Blind Tiger, page 24
He didn’t say anything. She didn’t look into his face but continued to stare straight ahead at the button on his shirt to which she’d issued the ultimatum about pretending and forgetting. He waited her out. Finally, she tilted her head back and met his eyes. “That’s how it’s going to be.”
“Is that right?”
She went rigid with indignation and made a sound of disgust. “I knew you’d be difficult about it.”
She elbowed him aside and went out into the yard. She strode over to the horse. The gelding shied, taking several cautious steps backward. She untied the reins from around the post, then tugged on them until the reluctant horse went along as she led him over to Thatcher.
“Here.” She held out the reins. “Goodbye.”
Thatcher took the reins, then caught her hand and walked her backward until she came up against the gelding’s side, the back of her head resting against the seat of the saddle. Thatcher cupped the horn with his left hand and placed his right on the cantle, bracketing her with his arms.
He could tell the action shocked her, but he didn’t give her time to counter. “You’ve said your piece, now I’m going to say mine. I like the look of you. Have since I first laid eyes on you. That soft spot right there where your lips meet was the first place I wanted to kiss.”
He homed in on that spot, then his eyes trailed down her front and back up again. “I like the size and shape of you. I like everything. Even your sass. Mostly your sass,” he said, his gaze dipping briefly to her lips again before returning to her eyes.
“As for not thinking about that kiss ever happening again, I’ve already thought about it. And more. I think about you unbuttoned and unhooked and with your hair loose. I have dreams where we’re lying down together, and I hate like hell waking up.”
He shifted his stance, still not touching her, but coming awfully close, and it was hard as hell not to give in to the urge to bring them flush like they’d been last night. “Now, Laurel, I’ve never taken advantage of a woman in my life. You damn well know that I didn’t take advantage of you last night, and I won’t. Ever.”
He dropped his voice so she’d have to listen really close to this last part, because it was an ultimatum of his own. “But if you genuinely don’t want me coming at you again, be careful you don’t dare me.”
He gave the words seconds to sink in, then lowered his hands from the saddle, moved her aside, put his boot in the stirrup, and swung up. He nudged the gelding with his knees and rode out of the yard without looking back.
* * *
Thatcher had another difficult encounter ahead of him this morning. He’d said what he’d wanted to say to Laurel, but in doing so had probably offended her beyond any hope of ever making amends. But if he had it to do over again, he’d say the same.
He feared things wouldn’t go any better with Bill Amos.
The sheriff’s car wasn’t parked out front of the department, but Thatcher went inside to check if he was there. Three personnel were inside, but Harold was the only one Thatcher knew by name. All stopped what they were doing when he walked in.
Harold said, “Sheriff’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“At home.”
“I have business with him.”
“What kind of business?”
Harold had covered his back last night during the raid, but the resentment persisted, it seemed. “The kind that won’t wait. Where does he live?”
The Amoses’ house wasn’t as picturesque as Dr. Driscoll’s, but the second story roofline sported gingerbread trim. It overhung a deep porch with two wicker rocking chairs. The yard was shaded by a massive pecan tree loaded with clusters of green shucks that promised a good harvest come fall. Thatcher secured the gelding to a fence post, made his way up the limestone walk, and knocked on the front door.
The upper half of it had an oval glass pane through which Thatcher and the sheriff made eye contact as he approached. He was in shirtsleeves and seemed a bit thrown to see Thatcher at his door. He greeted him by name with a question mark behind it.
“I stopped by your office first. Harold told me where you lived. Can I have a minute?”
The sheriff turned his head and glanced up the staircase attached to the right wall of the vestibule. He came back around, smoothing his mustache. “All right. Come in.”
Thatcher took off his hat and stepped inside. On the wall opposite the staircase was a gallery of framed photographs, but the foyer was dim, and Thatcher couldn’t make out who was in the pictures.
“How bad off is Irv Plummer?” Bill asked.
“He’ll live. The bullet entered the back of his arm, here.” Thatcher illustrated. “Came out through his armpit. Lost blood, but it wasn’t as nasty as it could have been. What about the other injured?”
“Bloody noses and scraped knuckles, one broken finger. Four were shot, including Irv. None of the wounds were fatal or permanently crippling. Thank God.”
“Who was the shooter?”
“Local boy. Preacher’s kid. Stupid and blind drunk. He panicked, overreacted. Broke down and cried when we told him that his wild shots had found flesh. More scared of his daddy’s punishment than jail time. We’ve got a dozen in the cell block sleeping it off until they can be arraigned later today. Lefty’s lawyer has already posted bail for him and Gert. Routine,” he said with a shrug. “How was Mrs. Plummer when you got Irv home?”
“Scared at first, seeing the blood. But once the shock wore off and she realized the wound wasn’t fatal, she was fine.”
“Third crisis in a row for that young lady.”
“Another would be having the old man sent to jail. Do you plan on arresting him?”
“Not this time. But he should learn his lesson from getting shot and stay out of Lefty’s.”
Thatcher didn’t comment on that. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and extended it to Bill by the barrel. “Wasn’t fired. Wasn’t needed after all.”
