Eureka

by William Diehl

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard since Prohibition,” she said as she filled a pebbled glass half full with hundred-proof Kentucky bourbon, dropped two ice cubes in it, and poured herself a little Scotch. She raised her glass to him.

  “Here’s to sin,” she said. “Without it, we’d both be up the creek.”

  They touched glasses.

  “So Prohibition doesn’t worry you?”

  “Honey, it’s going to make my business much sweeter and your job a lot livelier.”

  “I haven’t taken a job yet.”

  “You will, Brodie. That’s why you came back. It’s what friendship and love are all about. And I haven’t used the word ‘love’ seriously in a very long time.”

  “Eli says everybody has to have a home to come back to and he’s right. Eureka ain’t much but it’s all I got. I couldn’t stay in the Marines. I got a battlefield commission the night I was wounded. A year later they upped me to first lieutenant while I was in the hospital, and they made me a captain just before I was discharged. No future, nice pension.”

  She sat down on a crimson davenport and leaned back on one elbow.

  “Why did you leave, Brodie?”

  He shrugged. “To see the world.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You want to know the truth? I was running away from what I just came back to.”

  Brodie rode Cyclone back to the stable and gently took off the saddle and bridle. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Brodie said softly. “Be like old times.”

  In the darkness, a cigar tip glowed. “Let’s hope so,” a voice said, and Ben Gorman stepped into the light.

  “Give you a start, brother?” he asked. The two men rushed together, hugging and laughing like children. They walked briskly back to the house, both chattering away, cutting each other off with one story after another. Ben didn’t talk about the future. He didn’t have to.

  A cool September afternoon nine months later.

  Brodie Culhane parked his Ford under the trees behind the bank and turned off the ignition. He took out the makings and struggled to roll a cigarette. He focused on the job, folded the thin paper around his forefinger and sprinkled tobacco into the groove. Then he started to twist the paper with the thumb and forefinger of both hands. It was almost perfect and he smiled to himself, licked the glued edge of the paper, and twisted it shut. It wasn’t a work of art but it was better than smoking harsh store-bought cigarettes. As he lit it, he heard the back door of the Ford open and close.

  “I hope that’s you, Slim,” Brodie said, blowing a smoke ring and not turning around.

  “I get real nervous meetin’ before dark,” came a jittery voice from the floor of the backseat.

  “Hell, you called me. What’s so urgent?”

  Slim was a skinny little man who worked the desk at Riker’s Double Eagle Hotel. He picked up an extra five a week by keeping his ears open and passing information to Culhane.

  “Sompin’s in the wind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Riker brought in four toughs from outta town today. They came in the hotel about four. All of ’em are heeled, I could tell when they came to get their keys.”

  “How do you know they’re Riker’s people?”

  “He made the reservations. Told me not to put ’em in the book and be quiet about it.”

  “How’d they arrive?”

  “Black Ford coupe.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “You know the type. They never blink. Leader seems to be a guy named McGurk. Has one of those purple splotches on his face.”

  “How long they here for?”

  “Riker didn’t say, but they ordered up a bottle and when I got to the door, I heard Riker mention Buck and Miss O’Dell.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “Ain’t sure, Cap’n. I just heard the names and somethin’ about a piece of the action.”

  “Were they talking about Grand View?”

  “That’s all I know. I can tell you this, Riker’s been jumpy as a cat all day. Like I been tellin’ you for a while, he wants some of that outta-town high-roller action up there. Then there’s all this talk about them on the Hill forming some kinda council and shuttin’ him down. And there’s those two times his boats got sunk out in the drink.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. You think these guys are shooters?”

  “All I know is I seen rods bulgin’ under their coats. I know when a bozo’s loaded. I’m supposed to tell Schuster when I see it, but I figure since it was Riker set ’em up, he knows if they’re carrying or not.”

  “You off duty?”

  “Just got off. I really got bad jitters meetin’ like this in broad daylight.”

  Brodie took a five out of his pocket and draped his arm over the back of the front seat.

