by J. Lee Butts
Felt like we’d stepped into a volcanic flow of sweaty humanity when we pushed the Ten Spot’s café doors aside and elbowed our way to a polished mahogany bar that was every inch of fifty feet long. Must’ve been nigh on twenty drink servers working like field hands behind that marble-topped counter.
Smartly dressed, overly friendly bartender, who sported a shock of hair that looked like he’d put a beaver on his head and parted it down the middle with a broken wagon wheel, hustled over as soon as our boots hit the brass foot rail. Grinning bar dog wore a royal blue cravat decorated with a thumb-sized gold nugget as a stickpin, and had a greased handlebar moustache as big as a mule’s front leg.
Feller rubbed a spot in front of me with a wet rag. He couldn’t have been much more than two feet away. Didn’t matter. I had trouble hearing him when he flashed a twinkling gold tooth that appeared the twin of his stickpin and yelled, “What can I do you for, gents?”
Yelled back, “Cold beer for me and my friend.” Waited till he brought the suds, then dropped the money in his palm and yelled, “You tell me where we can find a feller named Pinky Falcone?”
He used the hand with the money in it to point toward the farthest table of the seething, rectangular-shaped room. “If you can get through the crowd, he should be takin’ up space in that corner yonder. Does most of his business back there while he plays poker. Has an office upstairs, but he only uses that for special stuff.”
Carlton and I swung our attention in the direction the barman had pointed, put the marble counter against our backs, and sipped at the icy mugs of beer. Big smile washed over my friend’s face. He said, “God almighty, this is good stuff. Bet it beats the hell outta that buttermilk you were sippin’ back there on ole man Slate’s porch.”
Wiped a foamy moustache off my lip and nodded. “Looks like we might need an ax to chop our way to the other side of this joint. People are jammed in here like cordwood piled on a railroad flatcar.”
Threw the contents of my mug down in one gulp, slid the beaker back onto the bar, then wiped my mouth on my sleeve again. “Well,” I said, “ain’t gonna get there by just standin’ here rooted to the floor like a couple of trees.”
We pushed off the bar. Picked our way through the constantly surging throng. Squeezed between several card tables, each surrounded by a crowd of yelling, drunken spectators. Passed a faro operation, fanciest roulette wheel I’d ever seen, and a gaudy, colorful seven-foot-tall wheel of fortune that clicked loudly as it spun around to the delight of at least a dozen eager bettors.
Carl pulled at my shoulder and yelled into my ear, “Be willin’ to bet there’s more thieves in this place right now than the Texas Rangers got locked in all the cells down in Huntsville.”
Easily spotted Pinky Falcone before we got to his table. Crammed as far into the corner as he could get, but there was no way to miss the man. He bore a striking resemblance to a gigantic, shaved pig whose stinkweed-farming owner had jammed him into a custom-made, three-piece suit with a ruff-fronted white shirt and black string tie. Horn-handled bowie with a foot-long blade lay across his tub-sized belly—right next to a Colt double-action Lightning revolver jammed behind a red silk sash.
On the little finger of the brute’s left hand, a diamond as big as a pigeon egg grabbed all available light and threw impressive, flashing sparkles around the room. Man’s completely bald head and hairless face glowed like a polished cue ball on a snooker table. Expensive-looking, gray-striped suit the size of a circus tent strained to keep all of him inside. Whole package had more than a passing similarity to a grinning, bullet-headed, heavily armed stuffed sausage.
Carl grabbed me again. “Tub a lard ain’t been pushin’ hisself away from too many dinner plates in sight, has he? Son of a bitch must weigh nigh on three hundred pounds.”
Caught Falcone just as he gave us a quick, beady-eyed once-over when we stepped up to one side of the crowded table. As if by some kind of secret mind-reading act, or sheer magic, a stringy haired, hard-eyed, albino thug, who leaned against the wall near Falcone’s elbow, came to his full, menacing height. Professional pistoleer and bodyguard brought both twitchy hands around and placed them on either side of the fancy, silver-and-gold-inlaid, oval-shaped buckle on his gun belt. Rabbit-pink eyes skimmed over me, then Carlton, and back again. Gunman wore his bone-gripped, silver-mounted weapons high on the hip, but reversed in their holsters similar to the way I’d seen in a famous tintype picture that purported to have been of Wild Bill Hickok. No doubt he was a dangerous man. One who’d kill without compunction or remorse.
