The pinkerton man, p.1
The Pinkerton Man, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Pinkerton Man (The Pinkerton Man Series, #1)
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
C.J. BATY
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Pinkerton Man Series (Book One: The Pinkerton Man, Book Two: Home On The Range) Copyright ©2016 C.J. Baty
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
First Edition: June, 2016
Second Edition: June 2017
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the two people who have inspired me to be more than I am. To reach for things that I never thought I could have. To live each day like it was my last and appreciate every moment of it. To remember from whom all my blessings come. Thank you Dad and Mom.
Chapter One
STILES LANGBERRY HAD thought his world was perfect. He was considered handsome by most women and men. His father had graciously left him a very tidy sum upon his death, to do with as he pleased. His position of constable at Scotland Yard was one he enjoyed, mostly because he didn’t have to work for a living. And most importantly of all, he had the perfect discreet lover in the winsome Viscount Harold Crosby. Life was good, until...
Several months ago, the first letter had come. A blackmailer’s letter. It was descriptive, citing times and places he and Harry had enjoyed each other’s company. He ignored it. He told Harry to ignore the one he received as well. But Viscount Crosby turned out to be a coward wrapped up in a beautiful package.
Harry paid the requested amount and, by doing so, admitted his relationship with Stiles and opened the door to more letters. They came more frequently, demanding larger and larger sums of money.
Stiles refused to pay the demands and, since Harry was filling the filthy blackmailer’s pockets, the fiend had left him somewhat alone. That is, until poor Harry offed himself and the vile beast’s money stream dried up.
He still refused to pay, and shortly the letters stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Stiles hoped that whoever the blackmailer was, he’d given up or, more than likely, switched to some other poor sod for his pennies. He soon found out that wasn’t the case.
UPON ENTERING THE doors to Scotland Yard one morning, he received a note requesting his presence in front of his superior, Sergeant Dale O’Conner. It was exactly three months to the day since Stiles had received the first blackmail letter.
Sergeant O’Conner was a large man. He had clearly been behind a desk for some time, because anyone who walked the streets the way a constable did would not be that large. He wore a mustache that was large as well. Stiles had often wondered what one might find in such a huge amount of hair on one’s face. O’Conner was generally a jovial chap, but today that was not forthcoming.
“Sit down, Stiles.” O’Conner’s use of his Christian name was not customary and made Stiles uneasy. He sat.
“We have a problem,” O’Conner said, sliding a folded note across the desk.
Stiles recognized the stationery but didn’t reach for it. He was sure he already knew who the note was from. What he didn’t know was why he wasn’t already under arrest or locked away.
“I see you recognize it.” Stiles had no words for a response.
The older man sat quietly watching Stiles; then he reached for the note. He tore it into several small pieces, dropping them into the ashtray on his desk. A cigar that had gone out was also in the bowl. O’Conner relit the cigar, puffed on it slowly, and when the tip glowed red, he used it to set the pieces of the note ablaze.
Amazed, Stiles watched as his superior leaned back in his chair. Taking a deep drag on the cigar and puffing out the strong-smelling smoke, he regarded Stiles for long moments before he spoke again.
“I don’t care a horse’s arse what you do when you aren’t on duty. You’re a good constable, and you could have had a great career here.”
Stiles didn’t miss the words could have, and shivered at what he was sure was coming.
“I like you, Stiles. I always have. So I’m going to give you a free piece of advice. What you do with it is entirely up to you, son.”
The endearment the big, burly man used made Stiles smile and eased his fears.
“Resign your post today. Say you’re tired of playing at coppers. Take the snooty high road. You certainly have the funds, and no one would think anything other than what you say. Travel. Don’t go to Spain, though, Spaniards are a bunch of heathens. Go to France. Go anywhere, but don't stay in England. Change your name. Start over someplace new.”
To say Stiles was stunned would have been misleading. He was damn well floored. He wasn’t being arrested, and O’Conner wasn’t judging him for what he knew him to be. What did he really have here in England that meant so much to him? Travel? See the world? He’d never thought of it until his superior’s suggestion. And now it seemed like the most wonderful idea imaginable. He rose from his chair and offered his hand across the desk to Sergeant O’Conner.
“You have my resignation, sir, and I believe I will be traveling in the very near future.”
O’Conner shook his hand vigorously and smiled behind the whiskers of that huge mustache.
“The very best to you, Stiles, and safe travel in your adventures.”
Chapter Two
THE TRANSATLANTIC CROSSING was long but occasionally entertaining. Though Stiles met no one above decks who seemed inclined to his personal tastes, there was a lovely young cabin steward who was quite willing to share his accommodations on a number of nights, making the passage very bearable.
Above deck, he enjoyed the company of several couples who were making the return trip to America. It was during a dinner conversation that he first heard of the Pinkerton Agency. It piqued his interest at once.