  “Here’s an extra fin. Why don’t you go over, play a little poker, and keep an eye out for those four. I’m off tonight. Gonna eat dinner at Wendy’s, then maybe go up to Delilah’s. Call me if anything looks screwy to you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” The door opened and shut quietly.

  Brodie drove the four blocks to the diner and went in. Wendy was barely in her twenties and had inherited the eatery from her father, who drank too much, ate too much, and a year earlier had dropped dead behind the counter one morning while fixing an order of ham and eggs.

  She was a plain girl with ashen hair and a ready smile for her customers. She leaned across the counter as Brodie entered.

  “Come to whisk me away to the Garden of Eden?” she said.

  “I came for the meat loaf special,” Brodie said with a crooked grin. “If it’s real good, maybe I’ll whisk you away after I eat.”

  “I’ll settle for that.”

  “Where is everybody? The joint’s empty.”

  “It’s early.” She reached under the counter and handed him the newspaper.

  “Okay if I use the phone a minute?” Brodie asked.

  “Anything for you,” she said, and put the telephone on the counter. Brodie got the operator and called the sheriff’s office. Andy Sloan, the assistant deputy, answered.

  “Andy, it’s Brodie. Anything going on?”

  “It’s quiet. I got a guy back in the lockup for beating up his old lady and that’s about it.”

  “Is Bix there?”

  Bix was the jailer. He had lost a leg at the Marne and hobbled around on a homemade crutch, a quiet man who made terrible coffee.

  “Yeah.”

  “Take a drive up on the Hill and nose around, then stop off at Delilah’s and hang out. I’ll stop by after I eat.”

  “Something up?”

  “Maybe. We got four heeled out-of-towners in a black Ford at the Double Eagle. I don’t think they’re lost.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “See you at Grand View in an hour or so.”

  He hung up and took his usual booth in the corner of the place and read the paper. A few customers came in and sat at the counter. Brodie was finishing a piece of pie and washing it down with coffee when Wendy said, “Here comes trouble.”

  Arnie Riker was a man who strutted when he walked, swinging his arms like a soldier on parade and swaying back and forth. He was crossing the street, followed by his blond bodyguard, Lars Schuster, a muscular ex-prizefighter with the mashed nose and cauliflower ears to prove it.

  “Hell, they’re comin’ in,” Wendy groaned. “They never eat here.”

  “I don’t think they’re coming in to eat.” Culhane picked up the paper and held it in front of him, staring over the top. “Just treat ’em like customers. If there’s a problem, let me handle it.”

  Riker and Schuster entered the diner, sat at the counter across from Culhane. Brodie ignored them, stared at the sports page of the newspaper.

  “What can I do you for?” Wendy asked as cheerily as she could.

  “I hear you make a great cup a coffee. You make a great cup a coffee, Wendy?”

  S
he went to the urn and drew two cups of coffee and put them in front of Riker and Schuster.

  “You tell me,” she said, still smiling.

  Schuster ignored the cup. Riker took a sip, rolled it around in his mouth, and swallowed it.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Maybe I’ll stop in now and then—when I’m feelin’ blue. Coffee perks me up.”

  “You feeling blue?”

  “Yeah. Maybe you heard, I lost a fishing boat the other night. Lucky there was a Coast Guard boat nearby and they pulled my boys out.”

  “That was lucky,” Wendy said. She was getting nervous.

  “Or maybe it wasn’t luck.” He swung the counter seat around and stared at Culhane. “Maybe a boat full of Feds came aboard first and threw all my fish overboard and pulled the plug on the boat, and then the Coast Guard pulled up to make sure nobody got hurt.”

  Culhane ignored him.

  “It’s happened to me twice now. Always way out there,” he waved toward the ocean. “Never anywhere near shore, and they never make a case against me or any of my people. Don’t that seem odd to you?”

  Wendy walked away to wait on a customer. Riker continued to stare at Culhane.

  “I said, ‘Don’t that seem odd to you?’ ” he repeated.

