Longarm and the Dime Novelist Page 3

  “Evening!” the man called to Longarm who was the only one out on the sidewalk.

  “Evening,” Longarm shouted in reply. He crossed the dimly lit street and then started up the sidewalk when a voice called to him. “Custis!”

  Longarm knew before turning around that it was Delia.

  “So,” Delia said, stepping out of a millinery shop and slipping her arm through his own, “Could this lonesome girl buy you that steak dinner and dessert that she promised?”

  Longarm tried to say no. But looking into her lovely face with her cheeks rosy from the cold and her blue eyes sparkling, he found he could not say a word. Her expensive perfume clouded the cold air and it was easy to imagine how wonderful her luscious, warm body would feel pressed up against his own later on this bitterly cold night. Not surprisingly, he found himself nodding his head.

  “You have someplace to eat in mind?”

  “King’s Steak House. Have you been there before?”

  “No,” he admitted, “it’s way out of my price range.”

  “Nothing to worry about tonight, Custis.” She squeezed his arm tightly. “This is all free and on me.”

  They began to walk, shoes crunching the snow, the faint sound of a sleigh bell ringing in the distance. “Delia, somehow I think that even if you pay for the finest meal in Denver, this is still going to cost me plenty.”

  She looked up at him. “Why don’t you trust me just a little and take a chance? We’ll talk about this over dinner. I believe I can persuade you that helping me is going to be in both our interests.”

  “We’ll see.”

  • • •

  King’s Steak House was where the Denver people with money and influence went to eat, and Longarm wondered if his appearance with the governor’s stunningly beautiful daughter would turn heads. Because he was quite tall and broad shouldered, he was accustomed to attracting attention, yet tonight it would be for a very different reason.

  “Good evening, Miss Wilson!” the maître d’ said when they entered the restaurant with its impressive crystal chandeliers, beautiful oil paintings, and even a bubbling marble fountain with fish swimming lazily around in circles. “How nice to see you tonight.”

  “Thank you, Pierre. Could we have a booth that is quiet and will allow us some privacy?”

  “Of course!” Pierre’s hawkish eyes skipped over Longarm in the briefest of glances but it was clear that he was unimpressed with the wardrobe her guest was wearing. “Please follow me.”

  Being that it was a weeknight and so cold outside, there weren’t a lot of patrons, but those that were eating stopped and stared as Longarm and Delia were led to a corner booth lit with three candles resting in an ornate silver candelabra.

  “I hope this is acceptable,” Pierre said to Delia.

  “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  “Can I order you something special to drink before your meal?”

  Delia looked to Longarm, who had just removed his coat and handed it to the man. “Custis? A good French wine?”

  “A double shot of your best whiskey for starters,” he said, thinking that what the hell, if he was going to be feted, then he was going to have it done to his liking instead of Delia’s or what the uppity Pierre thought was sophisticated or proper.

  “Yes, sir! That would be Kentucky Gold, aged ten years and as smooth as silk on the palate but with an ever-so-slight and delicious taste of oak.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Longarm said, turning to Delia. “And what are you having?”

  “Well, maybe I’ll have the same,” Delia said, looking as if she were trying to match Custis in some sort of contest of wills.

  Pierre gave Delia a very slight look of disapproval, but he was smiling all the while and bowed. “As you wish. Be right back with your drinks.”

  “So,” Longarm said, once they were alone, “you’re a whiskey drinker?”

  “Not normally.” She brightened. “Can I recommend the veal with cherry sauce? It is my favorite and I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

  Longarm inspected the menu and was instantly glad that he was not paying the tab. The prices were outrageous. The wine list started at fifteen dollars a bottle and went up to seventy-five with the average price being fifty dollars. All the wines were French, mostly cabernet and merlot . . . they were rich, dark wines that he favored on the rare occasions when he did drink good wine.

  They ordered and chatted about small things while they sipped whiskey. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “About the whiskey?”

  She waved her hand overhead in a quick circle. “About all of this.”

  He smacked his lips. “This whiskey is as smooth as it gets. I was born and raised in West Virginia and we had some good moonshine there, but this is on an entirely different level. If the veal is even half as satisfying, I’ll be a very happy man tonight.”

  “Just save something for dessert at my place,” she said quietly as her hand slipped under the table and came to rest on his thigh.

  My oh my, Longarm thought, this might be the dumbest thing I’ve done in a long time but I’m sure going to have fun at it.

  • • •

  Two hours later, they stepped back outside into the cold feeling tipsy and merry. The air was so cold it took their breath away, but Longarm managed to say, “Delia, thank you for the unbelievable meal and the drinks. The wine was especially nice . . . but I’m not sure we should have ordered that second bottle.”

  “It’s only money and besides, I get a large discount.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. When my father comes here with important people, they tend to spend a lot of money and they tip the help generously. So in return, I do receive a substantial discount.”

  “I had no idea that was how it worked.”

