by Len Levinson
Nathanial was taken by surprise. “An invitation to what?”
“A party for you at Cortlandt Lake. Haven't you heard about it?”
“I'm sure my mother intends to tell me. What's new?”
“I'm getting married to a wonderful woman who plays the piano like an angel. A man can only pursue tarts for so long, and then it becomes a chore, wouldn't you say?”
“That's exactly what I've come to talk with you about.” Nathanial reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “It appears that my dear wife wants to divorce me.”
Soames accepted the document, adjusted his eyeglasses on his long thin nose, and made strange murmuring noises as he read. “It's all perfectly straightforward. What would you like to do?”
“If she wants the divorce, she can have it.”
“What about your children?”
“She can have them too.”
“What about property?”
“Anything she wants.”
“You're certainly an easy client to represent. Any other problems?”
“I'd like to buy a couple of slaves, so I can set them free.”
Soames appeared surprised. “Where are these slaves now?”
“One is in New York, the other in South Carolina. The one in New York is technically a fugitive.”
“In other words, you've more or less stolen him.”
"Her.”
Soames widened his eyes. “What does she look like?”
“Absolutely beautiful.”
“Are you ...”
“Of course not.”
“I hope you don't intend to marry her!”
“What if I did?”
“I'll have to look at the statutes. Buy why destroy your reputation for a woman? I mean—there are so many of them. In fact, I'll bring several likely prospects to your party, all well-bred, each a certified virgin.”
“It's too soon to get married again. For God's sake, I'm not even divorced.”
“My advice is find a well-behaved youngish woman, and if she plays a musical instrument, so much the better.”
“We'll see if you sing the same tune after five years with Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Is.”
“You're bitter, Nathanial. Do you really shoot at Indians, and they shoot at you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What a strange profession,” sniffed Soames.
At dawn, Fletcher Doakes wondered if they were going to hang him or merely put him before a firing squad. He'd read about townspeople breaking into jails, taking out prisoners, and literally tearing them to pieces. Doakes broke into a cold sweat as he contemplated possible dismemberment.
The next cell contained a drunkard asleep on a cot, while farther down the row a burglar paced back and forth nervously. A door opened, then footsteps approached. A civilian wearing a green suit and black string tie came into view, with a deputy sheriff sporting a tin badge pinned to the front of his indigo canvas shirt. “That's him right there,” said the deputy, pointing toward Doakes.
The civilian grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. He had a bald pate, long, scraggly gray hair hanging over his ears, and was built like a cadaver. “My name's Chester Lovey,” he said to Doakes. “I'm your lawyer.”
“But I can't afford a lawyer,” sputtered Doakes.
“You'll find money someplace, otherwise you'll hang. What's your side of the story?”
“I don't know.”
“You're on trial for your life, Doakes. Make no mistake about that. You'd better come up with the right answers.” The lawyer winked.
Is he asking me to lie? thought Doakes. Why the hell not. With renewed hope, he testified, “I was just walking along, minding my own business, and some loco son of a bitch threw me against a wall, told me I was under arrest and walked me to jail. Hell, I'm an innocent man.”
“And a soldier too. Serving your country with distinction, I'm happy to note. What else happened?”
“I carry a piece of cord in my pocket, because we often have to tie things together in the Army.”
The lawyer read the affidavit. ‘The Ranger said it's the murder weapon.”
“Who am I supposed to've killed?”
“About ten women.”
Doakes appeared surprised. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“You ever see the Ranger afore?”
“He's the manager of the Silver Palace Saloon.”
“You have any arguments with him?”
“Never talked to him in my life.”
The lawyer smiled, his breath like a dead gopher's. “When I get finished with that Texas Ranger, he'll wish he was never born.”
The preliminary hearing was held at ten o'clock in the chambers of Judge Henry Hoskins, a bony, dour man with deepset eyes. He sat at his desk and read charges against Fletcher Doakes as the lawyer of record and arresting officer stood before him.
