by George Wier
“Just one damned minute, Cueball. First, Special Agent Shane By-God Robeling, where are you taking Lynch?”
“There’s this old manor house right outside of Arlington, Virginia—”
[ 43 ]
Cueball and Micah were waiting at Nell’s when Leland Morgan arrived.
“Does anybody know what really happened this morning?” Morgan asked as he took a seat at their table. “I mean why in the hell the feds—”
“Shut up,” Cueball told him. “The way I see it, Morgan, you’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”
Morgan frowned. “Look. I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of you, Boland. But I’ll tell you only so you don’t blame me for something that was clearly your own damned fault. Twenty minutes before you got there, Robeling showed up with two carloads of suits flashing FBI badges. They collected all of our police radios and car keys and made us all wait in a parking lot five blocks away until it was all over. They wanted Lynch and I didn’t have the authority to stop them.”
Cueball studied the man for a long moment, his gaze unblinking. “According to Robeling, you were supposed to have called us off, let us know they had Lynch in custody.”
The corners of Morgan’s mouth turned upward, however slightly. It was apparent he was trying hard to suppress a grin.
“I get it,” Micah said to Morgan. “You wanted either one or both of two outcomes. You either wanted me to kill Lynch, or you wanted Robeling and his men to shoot us.”
Morgan paused a moment. He turned his cold eyes to Micah. “Maybe the battery on my phone went dead at the wrong moment. Did you ever think of that?”
Cueball held up a hand before Micah could retort. “Then one of Robeling’s men, whoever was detaining you, would have made the call himself. No. You told them you had called us off. You lied for your own reasons.”
Morgan sipped at his cup of coffee. “Shit happens,” he said.
Cueball chuckled. “You never did have much use for me, Morgan.”
“I’ve told you as much already.”
“Well, I suppose what’s done is done,” Cueball said. “It’s all ancient history now. The only problem I’ll have from now on is sharing this island with you. But fortunately I won’t have to. Because one of us will be leaving.”
“You’d better start packing, then,” Morgan stated.
“Naw,” Micah said. “He ain’t going nowhere. And neither am I.”
“Suit yourself,” Morgan said. “Besides, I had nothing to do with the feds coming in here. You can blame me for not letting you know they were here, if you’d like.”
Morgan began to make the motions of getting up from the table, but Micah Lanscomb reached out with the speed of a striking snake and pinned Morgan’s wrist to the table.
“You want to tell him, C.C., or should I?” Micah asked.
“Tell me what?”
“Look to your right, Morgan,” Cueball said. Morgan’s head turned slowly to gaze out of Nell’s plate glass window. Three highway patrol vehicles were there, blocking the parking lot.
“What’s happening?” Morgan stated.
“The Texas Rangers are going to have a little party, Morgan. And you’re the guest of honor.”
“More of your political connections?” Morgan bluffed.
“It took a little bit of doing, but between Micah and myself, we did a little checking.”
“It begins with the ticket,” Micah chimed in. “The one you left on my security truck. You even decided to spell your name out carefully. Now while I realize it was just you being the prick you are, that’s where it started. I had forgotten all about it until I realized the time was running out to either pay the damned ticket, or try to fight it in the municipal court. I normally pay my own tickets when I’m off the clock—”
“But since he technically wasn’t,” Cueball said, “he brought it to me. I questioned him on it. It seems you gave him the ticket on the morning of the day before Homer was killed. The morning Micah met with Homer.”
“That means nothing,” Morgan said. “Cops give out tickets.”
“Not you,” Cueball stated. “I did some checking at the police station in the middle of the night last night. You’re too full of yourself to do menial work, except when it means, like Micah said, you can exercise your prerogative and be a real prick. So that was your first mistake.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Of course you don’t,” Micah said. “You saw Homer talking with me. Homer knew a great deal about how things were back in the back yonder. Say, 1943.”
“I don’t know anything about 1943, except what you two bozos have told me,” Morgan said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Micah said. “You saw us.”
“Second,” Cueball said, “you may have put one over on Mike Stratham, the desk cop at the morgue, when you went to fish the bullet out of Homer Underwood’s head. All that business about not signing in and promising to bring him a cup of coffee.”
“His word against mine,” Morgan said. “You’ve got the wrong asshole, asshole.”
“No,” Micah said. “We’ve got the right asshole all right.”
“The security tape, Morgan,” Cueball said. “You got the autopsy doctor away from his appointed duties through a fake emergency, but you forgot that there are security tapes.”
“I had to take pictures,” Morgan said.
“Pictures which never happened,” Micah said. “You killed my friend. The only reason I can’t kill you right this minute is because there are a few Texas Rangers right outside. They’re going to put you away, Morgan.”
“I suspect so,” Cueball said. “For a very long time.”
The change came over Leland Morgan slowly. He turned and looked out Nell’s plate glass window to see three men standing near their highway patrol vehicles. They were talking. One of them noticed they were being watched and shortly all three were staring back at Leland Morgan through the glass.
“Remember that rector I talked to after Homer’s funeral?” Cueball asked.
“What about him?”
“If he were here right now, he would tell you that confession is good for the soul.”
