Blind Tiger, page 13
He poured some of the moonshine into a glass for himself. “You hungry?”
She shook her head. He sat down across from her. They sipped their beverages. After a lengthy silence, he said, “I was tore up when Derby died. But nothing like this. This hurts something awful.”
Looking across at him, she watched his eyes fill.
“Derby died of his own choosing,” he said, gulping a breath. “That baby girl didn’t.”
Then a terrible sound issued from deep in his throat, and he began to cry. Laurel left her chair in a rush, knelt beside his chair, and placed her arms around his shoulders, drawing him to her. They clung to each other as he wept. She murmured to him all the banalities that would cause her to scream and run mad if anyone were saying them to her. Yet he seemed to derive comfort from them.
He cried himself out. As he wiped his wet face with the large handkerchief he always carried in his back pocket, he looked embarrassed. “I haven’t carried on like that since Derby’s mother passed. It helped a little to get it out. What can I do for you, Laurel?”
“Nothing, thank you. I’m going up to my room.”
“I understand. But you’ll let me know if you need anything?”
“I will.”
“The hurt will never leave you, but you learn to tuck it away,” he said, tapping his heart, “and get on.”
She gave him a wan smile. But as she climbed the stairs, she doubted that she would survive the night. She would surely die of grief.
* * *
At first, Thatcher had been too aggrieved over Mr. Hobson’s demise to give much thought to how it would affect his future. But soon he had to face the reality of his situation and figure out a way to make money. Even living frugally, he’d gone through his poker winnings from the men on the freight train and at the boardinghouse. He couldn’t live for long on a dollar fifty a day.
One afternoon, Thatcher approached Fred Barker. “I’m making progress with the stallion. But I’ve got to scare up more business for myself.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“You’ve got five empty stalls that aren’t earning you a cent. If I can get some horses to work with, how much will you charge me to stable them here and use your paddock?”
They struck a deal that Thatcher thought favored him. But it wouldn’t matter how good the terms were if he couldn’t fill the stalls.
He put in another few evenings of poker at the boardinghouse, won the largest pot each night, and invested his winnings in having handbills printed. He spent the next Saturday afternoon going around town nailing them to utility poles.
That’s when he spotted Laurel Plummer on the other side of Main Street. Her hair was in a long braid hanging down her back out from under a wide-brimmed straw hat. She was dressed in a dark skirt, a white blouse, and a pair of black gloves. She was trying to secure something on top of the trunk of her Model T with a leather strap. Looked to Thatcher like the strap wasn’t cooperating.
He hit the head of the nail he’d been hammering one final time, then, taking the sack of nails, hammer, and handbills with him, he crossed the street. “Need a hand?”
She let go of the strap and whipped around. As before, her features were taut, her expression guarded. They relaxed only slightly when she recognized him. “Oh. Mr. Hutton.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Seems you’re always wrestling with something.” He gestured toward the strap. He saw now that she’d been trying to get the ends to meet so she could buckle it.
She looked him up and down, taking in his cowboy hat, faded shirt, and dusty boots, then turned away and resumed pulling on the strap. “My father-in-law told me they had released you from jail.”
“They had no reason to hold me in the first place.”
“Mrs. Driscoll is still missing.”
She yanked hard on the strap as she glanced over her shoulder at him. If she had meant that as an implied accusation, he wasn’t going to honor it with a denial. “I heard you moved into town.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you like your new house?”
“It’s a far cry from new, but it’s better than where we were. How’s your hand?”
He held it up, palm out. “Healed. How’s your little girl?”
She gave the strap another yank. “She died.”
The ground seemed to give way underneath him. Her blunt statement had left him dumbfounded, and she must have sensed it. She stopped grappling with the strap and faced him.
“Please don’t feel like you have to say anything, Mr. Hutton. Actually, I would rather you didn’t.”
“All right.”
“It’s just that it’s difficult for me to talk about.”
He nodded. “I can see where it would be.”
She wet her lips, then pulled the lower one through her teeth.
He squinted up at the sun and readjusted the brim of his hat to shade his eyes.
After several awkward moments, he set the sack of nails, hammer, and handful of flyers on the hood of the car, then stepped around her and easily buckled the strap over several bundles of what looked like household goods. He gave it a test tug. “That ought to hold.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He looked down at her. The straw brim of her hat cast a patterned shadow over her face that intrigued him. Or, he just liked looking at her. Her eyes were green. And skittish. They looked everywhere except back at him.
