Thousand Mile Case (9781101619520)

by Roberts, J. R.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Bodie agreed to walk Clint over to the Gentlemen’s Club and try to get him inside.

  “Just get me in the door,” Clint said. “I’ll do the talking from there.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Bodie said.

  He walked Clint to the new, two-story building that looked like a luxurious hotel. Clint followed Bodie up the stairs to the front door, which was guarded by a doorman.

  “Sheriff,” the man said.

  “This is Clint Adams,” the sheriff said. “He needs to get inside.”

  “Now, Sheriff,” the doorman said, “you know I can only let members in.”

  “I know that,” Bodie said, “but maybe you can ask somebody? He’s got some news about Big Ed Callahan.”

  “Callahan?” the doorman said. “He’s a member.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  The doorman thought it over, then said, “Wait here.”

  He opened the door and went inside. Clint stepped up to the door and tried it. It was locked.

  “I guess we’ve got to wait here.”

  The two men stood on either side of the doorway, watching people go by on the street, until the doorman returned. He opened the door, and stuck out his head.

  “You can come in,” he said.

  Bodie started toward the door, but the man put his hand out.

  “Not you,” he said, jerking his chin toward Clint, “him.”

  Clint looked at Bodie and said, “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  He entered the building, and the doorman closed the door in the sheriff’s face.

  Inside, Clint found himself facing a well-dressed man of about five-six, forty-five years old or so.

  “Mr. Adams?” he asked. “Is that right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “Right again.”

  The man put his hand out and said, “A pleasure. Come with me, please.”

  “Thanks.”

  He followed the man farther into the building, past a room filled with men who were sitting in leather armchairs, sipping drinks and smoking cigars. They went down a hall to a closed door. The man knocked twice, and then opened it.

  “Mr. Adams, sir.”

  “Thank you, Hellman. That’s all.”

  Clint entered, Hellman closing the door from the outside.

  “Mr. Adams,” the man behind the desk said. “Please, come in and sit down.”

  The man was tall, extremely well dressed, about forty with black hair slicked back and shiny with gel.

  “My name is Andrew Hopper,” the man said. “I manage the Gentlemen’s Club.”

  Clint approached and accepted the hand the man offered to him.

  “Please, sit,” Hopper said. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” But he did sit, followed by Hopper, who stretched behind his desk.

  “I understand you invoked the name of one of our members, Big Ed Callahan.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I heard that Ed is dead.”

  “He is.”

  “And you’re the one who brought that news to town?”

  “I am.”

  “Then the story I heard is probably true.”

  “Probably,” Clint said. “Either way, he’s dead.”

  “So then, what brings you here mentioning his name?”

  “I need to talk to someone who knew him.”

  “That would be his wife.”

  “I already did that.”

  “And it didn’t help?”

  “Not much. I’d like to talk to a friend of his,” Clint said. “I think another man could tell me what I need to know.”

  Hopper kept staring at him, as if he expected him to say more.

  “So I came here,” Clint said. “It seems to me Big Ed must have had some friends here.”

  Hopper stared.

  “Or a friend? One?”

  “All of our members are gentlemen, Mr. Adams,” Hopper said. “But I can’t think of any of them who are…well, friends.”

  “There’s got to be one.”

  Hopper shook his head and said, “I don’t think you’re going to find anyone here who actually liked Big Ed Callahan.”

  “Not a pleasant man, huh?”

  “It’s not that,” Hopper said. “These men are all competitors.”

  “Then why do they come here to drink and smoke together?”

  “Honestly?” Hopper said. “Mostly just to brag.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “okay, that’ll work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bragging,” Clint said. “There must be somebody Big Ed liked to brag to. Who was his favorite target?”

  “I see,” Hopper said, “you mean his biggest competitor.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “maybe he told him something I could use.”

  “Use for what?”

  “To find out why the hell Ed Callahan would chase Tom Angel a thousand miles to kill him. Also, I’d like to find out why I had to kill two of Ed’s men.”

  “But…you’ve killed men before, haven’t you?” Hopper asked.

  “When I kill a man,” Clint said, “I want to know why I had to do it.”

  “Well,” Hopper said. “I think I may have the man for you.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “His name is Victor Alexander,” Hopper said, “and he is not a pleasant man. Not at all. You will notice when we go into the main lounge that he will be sitting alone. He always sits alone—except when Mr. Callahan was here. Then they sat together and tried to top one another with their accomplishments.”

  They were walking back along the hall from Hopper’s office to the main lounge. When they reached it, they stopped in the doorway.

  Lowering his voice, Hopper said, “I can’t guarantee that he will talk to you.”

  “Leave that to me,” Clint said. “Just point him out.”

  “No,” Hopper said, “I believe I should make the introduction. Come with me.”