  “It works that way when people have mutual goals that equally benefits both parties.”

  “Like I’ve just benefitted?”

  “That’s right. I’ve made no secret that I am happy to provide you things that you might not ordinarily be able to afford and to pay you well for your help . . . but that I expect you to help me. How more honest could I possibly be?”

  “You’ve been quite honest,” Longarm admitted. “But . . .”

  “But what?” she asked as they walked slowly down the slippery sidewalk. “What is your biggest concern?”

  “That you’ll go back on your word and use my name in your stories.”

  She shook her head. “Custis, I’ve told you that I don’t even use my own name. Remember? I’m Dakota Walker.”

  “True.” They had both had enough to drink so that they were immune to the severe cold, but Longarm knew that would soon wear off. “Do you live far from here?”

  “No. We’re almost there.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I think we’re both ready for warmth and dessert.”

  “You’re reading my mind, Miss Wilson.”

  “Delia . . . or Dakota, please.”

  “Delia,” he said as they turned up a walk toward a small mansion. Longarm stopped and studied the home. “Do you own this and live here all by yourself?”

  “Yes, but even writing a dime novel a month doesn’t buy this kind of a house in this kind of a neighborhood.”

  “And you said you made more money than your father does as governor.”

  “The money that bought this house and so many other things . . . since you’re obviously curious . . . comes from Philadelphia. You see, my mother inherited a fortune from my grandfather, who owned a railroad.”

  “Didn’t your mother pass away a few years ago?” Longarm asked as they neared the door.

  “That’s right. She committed suicide.”

  Longarm was suddenly sober. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was her
choice,” Delia said, fitting a key into the door. “My father was cheating on her . . . he always cheated on my mother . . . and she drank heavily to drown her disappointment. And when the liquor wasn’t enough and the pain was too great, she took her own life.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “My father made sure that the newspapers said that my mother didn’t die of a broken heart or of too much liquor but instead of a sudden coronary failure.”

  Longarm didn’t know what to say so he said nothing as they entered the home and Delia showed him some of the rooms before she led him to the bedroom.

  “Custis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What I told you about my mother is known only by a very few people.”

  “I understand. I won’t say anything.”

  “I know that because I trust you,” Delia replied. “And having given you my trust of a very personal nature, I expect the same from you.”

  Longarm understood, and as he began to undress he decided that he was going to have his dessert and enjoy it, and he remembered an old adage . . . in for a penny, in for a pound. Well, by gawd, he was in for more than a pound and heaven help him if he was setting himself up for being the biggest fool in Colorado.

  Chapter 4

  “What is that crazy contraption hanging from your bedroom ceiling?” Longarm asked as he undressed.

  “There is nothing crazy about it,” Delia replied. “And before this night is over, you will think it is a fantastic invention.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She kissed him. “Custis, I told you that I’m a very creative person. I designed that myself.”

  “It looks like a child’s swing with stirrups.” Longarm finished undressing and went over to look at the thing. “How’s it work?”

  “You’re about to find out,” Delia said. “But first, let’s get better acquainted in bed.”

  He turned away from the swing and took in a sharp breath. “My gawd, Delia, your body is a work of art.”

  She stood naked before him, a slight smile on her moist lips. “You’re not so bad as a sculpture yourself, but my oh my, you sure bear the scars of your profession. What happened here?” she asked, touching a long scar across his chest.

  “A knife wound. I cornered a half-breed down in El Paso. He had the fastest hands I ever saw on a man.”

  Delia kissed the scar, her hand dropping to cup his testicles. “Tell me more, big boy.”

  “Not much to say,” Longarm replied, feeling his manhood stiffening. “I went for my gun and he went for his knife and he was obviously a bit faster. After he slashed me across the chest, I grabbed his wrist, broke it and turned the blade around. He took the whole seven inches of that bowie knife in the belly.”

  She nibbled on his nipples and started working his rod as she whispered, “I’ll take your whole seven inches. Is it that long, Custis?”

  “I never let a woman measure it,” he replied, pushing her down on the bed and kissing her lips. “But when we’re done, you can if you want.”

  “Might be longer,” she breathed, between kisses.

  Longarm kissed her large breasts, then ran his hand up and down her smooth thighs. “You’ve got beautiful legs.”

  “That want to crush you between them,” she panted.

  Longarm mounted Delia, driving his rod deep into her honey pot. “Does it feel like seven . . . or eight?”

  “Oh, my!” she gasped. “It feels like a ten-pound sausage!”

  He laughed out loud and began to move around in her. Delia wrapped her long legs around his waist and whispered, “Slowly, Custis, very slowly. We’ve got all night.”

  He took his time and when they were both breathing hard, he stopped still resting deep inside of her.

  “What?” she asked. “I said, slow, not stop.”

  “I need to see how that contraption hanging from the ceiling works.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can’t it . . .”

  “No, it can’t wait.”

  “All right. Get off of me and I’ll show you.”