Carl leaned up so close his lips almost touched my ear. Could feel his breath when he whispered, “Sweet merciful Father, Hayden, these bastards would kill the both of us for a plug nickel. You put the brace on Falcone. I’ll take care of the gunny. Pasty-faced son of a bitch moves the wrong way, I’m gonna blast ’im out of his boots right where he stands.” I nodded, smiled like he’d just told me something funny.
Falcone flipped the last pasteboard over in a game of seven-card stud. Ace of hearts had barely hit the felt when he ran a beefy arm forward, like a fat snake, and started raking in a mountainous pile of multicolored poker chips. All the other players at the table groaned, then reared their chairs up and away from the action. Several stood, kicked their seats back, snatched up anything they were lucky enough to have left, and stomped away grumbling.
Calm as the bottom of a fresh-dug posthole, and without actually looking at us again, the beefy gambler insolently stacked his chips and said, “Federal lawdogs, huh? Do somethin’ for you badge-wearin’ boys? Always stand ready to help the law whenever possible. Just the kinda upstandin’, culturally responsible fella I am.” Soon as that venomous lie oozed from Falcone’s lips, he glanced at me and flashed a frozen, counterfeit smile.
Loud enough to be heard by everyone within fifteen or twenty feet, I said, “My partner and I do hope you can excuse the inconvenience, Mr. Falcone, but it would be most helpful if we could have a word with you in private.”
The biggest toad in the puddle gritted his teeth, flicked another reptilian glance my direction, then went back to his money-stacking routine. He forced a wet, brown-stained grin around the ax-handle-sized cigar stuffed into one corner of his cruel-lipped mouth and grunted. “Well,” he said, “’pears I’ve pretty much cleaned these amateur card benders out. Think I could use a break. Maybe a glass of somethin’ refreshin’. Hell, yes. I’ve got time for you gents. Be more’n happy to accommodate you.”
The Ten Spot’s owner placed both puffy-fingered hands atop the table, then pushed himself out of the cane-bottom chair he’d been punishing. He turned to the gunny. Said something I’d of needed ears like a south Texas bat to hear. As his bodyguard snatched a fancy-crimped, silver-belly Stetson off, and went to scraping his employer’s chips from the table into the felt bucket, the big man shot each of us another furtive glance.
Carlton leaned over and whispered, “Cook that boy up and you could feed the Peruvian Army.”
Falcone eased from behind the table and moved our direction with all the grace of an elephant that someone had attempted, but failed, to teach to dance on its toes. As he passed, he waved the gigantic cigar toward a carpeted staircase that led to the second floor. For the first time, I noticed the enormous man wore a pair of glistening, patent leather boots. To me those gleaming feet appeared almost tiny attached to a person of such colossal size.
We trailed along behind as our semigraceful host lumbered his way heavenward. Seemed as though any agility the man might have possessed on a board floor vanished like spit on a hot stove when he mounted that staircase. He trudged from one step to the next highest as though it took every ounce of effort he could muster from a sorely abused body.
Falcone’s private office, while not overly large, could best be described as dark, richly appointed, and in an odd, cheap way, downright sumptuous. Thick Persian carpets, along with heavy Oriental tapestries draped from ceiling to floor on every wall—except the
windowed one behind the desk—went a long way toward deadening all the commotion in the rest of his energetic business. Number of impressive cut-crystal oil lamps gave off the only available light in the room.
By the time our host, who had to sit down in shifts, finally got himself situated behind an imposing, oversized mahogany desk, Carlton and I’d already taken the seats in the guest chairs he’d proffered. Our bony rumps had just hit the plush and elegant feel of Moroccan leather when the albino barged in, strolled over, and dumped his boss’s pile of chips onto the desktop.
Falcone slid the cigar from his mouth, glanced up at his ghostly-looking toady, then said, “Much appreciate your assistance, Philo.” He raked the chips into a rough pile, then glanced over at Carlton and me. “Do excuse my uncommonly rude behavior, gentlemen. Money has a way of making me forget my manners. Please say hello to my assistant, Philo Burch. You gents might’ve heard of him. He’s well known in these parts for his skill with revolvers. Deadly accuracte, and lacks the willingness to step aside for any man alive.”