“Incredibly handsome in those long leather coats and bowler hats,” Miss Lizzie Ferguson stated rather dreamily.
Her father was more blunt regarding how he felt about the Pinkertons.
“Bah! Nothing but a bunch of guns for hire. Rogues. Going about murdering whomever they chose for whoever had the right amount of money.”
“I believe the old man had a good idea in the beginning,” Howard Pushing, another guest at the table, added. “There was a great need to protect trains out west from robbers.”
“That may well have been true enough, but now they take any job that comes with the right amount of coin, and they have offices springing up all over. They’re moving east to Chicago, I’ve heard, as well!” Mr. Ferguson ranted. “Thank goodness New York hasn’t seen the likes of them yet.”
After dinner, Stiles asked Lizzie if she’d like to take a stroll on the deck. Her father was clearly delighted, seeing a possible courtship for his spinster daughter, and pushed Lizzie to agree.
Stiles observed Lizzie as they walked. She was probably in her early twenties, hardly old, with dark-auburn hair piled neatly on her head and a slight, trim figure. Her face was open and friendly. He liked her.
“There is something I must tell you before this goes any further, Mr. Long.” It had taken Stiles some time to grow accustomed to his name change. At times, he still forgot to respond to his new name. “I am not interested in any romantic ideas.”
Stiles found her straightforwardness extremely fetching. She was not a woman who played games.
“I’m not sure your father would agree with you, but I, too, am little interested in matrimony.” Stiles smiled brightly at her.
“So, I suspect you may have a question or two for me. I noticed how interested you were during the dinner conversation.”
Intelligent and straight to the point; another reason to like this independent woman.
“You, my dear, are going to make an incredible friend.” Instead of taking her hand to deposit a kiss on it, Stiles offered his hand to shake as he would any other comrade. Lizzie looked at the offered hand, took it, and shook it vigorously.
The rest of their walk was the beginning of a great friendship. They talked about the Pinkertons and many other things. Lizzie agreed to meet with him when they arrived in New York to help him do research on the agency, work on his accent, and learn American slang. He agreed to let her father think what he might about their relationship, both of them keeping the secret that in a few months’ time he was headed for St. Louis to apply with the Pinkerton Agency.
WHEN IT CAME time to leave New York and Lizzie, Stiles found the idea saddened him. He was going to miss her terribly. He had never had such a good friend, who accepted him just as he was. She quickly ascertained his tastes did not run to society
Though Freddie was a tad too effeminate for Stiles—he liked a man with a little muscle on his body and a strong character—he proved to be quite talented in a few areas. It was no hardship at all to have Freddie on his knees sucking Stiles’ cock like the man couldn’t get enough of it. Stiles had to admit he’d known very few who could bring him such pleasure. The man also preferred to be fucked hard and fast, which was just the way Stiles liked it as well.
Stiles suspected Lizzie’s own tastes were also outside the realm of what society accepted. He had noticed the frequency of her trips to her dear friend, Caroline. It would have been ungentlemanly of him to broach the subject with Lizzie, but he was ever so glad she had someone to share her life with.
The matter of his not having received an answer from the Pinkerton Agency in St. Louis was also preying on his mind. He’d made up his mind that St. Louis was where he wanted to be, and it irked him that no one had contacted him. A lack of response was not going to deter him. So, after wishing Lizzie goodbye at the train station, he left New York on a sunny morning headed for St. Louis, determined to gain entrance to the Pinkertons come hell or high water.
Chapter Three
ST. LOUIS IN 1895 was still a wild city. Though similar to New York in its mix of cultures and very tall buildings, it was still untamed. Cattle were prodded down the main thoroughfare to the stockyards alongside motor vehicles, horse-drawn wagons, cowboys on horseback, and pedestrians. The air was scented with animals, petrol, and men. Men of every size, shape, and affluence. Stiles loved it.
He called at the Pinkerton office to address the lack of response to his letter. A young man dressed in a black suit, stiff white collar, and brilliant blue tie that matched his eyes, smiled shyly at him when he entered the office.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Long, but appointments are by invitation only. Mr. Wallace and Mr. McCullough are very careful about accepting recruits.”
The nameplate on the desk read Lawrence Whitley.
“Lawrence, I do understand, but how does one get an invitation? I did send a letter some time ago, outlining my credentials for the agency.” Stiles had a suspicion, so he took a chance. He let his eyes roam down the man’s body and back up, smiling softly when he stopped to stare into those striking blue eyes. Whitley was a handsome man with a strong body and wavy dark-brown hair.
Color rose in Whitley's cheeks and his next words came out stuttered.
“Yes... yes, we... did receive... it.”
“So, do I not look like a man who could handle himself in any situation,” Stiles asked, emphasizing the last word. It had the exact impact on the handsome young man behind the desk for which Stiles had hoped.
Lawrence’s eyes popped open and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Stiles smiled at him again. The young man cleared his throat several times and then gathered himself before he spoke.
