The Devil's Collector by J. R. Roberts Page B

bartender.
    The bartender set one up.
    â€œWhat’d you get?” Sonnet asked.
    Clint showed Sonnet the list.
    â€œI got the same names,” Sonnet said, “except for these two.”
    â€œThose are ranchers,” Clint said.
    â€œYou got this from the newspaper?”
    â€œFrom the lady editor herself.”
    â€œSo we’ve got . . . what, seven names.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œSeven men who might have the sheriff in their pocket?” Sonnet said. “Seven men who could have been sending me those telegrams.”
    â€œWe could take them alphabetically,” Clint said, “but I think we should check on the ones in town first. Save the ranchers for later.”
    â€œAnd how do we do that?” Sonnet asked. “I mean, how do we check them out?”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “we could ask them.”
    â€œAnd they’ll tell us the truth, right?” Sonnet asked sarcastically.
    â€œFirst of all, you’re too young to be that sarcastic,” Clint said, “and two, yeah, they’ll tell us the truth—at least, six of them will. That seventh one? He’s not going to be too happy to see you.”
    â€œSo where do we start?”
    â€œWell, there’s an Emmett Toth on this list.”
    â€œWe already talked to him.”
    â€œRight,” Clint said. “He’s the one who owns the feed and grain. According to this list, he also owns several other businesses in town. Let’s talk to him again.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Benny Nickles took a bill from the envelope Michael Albert had given him and handed it to Marcy Wilkes.
    â€œOooh,” she said, “money.” She grabbed it between her fingers, then rubbed it between her small breasts and over her already turgid nipples. She was a black-haired girl with very dark brown nipples, and accepted the fact that she was Benny’s girl—that is, when he wanted her to be.
    â€œHa ha!” Nickles laughed. “And lots more where that came from.”
    He leaned forward, took one of her nipples between his teeth, and rolled it there.
    Marcy dropped the money to the mattress and grabbed his head with both hands.
    â€œI love it when you do that,” she said.
    She slid one hand beneath them and grabbed hold of his hard, jutting cock.
    â€œMmm,” he growled deep in his throat, “and I love it when you do that.”
    â€œThat?” she asked, sliding down between his legs. “Or this?” She swooped down on him with her mouth, taking him all the way inside, then bobbing up and down on him, gobbling him up.
    â€œOh,” he said, putting one hand on her head, “definitely that.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Michael Albert was having much the same experience, except that the girl on her knees in front of him was not there by choice, and she wasn’t being paid for her services. Actually, she was on salary as a saloon girl, but sucking her boss’s cock was just something she had to do every once in a while to keep her job. All the girls there had to be willing to do it if they wanted to keep working there. And since he paid so well, none of them really complained about the extra duty—much.
    â€œThat’s it,” he said, guiding her head by putting one hand behind it, “nice and wet and slow.”
    Sex served two purposes for Albert. Sometimes, he was just mindless in his pursuit of pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Other times—like this—going nice and slow helped him to relax, and to think.
    That’s what he was doing in that moment. He had his head back, and was letting his thoughts work themselves out. Clint Adams . . . Jack Sonnet . . . Benny Nickles . . . even Sheriff Koster, were all in there, being sorted out. Actually, having each one of those men dead would not have done anything to ruin his day. But it was better to take one thing at a