Morgan bent forward and spoke downward to the tabletop.
“I had to do it.” he said.
Cueball and Micah waited for more.
“I was going to be a cop. One of the good guys. But there was no way up for me. I wasn’t going to be a traffic cop forever. And then she came along. First she did some small favors for me. Then she loaned me money. Before long...she had control of my life.”
“Who?” Micah asked.
“Boland will tell you,” he replied.
• • •
After the Texas Rangers had taken Morgan away, Micah looked over at Cueball, who sat regarding the leavings of his breakfast.
“What?” Cueball asked.
“Do you think there’s going to any big trouble about all this? You know, Old Island crap?”
“Not any trouble that I can’t handle,” Cueball replied. “Finish your breakfast.”
[ 44 ]
The front door to Hanny’s place lost its hinges one after the other under the deafening blast of a shotgun. Splinters of wood and plaster flew across the slick dance floor. The doorway was hefted aside by a pair of meaty, oversized hands and disappeared into the night beyond.
Bonaparte Foley entered the room as he snapped his double-barreled shotgun closed again.
“Muldoon!” he called.
Denny Muldoon raised his pistol and aimed it at Foley.
“Here,” he said.
Foley raised the shotgun and leveled it from his waist at Muldoon. He walked forward slowly, sort of an easy saunter. Foley made it appear as if it were the most natural thing in the world to walk toward a pistol pointed at him. At three paces distance he stopped.
A moment of intense quiet ensued.
“This is interesting,” Longnight stated. “One never knows what will happen ne
xt.”
“Is that him?” Foley asked Muldoon. “Is that Longnight?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m taking him.”
“Nope,” Muldoon said. “He’s going back to Washington. He has an appointment with some top government men. He’ll help us win the war.”
“With what? His knife? Or his pecker?”
“His brain,” Muldoon said.
“Why don’t we just cut it out and send it parcel post, then? Along with his pecker.”
“What are they talking about?” Underwood asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Longnight stated. Longnight’s eyes moved back and forth between the two lawmen. He was gauging them. Judging. After a moment, he visibly relaxed.
“Ahem,” Longnight said, as if clearing his throat.
“What?” Foley asked.
“Oppenheimer has it all wrong. His equations. If you want to make a bomb with fissionable material, you have to account for the strength of the valence bands of the materials, which is actually a variable unless you can suspend it in an electromagnetic field. Then it’s all equal.”
“Huh?” Foley asked.
“See?” Muldoon stated.
“Two million kids,” Homer Underwood said. “Wasn’t that what you told me, Denny? At least two million more kids are going to die in this war in Europe and in the Pacific. Conservatively. I think that’s what you said, right?”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
“One wonders,” Longnight said, “how many of those boys will be from Texas.”
“You’ve got one minute to tell me what the hell you’re talking about, Muldoon. And if I’m not convinced, well, I don’t care if you shoot me or not. This shotgun will blow you in half.”
“Tell him,” Muldoon snapped to Longnight.
Longnight enterlaced his fingers behind his head and propped his shoes up on the table in front of him.
“It’s like this. They want a bomb. A bomb that can destroy an entire city with one blast. A city, say, the size of Houston.”
“That’s a pipe-dream,” Foley said. “Science fiction.”
Longnight shook his head. “I like living and breathing, and the chance to get out and about once in a while. I may have gone a little too far this time. But, this thing we’re talking about. This bomb. I know how to make it.”
It soon became clear in the silence that followed that Bonaparte Foley believed the dapper man sitting at the table in the colored honky tonk.
The shotgun in his hands lowered to the floor by degrees.
[ 45 ]
The same day Leland Morgan was taken into custody by the Texas Rangers, Vivian DeMour stopped by the Boland home on Ball Street. She carried a brown paper sack with a twine handle. Myrna, who had returned from Tyler just after lunch, greeted Vivian like a long-lost friend.
After the obligatory hugs and chitchat were dispensed with, Myrna allowed Cueball to take Vivian’s elbow and guide her out to the front porch. He set her down on Myrna’s wicker settee and took a seat on the porch swing close by. He noticed the bag she was carrying with her, thought of asking what it was, but let it go. She placed it carefully on the porch beside the settee.
“I know it was hard for you to see them put Harrison in handcuffs,” Cueball said.
“I don’t care to discuss it, C.C.,” she said.
“I realize that. But there is something I have to show you.” Cueball reached into his shirt pocket and unfolded the piece of paper he had retrieved from the hall bureau while Myrna and Vivian had chatted.
“What is it?” Vivian asked.
“You’ll have to see for yourself.”
Vivian took the piece of paper and unfolded it slowly.
She began reading aloud.
“Lyle. Deliver the infant to the care of the rector of St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Houston. You may keep one thousand of the fifty for your satisfactory performance and deliver the remainder to the rector with my admonition that it is to be…” Vivian DeMour’s voice broke. Her body stiffened.
“Finish it, Vivian. Please.”
“It is to be used for the child’s… education. Signed, Abe.”
Cueball watched as the note slowly came down to her lap. She looked up at him, her eyes brimmed with tears. And yet there was a chilling look there.
