by Ed Gorman
“And this Flannery Jr. is the villain?”
He frowned. “He’s a businessman. He has a chance to make a lot of money selling land that people can’t pay for. He’s within his rights.”
“So he hasn’t done anything illegal?”
“If you mean has he burned them out or run their cattle off or cut off access to water—all the things you usually hear about—no. He’s scared of failing his old man. That’s what it comes down to. I don’t know if Junior would do all this if his old man didn’t expect him to. A lot of people who inherit businesses do a damned good job with them. I think the ones who don’t live up to their fathers are probably in the minority. Right here in the valley we’ve got three businesses run by Juniors. And they all do fine.”
“Tell me about Flannery Jr.”
“Little bit of a bully. Ladies’ man, too, though Mike Chaney’s that also. And he’s got a personal grudge against Chaney.”
“What would that be?”
“A young woman that they both wanted to marry. Flannery married her but the gossip is she isn’t happy and thinks maybe she should have married Chaney. And now Chaney’s robbing all Junior’s banks and getting away with it.”
“Maybe Junior deserves it.”
He laughed. “You sound like you’ve thrown in with the others, Ford.”
That was when I heard footsteps slapping the floor on their way back there. The deputy who sat out front said, “Nolan’s here. He thinks he spotted Mike Chaney about an hour ago up near Indian Nook Pass. Nolan’s out back with his horse.”
Nordberg exploded from his chair. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Ford. I need to take care of this.”
He didn’t wait for me to say anything.
I slipped on my Stetson, shifted my gunbelt to a more comfortable position, and then walked to the front where a young woman sat.
She was a tall, slim woman of about twenty-two. The dark eyes gave the classical face a forlorn look.
She was reading but lowered the magazine when I came out. I hadn’t noticed her anxiety until she spoke in a trembling voice: “Did they find Mike?”
“The deputy said somebody named Nolan thought he saw him up somewhere near Indian Nook Pass.”
She took a very deep, obvious breath as if to bring herself under tighter control. I waited for her to say something but then she didn’t.
The front door opened and a man who looked as if he wouldn’t mind beating somebody to death—fists were a lot more personal than six-shooters—came in and stamped snow off his feet.
“Good evening, Mr. Tremont.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Flannery,” he said in a tight voice that didn’t sound all that friendly.
“How’s your wife doing?” she asked.
“She’ll be a lot happier when we find Chaney and make him stand trial for killing our boy.”
I decided that would be a good time to leave. The woman put her eyes back on the magazine. Mr. Tremont just stood there and seethed.
But I couldn’t get out the door just yet, either. A small woman with a freckled, pretty face came in carrying an infant wrapped in several baby blankets. The infant was done up like a mummy, not that you could blame the woman. Not in weather like that.
“Evening, Mrs. Nordberg,” the woman with the magazine said pleasantly.
The sheriff’s wife smiled nervously. “I just stopped in to see if my husband was busy. I can see that he is. I’ll just see him at home.”
The woman brought out the gentleman in Tremont. He doffed his bear fur hat and said, “Evening to you, ma’am.”
Then she was gone. And so was I, soon after.
Chapter 8
Emma Landers’s house was a two-story adobe affair with two swings and several chairs on the front porch. But winter had given them all the look of orphans. Nobody would be swinging that day.
A stout woman with a pair of thick eyeglasses came to the door shooting the sleeves of her faded gingham dress.
“All filled up, mister. Sorry.”
“I’m looking for Tom Daly.”
“So am I.” She didn’t sound happy when she said it. “You see him, tell him he owes me money for the glasses he broke last night.” Her gray hair stuck straight up in jagged pieces. She was in need of a comb. But I doubted she cared. “I told him to leave the glasses alone, I’d carry them to the kitchen. He was too drunk to carry ’em and I told him so. But he wouldn’t listen. Oh, no, he was perfectly fine to carry them. There wouldn’t be any trouble at all. So what does he do? He trips over his own feet and breaks every single one of them. Ordered them from Sears. They weren’t even three weeks old. I had to go shopping this morning so I wasn’t here when he woke up. I can imagine the hangover he had. Anyway, if he remembers what he did he’s probably too scared to come back.”
She shook her head. “You know what’s the worst of it? You never met a nicer little feller in your life when he’s sober. But you got to catch him before eight o’clock at night because afterward—”
“Well, I’ll stop back then, ma’am.”
“Before eight.”
“Before eight.”
I started to walk away.
“I say who stopped by?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll just see him later.”
I had a piece of chicken and a baked potato with butter just after one o’clock that afternoon. The businessmen were just starting to leave, heading back to their stores.
The woman from the jail came up and sat next to me at the counter.
“You’re Mr. Noah Ford?”
“I am.”
“My name is Laura Flannery. I saw you in the sheriff’s office a while ago. Do you remember?”
“Now how could I forget such a fine-looking woman in such a short amount of time?”
