A Disgrace to the Badge

by Ed Gorman

  She tried not to think of her proper folks back East, her father a parson so respected that the Episcopal bishop declared him the finest church orator he'd ever heard. The scandal—adultery, death—would surely hasten his death. He had a bad heart and was already failing.

  She had never told a serious lie in her life; and the few small lies she'd told she'd later admitted to, and asked the person's forgiveness.

  But she knew this was one lie she would have to be part of for the sake of the children. Bobby Gregg was the man the mob was looking for. Bobby Gregg was the man who would have to stand trial for Suzie's death. She tried to convince herself she was doing the only thing she could. Bobby was single, had no roots, would probably not live long anyway, given his temper. He and Richard were good friends, pitching horseshoes whenever they had a chance, Bobby eating dinner here a couple of times a month. And Bobby was a good young man, but—but Richard, on the other hand, was the father of two, a successful businessman, and a man who brought the truth to all. She knew as a Christian that all lives were important . . . but (and forgive me, O Lord, if this is the sin of pride) aren't some lives more important than others in the scheme of things?

  "My beans are cold," Ruth said.

  "Gosh, I wonder why," Jean Anne said.

  "Because we were yappin'," Ruth said, and looked at Nicholas.

  "Huh-uh. We were gabbin', not yappin'," Nicholas said.

  "It's the same thing," Ruth said.

  "Huh-uh," Nicholas said. "Is it, Mommy?"

  Are some lives more important in the vast scheme of things? Jean Anne knew she was treading on some mighty dangerous territory here. Playing God was what she was doing. Making decisions only the Good Lord Himself should be making.

  But how could you look at these two wonderful children and not spare them the mark that would be associated with what their father had done?

  But Bobby Gregg . . .

  6:23 P.M.

  Serena's brother Tom made ninety dollars a month as a bricklayer. Serena, all of seventeen, made $150 on average. Serena was a prostitute. Not that Tom knew. He lived in Denver. Not that her mama knew. Though she lived in the house with Serena, she was still suffering the effects of her stroke. She was not yet forty-five, but looked eighty, crabbed up in her wooden wheelchair. Sometimes she shit herself. Sometimes she talked in that slow, retarded way to phantoms and ghosts. And sometimes she sang this strange, melancholy, beautiful song in the clear, dear voice of the young woman she'd once been.

  Serena worked right in Tombstone. There was one house that had been particularly good to her, so she'd pretty much stayed there. But she always came home. She worked four hours a night, and then went back to her mama's place for the night. She had a face and figure that could command so much money for so little work. Every man who came into Mama Gilda's wanted Serena. And who could blame them?

  Tonight Serena was late for work. There'd be a battle with Mama Gilda. She'd begun to wonder if Gilda knew what was going on, with Bobby Gregg and all. Serena, who was in love with him, and had been since the very first time she'd ever seen him, had hidden him in the attic ever since they'd found Suzie Proctor's body. She believed Bobby—even if few others did—that he hadn't killed Suzie. And she knew damned well that if Virg Earp (who had visited her more than a few times at Mama Gilda's) ever found Bobby, he'd do what he needed to to satisfy the public at election time. He'd made a big show against it—but he'd let a lynching take place. And he wouldn't indict anybody after it either.

  Serena's mama had had a bad time just around dusk. She'd started throwing up and talking crazy. She'd also started running a hell of a fever. Serena—knowing that Doc Wright would just say to let the fever run its course— had spent nearly two hours with Mama before getting the old lady in bed and settled down for the night.

  Now, a dinner of squash, peas, wheat bread, and apple pie filling a large plate, she climbed the stairs to the attic. She had the sensation of climbing into night itself. Except for a tiny window in the front of the house, no light liberated the attic. It was a prison of darkness.

  She heard Bobby start as she reached the narrow square where the ladder ended. She heard him draw his six-gun. Bobby was scared, no doubt about it.

  She walked slowly through the gloom, over to the small window where Bobby sat propped against the wall. She'd brought him a chamber pot a few days ago. The pot was starting to reek. When she had time later tonight, she'd empty it for him.