A strand of hair had escaped both the braid and her hat. She pushed at it with the back of her wrist, the small knob of which barely cleared the curled edge of her worn leather glove. He didn’t remember ever seeing a wrist that delicate or a gesture that feminine.
But if he weren’t mistaken, the collarless shirt she wore was a man’s garment. It was way too large for her. The sleeves were rolled back, forming bulky cuffs against her thin forearms. The top button had been left open, exposing the triangular hollow at the base of her throat and making it about the most tempting patch of skin on the planet.
Her darting eyes eventually landed on the handbills. She tilted her head in order to read the bold printing upside down. “You break and train horses for a living?”
“Trying to.”
“That explains the cowboy clothes.” She glanced down at the ground. “The boots make you taller.”
Pleased to know that she’d noticed anything about him, he lifted his foot and looked at the scuffed riding heel. “I reckon so. I never thought about the height thing because I’ve always worn them. Only recently have I been without. These didn’t catch up to me until a few days ago, and it was like meeting up with old friends.”
He explained about the trunk. “It had been up there waiting on me, but turns out I won’t be going back to the Panhandle, after all.”
“No?”
“No. Circumstances up there changed while I was gone. Anyhow, these britches are more suited to my occupation.” He grinned. “The seat of my suit pants ripped the first time I got thrown.”
“Thrown? You mean bucked off?”
“That’s what I mean. The horse I’m working with now—his name’s Ulysses—is spirited, to say the least.”
“Were you hurt?”
“A knock or two. Nothing to speak of.”
“He could do it to you again.”
“Oh, you can count on it.”
“You’re not scared?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’m not that easy to scare off. He’s a bit touchy, but he’ll learn to trust me.”
He could tell by the way she dropped her gaze that she’d caught his underlying meaning. “I have to go,” she said. “Good luck with Ulysses.”
“There’s no give in that strap.”
“What?”
He tipped his head toward the bundle on top of the trunk. “You’re gonna have trouble unbuckling it without some help. If your father-in-law isn’t around, I’ll be glad to lend you a hand.”
“I can manage.”
“I don’t doubt that, but why turn down my offer to help?”
“Because—” She broke off whatever it was she had been about to say and turned her head aside.
“Oh. I get it.” He took a step back. “Mrs. Driscoll is still missing.”
She came back around and said quickly, “No, no. That’s not the reason. Not at all.” She clasped her hands together, then, as though realizing she was still wearing the gloves, took them off, and tapped the pair of them against her palm. “I don’t want to be beholden to you, Mr. Hutton.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
“I don’t want to be beholden to anybody.”
She looked like she meant it, and he didn’t want to provoke her by trying to change her mind. He supposed a young widow would be sensitive to becoming indebted to a single man. Though knowing that didn’t make him any less sorry that he couldn’t get near her without her bristling.
He motioned toward the driver’s door. “At least let me crank the motor for you. Climb in.” He extended his hand to help her onto the running board.
She hesitated only briefly before setting her hand in his. It was the one with the cut across his palm. She looked into his eyes, swiftly, then reclaimed her hand and stepped into the car.
He went around to the front of it. After she’d adjusted the spark and throttle levers on the steering column, he turned the crank twice. She switched on the battery, and the engine sputtered to life.
He collected his things from the hood, came back to the driver’s side, and passed her one of the handbills. “In case you come across anyone with a horse that needs to be taught some manners.”
She took the sheet from him and gave him a small smile. “I’ll pass it along.”
“I’d sure appreciate it. Thank you.”
He looked at her for maybe a couple of seconds longer than was easy on either of them. Long before he wanted to, he brushed the brim of his hat. “Take care, Mrs. Plummer.” He started back across the street.
“It was pneumonia.”
Her blurted statement brought him to a halt. He turned around.
She was off by five degrees of looking him directly in the eye. “Pearl came early. Her lungs probably weren’t finished developing, Dr. Perkins said. They were too weak to fight off the infection.”
He let his breath out slowly. “You asked me not to say anything. Just as well. I don’t have the words.”
She did look straight at him then, her expression stark with pain.
Then she bobbed her head, put the car in gear, and drove away.