Judge Hoskins suffered from a stomach ailment that made him irritable. “What's this about?” he asked.
“It's nonsense,” replied lawyer Lovey indignantly. “An honest American soldier was taking a walk, and this Texas Ranger arrested him for the murder of ten women. Can you imagine?” Lovey made it sound like the most preposterous notion in the world.
“Your Honor,” replied Cole Bannon, “I have reason to believe that Fletcher Doakes has killed prostitutes all over Texas and New Mexico. And he wasn't just taking a walk, as this lying lawyer said. He was looking through a window at a certain woman, and if I hadn't come upon him, no telling what might've happened. Moreover, all his victims were strangled with a thin cord, and I found a length in his pocket. I realize it's circumstantial evidence, but it seems pretty solid to me.”
“Solid?” asked the lawyer, an expression of astonishment on his face. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a length of cord similar to the one Cole had confiscated. “What's wrong with carrying a length of twine? Even I do it because you never know when you might need to fix a harness, or make a splint on a broken bone. Your Honor, there is no merit whatever to these charges, and this Texas Ranger obviously is as ignorant of the law as a mule. If that's not enough, he manages saloons when he's not arresting innocent citizens on trumped-up charges.”
The judge turned to Cole. “What's your side of it?”
“I saw him following the lady in question once before, Your Honor, and the man committing these crimes is the sort who follows women and kills them.”
The lawyer raised his finger in the air. “Only prostitutes, not decent married ladies like your friend, Mrs. Nathanial Barrington, the woman with whom you are consorting, isn't that correct?”
Cole became flustered. “She's my boss.”
“Don't you cohabit with her from time to time?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Perhaps you fear a rival in Private Fletcher Doakes?”
“A rival!” exploded Cole. “I have no . . .” He realized that he was losing control, so he struggled to settle himself down. “What about those dead prostitutes?”
The lawyer faced the judge. “Your Honor, I've been in every whoop and holler west of the Pecos, and so have you. You and I know that these women are getting kilt all the time, sometimes by their husbands and boyfriends, other times by customers or even each other. What makes this ranger here think it's all the same man? He has no evidence, no testimony, no nothin’. I think this case should be dismissed.”
The judge turned to Cole Bannon. “This is New Mexico Territory, and next time you arrest somebody in these parts—you'd better have proof. Case dismissed.”
The coach came to a halt before a three-story stone residence on Washington Square. Nathanial told the driver, “Wait for me—I'm moving some things to the Saint Nicholas Hotel.”
Nathanial nearly fell out of the coach, climbed the steps, and the door was opened by Otis, his former slave. “We thought you'd been hurt, sir.”
“I know how to take care of myself, Otis. How can you doubt me?”
&n
bsp; A tall, spectral figure stood at the end of the vestibule. “What are you two plotting?'’ asked Amalia Barrington.
Nathanial kissed his mother on the cheek. “Sorry I stayed out late, but I ran into a friend.”
“What was her name?” she asked, furrowing her aquiline nose in distaste at the perfume on his clothing.
Nathanial looked into her eyes. “My dear mother, I'm a grown man and I don't need to account for my activities to anyone.”
“You will as long as you're living in this house.”
“That's why I'm moving into a hotel.”
Nathanial packed his clothes, then Otis helped him carry the luggage downstairs, where his mother was waiting. “I disapprove of your behavior,” she said coldly.
“Mother, there's something I've always wanted to ask you. What makes your opinions the standard for the world?”
“Because they are. By the way, I'm having a party for you at Cortlandt Lake next Saturday night. I expect you to be sober, do you understand?”
He traveled to the Saint Nicholas Hotel, where he booked a suite of rooms on the top floor. He hadn't eaten all day, so he went down to the dining room, which was shaped like an oval, with murals and maroon draperies providing a frame for busy Broadway. The waiter led him to a table near the middle of the floor. Nathanial sat and studied the menu.
