The Spook Lights Affair Read Online Free PDF Page A

this time of night. Off carousing and playing devil’s dice, or drinking in some saloon if he can’t afford worse.”
    “Dice is his preferred game, is it?”
    “So I hear tell. More’n once he’s lost his wages and been late with his rent. Next time he’ll be out on the street.”
    That explained the connection between Cantwell and Charles Riley. Dice games, craps, and chuck-a-luck were the House of Chance’s specialties. Cantwell must have approached Riley with an offer to sell him his information in exchange for cash or gambling chits, and been turned down; Riley’s only business interest was in relieving his customers, more or less legitimately, of their hard-earned dollars.
    “Where does Bob do his drinking in this area when he’s shy of funds?” Quincannon asked. “Any saloon in particular?”
    The crone’s eyes were still on the silver dollar. Its shine and her greed kept her from any more pretense. “The Bucket of Beer,” she said.
    “And where would that be?”
    “Clay Street, near the Embarcadero.”
    “Any others?”
    “None as I know of.”
    Quincannon tossed her the silver dollar. She caught it expertly, bit it between snaggle teeth. The parrot cackled and said, “Ho, money! Ho, money!” She glared at the bird, then cursed it as Quincannon turned for the door. She seemed genuinely concerned that the parrot might break out of its cage and take the coin away from her.
    *   *   *
    The Bucket of Beer Saloon was a typical waterfront watering hole tucked in among the dingy warehouses strung along lower Clay Street—smoky and poorly lighted, decorated with seafaring impedimenta and redolent of beer, tobacco, and close-packed humanity. The usual sifting of sawdust shared the floor with a rank of none-too-clean spittoons. There were less than a dozen customers on this night, most of them bellied up to the long bar—all male except for a plump and painted soiled dove trolling for a customer and having no luck. She spied Quincannon as he entered, sidled over to him.
    “Foul night, ain’t it, dearie?” she asked hopefully.
    “It is that.”
    “Kind of night it takes more than liquor to warm a man’s cockles.”
    Quincannon allowed as how his were warm enough as they stood.
    “Pity. You’re a fine-looking gent, you are, just the sort little Molly likes.”
    At a guess, “little” Molly weighed in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty pounds. “Some other time,” he lied. “I’m here on business tonight, with a lad named Bob Cantwell. Know him, Molly?”
    Her rouged mouth pinched into a lemony pucker. “Know him and wish I didn’t. Cheapskate. Won’t never even offer to quench a lady’s thirst.”
    “Is he here now?”
    “Oh, he’s here. Don’t know him, eh? Buy a lady a whiskey to keep off the chill if I point him out?”
    The only coin Quincannon had in his pocket was the second silver dollar. His thrifty Scot’s nature rebelled at yet another overly generous outlay, but he pressed the coin into Molly’s moist palm anyway; a prostitute was as deserving of his largesse as the crone at 209 Spear, if not more so. Her eyes widened and she favored him with a crooked-toothed smile and an effusive, “Oh, what a gent you are, sir!” After which she aimed a pudgy arm at a man seated alone at a table next to a glowing potbellied stove. “That’s him, Bob Cantwell,” she said, and hurried off to the bar.
    Bob Cantwell was a scrawny individual in his early twenties, the owner of sparse sandy hair and a skimpy mustache to match. He sat slump-shouldered inside a heavy corduroy coat, staring morosely into a tankard of grog—the look and posture of a man drowning his sorrows. The empty chair opposite the real estate salesman scraped as Quincannon pulled it out far enough to accommodate his bulk.
    Cantwell cast a startled look at him across the table. “Here, what’s the idea? I don’t want company—”
    “Bob Cantwell?”
    “What if I am? Who’re you?”
    “My name is of