  "You hear anything today?" he said. Then: "I really appreciate you doing this for me." He sounded so young, frightened. He'd told her at least a dozen times about a lynching he'd seen up to the Missouri border one time. How the man had screamed and sobbed until the noose finally broke his neck.

  She couldn't see much of him, but the moonlight hinted at the strong lines of his face and the vulnerable beauty of his brown eyes. He was all man, Bobby was.

  "The manhunt's still on if that's what you mean."

  "What's Virg sayin' about me?"

  "He still thinks you're in town."

  "They still laughin' at him?"

  "Sure. Most people think you're long gone." Then: "You better eat, Bobby."

  She liked to watch and listen to him eat. He ate vulgar, jamming the food into his mouth without pause, and smacking his lips loudly and pleasurably. All this evoked a maternal feeling in her. That was it. He was her lover, but somehow he was her brother, too.

  "They're gonna get me, aren't they?"

  "Not if you stay here. I can protect you, Bobby."

  She wouldn't mind spending the rest of her life like this. Someday, they'd give it up and wouldn't hunt for him anymore. And by that time, he'd be so grateful that he'd never leave. That was her fear. That he would run off. And so she did everything she could to convince him that he would certainly be lynched if he ever left this house.

  "You just stay here. I'm going to see your brother tonight."

  "My brother! He's here?"

  "I wired him, Bobby. I figured you'd want me to."

  "Good Lord, if anybody can figure a way out of this, it's him."

  "I have to be careful about seein' him, though. Virg Earp is probably watchin him pretty close."

  "My brother," Bobby marveled. "My brother!" He sounded as if all his troubles had been swept away. He pulled her to him and kissed her. It wasn't the passionate, open-mouthed kind of kiss she wanted from him. It was more just a chaste brother-sister kiss right to the left of her mouth. But it would have to do for now. Bobby didn't love her yet. But by the time this whole thing was over and the real killer had been found, he'd be so grateful that he'd never leave her. Or, if the killer was never found, she'd keep right on hiding him, as she'd thought of earlier.

  "I got to go now, Bobby."

  "You tell him it's all up to him."

  "I will, Bobby."

  "You tell him they'd just love to lynch me."

  The initial enthusiasm was waning. He was beginning to understand that Pinkerton man or not, his brother maybe couldn't stop the manhunt from taking its inevitable course.

  "You just finish your supper and rest, Bobby."

  "Sometimes I hear your ma down there singing to herself."

  "It's pretty, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, except it's sort of spooky too. And I don't mean that to give offense."

  "I know what you mean. All the time I was growin' up, she called it her ghost song. That's sort of what it's like."

  "Ghost song," Bobby said. "That's a good name for it all right."

  6:43 P.M.

  Ben knew about conducting a murder investigation. He'd spent an hour where they'd found the young woman's body. He got down on his hands and knees with a magnifying glass and went over everything he could that looked even vaguely useful. He found a variety of buttons, the butts of cigars and cigarettes, small scraps of paper, tiny pieces of broken bottle glass, and numerous other bits and scraps that he dropped into a plain white envelope. Virgil Earp apparently hadn't found any of this mate
rial interesting. Ben Gregg had had the advantage of training under Alan Pinkerton. Alan was much taken with the way Scotland Yard and its French counterpart used the idea of a "crime scene" in homicide. You staked out a wide area of ground where the body had been found, and then you carefully combed it for anything you could find. You never knew what would prove helpful to your investigators or the police or the district attorney. So you kept everything and cataloged it.

  From time to time, he thought of something else too. According to the newspaper account, she'd been strangled. But then a heavy object had been used to smash in the side of her skull. It seemed an odd combination. If the killer had strangled her, wouldn't that be enough? Why then smash a rock against the side of her head?

