The Drifter Detective

by Garnett Elliott

  She rolled her eyes. "He's too drunk to care, honey. The man's impotent. That's what I get for marrying someone with twenty years on me."

  "You marry him for money?"

  "Why the hell else? Well, I warned him I was no rose garden. He knew as much. He won't give me a divorce, because half that oil money would be mine. So he just puts up with it when I … wander."

  Her other shoe came flying off. She arched her shoulders back, better displaying her bust. Jack swayed toward her, hands clasped together. He remembered the gun tucked in the back of his pants and tossed it on the dresser with a laugh. She laughed, too. It was alright, he told himself. Just a quick tumble. McFaull wasn't his client anyway. And it might open some angles, if he got tight with Dottie.

  A knock at the door.

  "Who's that?" Dottie whispered.

  Jack shrugged. If it was Cal, he'd shove the Colt in his face.

  "I know you're in there, Jack," came a woman's voice. "I can hear music. And I've got a key."

  The widow Talbot opened the door. She had a bottle of something in one hand and two small glasses in the other. She'd painted her face, albeit a little crudely. The first two buttons on her gingham dress had been undone, exposing her pale neck. She started to give Jack a knowing smile, but her lips froze when she saw the shoeless woman reclining on the corner of the bed.

  "This isn't what it looks like—" Jack began.

  "You goddamn tomcat!" the widow shouted.

  Dottie straightened and reached for a shoe.

  "And you." Talbot turned to her. "I warned you last time, if I caught you slinking around again …" Her face contorted. She hurled the bottle overhand. Dottie ducked like she'd done this before, and glass shattered on the wall behind her. Jack caught a whiff of Muscatel. Forgetting her shoes, Dottie bulled past the widow and out the doorway.

  "Now, Shirley—" Jack tried again.

  "I could have you arrested for what you just tried to do. Don't think I wouldn't! Don't think Giddy wouldn't bust you, neither, just 'cause you're working for him."

  "But I didn't—"

  She pitched the two glasses. Jack was too close to dodge. Both struck his chest and went rebounding off with a thud.

  "I want you out of my house," Talbot said. "Now. And don't go asking for a refund. Get your damn suitcase."

  Without waiting to see if he'd comply, she started opening dresser drawers and tossing the contents onto the bed. Same with the closet. Jack replaced the gun in his pants when she wasn't looking. She shoved the opened suitcase into his hands and stuffed clothes inside, followed by his chessboard.

  "Now git! I don't ever want to see you again."

  Too shamed to resist, he let her push him into the hallway. Lights were coming on under doors. Heads craned out. "I'd thought better of you, Mr. Laramie," she said, shoving him toward the back door. "I really did."

  He reached behind himself and unlatched the door. Cold autumn air rushed in. The widow went back to his room and came out carrying the record player. "You forgot this," she said, and threw it at him sidelong. He dropped his suitcase, spilling clothes, but wasn't fast enough to catch the player. It hit the door and went sailing outside, landing in the yard with a sickening crunch. The wooden casing split open. Jack moaned like he'd been kicked in the groin.

  Laughter and snickering carried up the hallway. Red-faced, Jack knelt to pick up his clothes, grabbed the player's shattered remains, and spent a sleepless night in the horse trailer.

  * * *

  "Today's the day," Gideon said, pouring Jack his third chicory coffee for the morning. The stiff brew almost brought him around to full consciousness. They both had their feet up on Gideon's desk. Deputy Strummer was nowhere to be seen.

  "The day for what?" Jack said, still groggy.

  "Full surveillance of McFaull's ranch. Nighttime, too. I've got credible information he'll be moving whisky, but I don't know exactly when."

  "You want me to check out that barn?"

  Gideon shook his head. "I want you to note every vehicle coming and going, and get the plates if you can. I suspect a number of trucks will be involved."

  Jack glanced at Strummer's empty chair. "Your deputy had a little girl trouble last night."

  "Nothing new. He's distraught, that boy. You've already seen his temper. I keep thinking he's going to go off and do something I can't fix."

  "He was fighting over McFaull's wife."

  "Him and half this town's pants-wearing population." Gideon set his cup down with a sigh.