Nineteen
Bernie stood at one of the four windows in his office. It was on the second floor of City Hall, affording him a bird’s-eye view of Main Street. From this advantageous point, he could monitor who was doing what, sometimes to his amusement, sometimes to his consternation.
Presently he was watching Thatcher Hutton make his way along the thoroughfare, going from utility pole to utility pole, nailing a notice to each one.
“What does it say?” Bernie asked and held out his hand.
Hennessy passed him one of the flyers. Bernie scanned it, then said to his bodyguard, “Thanks. That’s all for now.”
Hennessy left the office and closed the door.
“Does he ever speak?” Bernie’s associate asked.
“He doesn’t need to.”
“No, I guess the scowl does speak for itself. What about Mr. Hutton? What does his handbill say?”
Bernie turned away from the window and sat down at his mayoral desk. “It’s an advertisement for his services. Read for yourself.” He pushed the printed sheet across his desk toward the man sitting facing it. “This indicates to me that he’s sticking around.”
“He paid our charming landlady another week’s rent.”
“What do you make of it?”
Frowning in thought, Chester Landry needlessly straightened his perfectly tied bow tie. “I would suspect, as you do, that he’s a spy for the Anti-Saloon League in conjunction with a law enforcement agency. May they all roast in hell. Although, if they get their way, that’s where we’re destined.”
“Bill Amos swears up and down that Hutton appears to be exactly what he claims. A cowpoke without a herd. A straggler of a dying breed.”
“Well, the sheriff may be right.” Chester told Bernie about the arrival of Hutton’s trunk. “He dragged it up two flights of stairs, declining assistance from several who offered, myself included. The following morning, he came down for breakfast wearing common cowboy getup.” He dusted an imaginary speck of lint from the knee of his trousers, a lazy gesture Bernie privately regarded with scorn.
Chester Landry fancied himself a dandy. His hair was slicked down with enough pomade to pave the highway from here to El Paso. The side part looked like it had been carved into his scalp. He was always dressed to the nines, favoring patterned vests and brightly colored bow ties that Bernie wouldn’t have been caught dead in. The man also had a gold upper molar that glinted whenever he flashed his wolfish smile.
He was Bernie’s partner in business. He was also a pain in Bernie’s ass. Bernie couldn’t get moonshine out of the county and into the speakeasies in Fort Worth and Dallas without it going through Chester Landry’s manicured hands. Nor could he get bootlegged liquor smuggled into the county without Landry. He brokered the deals on both ends, and the percentage he demanded for each transaction was downright usurious.
But without him and his “powers of persuasion,” Bernie’s business wouldn’t run as smoothly. Or as covertly. Which brought him to a matter of importance. “Is that loudmouth still at the boardinghouse?”
“Randy Wells? Yes. As talkative and obnoxious as ever. His hobby is goading the teetotalers, and the most pious among them can’t resist the bait. It results in some lively give-and-take.”
“He hasn’t told you who he buys his whiskey from?”
“It remains his secret.”
“Dammit, Chester, I want to know who it is.”
“Well, the choices are limited to either one of the Johnsons or to someone in our organization.”
“Or it’s a lone wolf who’s selling cheaper and undercutting all of us.”
“In other words, someone not playing by the rules as set by you.”
“You’re damn right.”
Landry chuckled. “Should we try to unionize?”
“I’m thinking more of monopolizing.”
Chester raised his brows. “Hmm. An interesting prospect.”
“It would be good for everybody.”
“Especially you.”
“And you.”
Landry conceded that with another languid gesture and sly smile.
“Get me the identity of this Randy’s source.”
“I’m working on it.”
Chester’s smile remained in place, but his voice suddenly had a bite, and that didn’t sit well with Bernie. The bootlegger was a necessary evil, but Bernie never would allow him to get the upper hand. He feared that most of Landry’s posturing was just that: posturing. He wasn’t nearly as insouciant as he pretended to be.
“These things require finessing, Bernie,” he said, speaking smoothly again. “I can’t press Randy on it, or seem overeager, and he doesn’t want to reveal his source because he’s acting as his own middleman. I’m not his only customer. For every jar he sells, he jacks up the price and takes a cut for himself.”
“Everybody and his dog takes a cut.”
“If you don’t like the system, you should have invested in another enterprise.”
“As it is now, the system is taking money out of my pocket.”
