Hawk said, "Preacher might know."
"Yeah," I said. "He might."
Chapter 52
HAWK AND I sat in the dark on the front porch of The Jack Rabbit Inn drinking coffee and waiting for the light. When it finally arrived it came slowly, from behind us, seeping up over the hotel until it splashed gray, barely perceptible, onto the street in front of us. Hawk poured some more coffee from the Thermos. On the street there was no movement beyond the pale creeping illumination of the morning. "You figure The Preacher an early riser?" Hawk said.
"I wanted everything in place."
"That's for sure."
We sat some more, sipping the coffee, looking at the inactive town, waiting. A yellow cat eased across the street and disappeared down the alley to the left of Mary Lou's storefront. Somewhere from the rooftops we could hear the twitter of birds.
"You know this ain't the best way," Hawk said.
I didn't say anything. The coffee smell was strong and comforting in the unsullied morning air.
"Best way," Hawk said, just as if I'd asked him, "be to pen them into that canyon and shoot them from up above."
I nodded.
"You know that, well as I do," Hawk said.
I nodded.
"But we going to do it this way."
I nodded.
"Being your faithful Afro-American companion ain't the easiest thing I ever done."
"But think of the positive side," I said.
"Which is?"
"Lemme get back to you on that," I said.
The light had spread across the street and past Mary Lou's storefront. Behind it came sunshine, still weak, but tinged with color, and carrying with it the promise of heat. I could feel the tension begin to knot. Hawk showed nothing. I'd never seen him show anything. He'd been cool for so long that if there were something to show, he probably wouldn't know it. Hawk drank more coffee, looking out over the rim of the cup along the now bright street.
"Need donuts," Hawk said.
"Try not to think about it," I said.
A few people began to appear. There were a couple of fortyish women, in sneakers, shorts and tank tops power-walking on the sidewalk across the street. Some of the shops began to open. Doors were unlocked. Shades went up. Mary Lou, her hair held back by a blue-and-white polka dot headband, opened up on the other side. If she saw us she chose not to acknowledge it. In the hotel kitchen they were cooking bacon. The yellow cat reappeared, looking satisfied, and pattered down the sidewalk away from us, with his tail in the air.
"Bet he had a donut," Hawk said.
We were out of coffee. The street was bright now, and hot. Hawk seemed almost asleep in the chair beside me. His eyes were invisible behind his sunglasses, his gun concealed by a light silk warm-up jacket, the sleeves of which were tight over his upper arm.
Cars began to appear. More shops opened along the street. People spruced up for the morning walked past the hotel. Many of them trailed a hint of cologne and shampoo and shaving soap in the still air. One of Potshot's two police cruisers rolled slowly down toward the station.
Hawk watched it go by, his head turning slowly to follow it. Otherwise he was motionless.
"We follow that cruiser," he said, "we find donuts. Cops always know where there're donuts."
"Ever have a Krispy Kreme donut?" I said.
"No."
"Me either."
The sun had gotten high enough to shine straight into the windows of the shops across the street when they came. The old Scout was first, and even from a distance, as it turned into Main Street, I could see The Preacher, a contrast in pallor and black, sitting in front in the passenger seat. There were three other men, one of whom was almost certainly Pony, looming in the back seat, the Scout canted toward his side. Behind them came a ratty looking Jeep Wrangler that might once have been blue. There were four men in it.
"Maybe we can get a donut after," Hawk said.
He got up and took off his jacket. He was wearing his big.44 in a shoulder rig, and there was no further need to hide it. We walked across the street and stood in front of Mary Lou's store, Hawk on my left. The Preacher saw us and said something to the driver and he kept coming, and the second car followed, until he pulled up to a stop in front of us. The Preacher gestured and the two cars emptied, leaving only The Preacher and his driver still seated. Pony was in front of me. But he was aware of Hawk. I could see his eyes shift over and back. The others spread out around us in a semicircle. No one spoke. The Preacher seemed almost amused. Peripherally I could see Tedy Sapp's car move slowly in from the north end of the street, and Bobby Horse drive up from the south. Otherwise nothing moved in the street.
"So who are you," The Preacher said finally, "Wyatt fucking Earp?"
"I got some questions," I said.
The Preacher smiled.
"Pony," he said.
Pony took a step toward us and Hawk's gun barrel was suddenly pressed against his forehead. Guns came out all around us. The sound of hammers thumbed back was brisk in the hot silence. The Preacher showed no expression. Everything stopped stock-still. Behind The Preacher, to my left, Tedy Sapp was out of his car with his elbows resting on the hood and the shotgun leveled. To the right Bobby Horse was the same.
"The ball goes up," I said to Tedy Sapp, "kill The Preacher first."
My voice seemed blatant in the cavernous silence. The men in front of us glanced quickly around. Chollo walked out of the alley behind us, his Glock 9-millimeter handgun hanging loosely by his side.
"Let me kill him," Chollo said.
His voice was amplified by the silence as mine had been. Bernard J. Fortunato, with his shotgun at his shoulder, stepped out across the street. He didn't speak, but the shotgun was steady. From the secondfloor window of the hotel I heard Vinnie. I couldn't see him, but the barrel of the Heckler Koch was resting on the windowsill.