  They entered the room and Clint followed the manager to a small table with two chairs next to it. Only one chair was occupied at the moment, by a white-haired man who was smoking a huge cigar and reading a newspaper.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Alexander,” Hopper said.

  The man’s head was encased in blue smoke when he raised it to look at Hopper and Clint. He did not even squint as he peered through the smoke at them.

  “What is it?” he asked, his tone clipped and annoyed.

  “I have a gentleman here who would like to talk to you,” the manager said.

  “About what?”

  “About Big Ed Callahan.”

  “Big Ed,” Alexander said. “What a ridiculous affectation. What about him?”

  “He’s dead, sir,” Clint said.

  “I heard that,” Alexander said. “Why do you want to talk to me about him?”

  “I’m trying to find someone who knew him well, sir,” Clint said. “I’m told that might be you, as you and he were rivals for a long time.”

  “Rivals?” Alexander asked. “What a ridiculous concept. We were not rivals, we were colleagues and competitors.”

  “For a long time?” Clint asked.

  “For a very long time.”

  “If I could just have a few moments of your time—” Clint said.

  “Who the devil are you, sir?”

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  Alexander looked at Hopper, as if seeking confirmation, then looked back at Clint.

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alexander put his newspaper aside.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded. “Sit down, sit down. Hopper?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go away!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hopper gave Clint a look that clearly said “good luck” and withdrew.

  Clint sat in the second leather armchair, realized why there were so many men seated in
them. It was possibly the most comfortable chair he’d ever sat in.

  “Would you like a drink?” Alexander asked. “They have excellent port here. Also, I understand, some quite good whiskey—”

  Clint noticed what the man was drinking and said, “A glass of port would be fine.”

  Alexander waved to a waiter, who was wearing a white shirt, a bow tie, and a vest. When the man came over, the older man said, “Two glasses of port, Evan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sitting across from Alexander, Clint realized the man was older than he’d appeared at first sight. His skin was almost translucent, and Clint could see the blue veins beneath it. He must have been close to eighty.

  “It seems to me Mr. Callahan was a little young to be a longtime competitor of yours, Mr. Alexander. You appear to have some experience on him.”

  “Say what you mean, Adams,” Alexander said. “I’m an old man. You want a cigar?”

  “Sure.”

  Alexander took a cigar case from the inside pocket of his jacket, opened it, and handed Clint a fat, expensive cigar.

  “Cubans,” the old man said. “They say they are rolled on the thighs of young Cuban girls. Nonsense, of course, but they are excellent.”

  The older man struck a lucifer and held it out for Clint to ignite his cigar. Before long they were both puffing out clouds of blue smoke.

  At that point Evan returned with their drinks, held the tray out so the two men could take them. He left without Alexander thanking him.

  “All right, then,” Alexander said, “now that we have drinks, and cigars, what’s on your mind, young man?”

  Clint thought that it had been a long time since anyone had called him “young man.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Clint explained to Victor Alexander how he’d got in between Ed Callahan and Tom Angel, and what the outcome was.

  “Seems to me you should have minded your own business,” the old man said when he was finished.

  “I think you’re right,” Clint said. “Other than that, is there anything you can tell me about Callahan?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why he might have hated Tom Angel enough to chase him a thousand miles?”

  Alexander thought a moment, puffing furiously on his Cuban.

  “I didn’t know Angel,” he said, “so I can’t comment on him. And I don’t know why Callahan hated him. But I can tell you this.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Callahan hated hard,” Alexander said. “If you got on his wrong side in business, he’d crush you.”

  “Did that happen to you?”

  The old man made a rude noise with his mouth and said, “Of course not. Oh, not because he didn’t try. It’s just that I’m not somebody who crushes easily.”

  Clint could believe that of the old man.

  “So if he hated a man enough, you could see him chasing him a thousand miles to kill him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Alexander said, “which is one reason why he would never best me in business. He let his emotions rule his decisions. You see, while he’s out chasing that man, his business empire is going to hell.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Lovely woman,” Alexander said, “but that further makes my point. Callahan was foolish to marry a young woman of such obvious beauty and sexuality.”

  It seemed odd to Clint to hear this old man talking about a woman’s sexuality.

  “There was no chance he’d ever be able to satisfy her, so the consequences were a foregone conclusion.”

  “That she would stray, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Alexander said, “that she would cheat.”

  “And won’t she be in charge of his business interests now?”

  “I would hope,” Alexander said, “that Callahan made provisions for his businesses in his will. It would be the most foolish decision of his life to put her in charge after his death.”

  “Wouldn’t that allow you to swoop in and take over?”

  Alexander puffed on his cigar again.

  “What makes you think I want to swoop in?”

  “Well, I just assumed, since you were his…competitor.” He’d almost said “rival” again.

  “Competitors, yes,” Alexander said, “but not enemies. I have many, many business interests across the country and the world. Quite enough to keep me busy. Why would I want to take on his?”