“Why don’t you keep it, Thatcher?”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve already got one. It was a gift. This one comes with strings.”
With a sigh of resignation, Bill took the Colt and set it on the lengthy table that ran along the wall under the picture gallery. “Look, I can tell that you’re upset about—”
“I’m not upset, Bill, I’m pissed off. You roped me into something I wanted no part of, and it’s not like I hadn’t told you flat out that I wanted no part of it.”
“Guilty. But last night you only proved that you—”
“Bill?”
The feminine voice came from above. Thatcher looked up the staircase where a woman hovered halfway down. She was of comparable age to Bill, maybe fifty. She was wearing a dressing gown and bedroom slippers. Her long, pale hair hung loose and tangled almost to her waist. She looked like a disheveled angel, a remarkably beautiful angel.
And she was regarding Thatcher with as much awe as he was regarding her.
With gentleness, Bill said, “Daisy, go on back upstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.”
She eased her grip on the bannister and continued her descent, but it was as plain as day to Thatcher that she was drunk or high on something. Her tread was so unsteady that if Bill hadn’t bounded up to assist her down the last few steps, she surely would have fallen.
When they reached the bottom, she shuffled toward Thatcher, bringing with her a waft of whiskey. She laid her frail hand against her chest as she gazed up at him with a yearning that made Thatcher uncomfortable. He looked over at Bill, who was watching his wife with sorrow, pity, and love. The raw and tragic kind.
“Daisy, this is Thatcher Hutton. Remember I told you about him?”
In a breathy voice, she said, “For a moment there, I thought… With the light behind him, the angle of his jaw, he looked…” She trailed off, and, turning away from Thatcher, said to her husband, “They do make mistakes. I’ve read stories.”
Bill placed his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t think it’s a mistake, Daisy.”
She looked toward the photo gallery, then pressed her face into Bill’s shirtfront, and began making keening sounds that made chills run down Thatcher’s spine.
Bill shushed her, then turned with her toward the stairs, saying to Thatcher over his shoulder, “Wait for me on the porch.”
Thatcher quietly slipped through the front door. Fucking hell. This was turning out to be some morning.
He sat down in one of the rocking chairs and stared at the gelding whose head drooped in the midmorning heat. He was too lazy even to graze at the patch of grass within nibbling distance. Thatcher actually preferred a horse that would stamp and rear and buck him off a dozen times to one he had to light a fire under.
Neither he nor the horse moved much in the ten minutes before Bill came through the door, pulling it closed behind him. He avoided looking at Thatcher as he dragged the other rocking chair over and lowered himself into it, settling heavily. He rested his head against the back of it and closed his eyes, his bearing one of utter despair and defeat.
Thatcher took his cue from Bill and remained silent.
After a time, Bill sat forward and placed his forearms on his thighs, linking his fingers between his knees and staring at the floor planks under his boots. “Daisy has a heart condition. You see? Her heart is broken. Shattered, actually.
“The ‘declines’ I told you about are actually drinking binges. When I got home late last night, she was passed out. I couldn’t wake her up. Scares me shitless when I find her like that. I stayed home this morning, waiting for her to wake up, bathe, to eat something…” He made a rolling motion with his hand. “You get it.”
Thatcher nodded, but Bill had yet to look at him, so he didn’t see the nod. He said the first thing that came to mind, and it was in earnest. “She’s beautiful.”
Bill gave a sniff of rueful humor. “First time I saw her, swear to God I don’t think I took a breath for five full minutes. It was at a community picnic on the Fourth of July. She had on a white dress and carried a parasol. I drew her attention by winning a shooting contest. She strolled over to congratulate me on my blue ribbon. I don’t remember what we said to each other. I doubt I made a lick of sense.”
He paused and smiled at the recollection. “Anyhow, I started courting her the next day. A few months later, I asked for her hand, and she said yes. I thought for sure she was taunting me, but no, she was in earnest. I marched her to First Methodist before she could change her mind. Our son Tim was born nine months later, almost to the day of the wedding.”
During his next pause, his smile faded. “But after Tim, she couldn’t conceive. That boy became the light of our lives. We loved him. Most everybody who met him did. The good die young, they say.” He gulped, and it took a while for him to continue.
“We never saw his body, didn’t have a casket. We put up a marker in the cemetery, but Daisy can’t accept that he’s gone. I know it was eerie for you, the way she was staring. I apologize. She thinks she sees Tim in every young man who’s the right age and of similar build. You do resemble him that way.
“She drinks herself into stupors. Some last hours. Some for days. Every once in a while, she can pull herself together and make an effort to be her old self, the belle of the ball. But not often.”
Thatcher shifted in his seat. “Have you thought of taking her to a sanatorium?”
“A thousand times a day. But I can’t bring myself to do it, Thatcher. I can’t do that to either of us. Being locked up might send her over a cliff to where I couldn’t reach. I wouldn’t have anything of her, and I’d rather have this than nothing.”
“Where does she get the hooch?”