"No," Vinnie said. "Let me."
The silence seemed to twist and tighten. The frozen immobility of the scene seemed to squeeze in upon itself as though it would eventually shatter. I felt as if the pit of my stomach were clenched tike a fist. Fortunately I was brave, clean and reverent, otherwise I might have been a little scared.
"You got any preference?" I said to The Preacher.
"This all the people you got?" The Preacher said.
"All we need at the moment," I said. "You know a guy named Morris Tannenbaum?"
The Preacher just stared at me.
"Morris tells me you and he had a deal," I said. "But he's mad at you now and wants you gone."
No one moved. The Preacher stared.
"Wants to pay us to get rid of you."
Hawk still pressed the muzzle of his.44 against Pony's forehead. I could hear Pony breathing.
"This guy Tannenbaum," The Preacher said. "He tell you this himself?"
"Ronnie told us," I said.
The Preacher thought about that.
"So what's your question?" The Preacher said.
"What was your deal with Tannenbaum?"
The Preacher thought about that. I was pretty sure he wasn't brave, clean and reverent, but he didn't seem scared. In fact he didn't seem anything. His pale eyes showed nothing that I could detect. His voice was without inflection. His body language revealed nothing. In fact there was no body language. He sat motionless.
"Why should I tell you?" he said.
"Why not?" I said.
The Preacher looked slightly amused. His face like one of those close-up photographs of rattlesnakes where the snake seems almost mischievous.
"Why not," he said.
I waited, both of us ringed with weapons, both of us heated by the sun. Then The Preacher made some sort of facial gesture which was probably a smile.
"Why not," he said again. "Tannenbaum wanted us to run people out of Potshot."
"Why?"
"He never said."
"What did you get?"
"I got a fee. And we got whatever we could squeeze out of the
town."
"Why is the deal off?"
"Maybe you should ask him."
"I don't have him in the middle of the street with six weapons pointed at him."
"You think I'm talking 'cause I'm scared?"
The Preacher's empty eyes held on me.
"No," I said.
He nodded slowly.
"We like what we got," The Preacher said. "We can live off this town forever, we don't use it up."
"So you didn't want to drive people out."
"Not till we got all there was."
"And Tannenbaum didn't like it."
"Fuck him," The Preacher said.
In the silence I could hear my own breathing. I felt stiff with tension. But I held still. Everyone was probably as tight as I was. I didn't want to start the shooting.
Carefully I said, "Who killed Steve Buckman?"
"Don't know."
"You got any connection with Mrs. Buckman?"
The Preacher made a cackling sound. It might have been a laugh.
"I'd like one," he said. "How about you, Pony? You like to make a connection with Mrs. Buckman?"
Pony was stock-still with the muzzle of Hawk's gun still against his forehead. It was a big gun, a.44 Magnum, with a stainless-steel finish that made it glitter in the brutal sunshine. Neither of them had moved since the event began.
"Guess Pony ain't talking," The Preacher said.
"Thanks for your help," I said. "Time to go."
"Maybe we don't think so," The Preacher said.
"Maybe we don't care," I said.
The Preacher glanced slowly around at the circumstances. They were not to his advantage.
"Things start," The Preacher said. "We kill you first."
"We'll go together," I said.
The Preacher nodded, still assessing.
"We'll go," he said.
"Stay away from the town," I said.
The Preacher gave me another one of those amused rattlesnake stares. Then he nodded at the other men. And they got back in their vehicles. As they drove away, the muscles that had been so tight now became so loose I felt like I ought to lie down. Decompensating. The sound of the two vehicles faded. Sapp tossed his shotgun onto the back seat of his car and got in the driver's side. Bernard J. Fortunato got in with him. Chollo got in with Bobby Horse. Vinnie closed his hotel window and appeared a minute later with the rifle in a gun case. He got in with Chollo and Bobby Horse. The two cars pulled away. Hawk let the hammer back down on his big stainless-steel revolver and slid it back into its holster. He grinned at me.
"Cool," he said.
Chapter 53
THE RATTLESNAKE CAFE served donuts. Hawk had four, and coffee. I wasn't hungry yet. I had coffee. "You know he ain't going to let this go," Hawk said.
I nodded.
"Why he told you all that stuff. 'Cause he going to kill you."
"And you," I said.
"And everybody else," Hawk said. "So he don't care what he says to you."
"Which means he probably told the truth."
"Probably," Hawk said.
"Which means maybe Steve Buckman wasn't killed by the Dell."
Hawk broke a donut in half and took a significant bite.
"How 'bout the Saguaro Development Corporation?"
"Why would they kill him?"
"I just the hired hard case," Hawk said. "You the sleuth."
"They seem to be players," I said.
"Anybody in Saguaro Development got the balls to do it?"
"Mary Lou," I said.
Hawk nodded and finished his half donut. He took a sip of his coffee.
"Even though she cute and got a blond ponytail?"
"That usually eliminates a suspect," I said. "But somebody killed Buckman."
Dean Walker slipped into the booth next to me. He was looking clean and shiny. His uniform shirt was freshly pressed. He took his hat off and laid it crown down on the table in front of him.