The gold tooth flashed. “But by anyone’s standards, they’re still awfully deep pockets.”
Bernie grumbled in response, then said, “It takes only one hotshot like your pal Randy to put all of us in jeopardy. Advise him to keep his fat mouth shut.”
“I’ll put it more diplomatically, but consider the problem of Randy’s loquaciousness solved.” With that, he shot his cuffs and straightened his cuff link. “Anything happening toward finding that missing woman?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s the doctor getting on?”
“He isn’t. He’s holed up in his house. He hasn’t resumed seeing patients.” Bernie didn’t add that he wanted to throttle the man. Gabe was a veritable wreck. He needed to be brought up to snuff. Soon.
“What was his missus like?”
“You’re speaking in the past tense.”
Chester shrugged negligently.
Bernie said, “She had butter-colored curls, a round, rosy face, and big jugs. A fraulein. So anybody with an axe to grind against the Germans could have wished her harm. Including our sheriff. He lost a son to the war.”
“He’s cleared Hutton as a suspect.”
“He hasn’t cleared anybody.” Frustrated, Bernie got up and moved to the window again. “Speaking of.” Across the street, Hutton was engaged in conversation with Irv Plummer’s daughter-in-law.
Chester joined him at the window. “Who’s she?”
Bernie filled the bootlegger in on what he knew about the woman’s history and described the scene that had taken place in the sheriff’s office. “Stunned us all that she and Hutton had met, but she backed up everything he had told us about his random arrival here.”
“Well, then,” Chester said, “I don’t think we need to worry about him working undercover.”
“I worry,” the mayor said. “I live here. I don’t flit in and out like you do.”
“Flit?” Landry said, taking umbrage. “Don’t forget that I represent a line of quality women’s shoes. I have a vast sales territory to cover.”
Bernie snorted. “Shoes.”
“Shoes. Just today, I arm-twisted Hancock into placing his largest order yet. It’s not like I come here to relax and enjoy the quaintness of the boardinghouse.”
Down below, Thatcher Hutton was helping the recent widow with something on the back of her auto. Bernie thoughtfully fingered the chain on his pocket watch. “How’s he act around the other boarders?”
“Polite but not engaging. Keeps his head down. Never offers an opinion unless asked, and then he hedges.”
She shook her head. He sat down across from her. They sipped their beverages. After a lengthy silence, he said, “I was tore up when Derby died. But nothing like this. This hurts something awful.”
Looking across at him, she watched his eyes fill.
“Derby died of his own choosing,” he said, gulping a breath. “That baby girl didn’t.”
Then a terrible sound issued from deep in his throat, and he began to cry. Laurel left her chair in a rush, knelt beside his chair, and placed her arms around his shoulders, drawing him to her. They clung to each other as he wept. She murmured to him all the banalities that would cause her to scream and run mad if anyone were saying them to her. Yet he seemed to derive comfort from them.
He cried himself out. As he wiped his wet face with the large handkerchief he always carried in his back pocket, he looked embarrassed. “I haven’t carried on like that since Derby’s mother passed. It helped a little to get it out. What can I do for you, Laurel?”
“Nothing, thank you. I’m going up to my room.”
“I understand. But you’ll let me know if you need anything?”
“I will.”
“The hurt will never leave you, but you learn to tuck it away,” he said, tapping his heart, “and get on.”
She gave him a wan smile. But as she climbed the stairs, she doubted that she would survive the night. She would surely die of grief.
* * *
At first, Thatcher had been too aggrieved over Mr. Hobson’s demise to give much thought to how it would affect his future. But soon he had to face the reality of his situation and figure out a way to make money. Even living frugally, he’d gone through his poker winnings from the men on the freight train and at the boardinghouse. He couldn’t live for long on a dollar fifty a day.
One afternoon, Thatcher approached Fred Barker. “I’m making progress with the stallion. But I’ve got to scare up more business for myself.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“You’ve got five empty stalls that aren’t earning you a cent. If I can get some horses to work with, how much will you charge me to stable them here and use your paddock?”
They struck a deal that Thatcher thought favored him. But it wouldn’t matter how good the terms were if he couldn’t fill the stalls.
He put in another few evenings of poker at the boardinghouse, won the largest pot each night, and invested his winnings in having handbills printed. He spent the next Saturday afternoon going around town nailing them to utility poles.
