by Robert Knott
When we entered, it was crowded and dark. A crystal chandelier in the center of the room offered only dim lighting. On our right a bartender behind a long mirrored bar served a few well-dressed customers standing with a foot on the brass foot rail. The walls were wood-paneled and were not spare of paintings. It was too dark to see, but I was pretty certain they were paintings of Englishmen on foxhunts.
The owner’s wife, Ann Marie, for whom the place was named, was one of Allie’s regular customers. She had her husband secure us a table. His name was Clyde. He met us right away and introduced himself. I guessed Clyde to be about sixty. He was a tall, distinguished man with dark skin and a full salt-and-pepper beard. He wore an evening dress coat with a silk vest and a matching tie and shoes polished as shiny as a West Point cadet’s.
“Welcome to Ann Marie’s,” he said.
“Why, thank you,” Allie said.
“Right this way,” Clyde said.
He ushered the five of us through the crowd to a round table in the corner next to a bay window framed with velvet draperies.
“Isn’t this the most beautiful and romantic place imaginable?” Allie said.
“It’s lovely,” Bernice said.
“Thank you,” Clyde said. “We here at Ann Marie’s are happy to have you. And we will do our very best. We are here to please.”
Clyde had some kind of accent, but it was slight and I couldn’t place it. German, maybe.
He held out Allie’s chair.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said.
I held out a chair for Martha Kathryn, and Virgil did the same for Bernice.
“If it is okay with you,” Clyde said, “I will start you off with some wonderful newly imported wine we have just received from France.”
“Oh, my,” Allie said. “France. I love French wine. And why wouldn’t I, being Mrs. French and all?”
Bernice smiled.
For some reason Clyde kind of reminded me of a man you might find behind the wheel of a steamship.
Virgil nodded.
“Sounds good,” I said.
The corner table was darker than the rest of the room, but there were candles on the table that lit our faces in a warm glow. I admired the ladies in turn. Each one in her individual way was beautiful: Allie, a delicate peach; Bernice, a regal sculpture; and Martha Kathryn, a golden willow.
Clyde placed a menu in front of each of us, then stepped back and smiled.
“I will bring you some fresh butter, bread, and anchovy to start,” he said. “Sound good?”
“Sounds perfectly horrible,” Martha Kathryn said theatrically with a smile. “Just horrible.”
Clyde bowed and smiled.
“Ah, well, I assure you, madam, that it will be perfectly delicious,” he said.
“I’m sure it will,” she said with a smile.
“By the way,” Clyde said, “Ann Marie and I have seen your play. Twice. And it is marvelous and so are you.”
“Thank you very much,” she said.
“No, thank you,” he said. “Just delightful.”
“Don’t hesitate to come again,” she said.
“We just might,” he said.
He nodded and moved off.
“Don’t think we will at all go hungry here,” Martha Kathryn said.
“It’s a good thing,” Allie said. “Because I’m starving.”
Martha Kathryn smiled, looking at Allie, but reached out to hold my hand that was resting on the table. I could tell Virgil was looking at me, but I did not meet his eye.
“You always seem to have an appetite,” Martha Kathryn said to Allie. “How do you stay so thin?”
“Virgil chasing me all the time,” Allie said with a hearty laugh. “Up and down the halls and through the garden . . .”
Allie stopped talking and stared out the window over my shoulder.
“My word,” she said.
“What?” Virgil said, following Allie’s look.
“She moved,” Allie said.
“Who?” Virgil said.
“Did you see her?”
“No,” Virgil said.
“I did,” Bernice said.
“Who?”
Allie shook her head.
“There was a woman in the window,” Bernice said.
Allie nodded.
“Just staring,” Allie said.
“Seemed so,” Bernice said.
I turned to the window, then to Allie.
“At what?” I said.
“At us, I suppose,” Allie said. “You did not see her, Virgil?”
“Hell, Allie. I was looking at you. When you talk, I listen.”
“I’m being serious.”
“About a woman looking in the window?” I said.
“Yes,” Allie said. “I don’t know, there was something about her stare . . .”
“What kind of something?” I said.
“I don’t know, the look on her face, it was odd for some reason. Bernice saw.”
She nodded.
“Yes,” Bernice said. “Rather odd.”
“As if she saw something that she needed to look at,” Allie said.
“Maybe she was just looking in,” Martha Kathryn said. “Admiring the place?”
“Or your beauty, Allie,” I said.
“Yes,” Martha Kathryn said. “That is it.”
Allie blushed and smiled as she shook her head.
“Lord, no,” she said. “I know I’m being silly, but it seemed, I don’t know, that she was staring at us. Not me, us.”
Virgil smiled and scooted his chair back.
“Well, we’ll just have to go and see,” he said.