  Finished with his work, he went back to town and spent two hours talking to people who knew Bobby. None of them thought he was the killer. It was hard to know why they were saying this. Did they really believe it, or were they just saying it to make an older brother feel better? He learned nothing special from these interviews, except that Bobby's best friend in town was probably an "upstart" editor named Richard Turney. Turney was, in the parlance of many, a 'goody-goody,' but as one saloon enthusiast said in his smiley, slurry voice, "Them two, yer brother and that fuckin' big-mouth newspaperman, they're just about the two best horseshoe players in the whole territory. They get more people t'watchin them than them shimmy dancers do when they come here with the county fair every summer."

  Turney's name was the only one that was repeated, which was why Ben Gregg was on his way to the Turney house right now.

  He might find some answers there.

  7:03 P.M.

  The young ladies at Mama Gilda's glared at Serena when she came into the parlor. The three men in the room could feel their anger, and wondered what was going on. Then they saw Serena and didn't care what was going on. This beautiful, small, delicate creature with the exotic eyes and erotic mouth was the one they wanted. Their first choice anyway. Maybe that's what the other girls were so mad about. That they weren't as pretty or erotic as Serena.

  Mama Gilda, a tiny woman with a big temper, pushed her way into the room and said, "I want to see you, young lady, and right now."

  The other young ladies smirked with delight. Mama Gilda was finally going to give it to Serena. And it was way past time.

  7:04 P.M.

  Mike Craig's leg wasn't getting any better. It'd been broken in a landslide and then gangrene had set in somehow. Word was, he was going to lose it. Which meant he couldn't serve as Virg's chief deputy no more.

  Virg hadn't decided on who Mike's successor would be. In truth, it would be hard to replace Mike. He was a redheaded Irishman who knew how to keep his temper and how to walk away from a whiskey bottle. The townspeople liked him and the deputies liked him. Hell, some of the prisoners in the lockup liked him. Mike had a million stories.

  Sam Purcell meant to have the first deputy's job. He'd served three years with Virgil now, and had learned a damned good lot about being a good, sober public server.

  He probably didn't have any real edge. Virg might well not choose him, in fact, which was why Sam was hiding behind the tree across the street from Serena's house on the edge of town.

  As usual, Sam had paid a visit to Mama Gilda's Tuesday afternoon. He always collected Virg's share of the money Mama kicked back to him. That's when he'd overheard two of the girls running Serena down. Who does she think she is? She gets paid too much already, and now she isn't even showing up regularly? Sam asked Mama Gilda about this, and the madam acknowledged that Serena had indeed begun acting strangely lately. She works so few hours as it is, Mama Gilda said, and now the little bitch don't even show up for them half the time. She didn't have no idea why Serena had suddenly stopped showing up on time. Far as Mama Gilda knew, nothin' bad had happened, not there anyway. No man had mistreated her, none of the gals had stolen from her or beat her up, and she got her money full and on time just like always.

  Which had given Sam his idea. Though not a lot of people knew it, Serena and Billy spent their free time together. Good Christian boy like Billy, he didn't want nobody to know, of course. What kinda upstandin' young man keeps company with a whore? It was one thing to visit her at Mama Gilda's and pay for it; but it's another thing entirely to keep company with a whore.

  So tonight, he sees Serena coming late to Mama Gilda's and he remembers what them gals was chewin' on the other day, how Serena's been comin' into work late and not doin' like she ought to in general. Not like her, Mama Gilda had said, shakin' her head; not like her fall.

  Well, what could a young gal have gone and got herself all caught up in? Could be a rich man; could be some kind of venereal disease even a whore was embarrassed about; or it could be . . . hiding a fugitive.

  What if Bobby was in her house somewheres?

  Well, that's what Sam was doing here. Just ten, fifteen more minutes and the sun would start sinking, and he'd be sneaking across the road.

  If he brought in Bobby Gregg, he'd be first deputy for sure.

  7:10 P.M.

  Stupid bastard.

  Thinks Bobby doesn't see him.

  Well, of course Bobby sees him. And sees him good too.

  Saw him come up from the ravine and go hide behind the tree. He think Bobby's blind or what?

  The thing now is, what's he gonna do next? Bobby wonders.

  Is Sam gonna charge the house and shout for him to come out?

  Or is he gonna try and sneak inside and real quiet-like check out every room in the house?

