Ragtime Cowboys by Loren D. Estleman Page A

came in from a swim around Alcatraz. Fire him up.”
    Hammett spat on the plug, aimed it at the outlet.
    â€œThe eel!”
    Hammett stopped, shook his head.
    â€œHorseshit. The eel only works Mexico, everyone knows that. It’s the chair for him the minute he shows his face this side of the border. Stand back, Charlie.” He leaned forward on his knees.
    â€œIt’s the eel! Oh, Christ on the Cross! It’s the eel! The eel!”
    Hammett sat back on his heels, nodded at Siringo.
    Siringo kicked the screen out from under Feeney’s feet. The thin man’s belly filled with air, becoming almost a paunch, then let out. He found a cracked yellow handkerchief in a pocket and mopped his face.
    â€œHow skinny do these fellows get?” Siringo asked. “Feeney looks plenty eel-ly to me.”
    Hammett stood, twirling the plug by its cord. “I think they call him that because he slips in and out without so much as a fish fart. I can’t think of a soul who knows what he looks like, except Clanahan. The eel’s a top-notch shadow, but his real specialty is filling graveyards.”
    Siringo looked at Feeney. “Who’s Wyatt Earp?”
    â€œWhat’s that, a cure for hiccups?”
    â€œWhat do we do with him?” he asked Hammett.
    â€œKick him loose. Feeney wouldn’t swat a fly, on account of it might swat him back.”
    â€œG’wan, shamus, talk big. Forest Lawn needs daisies.”
    â€œI sort of hate to see him go,” Siringo said. “I made a lot of friends singing cowboy songs. He and I could write one together.”
    â€œFeeney can’t read or write. It’s a great loss to literature. Maybe we should put out his eyes and send him on the road like Homer.”
    â€œTry it, peeper; just try it, and bring your pal Homer along, whoever he is. You two and the old bird’ll wind up swimming across the bay with a coal wagon tied to your backs.”
    â€œYou call it,” Hammett said.
    â€œYou’re right. He wears thin on close acquaintance.”
    Hammett unlocked the hall door and swung it wide. “Fly, flea.”
    Feeney fumbled into his shoes and socks, stood, swept a hand under his nose, and looked down at the result on his knuckles. Cocaine-dipper, Siringo thought. He’d worked with some, against others; it was the character of a man that affected the outcome. “What about my gat?”
    â€œWhat’s a gat?”
    â€œHogleg,” Hammett told Siringo. He unshipped the heavy automatic, kicked the magazine out of the handle, and offered it butt-first to Feeney; keeping a finger inside the trigger guard. Siringo knew what was coming.
    â€œSmart guy.” Feeney reached for it.
    Hammett executed a neat border-shift, twirling the pistol on his finger until the butt rested in his palm and the muzzle pointed at Feeney. “One in the chamber, Young Wild West. No charge for the lesson.” He worked the slide, springing a glittering brass cartridge out of the chamber onto the rug, and turned the weapon over to its owner.
    â€œSmart guy. Smart guy.” Feeney tried twirling the weapon, nearly dropped it, flushed, and socked it under his belt.
    Hammett hoisted his brows nearly to his white hairline. “History in the making, Charlie. Aloysius McGonigle Feeney ran out of patter.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself.” The thin man left, his feet squishing in his shoes.
    Siringo and Hammett gave him the respect of a minute to the elevator, then began to chuckle.
    â€œYou don’t know Mrs. Bloomer, but you remember Kemmler.”
    Hammett stirred the half-melted cubes in his glass with his forefinger. “I know my criminals down to the ground. I’m working on the rest of my education from the noose on up.”
    â€œWe’ll attend to it.”
    â€œThat was a swell trick with the lamp. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
    â€œYou yonkers take electricity for