“No,” Allie said. “I’m just being . . . I don’t know.”
I offered a smile to Martha Kathryn.
“Most likely staring at you,” I said. “Every time we walk down the street together, people look at her. She’s famous here in Appaloosa.”
Allie nodded.
“That’s most likely the case,” Allie said.
“Yes,” Bernice said.
“I guess I’m just used to that,” Martha Kathryn said.
“What’d this mysterious woman look like?” I said.
Allie shook her head.
“I don’t know . . . Striking,” Allie said.
Bernice nodded.
“Tall, young, strong-looking,” Bernice said.
Allie nodded.
“Exotic-like,” Allie said.
“Maybe I should go find this mysterious woman and see what in the hell she’s up to.”
“Go right ahead, Everett Hitch,” Martha Kathryn said. “Just don’t come back.”
57
She had a good view of the door where she stood across Appaloosa Avenue from Ann Marie’s. She was down a ways and near the entrance of a billiard parlor, leaning on the wall under an awning. Tacked to the wall next to her was the poster announcing Appaloosa Days. She read all the details, then turned her attention to Ann Marie’s across the street.
She was without her normal gypsy attire. Tonight she was wearing a proper gingham dress. It fit her tightly, revealing the muscles and curves of her figure. She carried a small calf-hide purse. It was draped around her neck and hung on one side of her hip. Inside the purse was a nickel-plated Remington .41-caliber double derringer. Normally she wore her calf-laced sandals, but tonight, along with her city clothing, she was wearing her lady shoes. She stood eye to eye with most men in her bare feet, but in her lady shoes with their three-inch heels she was looking down on most passersby.
Her striking appearance got the attention of a man exiting the billiard parlor. He stopped just outside the door and lit a cigarette as he stared at her. Then he turned away, as if he were interested in something
else.
“Hello,” he said, letting the words drift out into the street.
Then he trained his eyes on her. Waiting for a reply. But she did not even glance in his direction, nor did she say anything.
He turned and started walking toward her. He sauntered more than walked, the cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke trailing behind him. It was an arrogant saunter, likely fueled by libation.
“Cat got your tongue?”
He kept moving toward her, but she remained focused on the restaurant across the street. Only when he was close enough to spit on did she look to him.
“Howdy,” he said.
He smiled and rested his shoulder against the wall, looking at her lasciviously as he smoked.
“What’s your name?”
This particular man she did not look down on. He was a big fellow, with a square head and broad shoulders.
She turned away from him, staying focused on the restaurant. He looked her up and down.
“Ain’t you something?”
“Go,” she said, without even a glance.
“How much?” he said.
“Get away from me.”
“Aw . . . come on.”
“Go.”
“What the hell are you doing out here if you don’t want to make a living?”
“Go.”
“Don’t you want to have some fun? And make a little money on top of it?”
He flicked his cigarette into the street. Then he reached out to touch her cheek. But before his hand got to her face she had the derringer out and pointed between his eyes. He recoiled with his hands held up in the air.
“Whoa. Easy . . .”
He backed away with his arms raised.
“I didn’t mean nothing.”
Two men exited the billiard parlor and turned in their direction.
They stopped when they saw the big man with his arms above his head.
“What’s going on?” one of them said.
She started walking away. She put the derringer in her purse, turned, and picked up her pace. She walked briskly away down the boardwalk. Her footsteps echoed in the street.
“That whore pulled a fucking gun on me.”
He looked to her, moving away.
“You fucking whore!”
* * *
• • •
She came through the door like a sudden gust of wind and slammed it behind her. The noise stirred the kid where he lay naked, facedown on the bed. He lifted his head. She was twisting her hands and pacing. He watched her, then lifted up a bit and rested on his elbows. He was groggy, confused, and somewhat disoriented.
“What is happening?”
She paced a few times before she said anything.
“I saw him,” she said.
He lifted up more and wiped the sleep from his eyes.
“The lawman?”
“Yes.”
“What time is it?”
“Nighttime,” she said. “Nighttime.”
“How did you find him?”
“By chance,” she said.
“Where?”
“In a restaurant.”
“You talk with him?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“He see you?”
“No,” she said. “And it would make no difference. He has not seen me, not really. Only as a much younger person, a child, really.”
“Not a good place to ambush someone.”
“I was not considering that.”
“What are you considering?”
“I don’t know for certain.”
The kid stayed lifted up, resting on his elbows as he watched her. She was walking circles in the room, agitated like a caged cat. Not meeting his eye.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did as he asked but continued to circle.
“Have you changed your mind?” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what do you know?” he said.
“Taking happiness away.”
“What?”
“Just that,” she said.
“How would you do that?”
“My father was no good. He was truly no good. I do not know why I have this feeling. This anger. But he was my father.”