That’s when he spotted Laurel Plummer on the other side of Main Street. Her hair was in a long braid hanging down her back out from under a wide-brimmed straw hat. She was dressed in a dark skirt, a white blouse, and a pair of black gloves. She was trying to secure something on top of the trunk of her Model T with a leather strap. Looked to Thatcher like the strap wasn’t cooperating.
He hit the head of the nail he’d been hammering one final time, then, taking the sack of nails, hammer, and handbills with him, he crossed the street. “Need a hand?”
She let go of the strap and whipped around. As before, her features were taut, her expression guarded. They relaxed only slightly when she recognized him. “Oh. Mr. Hutton.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Seems you’re always wrestling with something.” He gestured toward the strap. He saw now that she’d been trying to get the ends to meet so she could buckle it.
She looked him up and down, taking in his cowboy hat, faded shirt, and dusty boots, then turned away and resumed pulling on the strap. “My father-in-law told me they had released you from jail.”
“They had no reason to hold me in the first place.”
“Mrs. Driscoll is still missing.”
She yanked hard on the strap as she glanced over her shoulder at him. If she had meant that as an implied accusation, he wasn’t going to honor it with a denial. “I heard you moved into town.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you like your new house?”
“It’s a far cry from new, but it’s better than where we were. How’s your hand?”
He held it up, palm out. “Healed. How’s your little girl?”
She gave the strap another yank. “She died.”
The ground seemed to give way underneath him. Her blunt statement had left him dumbfounded, and she must have sensed it. She stopped grappling with the strap and faced him.
“Please don’t feel like you have to say anything, Mr. Hutton. Actually, I would rather you didn’t.”
“All right.”
“It’s just that it’s difficult for me to talk about.”
He nodded. “I can see where it would be.”
She wet her lips, then pulled the lower one through her teeth.
He squinted up at the sun and readjusted the brim of his hat to shade his eyes.
After several awkward moments, he set the sack of nails, hammer, and handful of flyers on the hood of the car, then stepped around her and easily buckled the strap over several bundles of what looked like household goods. He gave it a test tug. “That ought to hold.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He looked down at her. The straw brim of her hat cast a patterned shadow over her face that intrigued him. Or, he just liked looking at her. Her eyes were green. And skittish. They looked everywhere except back at him.
A strand of hair had escaped both the braid and her hat. She pushed at it with the back of her wrist, the small knob of which barely cleared the curled edge of her worn leather glove. He didn’t remember ever seeing a wrist that delicate or a gesture that feminine.
But if he weren’t mistaken, the collarless shirt she wore was a man’s garment. It was way too large for her. The sleeves were rolled back, forming bulky cuffs against her thin forearms. The top button had been left open, exposing the triangular hollow at the base of her throat and making it about the most tempting patch of skin on the planet.
Her darting eyes eventually landed on the handbills. She tilted her head in order to read the bold printing upside down. “You break and train horses for a living?”
“Trying to.”
“That explains the cowboy clothes.” She glanced down at the ground. “The boots make you taller.”
Pleased to know that she’d noticed anything about him, he lifted his foot and looked at the scuffed riding heel. “I reckon so. I never thought about the height thing because I’ve always worn them. Only recently have I been without. These didn’t catch up to me until a few days ago, and it was like meeting up with old friends.”
He explained about the trunk. “It had been up there waiting on me, but turns out I won’t be going back to the Panhandle, after all.”
“No?”
“No. Circumstances up there changed while I was gone. Anyhow, these britches are more suited to my occupation.” He grinned. “The seat of my suit pants ripped the first time I got thrown.”
“Thrown? You mean bucked off?”
“That’s what I mean. The horse I’m working with now—his name’s Ulysses—is spirited, to say the least.”
“Were you hurt?”
“A knock or two. Nothing to speak of.”
“He could do it to you again.”
“Oh, you can count on it.”
“You’re not scared?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’m not that easy to scare off. He’s a bit touchy, but he’ll learn to trust me.”
He could tell by the way she dropped her gaze that she’d caught his underlying meaning. “I have to go,” she said. “Good luck with Ulysses.”
“There’s no give in that strap.”
“What?”
He tipped his head toward the bundle on top of the trunk. “You’re gonna have trouble unbuckling it without some help. If your father-in-law isn’t around, I’ll be glad to lend you a hand.”
“I can manage.”