"How're the donuts?" he said.
"No such thing as a bad donut," Hawk said.
He gestured at the waitress and she brought him coffee without further instruction.
"Did you have a little incident this morning?" Walker said to me.
"Big incident," I said.
"Pretty good," he said.
"You witness any of it?" I said.
Walker smiled.
"They're not going to let it go," he said.
"Probably not."
"There's seven of you," Walker said.
"You counted."
"There's about forty of them."
"Preacher says he didn't shoot Steve Buckman."
"Preacher ain't the most honest guy," Walker said.
"Nor the nicest," I said. "But what if he were telling the truth."
"Then it must have been somebody else," Walker said.
"That's why you're chief of police," I said.
"Nothing like a trained professional," Walker said. "What are you going to do about the Dell?"
"Wait and watch," I said.
"You ought to leave," he said.
I shrugged.
"You won't," Walker said. "Will you?"
I shook my head. Hawk was on his last donut. He seemed to be paying no attention. Which was, of course, a deception. Hawk paid attention to everything.
"Second best suggestion," Walker said. "Don't wait for them. Try to hit them first. I guarantee they're coming."
"Been urging that same course of action," Hawk said.
"You think Mary Lou might have killed her husband?"
"No."
"She might have," I said.
No."
"Who's your candidate?" I said.
"If it wasn't the Dell?"
"Yeah."
"Might have been Ratliff."
"The producer?"
"Yeah. He followed her out here."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. He took a sip of his coffee, shook his head slightly and stirred more sugar into his cup.
"Unrequited love?" I said.
"He had an affair with her in L.A. It didn't mean anything. She and Steve were having a little trouble at the time."
"Last time I mentioned it," I said, "you said it was a lie."
"Did I say that?"
"You did."
"Probably before I learned the truth."
"Probably."
"He was annoying her," Walker said. "She complained to me and I had a talk with him."
"What'd he say?"
Walker continued to stir his coffee. The gesture was automatic, as if he'd forgotten about it.
"He admitted he followed her out here. Said he loved her. Said he just wanted to be near her."
"And you think he killed Buckman to clear the way for himself?"
"Might have. Might have heard that the Dell threatened Steve, and saw his chance. Shoot him and the Dell gets blamed."
"It's a theory," I said.
"Yep."
"Mary Lou's part of a group that's buying up real estate," I said.
"Good for her."
"Where's she get the money?"
"I look like HR Block to you?"
"I'll take that to mean you don't know where she got the money."
"You take it to mean whatever the fuck you want to," Walker said.
"The mayor's part of the group," I said, "and J. George Taylor."
"Yeah?"
"Why do you suppose they're doing that?"
"Real estate's cheap around here."
"Because of the Dell?"
"Sure."
"So why does this group want it?"
"Maybe they have confidence in you," Walker said.
"Figure Potshot would boom without the Dell problem?"
Walker shook his head.
"Not enough water," he said. "We're at capacity."
"You ever sleep with Mary Lou?" I said.
"Hey," Walker said. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
"Do you
know who Morris Tannenbaum is?"
"You think she slept with him?"
"Do you?"
"Watch your mouth pal. This is a lady you're talking about."
"Nothin' unladylike 'bout getting laid," Hawk said.
"Do you know Tannenbaum?" I said.
"No."
"But you're worried that Mary Lou might have slept with him?"
Walker stood up suddenly and picked up his hat and put it on.
"Fuck this," he said and left.
"Touchy," Hawk said.
"On this subject."
"You think he might be right 'bout Ratliff?"
"I think you're right about the question of ladies and sex."
"Good to be right about something," Hawk said. "You think she connected with Tannenbaum?"
"Everywhere I go in this thing I keep bumping into either her or him," I said.
"Don't mean they're connected," Hawk said.
"Ever since I signed on for this, I been trying to figure out where she's getting the money."
"Tannenbaum got some," Hawk said.
"He do," I said.
"You got any ideas how to find out about him?" Hawk said.
"I do," I said.
Chapter 54
I SAT ON the front porch with my Winchester rifle leaning against the porch railing beside me, and talked on the portable phone to Samuelson in L.A.
"You got any surveillance on Tannenbaum?" I said.
"Me? No."
"Organized Crime Unit, maybe?"
"Don't know. Lemme call you back."
I punched off, and sat and looked at the angular desert plants for awhile. Up the hill from the house, with a view of the road, Bobby Horse was taking his turn with one of the little black-and-yellow walkietalkies we'd bought. In the house Cholla had the other one. As Bernard J. Fortunato had explained, being murdered in our beds would suck.
Peripherally I saw movement in the brush at the right corner of the house. I put down the cell phone and picked up the Winchester. A deer came delicately out from the cover, stopped short, and stared at me with its enormous dark eyes. I put the gun back down. The deer twitched its oversized ears a couple of times. I didn't move. After more staring and twitching, the deer ate a leaf off of one of the dry desert plants, then did a big leap into the woods and vanished.
The portable phone rang. It was Samuelson.
"OCU's got nothing going on with Tannenbaum," he said. "But the Feds do."
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