  Bobby'd put money on sneaking inside. Sam fancies himself a real foxy type. Fought in the war with a buncha farm boys and been sailin' bullshit stories about it ever since. Hear him tell it, Union Army didn't fear nobody as much as they did him.

  Then Bobby feels unholy. He is a churchgoer, Bobby, and he has been praying his ass off ever since the manhunt started. He prays and prays and prays, and he feels holy and safe and good. And then he spoils it all by thinking bad thoughts about people and how much he dislikes them and thinks he's better than them and would like to do them harm, and then he doesn't feel holy anymore. He chased holiness away, and now he's just one more miserable desert rat.

  No.

  He takes it back.

  I hope you come in here, Sam, and you don't find me, and you go back home to that Mex wife and kids of yours and you have yourself a real nice, real long life.

  That's what's in my heart, Lord. It purely is.

  But then he hears Sam on the back porch, sneaking in. Only way he could make any more noise was if he fell down into a buncha pots and pans.

  Subtle, he ain't.

  Then he hears the back door itself squawk open. Door swelled and doesn't fit frame right anymore.

  He's inside, Sam is.

  Searching.

  Only a matter of time till he finds the attic.

  O Lord, please keep Sam from finding me. Please, Lord. Please.

  * * *

  It still hurt where Mama Gilda slapped her. Serena sat on the bed in her room, touching her fingers tenderly to the sore spot on her gracefully carved cheek. Bitch probably put a bruise there.

  The place was crowded tonight. Lots of whiskey, lots of laughter, lots of prairie flowers fading fast. That was her biggest fear. That somehow she'd wake up one morning and look like them. And it happened so fast sometimes. Take young Helen from Pennsylvania. Came West with her folks, who got killed in a sudden flood. Ended up working as a whore so she could support her two little brothers. Mama Gilda was good to her. Serena had to say that for the old bitch. Mama Gilda saw to it that the kids were put in school, that they found a nice little cabin to live in, and that Helen was home most nights before ten o'clock to tuck the boys in.

  But wasn't nothin' Mama Gilda could do about Helen's looks. Year ago, Helen had been almost as beautiful as Serena. Fresh, young, and vital. A lot of her Johns— especially the young cowhands—fell in love with her and asked her for her picture and things lik
e that. But as with many of the girls, disease aged them fast. Bad luck of the draw, to be sure; but this bad luck seemed to come to so many of the girls. First, Helen had come down with just crabs, then with gonorrhea. And she was always catching colds and having influenza and getting the chills and then the fevers for no reason—not even the doctor—could see. And it had all taken its toll. Pale, tired, drab, she had worked her way down toward the bottom of popularity. No men, either young nor old, asked for her anymore, and Mama Gilda had begun to give her day work—helping clean and sew and do bookkeeping work (at least Helen had a bit of education and was smart, which was more than you could say for most of the other girls), the sort of jobs girls got if they were diagnosed with syphilis, Mama not allowing no girls with syphilis to cavort with her customers till the doctor said they couldn't infect nobody.

  So far tonight, Serena had had two of her regulars, and they'd both said that she seemed in sort of an owly mood. She'd put on her best smile and forced herself to laugh a lot, but they knew better and she knew better. She'd worked them hard too, so they'd come faster.

  She needed to be alone to think about Bobby. Now that she was away from the house, she saw how foolish she'd been. Somebody was bound to find him there. People were always coming over to drop things off for her mother. One of them was bound to see or hear something.

  Why couldn't Virg Earp just find the real killer anyway?

  She knew what that posse would do if they ever did find Bobby. All his nightmares about being lynched would come true.

  At this point, his brother was his only hope. That's probably why she was so anxious. She needed to get out of here and go see his brother.

  But the clock hands didn't seem to move. She was sure they hadn't moved in an hour.

  A knock.

  "It's me, Princess. Tom Peters."

  "Hi, Tom."

  "Are ya decent?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "Then I'll be right in."

  It was the same joke he used every time he came to Mama Gilda's, and usually the idiocy of it made her smile despite herself. But not tonight.