He watched her some before he spoke.
“I know about taking away happiness,” he said.
She slowed her pace but still twisted her hands together.
“It’s what I do,” he said.
She crossed to the window and stopped. Her back was to him.
“The tintype,” she said.
“What?”
She turned to him.
“Let me see your photograph.”
58
By four o’clock the following day, Hank and Skeeter had yet to return to Appaloosa after their trip to Dover to talk with Maureen Crow. We figured they’d have been back by now but that the rain likely slowed them down. There had been nothing more from Victor or any of his hands that rode out of town. And for the moment we were waiting.
I was working with a rank young bay I bought at an auction when Virgil decided to stop by to check on my progress.
“You been busy?”
“The normal,” he said.
“Big day tomorrow,” I said.
“Appaloosa Days?” he said with a squint.
“Yep, that time.”
“Yeah, Allie’s not talked nothing else since she convinced the damn city alderman to do the damn thing,” he said. “I’ll be damn glad when it’s over.”
“Oh, don’t worry, it will never be over with Allie. She’ll figure out some other sort of function after this one’s over.”
“That ain’t even in the least bit amusing, Everett.”
After I tired the bay and let him out to pasture, I walked to the barn. Virgil was sitting on the corral fence, watching a red-tail circling in the distance.
“Know what I’m thinking, Everett?”
“I do not.”
He turned to me with a serious expression.
“I’m thinking about getting me another one of them Julieta cigars from Wallis.”
“Think you might want to get a beer to go with it?”
“I do.”
We sat in the Boston House saloon drinking beer as we watched what was left of the humid day begin to cool.
We’d ordered a second beer when I saw Lloyd’s little grandson Timothy walk in from the hotel lobby. Timothy was a feisty twelve-year-old towhead who worked helping Allie out at her shop. Timothy was one of the main reasons that Lloyd had moved to Appaloosa. Lloyd figured since he was getting on in years he’d spend as much time as he could with his daughter and her children; both Timothy and his older sister, Louise, worked part-time at Allie’s shop. Timothy rotated his little head around until he spotted Virgil and me. He removed his floppy hat and hurried over.
“Pardon me, Marshal Hitch, Marshal Cole,” he said. “Miss Allie asked me to see if I could find you.”
“She did, did she?” Virgil said.
“Yes, sir, Marshal, sir, and, well, I done like she said and I found you.”
“That you did,” Virgil said. “She say what she was needing you to find me for?”
“No, sir. I went by the sheriff’s office and Grandpa Lloyd told me there was a chance I might find you at your house or here. So I come here first. ’Cause I figured you’d be here. I’m smart that way. Grandpa said if I did find you here . . . well, he told me you’d let me have a sip or two of beer.”
Virgil grinned.
“He told you that?” I said.
Timothy smiled. He nodded hard, then squirmed like he had to pee.
“He did, did he?” I
said. “Don’t go fibbing, now.”
Timothy blushed.
“Okay . . . no,” he said. “I made that part up about the beer and you giving me a taste and all.”
“That’s kind of what I figured,” I said. “You know what happens to fibbers, don’t you?”
“They grow up to be liars?” Timothy said.
“They do,” I said.
“I was just joshing,” he said. “But I’ll take a sip.”
“No,” I said.
“Shucks,” he said, and clicked his fingers as if he’d just missed rolling snake eyes.
“What Allie want?” Virgil said.
“She said she needed to see you is all I know. Said it was important.”
“She’s still at the shop?” Virgil said.
“Yes, sir. Marshal, sir, she is.”
“Thank you, Timothy.”
Timothy remained standing there, looking at Virgil with an expectant look. I fished a nickel from my pocket and flipped it to him. He snatched it out of the air and grinned.
“Gosh,” he said. “Thank you.”
He turned and scurried out the door.
“Little shit,” I said with a smile.
Virgil nodded.
“Duty calls,” he said.
The rain had stopped, but a heavy fog rolled in, making the dark night darker. The streetlamps and lanterns in the storefront windows up and down Main Street were fuzzy behind the thick fog. Virgil and I walked along the boardwalk, making our way toward Allie’s shop.
When we turned onto Appaloosa Avenue, we could see a crowd down a ways entering the theater for the evening performance.
“Gonna go see that actress tonight again after the show?” Virgil said.
“‘That actress’?”
“Martha Kathryn,” he said with a nod.
“I just might,” I said. “Never know.”
Virgil grinned.
“Well, if you don’t know, I do.”
“You think so?”
“At supper she was holding your hand like it belong to her.”
We crossed the street, close to Baptiste’s office. It was dark. The place was closed. Virgil slowed to a stop in front of the office as he puffed on his cigar.
