeled boots. Max got a good look at her firm, young breasts half-hidden beneath the delicate material of her under-bodice. As soon as she finished arranging the condom, he grabbed her arms, lifted her up and half-led, half-carried her to bed. Max pushed her face down onto the mattress, lowered her drawers and grasped the smooth, white flesh of her well-rounded buttocks.
“Is this the way you want me, lover?” Roxy turned her head and gazed back at him, eyes wide with apprehension despite her extensive experience in these situations. There was something about Max that struck her as more dangerous, while at the same time much more exciting, than the average trick.
Max smiled. “Yeah, baby, this is just the way I want you.” He let that sink in before adding, “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll take the high road.”
His reference to the “high road” alleviated her fear somewhat, but she gasped and gripped the bed clothes at the first shock of his deep penetration and powerful thrusts. She had taken him for a ride at the card table; now Max was back in the saddle and in full command.
Sounds of laughter, raucous singing and piano playing drifted up from the parlor. As he rode her like a seasoned cowboy mounted on a fractious mare, his mind drifted back to the roadhouse and her first “straight” chorus of Cheyenne:
Oooh-oooh-oooh
Shy Ann, shy Ann, hop on my pony
There’s room here for two, Dear
But after the ceremony
We’ll both ride back home, Dear, as one
On my pony from old Cheyenne
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