“I’m sorry, Vivian,” Cueball said. “You know that partner of mine, Micah? He’s a good deal more intelligent that anybody gives him credit for. He was Jack Pense’s friend. After we buried Jack, Jenny gave this letter to Micah. Just yesterday, Micah gave it to me.”
“My own father,” Vivian said between clenched teeth. “If he wasn’t dead I would kill him myself.”
Cueball waited for a moment and then turned as if to go back in the house. Having decided something, he looked at her once more.
Vivian DeMour pushed at her eyes with her hands, sat a while and then looked up at Cueball. “I have something for you, Charles.”
She reached down beside her and into the brown paper sack. She withdrew a brown leather book and held it out toward Cueball.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s from Longnight. It’s...I think it’s important.”
Cueball took the book, riffled the pages carefully.
“What should I do with it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“You’ll know what to do,” she said.
Cueball sighed. “Vivian, I wish you would have told me from the start what was in that safe that Jack Pense died to protect.”
“Why?”
“I kept my end of the bargain,” Cueball said, his voice soft and quiet. “I didn’t let Harrison get killed like you asked. Micah would have killed him himself, but I made sure all the cartridges he loaded our guns with were dummies.”
“I thank you, Charles.”
There was a long silence.
“Vivian, this whole thing has bothered me from the beginning, from the moment Jack was killed and Harrison’s fingerprint showed up on the warehouse safe.”
Vivian remained silent, waiting.
Cueball continued, “I think he was looking for his birth certificate. He wanted to know who his father was…and his mother. But there were too many links in the chain. There was Homer Underwood and what he might have known about Harrison’s birth from back when Longnight was running around scot-free on the island. But I don’t think it was Harrison who killed Homer Underwood. Homer might have known about Harrison’s birth, but Harrison worked with a knife. So Homer had to be gotten out of the way. The problem is, there are so damned few DeMours left. Actually, there’s only the one. That’s you.”
Vivian DeMour sat rigid. If she were glass, the slightest nudge would have shattered her.
“The last heir of one of the island’s wealthy families doesn’t have to pull the trigger herself to get someone out of the way—someone who knew too much from long ago about who Longnight really was, and not just a name. She would simply buy someone off to do it for her. Someone, maybe, she bought off a long time ago when she had him made lieutenant of the Galveston Police Department.”
“I don’t know what to say, C.C.”
“You don’t have to say anything. The Texas Rangers will be over to your house in a while to talk with you about it. I suggest you cooperate with them. Leland Morgan is already in custody. One would wonder what he’s saying to them about now.”
Cueball turned to go. He almost said what was on his mind, but thought better of it. He almost said, “I should have let Micah kill him.” Instead, all he could say was, “You always said that Lindy was the wild one. Now, I’m not so sure about that. Goodbye, Vivian.”
[ 46 ]
Lyle’s truck gave out on Bart, Lorraine and the kids—and the DeMour baby—half a mile from the Galveston ferry. The radiator had sprung a leak and the engine had overheated. Despite attempts to keep it cool with multiple stops for water along the
way, the truck would go no further. They abandoned it, left the keys in the ignition and began walking.
A hundred yards up the road Bart remembered the bag behind the seat.
“Forgot something,” he told Lorraine. “Be right back.” Bart ran back to the truck and took the bag of money from behind the seat. He stuffed it into his duffel bag while his family stood looking back at him.
“Forgot my chewing tobacco,” he said when he returned.
The ferry ride was uneventful. The kids climbed up to the upper deck and rang the bell while Bart and Lorraine, who held the baby, stood watching the tide roll across Galveston Bay. The wind was up and it whipped at them. Lorraine never once spoke, and Bart was fine with that.
They walked from the ferry landing on the Island to a service station, where Lorraine called her father to come get them. Twenty minutes later a large, black 1940 Packard Clipper rolled up. The family piled in.
The driver, Nicolas Pense, sat in stoic silence behind the wheel.
“Thank you, Daddy,” Lorraine said as the family packed into the car.
Pense grunted a reply as they moved off into the evening.
• • •
Bart Dumas could never stomach the Penses—aside from Lorraine—and the feeling on their part was apparently mutual. After unloading their suitcases and Bart’s duffel bag into the spare bedroom, the family wandered to the dining room for supper.
Nicholas Pense was in his late fifties. He was a soft-looking man with a permanent scowl etched into his features. He spoke little, and when he did it was to remonstrate, to carp or belittle. He had perfected this skill so that he could, with one or two words, cut to the bone, twist the blade and make you feel it. Bart hated the man beyond all forbearance, but being Bart Dumas, the wheels turned slowly, if at all, and a biting riposte to any comment from the old man might come hours, days, or possibly weeks later, if ever. Pense had thinning hair, wore clothes that were all the rage in upper-crust society from ten years gone, pinched every silver dollar until the eagle it bore screamed for mercy, and haunted the rooms of his spacious Sherman Boulevard home in search of something nameless. Also, he had a gun collection that rivaled a South-African Dutch campaigner. Pense’s frau was the thoroughly repressed housewife, apathetic, servile and apt to cringe. Bart wasn’t sure but that even Lorraine was embarrassed by her will-less existence.