Threw Burch a less than friendly glance as he backed into his assigned spot near Falcone’s right elbow. Cadaverous stack of human scum slouched with his arms crossed over his chest. Stance allowed him to tap the butts of each of his weapons with a nervous finger. Appeared to me as likely being the way he preferred to set up, just before jerking the big Smith & Wesson Schofield .45’s on his hips. Tension between him and Carlton sent sparks back and forth across the room from the second the pair locked eyes on each other.
Didn’t waste much of my time studying Burch, because I knew all I had to do was make the right motion with one finger and Carlton would immediately have the man dead in his boots. But a near nose-to-nose gunfight inside Falcone’s tiny office held not one whit of appeal for me. Right quicklike, I made up my mind to avoid confrontation if at all possible.
Swung my attention back to the man who looked like he’d just eaten his brother and said, “We’re in need of your help, sir.”
Falcone grinned—same way the snake must’ve grinned at Eve in the garden. He pushed back in a grossly overburdened chair to the point where he’d almost laid down, then said, “Oh, hell, boys, Pinky Falcone’s always ready to assist our gallant law enforcement officers. ’Specially you federal boys. Just what is it I can do for you? You name it. Pretty sure I can do whatever you ask.”
Couldn’t figure any reason to beat around the bush. “We’ve come to your fair city to arrest a friend of yours, Mr. Falcone.”
Piggish eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Friend of mine? Do tell. Don’t sound good, now does it? And which of my many friends might you have your sights on.”
“John Henry Slate,” I said.
Knew instantly I’d hit a raw nerve. Falcone shifted in his chair as though he’d suddenly discovered a cocklebur in his balbriggans that was rubbing against something important. He tried to cover the barely discernible movement with a feigned cough to the back of the hand holding his cigar. He sat bolt upright, then leaned forward onto the top of the desk with both burly elbows and coughed again. For several seconds, he glared around as though looking for something, then ponderously leaned back again.
All the cumbersome movement and coughing set Burch off. He shifted from foot to foot. Shot a sneaky glance his boss’s direction, as though nervously expectant of something in the way of guidance. When none came, he went back to flicking his cold-blooded gaze from Carlton to me, like a western diamondback rattler hemmed up in a tight corner. Whole dance gave me the sensation of sitting in a bathtub full of snakes as Falcone dumped more in on top of me and grinned like a thing insane.
Finally, Falcone cleared his throat, then hissed, “Well, damnation. That’s a startler for sure and certain. Truth is, gents, ain’t seen John Henry in more’n a year. Don’t think he’s anywhere around these part presently.”
Carlton just couldn’t resist. His anger over having to come gunning for John Henry had been steadily building ever since we stepped onto the train in Fort Smith. Could tell he was itching for a fight and, at that precise moment, the pair of brigands across the desk from us were just his cup of tea. Way down in the bottom of my soul, didn’t know if I could stop him once he got started down the path of blowing holes in people.
My best friend twisted in his seat, leaned forward, and took a somewhat more threatening posture. “Well, if Slate ain’t here now, he will be soon,” he snapped. “We know for a damned certain fact this is where he’s headed. ’Pears as how we just happened to beat him home. Might consider our visit today a courtesy call to let you know we’re in town and that your old amigo is a wanted and desperate man.”
“Wanted for what?” Falcone shot back.
Reached over and placed a calming hand on Carl’s arm. “John Henry murdered three people up in Fort Smith. One of them was a deputy U.S. marshal. Western District Court of Arkansas takes a right dim view of those who’d kill a man in the U.S. Marshals Service. We’re here at the behest of Judge Isaac C. Parker to see that he’s taken into custody for trial, or killed should he resist.”
The tension in the room suddenly shot up like a July Fourth whizbang. For several seconds, nothing in the room moved. No one spoke. The air around us began to feel as if a blistering storm of lightning was about to blow up. Seemed to me as though Falcone and his wraithlike gunman both stopped breathing.
The monstrous man across the desk from me eventually let out a sigh, then gasped, “Assure you, sir, no one here has had any contact with John Henry for some time past. Sure you’ll find those as will tell you, John Henry and I parted company quite a long while back.”
“I see. Well, then can you introduce me to a woman who works here? Old friend of John Henry’s, I’m told, named Laticia Gallagher. Like to talk with the lady for a few minutes, if that’s possible.”