“I’m truly sorry, sir; as I said, there is a strict rule of ‘by invitation only’,” Lawrence repeated. Then he leaned across the desk and whispered, “But he, Mr. McCullough, might be at the Iron Horse on Dahlia Street around ten this evening.”
Lawrence’s cheeks were flushed bright red as he stood to attention and offered his hand to Stiles. Stiles shook it softly and gave the man his thanks.
THE IRON HORSE saloon was exactly what Stiles had expected. Red satin drapes and round tables where men played cards or flirted with women. He had quickly learned that Americans loved their vice even more than his fellow Englishmen. The building stank of tobacco, liquor, and body odor. There might have even been a tinge of sex in the air as well, given that the women lolling about looked to be for hire.
The saloon was crowded, and every table in the room was taken. Stiles found an empty spot at the end of the bar, ordered a pint, and rested his back against the hardwood to observe the room. Before he was halfway through his ale, a man across the room lurched to his feet and banged his fists on the table he had been sitting at. The room grew quiet.
“You’re a bastard, McCullough!” Stiles perked up at the mention of the name.
Every head in the room turned to look at a man sitting calmly at the table sipping on a glass of amber liquid. The angry man’s words didn’t seem to bother him at all. He set his half-drank glass down before he spoke.
“Sit down, Roberts. Let’s discuss this like gentlemen.” McCullough emphasized his last word, as if he were speaking to a simpleton.
His attitude seemed to inflame Roberts even further. He growled and shoved the table. McCullough’s drink tipped over, the liquid spilling and running across the table toward him. He stood quickly, grasping the edge of the table and throwing it aside with ease.
Roberts, though a head taller and a good fifty pounds heavier, took several steps back as McCullough strode toward him. McCullough’s eyes were as amber as the drink he had been sipping. Now they seemed to glow with a fire from deep within. His face showed no other emotion. When he spoke, it was with an icy calm.
“You owe me a drink and...” His arm pulled back and Roberts received a solid punch to the center of his face.
The crack of his nose breaking could be heard throughout the room. Blood gushed between his fingers as he cupped them to his face. And thus it began.
The entire room seemed to choose sides and a brawl broke out. Women screamed, tables were flipped over, and chairs were flung through the air. Some of them broke apart on men fighting, and others crashed and splintered into pieces on the walls and floor.
Stiles continued to drink his pint and observe the scuffle from the safety of his vantage point at the bar. Eventually Roberts recovered and counterattacked, backing McCullough into a corner not far from where Stiles stood. Stiles considered whether to join in the ruckus or not. He finished his ale and approached Roberts from behind. Lifting the heavy copper pint cup he’d been drinking from, he let loose with precise aim, hitting Roberts on the back of his head.
Roberts received the blow and let go of the chokehold he had on McCullough. He turned to face Stiles, a puzzled look on his face, but didn’t go down.
Stiles moved quickly with a right hook, jarring Roberts’ head and then an uppercut with his left in the man’s gullet. Roberts released a large gush of air, grabbed his throat, and fell to his knees. Finally, he collapsed on the floor at Stiles’ feet.
McCullough looked at the heap on the floor that Roberts had become, and then his gaze drifted to take Stiles in. He offered his hand.
“The name’s McCullough, James McCullough.”
Stiles shook his hand and nodded.
“I know. Roberts here seemed to enjoy calling it out every so often.” Stiles toed Roberts with the tip of his polished shoe.
“I told you he’d be a good one,” a vaguely familiar voice chimed in as Stiles turned to see Lawrence Whitley approaching them.
“You did at that, Lawrence, and he does have the look we are needing.” McCullough was still eyeing Stiles.
“I told you that, too.” Lawrence blushed ever so slightly.
“Mr. Long, I believe you wanted an invitation for an appointment with me.”
“Yes, I did,” Stiles answered, and smiled at Lawrence.
“Tomorrow. My office. Eight a.m.” McCullough turned, said goodnight to Lawrence, and left the Iron Horse. Stiles watched the man leave and then turned to Lawrence.
“Buy you a drink?”
“I’d like that.” Lawrence smiled, and this time he wasn’t blushing.
“I TOLD HIM YOU’D be perfect for the job,” Lawrence said, after taking a long pull on the cigar he’d lit. He rolled it caressingly between his thumb and forefinger. The bluish-white smoke gathered around his head like a halo. Stiles laughed because he’d quickly figured out Lawrence was no innocent.
“What makes you say that?” Stiles asked as he motioned to the barkeep for another round of ale. He was glad he’d decided to chat this man up; he’d already learned a great deal about McCullough and the agency.
“Well, that name, for one thing. Stiles?” He laughed. “I mean, really. Could you get any more snobbish? Your slight British accent makes the effect even better. Not to mention, the cut of your suit shouts, “I have money.” It’s exactly what the agency was looking for.”