“Anything to drink, sir?” asked the waiter.
Nathanial was about to request whiskey, but he'd been drinking whiskey for six years. “What do you recommend?”
“Many prefer gin slings this time of year, sir.”
“That's what I'll have, plus the leek soup, broiled haddock, and mashed potatoes with beef gravy, stewed beets plus a bit of steamed broccoli.”
“Right away, sir.”
Nathanial's mouth watered in anticipation of his feast, for the Army didn't offer many fresh vegetables, and salt water fish was unheard of in New Mexico Territory. While waiting for the food and drink to arrive, Nathanial opened his Tribune.
He discovered that the red weevil was destroying wheat in western Virginia, there was a revolution in Nicaragua, and anti-Nebraska rallies had been held in Ohio and Illinois. Twenty-three citizens had died of cholera the previous week, but Horace Greeley advised New Yorkers they'd be safe if they avoided “gross inpudence of eating and drinking.”
“Your gin sling, sir.”
Nathanial sipped the cold fruity beverage. It was difficult to imagine that alcohol had been included except for an odd warm sensation as the mixture descended his parched throat. It tasted so delicious he polished off the glass before he knew it, but a waiter was on hand to take his order for another.
Across the dining room, Myra Rowland glanced up from her blueberry pie and stared a few moments. “If I'm not mistaken,” she said, “that's Nathanial Barrington.”
Clarissa Rowland was seated opposite her mother, enjoying a slice of chocolate cake. She saw a well-tailored, wide-shouldered man in a short blond beard trying to read the paper and eat soup at the same time. “He looks funny.”
“He's a disgrace, but quite a few women were head over heels in love with him when he lived here. They say his mother turned him out of the house one Christmas because of his drinking.”
“It sounds like a story that everybody believes, but never really happened.”
“His downfall supposedly was a certain woman. To forget her, he volunteered for frontier duty. According to his mother, he was nearly killed by Indians on numerous occasions, then he married a Mexican woman, but now she's divorcing him. Every mother's worst fear is that her daughter will run off with an amiable drunkard like Nathanial Barrington. Fortunately, that hasn't happened to you, my dear. You've always been so sensible.”
Every time Doakes heard a loud sound in the street he thought the mob was coming for him. His tail appeared longer as it thrashed from side to side on the floor. He was growing whiskers and his ears felt pointed.
I'm becoming a rat, he realized as he sniffed with his tiny upturned nose. Mother, how disappointed you must have been when you received a rat for a son, not a pretty baby. Perhaps you thought God played a trick on you, but He really played it on the rest of the world.
The door to the jail opened and Doakes jumped to his feet. A jailer approached, accompanied by Lawyer Lovey puffing a cigar and grinning.
“I got you off scot free,” said the lawyer in his nasal twang. “I'm surprised the judge didn't make that ranger get down on his knees and apologize.”
Lovely laughed as the jailer unlocked the door. Dazed, the rat followed his lawyer to the street. “Good luck to you, Doakes,” said the lawyer, shaking his hand, “and by the way—you owe me ten dollars.”
“I only earn eight dollars a month.”
“A few dollars every now and again will be fine till the debt is paid.” The lawyer leaned closer to Doakes, narrowed an eye, and asked softly. “Did you really kill them whores, soldier?”
“Course not, sir.”
The lawyer laughed derisively, then puffed his cigar and strolled away as Doakes blinked in the bright light of midday. He thought about stealing a horse and fleeing to Tucson, but the ranger would be hot on his trail. I've got to go back to Fort Marcy, but I haven't done anything wrong. I'm only the victim of an ambitious Texas Ranger.
Fletcher Doakes sauntered toward the post, wondering if the word had gotten around that he'd been caught peeking into a lady's home, but he had his alibi worked out, thanks to the assistance of his lawyer.
Doakes had learned a valuable lesson during his incarceration. He wasn't the only liar in the world, and not the best by any means. He entered the orderly room and found Sergeant Berwick behind his desk. “Guess what happened to me, Sarge?”