  “But what if his wife mismanages them even before a will can be read?”

  “That would be a shame,” Alexander said, “and a distinct possibility.”

  “What would you do,” I asked, “if she came to you for help?”

  “I don’t know,” Alexander said. “I might help her. On the other hand, I might not.”

  Clint puffed on his own cigar.

  “I haven’t helped you much, have I?” Alexander asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Clint said. “I still don’t know why Callahan hated Tom Angel. But I appreciate the time you’ve given me.”

  “Nonsense,” the old man said. “This is a story I’ll be able to tell for a while. I had port and cigars with the Gunsmith.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clint left the Gentlemen’s Club after thanking the manager, Hopper, for his help. The doorman tipped his hat as he left.

  What did he have now? Certainly no answers. Was he just going to have to accept that he’d killed two men and been involved in the deaths of three others and never know the exact reason why?

  He decided to go to the Lucky Eight and ponder the question over a beer.

  * * *

  Sheriff Bodie went back to his office from the Gentlemen’s Club, sat there awhile wondering what Clint Adams was finding out when the door opened and Ray Winston entered.

  “Ray,” Bodie said. “What’re you doin’ here? Mrs. Callahan send you?”

  “Naw,” Winston said, “I came here on my own.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Clint Adams,” Winston said, sitting down. “We have to get rid of him.”

  “Why? Does Mrs. Callahan like him?”

  “This is not funny, Bodie!”

  “What harm is he doing?”

  “I’m lookin’ at it a different way,” Winston said. “What kind of damage could he end up doing?”

  “He’s just askin’ questions,” Bodie said. “And he’s not getting any answers. At least, he’s not gettin’ the answers he wants.”

  “Well, that could change,” Winston said. “You’ve got to get rid of him.”

  “Sending Harvey and his friends after him didn’t work.”

  “Then maybe you need to send somebody who’s a little more experienced. And talented.”

  “Are you gonna pay?” Bodie asked.

  “Don’t worry about payin’,” Winston said. “I can get Mrs. Callahan to do that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Even though he wasn’t sure about anything anymore when it came to Angela Callahan, Winston said, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Okay, then,” Bodie said, “I know a couple of guys.”

  “Get more than a couple.”

  “Well,” Bodie said, “as I said, I know a couple of guys, and they know a couple more.”

  “Then do it,” Winston said, standing up. “Do it, Bodie.”

  “Are you sure this is what Mrs. Callahan wants?” the lawman asked.

  On his way to the door Winston called back over his shoulder, “I’m positive.”

  * * *

  Outside, Ray Winston stopped and looked around. He knew he had overstepped his bounds, but he felt sure that something was going on between Angela and the Gunsmith, so he needed the Gunsmith out of the way.

  For good.

  And he wasn’t sure he could trust Bodie to get the job done.

  But he knew somebody who would.

  * * *

  Bodie sat back in his chair and wondered if this was Winston’s idea, or actually Angela Callahan’s idea. Maybe he should ride
out to the ranch and check, but how could he do that without Winston finding out?

  Did he really want to get involved in some kind of plot to kill the Gunsmith? The truth of the matter was, he kind of liked the man.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint decided to see if he could still walk Jenny home. When he got there, the door was locked, but when he knocked, she opened the door.

  “I thought I missed you,” he said.

  “Would it be too forward of me to say that I waited for you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, “it would be flattering.”

  “Just let me lock up,” she said.

  He waited while she went back inside, did what she had to do, then came out and locked the door.

  “Shall we?” she asked.

  He extended his arm, and she slipped hers through it. He didn’t know what would happen when they reached her home, but he was still worried that he might smell like Angela Callahan. However, Jenny had seemed disappointed earlier when he hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to walk her home, and he wanted to make amends.

  “Is it far?” he asked.

  “Not far at all,” she said.

  * * *

  They walked a bit, strolled actually, acknowledging the nods and hellos of others.

  “Why is everybody so friendly in this town?” he asked.

  “There was a time when things were not as friendly around here,” she said. “Then Henry Madison became mayor, and he decided that, in order to grow, Black Rock had to have a change of attitude. So he hired Bodie, and most of the undesirables were driven out of town.”

  “By Bodie? I mean, he’s big an’ strong looking, but from what I’ve been seeing, he’s not exactly effective.”

  “Oh, he’s very effective,” Jenny said, “by appearing not to be.”

  “So because of his manner—being sort of quiet and unassuming as he is—it’s easy for people to underestimate him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Does he have deputies?”

  “He did,” she said, “when he was cleaning up the town. But not now.”

  Clint was concerned. Apparently, he had also misjudged the lawman.

  “He had me fooled, too,” he said.

  “Is that unusual?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said.

  “You’re upset.”

  “A little, yeah.”