  Longarm climbed off the bed. He was long and stiff and slick with her love juices. Delia’s eyes were glazed with passion and she jumped off the bed and hurried over to the seat, plopping her beautiful bottom in a swing chair and then lifting her legs and quickly adjusting some straps, and using a little pulley device that actually lifted her body several inches higher. And finally, she planted her heels into the leather stirrups.

  “I had to crank this seat higher because you’re so damn tall.”

  He stared at the sight of her wide open with her lovely, long legs stretched far apart. “Quite a sight, Delia, but I’m not sure about this.”

  “See these chair arms?” she asked, patting them.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, grab them and you can push and pull yourself in and out of me.”

  “I was doing that on your bed.”

  “This will be completely different.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Come on,” she pleaded, rubbing herself and wiggling with anticipation. “Back inside me where you belong.”

  Longarm lined himself up and slipped into her hot wetness. He grasped the arms of the chair swing and started rocking Delia back and forth.

  “Huh!” he grunted with a big smile of pleasure on his face. “This is a new one on me.”

  “Rock me faster. Harder, too!”

  Longarm was more than happy to oblige. He began to push and pull the swing energetically. Delia yelped and Longarm quickly got into the spirit of the union. In two or three minutes, he was slamming himself in and out of Delia and his knees were knocking and his butt was pounding. Her head was thrown back, long blond hair swinging from side to side, mouth forming an oval as she groaned and made fierce animal sounds in her throat.

  “Good, huh,” she managed to grunt, kissing his lips.

  “Better than good!”

  And so they went at it on the chair swing until Delia cried out, her entire body shaking violently. Longarm was wild with desire and he kept pushing and pulling, ramming and slamming, until his legs felt weak and he’d emptied every last drop of his seed.

  When he started to exit her body, she whispered, “Just keep rockin’ me, honey. Slower and slower until the feeling is all gone.”

  “I’m not sure I can stand erect much longer,” he said, only half in jest as he clung to the contraption and then finally extracted his tool and staggered over to collapse on the bed.

  Delia dropped her feet from the stirrups and using her bare toes rocked herself back and forth, one hand caressing herself as she milked the last bit of pleasure from their union.

  “So, Custis,” she said lazily as she turned to look at him. “What do you really think?”

  “I think you ought to stop writing dime novels and go into business manufacturing those contraptions.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m serious. You could make a fortune.”

  “Oh, someone in China or someplace where they consider lovemaking an art probably invented something very much like this centuries ago. I read that the Chinese have documented eighty-six unique positions for a man and a woman to couple. I’ve seen most of them with graphic pictures in books.”

  “No! Eighty-six?

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if a man and woman tried to do it all those ways they no doubt died of pleasure.”

  “Not a bad way to go,” Delia said with a laugh before she climbed out of the chair swing and came to lie by his side. “I’m so glad you liked my design.”

  “That would be a huge understatement.” Longarm glanced over his shoulders. “The wonder is that we didn’t tear the bolts out of the ceiling and crash to the floor.”

  “Those bolts ar
e six inches long; just a bit shorter than what you screwed me with.”

  “If you don’t mind and you haven’t patented the thing, I may make one and put it into my bedroom.”

  “Why bother when we have this one we can use anytime?”

  Longarm grinned. “Yeah, why bother?”

  “I need to have a glass of milk,” Delia said, rising from the bed. “Or maybe I’ll brew a cup of good, hot coffee.”

  Longarm stood up and consulted his pocket watch. “It’s eleven thirty. Perhaps I ought to go back home and get some sleep.”

  “That’s up to you,” Delia told him. “I don’t have to get up early, but I suppose that you have to be at the office by a certain time.”

  “I don’t,” Longarm told her. “Billy expects me in around nine o’clock, but if I’m late he doesn’t usually care. He knows that I don’t like to sit around waiting for something to happen at the office. I like to be out and about, doing something important, and I hate paperwork.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Delia found a bathrobe and went into the kitchen. “Are you staying or leaving? I’m making the coffee and need to know.”

  “I’ll stick around for a while,” Longarm decided, staring at the curve of her hips and breasts pushed up against the fabric of her silk gown. He pulled on his pants and shirt, then went out into her living room and made his way into her study and library. There, he looked over a stack of dime novels, some written under her pseudonym, Dakota Walker, and at least twenty others written by the most popular dime novelist of them all, Erastus Flavel Beadle. Longarm knew that Beadle’s Deadwood Dick series had made the author . . . who had never even come to the West . . . fame and fortune. The main character in the series, Deadwood Dick, was an outlaw who had been grievously wronged by powerful, corrupt and wealthy men supported by the law. In dime novel after dime novel Deadwood Dick always fought for justice even if he was a wanted man and he was admired for his generosity and for helping poor ladies in distress. He was a frontier Robin Hood, a man of great intellect and courage. Longarm remembered hearing that these dime novels were particularly popular in the East where people had romantic illusions about western heroes.