  Culhane laid the paper aside.

  “Was that crack aimed at me?”

  “It was a ‘what if’ kinda question. Like what if the big shots on the Hill wanted to dry me up without causing a big investigation here.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “You’re the law around here. You’re just waiting for Tallman to drop dead of old age.”

  Culhane smiled. “Haven’t you heard, Riker, Buck’s gonna live forever. Maybe you ought to stop fishing at night.”

  “Ain’t you the funny one.”

  “What’re you crying to me for? I don’t have anything to do with the Feds. And I don’t know anybody in the Coast Guard.”

  “Maybe your pal Bucky has friends in high places. Or Gorman. Or some of those other big shots on the Hill.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Riker.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you believe me or not. But if I was you, I wouldn’t call me a liar.”

  The blond muscleman started to get up.

  “Where are you going?” Brodie said to him.

  “Relax, Lars, we’re just talkin’ about ‘what if’ here. Ain’t that right, Culhane? For instance, what if I owned a piece of Grand View? Me and Delilah would be partners and maybe all this harassment would go away.”

  “Maybe it would go away if you had a heart attack. Or ‘what if’ somebody stuck a .45 up your ass and blew your brains out.”

  “Hey there,” Schuster said and stood up.

  From the corner of his eye, Brodie saw a black Ford wheel from behind the Double Eagle Hotel onto the main drag a block away and screech toward the Hill. Four men were in the car.

  “What the hell . . .” Brodie said.

  The phone rang and Wendy answered it.

  “It’s for you, Brodie.”

  He grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. Don’t use my name.” Slim whispered on the other end of the line. “They just left here.”

  “Thanks, Andy.” He hung up and headed for the door. The blond henchman jabbed a thick finger into Brodie’s chest.

  “Mr. Riker’s still talking to you,” he growled. Brodie grabbed the finger, bent it back almost to the wrist, heard it crack. The gunsel bellowed. Brodie twisted the bodyguard’s arm up and backward, grabbed the back of his hair, and slammed his face into one of the stools. Blood squirted from both sides of his face. He made a gurgling noise, and Brodie lifted his head and slammed his face onto the stool again.

  Riker, eyes bulging, was riveted to the spot. Brodie threw the limp hoodlum on the floor, reached under the gangster’s arm, and pulled a .32 from his shoulder holster. He turned and aimed the pistol at Riker.

  “I ain’t heeled,” Riker screamed, holding his hands high.

  Brodie jammed the hoodlum’s .32 under Riker’s chin and frisked him anyway, then grabbed a handful of his shirt.

  “Where’s that bunch of yours going?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know what you’re . . .” Riker stammered.

  Lars groaned, raised himself up. Culhane kicked him in the jaw and he fell on his back.

  “If that bastard ever touches me again, I’ll kill him on the spot,” he whispered in Riker’s face, and shoved him into a chair, which flipped backward. Sprawled on the floor, the gang leader trembled with fear as Brodie aimed the .32 at him.

  “What if I just put you out of everybody’s misery,” Culhane said. Then he pointed the gun toward the ceiling and emptied the bullets on the floor. He turned and dashed out the door.

  Wisps of fog drifted past the sprawling Grand View mansion, leaving damp streaks on its ghostly white facade and dampening the hedges that led to the front door. The full moon was a hazy aura in the mist.

  The black Chevrolet cabriolet pulled up to the tall iron gates, and a hard-looking man got out and walked to the postern, where a security guard stepped out on the other side of the gate.

  “Do you have a card, sir,” he said in a flat, no-nonsense voice. The hard-looking man took a .38-caliber pistol from under his arm and pointed it straight at the guard’s forehead.

  “Will this do?” he hissed with a nasty smile.

  The guard studied the gun and the face behind it, then walked over to the gate, unlocked it, and pulled one side open. The armed man stepped inside, stuck the gun in the guard’s back, led him back to the postern, and shoved him inside the small guardhouse.