  "You didn't tell me McFaull kept a loose woman."

  "I figured something like that was peripheral to whisky-running."

  Jack stared into his coffee. He was getting a sideways feeling. Instinct told him this grinning, tow-haired sheriff wasn't what he seemed to be. The little town of Clyde harbored more secrets than he cared to know. But the money … he couldn't just pack it in now, hitch up the trailer and blow for Abilene.

  Could he?

  "You're not bored here, are you?" Gideon said, his voice hinting at an edge. "I heard tell there was a ruckus at the widow Talbot's place last night. Someone had her whipped into a fury."

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Well, don't get froggy on me just yet. You'll get a chance to earn your money, and soon. I promise."

  * * *

  The café nearby turned out to be open, when it suited the proprietors. Jack had the waitress bag him lunch and dinner, plus a full thermos of coffee. Two nights without sleep would be draining, but he'd endured much, much worse in the German camps.

  He drove out to McFaull's and hid atop the hill. There was, indeed, activity going on at the ranch. McFaull paced the veranda of the main house, like he was waiting for someone. Jack had an easy time spotting him with the scope: he wore a plum-colored tie and a bright white jacket.

  But for all that, nothing else happened. McFaull remained in sight. He dragged a chair to the veranda and sat down. Jack, who'd had several months experience with surveillance, grew suspicious. It was like the man wanted to be seen. Like he'd picked that spot because it was the most visible, from Jack's vantage. And no trucks came roaring down the trail, either. The hands looked like they had the day off.

  Just before sunset, McFaull went inside the house. Shouts echoed all the way up to the hill. Dottie came bursting out the front door, in a cocktail dress and furs. She marched over to the Mercury and had it started before McFaull came back outside. He watched her drive off in a cloud of dust.

  Then he turned on a porch light and sat down beneath it, arms folded.

  Jack's skin prickled. This was too much. He was being duped, he felt sure of it. No doubt McFaull would sit there all night. And he would watch. Come the morning, his notebook would reflect nothing but the whereabouts of McFaull. No whisky trucks. No thirsty Indians waiting somewhere, on a phantom reservation beyond the Texas border.

  Then it hit him: an alibi.

  He raced for the DeSoto and started the engine, hoping he wouldn't be too late to catch Dottie McFaull.

  * * *

  The red convertible was pulling out of the saloon yard just as he came barreling down Clyde's main street. A dark haired man, looking all the world like Strummer, had joined Dottie in the front seat. Jack eased off the gas. Experience told him he could find out more if he followed, rather than confronting her with his suspicions. A hunter's moon was already climbing the horizon. He shut off the DeSoto's headlights.

  Dottie drove past the railroad depot, a farmhouse, and then turned into a thicket of acacias. Jack pulled off the road fifty yards away. Any closer, and they would hear his engine approaching. He got out and padded toward the thicket.

  Even before he spotted the Mercury, Strummer's plaintive voice carried through the brush. He was pleading. Crying, it sounded like. Dottie repeated something over and over, using a voice like a schoolmarm. Jack recalled what she had said about breaking it off with Strummer. He squatted down by the trunk of an Acacia and pushed a branch aside. Now he co
uld see moonlight gleaming off the Mercury's hood, with Dottie and her ex-lover rendered pale as marble statuary. Strummer had his face in his hands.

  Jack's eyesight, keen enough to spot the glare of a Messerschmitt's cockpit before it came into firing-range, caught something hovering in the shadows on the opposite side of the convertible. A silhouette, crouching like he was. He wouldn't have noticed the figure if not for a patch of white fabric.

  Strummer got out of the car. Head down, he started blundering through the trees not five feet to Jack's left. Dottie called after him. The grief-stricken deputy pushed his way clear to the road, seemingly intent on walking back to town by himself.

  Jack returned his attention to the shadowy figure. He could see now it was a man, wearing what looked like a white apron or smock beneath a dark jacket. He'd crept closer to the Mercury. Dottie, meanwhile, lit a cigarette and fiddled with the radio. Snatches of steel guitar wailed out into West Texas night.