He looked over at Thatcher then, and in his eyes was a shameful confession. “That’s why I told you it would be messy if I tried to charge our mayor with bootlegging. Not just messy, but hypocritical. He supplies me with the good stuff from Kentucky.”
“He might not if he knew it wasn’t for you, if he knew it was Mrs. Amos who was drinking it.”
“Oh, he knows. He takes perverse pleasure in her addiction and our sad, sad circumstance.” He gave Thatcher another rueful smile. “He was Daisy’s escort to the picnic.”
Thirty-Three
Chester Landry was in conversation with Mr. Hancock and one of his female customers. She was effusively extolling the quality and styling of her recently purchased shoes. With matching effusiveness, Landry complimented her on how well she wore them.
She simpered, Mr. Hancock suggested she buy an additional pair, and Landry’s eye was caught by Jimmy Hennessy, who was paying for a purchase at the cash register. Croft’s bodyguard tipped his head toward the door.
Landry excused himself from the merchant and the woman, telling them how badly he regretted being unable to stay longer, and exited the store. Hennessy was staring into one of the store’s display windows and didn’t even turn his head in Landry’s direction as he said, “He wants to see you.”
Five minutes later, Landry entered the municipal building through a back entrance and took a private staircase that led to a side door of the mayor’s office, bypassing his secretary. This door was used only by Bernie’s inner circle and individuals like Sheriff Amos who came to pick up their graft.
Landry tapped on the door and was told to come in. Concealing his displeasure over being marshaled, he said, “Good morning, Bernie.” He walked over to his customary chair and took a seat.
Bernie, seated behind his desk, was fiddling with a sterling silver letter opener. Landry got the sense he was testing its worth as a weapon. He said, “I understand there was some excitement at Lefty’s last night.”
“Yes. Rip-roaring.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Landry’s head went back an inch. He cocked an eyebrow. “If you know, then obviously you didn’t need me to tell you.”
“I want to hear your account of it, Chester.”
He raised his shoulders. “It was a raid. Typical in execution and response. People scattered and fled. Heads were knocked. I’m sure there were some arrests, but I have a lot of practice at avoiding arrest, and I succeeded in doing so last night.”
“In company?”
“I was there by myself. Prior to the bust-in, I chatted with Lefty. He placed his standard order, but you’ll be pleased to hear that I talked him into taking an extra case of that expensive Canadian.” He paused, then said, “You still look perturbed.”
“Thatcher Hutton was at Lefty’s last night.”
“Hutton? He wasn’t in the back room, I’m certain.”
“No, he was out front.”
“He must’ve taken his own recommendation.”
“Explain that.”
“At dinner last week, he said he’d heard Lefty’s hamburgers were good. I guess he decided to try one.”
“He didn’t go for a hamburger. He was there with Bill Amos.”
That took Landry by surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Bernie replied testily. “Hutton took part in the raid, on the side of the sheriff’s department. Not all of Bill’s men are happy about it, either. There’s grousing in the ranks. First Hutton is in cuffs, now he’s in our sheriff’s back pocket.”
“And the sheriff is in yours,” Landry returned mildly.
This was a development he hadn’t foreseen. Last week, Hutton had claimed that he had no plans, that he was taking things one day at a time. His sudden change of course needed to be explored, but in a coolheaded manner. Bernie was fuming, and that bothered Landry. First because his anger was so apparent, and secondly because angry people made rash decisions in order to put a quick end to an unexpected problem.
He needed to talk him down. “Actually, Bernie, you should be relieved.”
“Why in hell?”
“Because if Hutton is wearing a badge and carrying out raids, he isn’t working undercover.”
“Not necessarily.”
“But improbably.”
“Well, I don’t like it. I don’t like him. You two live in the same boardinghouse. Keep an eye on him.”
“Hmm.” Landry steepled his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “He’s no fool, Bernie. He won’t be as easily manipulated as Randy was.”
“I’m confident you’ll handle him with your usual finesse.”
“I’m glad we agree on that.”
Landry got up and went to the door. Hand on the knob, he turned back. “You were entirely right to tell me about Hutton’s new status. I needed to know. But I disliked being summoned. I’m not one of the good ol’ boys you have at your beck and call, Bernie. Don’t ever send that mick lummox of yours after me again.”
Thirty-Four
Gabe Driscoll was appalled by Norma’s recklessness. “What the devil are you thinking, showing up here in broad daylight?”
“I suggest you let me in. It wouldn’t do for your nosy neighbors to see you refusing to examine a pediatric patient, no matter how closeted you are.”
He glanced down at the bundle in her arms. “The baby’s sick?”
“He’s as healthy as a horse, but they don’t know that.” She shoved past Gabe and entered the house.
He took a furtive look up and down the street. Norma’s sister’s automobile was the only one in sight, but Patsy wasn’t in it. He shut the door. “You drove yourself?”
“I wanted us to be alone.” Without invitation, Norma went into the parlor. “This room is like a dungeon. Why don’t you raise the shades and open the drapes?”
“Never mind the drapes, Norma. I told you not to come here.”
“You gave me no choice. You haven’t kept your promise to come see Arthur and me.”
“I couldn’t get away.”