  “Sorry, pal,” he growled, and slashed the guard viciously across the jaw with his gun. The guard grunted and collapsed on the floor. The gunman pulled the telephone lines from the wall, walked back outside, and jumped on the running board of the Chevrolet.

  “Okay,” he said, and the car inched down the long drive through the fog to the house. The gunman jumped off the running board and three other men piled out of the car behind him. The leader was Charly McGurk, a slick-looking little weasel wearing a gray fedora. There was a purple wine-stain birthmark on his right cheek. He put the gun back under his arm and they went to the giant double doors and he rang the bell. Inside, he could hear chimes gently stirring. A minute later, a burly chocolate-colored man with temples beginning to show a little gray opened the door. Noah’s eyes widened as the gunman put a hand on his chest and eased him backward. His cohorts followed him into the mansion.

  They entered the wide, two-story foyer. McGurk looked up the winding staircase that faced them, then turned his attention to Andy Sloan, who sat at a table sipping coffee. Sloan jumped to his feet as the four men entered, and his hand fell on the butt of a holstered .38.

  “Don’t do nothin’ stupid,” said McGurk. “Sit down.”

  Culhane decided to take the old horse trail up the cliff to Grand View. It had been widened and there was a wall separating it from the drop to the rocks below. He started up the road, downshifted into low, and hugged the steep rise on his left.

  Halfway up he ran into fog and slowed to a crawl, the transmission groaning as the Ford climbed toward the top.

  At Grand View, three hooligans stood behind McGurk, their hands resting inside their suit jackets.

  “We’re here to have a chat with the lady of the house.” He turned to Noah. “You—dinge—go get her.”

  Noah’s jaws tightened. He looked at the deputy, who thought a moment before nodding. Noah went up the stairs, knocked on a door at the head of the steps. A moment later it opened and Delilah, handsome in a pale yellow evening gown, stepped out and glared down at the four men. She said something to Noah, who disappeared down one of the halls leading from the balcony.

  “Who the hell are you?” she said sternly.

  “You must be the O’Dell lady, all that red hair and all
,” McGurk said with a sneer.

  “So what.”

  “So Mr. Riker wants to have a chat at the hotel. He sent us up to bring you down there.”

  “What’s the matter, does he have a broken leg?”

  McGurk rolled his tongue across yellow teeth.

  “He said he wants to see you . . .”

  She cut him off. “He wants to see me? Tell him he knows where I am and to come alone. Or maybe try a phone call, unless he’s forgotten how to talk, too.”

  “Mr. Riker wants you to come along with us,” said McGurk in a harsh voice just above a whisper. “He wants to have a little friendlylike chat now.”

  Buck Tallman stepped out behind her. His pure white hair flowed down over his shoulders. He was wearing a buckskin vest over a plain white shirt, and dark brown flared pants. A .44 Peacemaker was hanging low on his hip and his badge glittered where it was pinned to the holster. His right hand hung loosely next to the six-gun.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t Buffalo Bill hisself,” McGurk said, and chuckled. “You ain’t invited, old man.”

  The tall lawman moved Delilah behind him and came down the stairs, his eyes glittering behind hooded lids. One of the gunmen walked to the middle of the room. The sheriff reached the foot of the staircase, strode resolutely forward, and stopped a foot from him. The other three goons divided up. McGurk near the door, another one next to Andy Sloan. The fourth thug sidled to the lawman’s right and lounged near a side door to the foyer. They had the room covered.

  “He said . . .” the lead gunman started.

  “Shut up,” the lawman said in a deep, gravelly voice. Then: “You oughta brush your teeth sometimes, your breath smells like a dead cat’s.”

  As Culhane neared the top of Cliffside Road there was a shot, then another, and then Grand View exploded with gunfire.

  For an instant, Brodie’s mind flashed back to a foxhole near the Somme, to a white horse racing through the fog, to lying in the hospital, where he had made the decision to come back to San Pietro. He flashed back to the fear he felt getting off the train, knowing he was really back in Eureka.

  Now he knew that something terrible was waiting at the top of the Hill.