Response from both men proved immediate. Burch grunted like I’d hit him in the gut, and gritted his teeth. Falcone snorted, “Bitch don’t work here anymore. As a matter of pure fact, she hasn’t been an employee of mine since right after John Henry pulled his picket pin and went to driftin’.”
Carl’s lip peeled away from his teeth in a sneer when he said, “Well, where can we find her?”
Burch flinched and fidgeted.
Falcone raised a hand in an effort to still his henchman. “She has her own parlor house now. Musta passed it on the way into town, if you boys came up from the south. Can’t miss the place. Painted yellow, with blue shutters, like some kinda damned Easter egg. White picket fence all ‘round. She calls the place the Yellow Rose. Just ask anybody you meet on the street. Sure someone will be more’n willin’ to point the way.”
Sliced a quick glance back at Burch. Man vibrated like the plucked string on a Smoky Mountain hoedown fiddler’s favorite instrument. Beneath my hand, Carlton’s arm went cold as marble. Knew with absolute certainty that if I didn’t get us outside and damned quick, gun smoke and blood would shortly be the order of the day.
Stood, snatched at my friend’s sleeve, and tipped my hat. “Pleased to take your word on the matter of John Henry’s absence from the scene, Mr. Falcone. However, should he contact you, or even try to make contact with you, or anyone you know, we’d appreciate it if you’d get word to us as soon as possible.”
Falcone’s lip curled. “Now, that might prove kinda hard to do, bein’ as how I don’t have the slightest idea how I’d go about gettin’ in touch with you boys.”
Held onto Carlton and kinda pulled him toward the door. “Noticed a hotel back up the street not far from here—Beverly House, if memory serves. Can get a message to us there, or at the city marshal’s office. One way or the other, we’ll be easy to find. Probably be back around here to talk with you again ’fore this square dance has its last do-si-do called.”
Falcone rolled his head around as though we’d finally got on his last nerve. “Beverly House’s only a few doors from Laticia’s place.”
“Ah, glad to hear it,” I said. Tipped my hat one mor
e time, then moved in front of Carlton and whispered, “Let’s get the hell outta here. Better we don’t engage this crazed son of a bitch in a lead-pitchin’ contest just yet.”
With that, I pushed Carlton out the office door, then muscled him down the Ten Spot’s staircase, and eventually back out onto the boardwalk. He breathed like a winded horse. Patted him on the shoulder, brushed his back off, then said, “Well, draggin’ you outta harm’s way damn near wore me out.”
He snatched his hat off and slapped it against his leg. Rush of blood had colored his neck and face. Even in the waning afternoon light, his hair looked redder than usual. “Shoulda let me kill Burch, Hayden. Gonna have to do it sooner or later, I’d bet.”
Patted my friend on the shoulder again. Tried to ease him back down the street toward the spot where we’d left Nate. “He can wait, Carl. He can wait. We’ve got other fish to fry right now. ’Sides, given that Marshal Spenser’s out of pocket, I’d rather not have to deal with an idiot like Deputy Marshal Dudley Tater.”
Lot of water’s passed under the proverbial bridge since that dangerous evening. Many is the time I’ve wondered just what the outcome would’ve been had I turned Carlton loose and let him have his way there in Pinky Falcone’s office. Often as not, I’ve even wished I’d gone ahead and let him gun both of those evil skunks. With the gift of time and total hindsight, can say without any doubt that I now know, for certain sure, I’d feel considerable better about the way that particular raid finally shook out if I had done exactly that. God Almighty, but I could’ve slept better, felt better, and been more at peace with myself for the passage of nigh on fifty years.
And maybe, just maybe, there wouldn’t have been so much blood when the last scene of our tragedy finally played to its ugly and surprising end.
19
“. . . IF YOU DON’T KILL HIM, PINKY FALCONE WILL.”
NEVER WOULD HAVE expected such consideration from a man so ill-tempered, but an oily-faced, irritable desk clerk at Waco’s Beverly House Hotel treated us pretty good when we walked into his earthly realm and all but insisted on a room. Got so snooty at one point, before coming around, that I had to whip out Judge Parker’s sheaf of bona fides and all but beat him about the head and shoulders with them. Could tell it really got his goat, but he finally admitted that he did, in fact, have one room left large enough for the three of us, and that if we’d leave him the hell alone he’d let us have the place.