She had a sweet melancholy girl voice, the sort you could almost listen to if she was just reading a list of names.
“Deputy Rolins told me that you’re a federal agent.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not with the other two.”
“No, I’m not.”
The woman behind the counter was pretending to arrange several loaves of bread to build them into a kind of presentation. What she was really doing was eavesdropping.
“Feel like taking a walk?”
She touched my sleeve.
Whispered: “Thank you.”
The warm day was now a cold one. Above the Rockies, ancient serpents in the form of dark clouds slithered across the gray sky, coiling and uncoiling and seeming to wrap themselves around the jagged tops of mountains.
The people in the streets responded the way forest animals would. They moved a little faster, watched the sky furtively, bent their heads to the increasing wind.
“Storms scare me,” Laura Flannery said as we moved along the street. “When I was little, I used to hide in the closet until they were over. I guess it was the wind more than anything. I still don’t like the sound of it when it comes down from the mountains the way it’s starting to now.”
“Probably be a bad one,” I said. I wondered what was on her mind.
“You could get me into a lot of trouble if you repeat what I ask you to do.”
“Oh? How would that be?”
“I want you to bring Mike Chaney in.”
Chaney and John Flannery had fought over her. She had married Flannery. Now she was asking me to bring Chaney in.
“Those two will kill him. They had supper at our house last night. They’re terrible men. I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that.”
“I’m afraid that it’s their assignment. I’m in town on another matter. I can talk to them but they’re in charge of the Chaney case.”
“Will they listen to you? I got the impression that they didn’t like you very much. I’m sort of surprised to see men like that working for the government.”
“They have their uses. They’ve done some good work.”
She laughed. “You’re quite the diplomat. Are
n’t you just churning inside to tell me what trash they are?”
I smiled. “‘Churning’ is a little strong.”
“Then you don’t like them, either.”
“As I say, they have their uses.”
In a whisper almost lost to the wind, she said: “Damn.”
I didn’t need an introduction to know who he was. He wasn’t a showboat but he did have the stride of the overboss, the plantation manager, the man in charge of the chain gang. He wore a black bowler, which he barely kept on his head in the wind and a long, expensive black coat. He was more handsome than he needed to be and when he saw us, he put on a smile that a politician would envy—big and empty.
“Well, I see my wife has a new friend,” he said. It was one of those statements that had a whole lot of troubled history in it.
“Mr. Ford, this is my husband, John. John, Mr. Ford is a federal agent.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Ford. Your associates were telling me all about you last night.”
I gave him my own fake smile right back. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I’m sure my wife told you all about our supper last night. I’m afraid she wasn’t taken with them. But she seems to find you just about right.”
The implication of that made her blush.
“Was she asking you to spare Mike’s life? She wouldn’t let go of that subject last night. That’s why she doesn’t like them, of course. Afraid they’ll kill the town hero—even though he’s stealing from the bank that puts the food on our table.”
He extended a gloved hand and we shook.
“I have to get back to work. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ford.” And then he winked at me, making sure his wife saw it. “Have her home by dark, otherwise I might get suspicious.”
His smile back in place, he walked on down the street.
I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“Maybe I’d better get home,” she said. Easy to see that she was embarrassed by how he’d treated her. Her eyes gleamed with tears. He’d just beaten her up pretty badly. He was smart enough to use words instead of fists. Looks bad when the wife of the bank president is all black and blue. She started away and then turned back to me and said: “John really wants to see somebody kill Mike.”
Then she was gone.
Chapter 9
“What the hell do you want, Ford?”
“I’m going to ruin your day for you, Harry. You too, Pepper.”
He laughed. “Sit down and have a beer.”
Clint Pepper said, “I saw you talking to Flannery’s wife. She’s one nice piece of tail.”
“She’s going to kill him someday, though,” Connelly said. “You know how you read in the papers sometimes a wife goes crazy and shoots her husband? I almost thought she was going to do that last night.”
“Yeah, I heard you had dinner at their place,” said. “Heard you said a lot of nice things about me.”
The name of the saloon was Thirsty. We were probably the only people in the place who weren’t talking about the coming storm.
Connelly had two schooners of beer in front him. Saved him a trip to the bar for the next one.
He shoved one over to me. “Drink up. And wasn’t the one running you down, Noah. You know me better than that. I love you like a brother. It was Pepper here. He was the one doing the dirt.”
Pepper, the dapper master of the sneer, said, “I admit it, Ford. I’d had too much to drink and actually heard myself say a few unkind things about you.”
“Downright uncharitable things,” Connelly said.
“The first thing this morning, guess what I did?” Pepper asked. “I went straight to church and asked the priest to hear my confession. I told him that I had said several terrible things about the great Noah Ford.”
“And Clint here’s not even a Catholic.”
I shoved my beer back at Connelly and let them have their laugh. When they were done amusing themselves, I said: “I don’t drink alcohol anymore.”
“You’re a regular altar boy,” Connelly said.