  Conscious of his own breathing, the rustle of his clothes, Jack bent down and began to circle through the trees, maneuvering behind the other man. Dottie's radio helped to muffle the noise. Jack saw the figure pull what looked like an ax-handle from under his coat.

  Now or never. Jack drew the Colt and lunged forward, jamming the barrel beneath the man's left shoulder blade. "Drop it, Giddy," he said.

  Dottie's head whipped around from the front seat. Gideon squared his shoulders and turned, slow. He wasn't wearing his hat. The axe-handle struck the ground.

  "You're supposed to be out at McFaull's," he said, his voice betraying nothing more than mild irritation. He had a full apron on under his jacket, the kind used by slaughterhouse workers, and heavy gloves.

  "Why are you dressed like that?" Jack said.

  "Put your gun away and we'll talk peaceably about it."

  "Like hell I will."

  "What's going on here?" Dottie said, her eyes on the big Colt. She reached over and snapped the radio off.

  "Just a misunderstanding," Gideon said. "Mr. Laramie here works for me. I'm afraid he must've trailed you from your husband's estate with the idea that—"

  "You were just about to kill her." Jack jabbed the barrel against Gideon's chest. It clinked when it struck; he must've been wearing his badge underneath the apron. "Probably set things up to make it look like Strummer did it. Crime of passion, right? Meanwhile, I'm out at the ranch providing McFaull with a full alibi."

  "Nonsense. Where'd you come up with an idea like that?"

  "At McFaull's place, while I was waiting for your imaginary whisky trucks to show. He isn't running any booze and you know it. How much is he paying you to bump his wife?"

  "Tom's trying to kill me?" Dottie said. "He doesn't have the balls."

  "That's why he hired the sheriff."

  Gideon folded his arms. "You're acting paranoid, Jack. Let's all go back to my office and discuss this."

  "We'll discuss it here. First off, you can explain why you're dressed—"

  The acacias rustled, parted. Strummer came pushing through, his hat off and over his heart. "Dottie, honey," he said, "are you alright? I thought I heard voices. I came back because I think we can work this out. I promise I won't get mad when you look at other men. I understand you've got certain urges. I can …" His voice trailed off when he saw Jack pointing a gun at his boss.

  "Strummer," Gideon said, "arrest this man."

  Jack saw the deputy was in uniform, and had a revolver holstered at his side.

  Gideon moved. Jack snapped his attention back, but not before the sheriff had drawn a billy club from under his coat and whipped it overhand. The club came crashing down on Jack's wrist. Bones gave. Jack jerked the Colt's trigger by reflex. The round kicked up dirt three feet from Gideon's boots. He tried to raise the gun and fire again but his hand didn't work. Gideon cocked the billy for another swing. His affable mask had fallen away, replaced by an empty-eyed demon. He made a keening sound through clenched teeth. Jack saw the club descend and tensed to throw himself backward.

  A gun boomed.

  He swore he felt the hot round bite him in the ribs. Strangely, it was Gideon who jerked sideways as if struck. He dropped the club and staggered up against the Mercury's trunk. The sheriff slid to the ground, still making the whistling noise through his teeth.

  Jack checked himself for a bullet-hole anyway. There was none. Incredulous, he turned to see Strummer hunched in a shooter's stance, both hands wrapped around the heavy revolver. His eyes looked calm beneath coal-black brows.

  "Put your gun down, Mr. Laramie," he said.

  Jack let the Colt drop. His wrist felt molten, but adrenalin kept him from howling. "You shot him …"

  "He was gonna kill you. I've seen that look on his face before."

  With his left hand, Jack took the club from Gideon's unresisting fingers. The sheriff just sat there, slumped, his knees curled against his face. A wet hole the size of a nickel gleamed below his sternum. Jack couldn't tell if the wound was fatal or not.

  "That's my billy," Strummer said, looking at the club. "Been missing for the past two days."

  Jack pointed to where the axe-handle had fallen. "Gideon was going to kill Dottie and make it look like you did it. Probably planned to brain her with the handle, then smear the billy with blood and leave it at the site. Your fingerprints would still be on it."

  "I'll be damned."

  Dottie spilled out of the car. She shoved Jack aside and wrapped her arms around Strummer. "You saved me, Lou. Maybe you'll be sheriff now."