“You got arrested,” growled the first sergeant. “What'd you do?”
“Some crazy Texas Ranger hauled me in when I was taking a walk. Son of a bitch must be crazy. Anyway, the judge let me go. He said the case was so dumb, there wouldn't even be a trial.”
“I heard you was lookin’ into some woman's window.”
“It's all in the ranger's mind because he's screwin’ her. I heard she's an officer's wife. Name's Barrington.”
“When the cat's away, the mice'll play. Anyways, there's a pile of work accumulating on your desk. You might as well get started.”
I've just got away with murder, thought Doakes with satisfaction as he sat upon his chair.
After the hearing, Cole Bannon returned to the Silver Palace Saloon, walked to the bar, and said, “Whiskey.”
The bartender was surprised because Cole seldom drank on the job. The Texas Ranger carried the full glass to an empty booth against the side wall, sat heavily, and drank half in one solid gulp.
It hit his guts like a cannonball, just what he needed to slow him down. Why am I so inarticulate? he wondered. That lawyer made me look like a fool, and nobody cares about strangled old prostitutes.
Cole was certain Doakes had committed the murders. At least I've thrown a scare into him, and maybe he won't kill for a while. If he deserts the Army, I'll follow wherever he goes. He fooled the judge, but he hasn't fooled me.
The Texas Ranger continued to drink during the rest of the day, wishing there was a way to let off steam. After supper, an army sergeant walked toward his table. “Are you Cole Bannon?”
“So what if I am,” growled the Texas Ranger.
It was Sergeant Berwick and he too had imbibed a few whiskeys. He was annoyed by the extra work he'd been forced to do while his clerk was in jail. “You arrested one of my men on trumped-up charges, that's what. A man can't take a walk without somebody comin’ down on him. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Pass on,” said the ranger in an ominous tone.
“You're nothin’ but a glorified bartender and a fancy man.”
Cole Bannon exploded out of his booth as Sergeant Berwick flung a stiff left jab. It glanced off Cole Bannon's forehead, but the ranger kept coming, bringing a left jab with him. It landed on
the front of Berwick's noggin, whereupon the sergeant responded with a right hook to the ranger's liver.
Cole seemed to fold, the sergeant prepared to finish him with an uppercut, but unfortunately had opened his right side. Cole hit him with another hook, then caught him on the mouth with an overhand right.
It connected on the sergeant's nose, which crunched beneath the rangers knuckles. Berwick went stumbling backward, tripped over a cuspidor, and fell on his butt.
Soldiers saw the sergeant sprawled semiconscious on the floor. Shame came over him, so he reached for the nearest bottle, smashed it onto a table, and came up with the jagged edge.
From his boot, Cole Bannon deftly withdrew a Comanche knife with a seven-inch blade. Both men stared at each other, the ante just raised dramatically. They realized that perhaps they'd let things get out of hand, but a man can't back down in front of an audience. The two combatants circled each other warily, searching for openings and wishing they'd gone to bed. Each knew he might die in the moments to come, over nothing at all.
“That'll be enough!” shouted a raucous fellow plowing through the crowd. It was Sheriff Roger Boneham, a Colt .36 Navy Model in his right hand, his mustache twitching with determination. “Drop them weapons!”
A knife clanged to the floor, followed by the crash of a bottle. The sergeant and Texas Ranger heaved sighs of relief as the sheriff marched them to jail.
Clarissa Rowland sat at the piano in her home and played Mozart's 41st Sonata in E-flat minor. The mellifluous sounds transported her to Austria, and she imagined herself a Hapsburg princess sitting in a castle on the Rhine. She practiced piano not out of obligation, but she loved music deeply. It elevated her to heavenly spheres and made her feel she was more than an awkward and inexperienced young woman.
She was content to make music, and her upcoming marriage would permit her to continue its study. There was talk of her performing in public, although she didn't think she was ready.
