Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens by Jake Logan Page B

choker that emphasized her delicate neck and shone like stars above her bosom.
    She walked straight up to Slocum, her gaze sweeping up and down him like a searchlight.
    â€œMy,” she said, “you make the saloon look like a gathering place for midgets. I like a tall man and I see you know my uncle.”
    â€œNo, I don’t believe I know your uncle,” Slocum said. “Or you.”
    She smiled at him and touched a pair of fingertips to her chest.
    â€œWhy, I’m Linda Littlepage, and I saw you at my uncle’s table.”
    â€œI was there,” Slocum said, “and if you had been there, I’d probably still be there.”
    â€œAnd who are you?” she asked.
    â€œThe name is Slocum. John Slocum.”
    She stiffened then, as if he had slapped her face with a wet towel, and her expression turned dour.
    â€œIt seems I’ve made a mistake,” she said.
    Slocum doffed his hat and took a step toward the bar, where Swain waited for him.
    â€œNot yet,” he said, and winked at her.

11
    Swain wore just the trace of a smirk on his face when Slocum joined him at the bar.
    â€œObie,” Slocum said, “don’t say it. Just pour us another drink of that Tennessee likker.”
    â€œOh, I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’ in particular.”
    â€œLike hell you weren’t.”
    â€œI just saw you bump into the Queen Bee of the Socorro Saloon, that’s all. She was shuckin’ your duds with her eyes for fair.”
    â€œShe’s the boss lady here?”
    â€œShe runs the glitter gals. I reckon that’s her uncle she’s jawin’ with right now.”
    Swain poured fresh drinks in their glasses and laid a tendollar bill on the bar top.
    Slocum saw Linda talking to Scroggs and Littlepage. Every few seconds she glanced in his direction.
    â€œI wonder if she knows what her uncle does for a living,” Slocum said.
    â€œDo you know?”
    â€œWhen I was in Silverado, he was running an opium den. We didn’t cross paths, but I saw men come out of a shady saloon there like sleepwalkers. Someone told me they were smoking opium. The way I heard it, they were puffing the drug through a tube stuck in a water-filled fishbowl of some kind.”
    â€œThat’s the Chinese way, I hear. Didn’t know there was opium dens ’cept in New York and Frisco.”
    â€œWell, there was one in Silverado, and it wasn’t a Chinese place.”
    â€œHmm. Interesting,” Swain said. “Well, there’s your drink, Slocum. Then we’d better light a shuck. Loomis and Thorson look like two hungry dogs a-watchin’ us.”
    Slocum lifted his drink and glanced at the gunmen standing at both ends of the bar. And they were glancing in his direction, as well. He upended the glass just as Hiram Littlepage arose from Scroggs’s table and walked toward the door. Linda stayed with Scroggs and sat down in her uncle’s chair.
    Littlepage walked through the batwing doors and Slocum forgot about him.
    He was just finishing his drink when the batwings swung open and two men entered, Littlepage and a small Chinese man wearing a derby hat.
    â€œWho’s that with Littlepage, Swain?” asked Slocum.
    â€œDamned if I know. Some Chink.”
    Littlepage and Wu Chen walked to Scroggs’s table. Linda rose from her chair and left without a word to either her uncle or the Chinese man. She headed straight for where Slocum and Swain were standing, ignoring the other male patrons, who slid their glances over her like so many groping hands.
    She wore a stern expression on her face that turned it rigid, as if it had been waxed. There was a paleness beneath her rouge, and her teeth were scaling off some of the lipstick on her lower lip.
    She stopped just in front of Slocum and looked up at him.
    â€œWell, you met Hiram,” she said. “What do you think of my uncle?”
    â€œFrankly, Miss Littlepage, not