“I don’t doubt that, but why turn down my offer to help?”
“Because—” She broke off whatever it was she had been about to say and turned her head aside.
“Oh. I get it.” He took a step back. “Mrs. Driscoll is still missing.”
She came back around and said quickly, “No, no. That’s not the reason. Not at all.” She clasped her hands together, then, as though realizing she was still wearing the gloves, took them off, and tapped the pair of them against her palm. “I don’t want to be beholden to you, Mr. Hutton.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
“I don’t want to be beholden to anybody.”
She looked like she meant it, and he didn’t want to provoke her by trying to change her mind. He supposed a young widow would be sensitive to becoming indebted to a single man. Though knowing that didn’t make him any less sorry that he couldn’t get near her without her bristling.
He motioned toward the driver’s door. “At least let me crank the motor for you. Climb in.” He extended his hand to help her onto the running board.
She hesitated only briefly before setting her hand in his. It was the one with the cut across his palm. She looked into his eyes, swiftly, then reclaimed her hand and stepped into the car.
He went around to the front of it. After she’d adjusted the spark and throttle levers on the steering column, he turned the crank twice. She switched on the battery, and the engine sputtered to life.
He collected his things from the hood, came back to the driver’s side, and passed her one of the handbills. “In case you come across anyone with a horse that needs to be taught some manners.”
She took the sheet from him and gave him a small smile. “I’ll pass it along.”
“I’d sure appreciate it. Thank you.”
He looked at her for maybe a couple of seconds longer than was easy on either of them. Long before he wanted to, he brushed the brim of his hat. “Take care, Mrs. Plummer.” He started back across the street.
“It was pneumonia.”
Her blurted statement brought him to a halt. He turned around.
She was off by five degrees of looking him directly in the eye. “Pearl came early. Her lungs probably weren’t finished developing, Dr. Perkins said. They were too weak to fight off the infection.”
He let his breath out slowly. “You asked me not to say anything. Just as well. I don’t have the words.”
She did look straight at him then, her expression stark with pain.
Then she bobbed her head, put the car in gear, and drove away.
Nineteen
Bernie stood at one of the four windows in his office. It was on the second floor of City Hall, affording him a bird’s-eye view of Main Street. From this advantageous point, he could monitor who was doing what, sometimes to his amusement, sometimes to his consternation.
Presently he was watching Thatcher Hutton make his way along the thoroughfare, going from utility pole to utility pole, nailing a notice to each one.
“What does it say?” Bernie asked and held out his hand.
Hennessy passed him one of the flyers. Bernie scanned it, then said to his bodyguard, “Thanks. That’s all for now.”
Hennessy left the office and closed the door.
“Does he ever speak?” Bernie’s associate asked.
“He doesn’t need to.”
“No, I guess the scowl does speak for itself. What about Mr. Hutton? What does his handbill say?”
Bernie turned away from the window and sat down at his mayoral desk. “It’s an advertisement for his services. Read for yourself.” He pushed the printed sheet across his desk toward the man sitting facing it. “This indicates to me that he’s sticking around.”
“He paid our charming landlady another week’s rent.”
“What do you make of it?”
Frowning in thought, Chester Landry needlessly straightened his perfectly tied bow tie. “I would suspect, as you do, that he’s a spy for the Anti-Saloon League in conjunction with a law enforcement agency. May they all roast in hell. Although, if they get their way, that’s where we’re destined.”
“Bill Amos swears up and down that Hutton appears to be exactly what he claims. A cowpoke without a herd. A straggler of a dying breed.”
“Well, the sheriff may be right.” Chester told Bernie about the arrival of Hutton’s trunk. “He dragged it up two flights of stairs, declining assistance from several who offered, myself included. The following morning, he came down for breakfast wearing common cowboy getup.” He dusted an imaginary speck of lint from the knee of his trousers, a lazy gesture Bernie privately regarded with scorn.
Chester Landry fancied himself a dandy. His hair was slicked down with enough pomade to pave the highway from here to El Paso. The side part looked like it had been carved into his scalp. He was always dressed to the nines, favoring patterned vests and brightly colored bow ties that Bernie wouldn’t have been caught dead in. The man also had a gold upper molar that glinted whenever he flashed his wolfish smile.