“I have a letter back in my office in D.C. from a man named Milt Seltzer. And you know what it says?”
Nothing dramatic happened. They didn’t glance at each other and start acting nervous. But Pepper did gulp and Connelly got that tic in his eye that came when pressure was suddenly put on him.
“Mr. Seltzer says that he’s willing to testify in a court of law that two federal agents named Connelly and Pepper who were supposed to be investigating the murder of a federal judge—who just happened to be Mr. Seltzer’s brother—these two agents took a bribe to change the findings of their investigation and conclude that the killer was still unknown. Mr. Seltzer hired a Pink to investigate and the Pink got the wife of the killer to swear to the fact that he had murdered the judge because of a court ruling and that he paid these agents off to file a false report. Now that’s something that not even a United States senator could protect a federal agent from. Now I haven’t quite decided how to handle this letter. Maybe it’s something the boss should see.”
Pepper said, “You always were quite the yarn-spinner, Ford.”
Connelly said, “You should be a writer, you’re so good at yarn-spinning, Ford.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if I wired Washington and told the boss where he could find the letter in my desk?”
This time they did glance at each other. This time they did look a little nervous.
“How would you have happened to come by a letter like that?” Pepper asked.
“I happened to have worked with that judge once. He was a fine man. His brother remembered me.”
A pair like this, they always had to have in the backs of their minds the fear that someday, some way, something they did, something they had probably put clean out of their minds, would come back on them.
And there it was.
I didn’t have any letter. I hadn’t known that particular judge. But another agent, who had done follow-up on the case, had told me his suspicions. Those suspicions were coming in damn handy.
They were putting on another show for me. Anybody who knew anything about these two knew that they rarely took prisoners. If it was a woman involved, they raped her before they killed her. And if it was a man, they humiliated him before they killed him.
“I know you boys are going after Chaney. I just want to make sure he comes back alive.”
“Nobody said anything about killing this Chaney, anyway,” Connelly said.
“Most folks around here think he’s a hero,” Pepper said.
“We’d be in deep shit, we killed somebody like him. Everybody here looks up to him,” Connelly said. “I don’t see any reason he couldn’t be brought back peaceful as all hell, do you, Pepper?”
Pepper laughed. “See, Ford here looks happy already.”
“I just wanted to make sure we had an understanding,” I said.
“Hell, yes, we have an understanding,” Connelly said.
“We’ve got understanding up the ass.”
I stood up. “I guess I’ll hold off on sending that telegram to the boss.”
I was pretty sure I saw the moose head above the bar wink at me as I passed it on my way out.
Chapter 10
I was walking through the tiny lobby of my hotel when somebody behind a newspaper said, “Noah. Over here.”
Blue eyes peered over the top of the paper. I hadn’t come to Tom Daly; he’d come to me.
About four feet from him the smell became familiar. He had always used the same kind of slick stuff on his thinning hair. That, combined with the smell of the rye he preferred, gave off an unmistakable aroma.
I sat in the leather chair next to him. “These are nice digs, Noah.”
Men who drink the way Daly did are never quite sober. Even after a couple of days off the bottle, you see a faint trembling in their fingers and whiskey sorrow in their eyes. Even the big, loud drunks who always seem to be having such a great time when they’re up there—in
their rooms in the hangover mornings they’re scared, confused, stomach-sick little children who ache to stop but can’t.
“There’s a train out of here at six tonight, Tom.”
“Not in this weather there won’t be.”
“The storm hasn’t hit yet.”
“The direction that train’s coming, the storm’s already there. There won’t be a train along for a couple days now.”
“You been hanging out at the depot, have you?”
Then he surprised me. “I checked it out, yeah.”
“You going back?”
He put the paper down, folded it in half, laid it carefully on the stand next to him. Even half-sober, he was a fastidious little man.
“I wired Susan. Told her I was coming home.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “So Tom Daly has finally come to his senses.”
“Maybe it’s not what you think, Noah.”
“I guess I don’t follow you. You’re going home, right?”
“Yeah, I’m going home. But I’m going home with something I stole from one of Pepper’s bags in his hotel room.”
The whiskey and the years had caught up with him. There in the sunlight-robbed lobby, sitting among the smells of stale cigars and dusty carpet, he looked small and old and finished.
“You know what I took?”
“This could be dangerous, Tom.”
“Yeah, dangerous for them. I took his bank statement from this bank over in Maryland. You should see it, Noah. He’s been on the take for years. The deposits are as much as two thousand dollars at a time. You know how we’ve always heard they were in the blackmail business? Well, this proves it. This is better than shooting them. This means a long time in prison, Noah. And you know what else? I’ll bet I can talk the D.A. back there into getting them to admit they took the information the boss thinks I took.” The whiskey-wasted little fellow sat up straight, grinned and said in the happiest voice I’d heard him use in years: “They go to prison and I get my name cleared. I should’ve thought of this a long time ago.”