  Jack was about to point out he had had the situation under control, but stopped when he saw the look flooding Strummer's face. "Why'd you shoot him and not me? You've been working with Gideon for years."

  Strummer holstered the revolver. "I've always hated that son of a bitch."

  †

  Fighting Chance

  I woke up in a ring.

  That shouldn't sound strange, seeing as how I'm a fighter by profession. I've come to on a dozen occasions with hot lights above me and canvas under my back.

  This time, though, was different. I'd been sleeping, not knocked out by a punch. And my last memories weren't of roaring crowds or a cornerman yelling at me to keep my hands up. They were much more pleasant. I'd been sitting at a crowded table in the Brown Derby, my hot-shot attorney on one side and a leggy brunette from St. Louis on the other. We were all doing some serious drinking, celebrating my recent victory in court. Victory as in "Not Guilty."

  I rubbed my head. I felt a pressure drumming there, like a balloon about to burst. A medicine taste lingered in my mouth.

  Medicine?

  Then I remembered—the brunette, giving me that last slug of gin. She'd had a glimmer in her green eyes. The booze had tasted strange going down, turning conversation around the table into a roar. Making the faces spin and spin …

  "Mr. Delmonico?"

  The voice snapped my attention back. It sounded harsh, with an Eastern European accent. It also sounded familiar. I sat up.

  "Mr. Delmonico, on your feet please."

  He said 'please' like it was a command. I hauled myself up by the ropes. My hands, I noticed, had been carefully taped, and someone had taken the trouble of replacing my courtroom suit with a pair of lavender trunks.

  "That's better."

  The voice was coming from somewhere above. A box-shaped shadow against the glare of overhead lights. It took a couple moments for my eyes to adjust. I saw bare wooden walls and an open space stacked with crates, and realized the ring had been set up inside a warehouse. The box-shape resolved into an old foreman's office, jutting some fifteen feet above the floor.

  The faces peered over the side of the box and down at me.

  You've seen gladiator movies, right? The ones with the Coliseum and the Evil Roman Emperor up on his throne, glaring at the masses? Well, that's what this was like. Only the Emperor was a square-jawed Slav named Salwel Drupczek. He had a gray suit and vest to match his shock of gray hair, but the clothes couldn
't hide the raw brutality that bled from his deep-set eyes and thick fingers. To his left hovered a slender, scarred man with a face born for poker.

  Drupczek was the head of the local Hungarian Mob. His companion, Spider Vostov, was chief leg-breaker.

  But if those two faces set my heart thumping, the third rocked me with a one-two. On Drupczek's right sat the brunette beauty from St. Louis, grinning like Lady Macbeth herself.

  * * *

  Drupczek's laughter crackled through the warehouse. "Tonight's card features none other than Roy "The Ripper" Delmonico, fresh from his legal battles at City Hall. Congratulations on your trial, Roy."

  I fought the urge to spit.

  "You convinced the jury you weren't betting on your own fights, despite having a shady past. Wonderful. What a solid citizen you've become." He slapped his hand against the railing, so hard Vostov and the brunette jumped. "But what you didn't do, you didn't throw the Dobrowski fight like I told you. That little Pole ended up costing me ten G's."

  I heard a sudden drawing of breaths. Okay, so there were more than four of us in the warehouse. Out beyond the ropes I saw them: a crowd of broad Slavic faces and drab coats. I recognized a few. The triggermen didn't carry Thompson's like the stylish gangsters of Chicago, but long, double-barreled shotguns.

  "Forget where you came from?" Drupczek said. "Forget all the fakes and fixes that got you to this point? Well, we haven't."

  That stung because it was true.

  I had thrown fights for mob payoffs. It's easy to pull a punch or take a dive in the fifth, especially when some heavy points a gun at you just before the match. I hadn't liked it, though. And I'd vowed to clean up my act as soon as I could. Starting with Dobrowski.

  "You've already made a lot of dough off me," I said. "If the Law says I'm in the clear, then I'm in the clear."

  Drupczek shook his head. "You're about to have a re-trial. Only the judge is going to be me, the honorable Salwel Drupczek presiding. And a jury of your peers. Your real peers, that is."