He was Bernie’s partner in business. He was also a pain in Bernie’s ass. Bernie couldn’t get moonshine out of the county and into the speakeasies in Fort Worth and Dallas without it going through Chester Landry’s manicured hands. Nor could he get bootlegged liquor smuggled into the county without Landry. He brokered the deals on both ends, and the percentage he demanded for each transaction was downright usurious.
But without him and his “powers of persuasion,” Bernie’s business wouldn’t run as smoothly. Or as covertly. Which brought him to a matter of importance. “Is that loudmouth still at the boardinghouse?”
“Randy Wells? Yes. As talkative and obnoxious as ever. His hobby is goading the teetotalers, and the most pious among them can’t resist the bait. It results in some lively give-and-take.”
“He hasn’t told you who he buys his whiskey from?”
“It remains his secret.”
“Dammit, Chester, I want to know who it is.”
“Well, the choices are limited to either one of the Johnsons or to someone in our organization.”
“Or it’s a lone wolf who’s selling cheaper and undercutting all of us.”
“In other words, someone not playing by the rules as set by you.”
“You’re damn right.”
Landry chuckled. “Should we try to unionize?”
“I’m thinking more of monopolizing.”
Chester raised his brows. “Hmm. An interesting prospect.”
“It would be good for everybody.”
“Especially you.”
“And you.”
Landry conceded that with another languid gesture and sly smile.
“Get me the identity of this Randy’s source.”
“I’m working on it.”
Chester’s smile remained in place, but his voice suddenly had a bite, and that didn’t sit well with Bernie. The bootlegger was a necessary evil, but Bernie never would allow him to get the upper hand. He feared that most of Landry’s posturing was just that: posturing. He wasn’t nearly as insouciant as he pretended to be.
“These things require finessing, Bernie,” he said, speaking smoothly again. “I can’t press Randy on it, or seem overeager, and he doesn’t want to reveal his source because he’s acting as his own middleman. I’m not his only customer. For every jar he sells, he jacks up the price and takes a cut for himself.”
“Everybody and his dog takes a cut.”
“If you don’t like the system, you should have invested in another enterprise.”
“As it is now, the system is taking money out of my pocket.”
The gold tooth flashed. “But by anyone’s standards, they’re still awfully deep pockets.”
Bernie grumbled in response, then said, “It takes only one hotshot like your pal Randy to put all of us in jeopardy. Advise him to keep his fat mouth shut.”
“I’ll put it more diplomatically, but consider the problem of Randy’s loquaciousness solved.” With that, he shot his cuffs and straightened his cuff link. “Anything happening toward finding that missing woman?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s the doctor getting on?”
“He isn’t. He’s holed up in his house. He hasn’t resumed seeing patients.” Bernie didn’t add that he wanted to throttle the man. Gabe was a veritable wreck. He needed to be brought up to snuff. Soon.
“What was his missus like?”
“You’re speaking in the past tense.”
Chester shrugged negligently.
Bernie said, “She had butter-colored curls, a round, rosy face, and big jugs. A fraulein. So anybody with an axe to grind against the Germans could have wished her harm. Including our sheriff. He lost a son to the war.”
“He’s cleared Hutton as a suspect.”
“He hasn’t cleared anybody.” Frustrated, Bernie got up and moved to the window again. “Speaking of.” Across the street, Hutton was engaged in conversation with Irv Plummer’s daughter-in-law.
Chester joined him at the window. “Who’s she?”
Bernie filled the bootlegger in on what he knew about the woman’s history and described the scene that had taken place in the sheriff’s office. “Stunned us all that she and Hutton had met, but she backed up everything he had told us about his random arrival here.”
“Well, then,” Chester said, “I don’t think we need to worry about him working undercover.”
“I worry,” the mayor said. “I live here. I don’t flit in and out like you do.”
“Flit?” Landry said, taking umbrage. “Don’t forget that I represent a line of quality women’s shoes. I have a vast sales territory to cover.”
Bernie snorted. “Shoes.”
“Shoes. Just today, I arm-twisted Hancock into placing his largest order yet. It’s not like I come here to relax and enjoy the quaintness of the boardinghouse.”
Down below, Thatcher Hutton was helping the recent widow with something on the back of her auto. Bernie thoughtfully fingered the chain on his pocket watch. “How’s he act around the other boarders?”
“Polite but not engaging. Keeps his head down. Never offers an opinion unless asked, and then he hedges.”
