by David Fuller
Siringo heard the tone of his voice and again fingered the soft part of his ear. “Like I said. Just not like you.”
“It happened, Charlie, I can’t change it.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say you didn’t mean it.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“If it was self-defense, you can say so.”
“Will you believe me, Charlie?”
“I might.”
“Will you believe me and stand up for me and convince the judge and the jury?”
“I can try.”
“Then I best keep running.”
“Fair enough.”
They stood under the big moon and stared at each other, trying to read the other’s face in the light from below.
“I did what I had to,” said Longbaugh. “And now you’re doing the same. Don’t lose sleep over it.”
“I hope you find her before I find you.”
“That would be all right.”
Siringo watched Longbaugh step away from the edge of the roof and slip off into the shadows. He considered rushing down the stairs into the street, to see if he might make the hundred-to-one right guess as to his escape plan and then have the luck of Theoderic to catch him in the crowd.
He did not.
10
Longbaugh had a new appreciation for roofs. In the West he’d been leery of them, even of the bank roof with Etta, as a roof was an elevated dead end offering limited escape, and in a chase could end only in a shoot-out or step-off-the-edge-and-drop. Western buildings rarely stood above two stories, so off-the-edge-and-drop was an acceptable option, although with four outdoor walls, any smart posse should have been able to surround him. But seeing Siringo confined to a neighbor roof with no way to reach him had brought unexpected pleasure. And here, in the tenement heat of summer, where whole families abandoned their steaming rooms and carried sheets and pillows up to the roof to sleep under stars, he had stayed long enough to become part of the landscape and now blended in with the masonry.
He took his place, a corner he had made his own, and scanned the street below. Streetlamps glowed and gradually took over from the setting sun. He had been watching the front entrance to the Tall Boot Saloon. Every day he spent watching, he felt his side hurt a little less.
He had become more patient. The time spent recuperating had retrained him to accept the value of waiting. It helped that Lillian had told him he likely had lost no time. “You were learning new information,” she had said, “so it seemed urgent, but it was fresh information only for you. Wherever she is, she’s far enough ahead that Giuseppe and anyone else looking can’t see her. She doesn’t know you’re trying to catch up, she’s just moving and hiding.”
Moving and hiding. Rather than reassuring him, it made him question how actively Moretti and his men were hunting. The presence of a newly discovered husband may have spurred them to intensify their search. At times he doubted his patience, fearing he was employing it as an excuse to be cautious. But, coming back around, he decided that caution was warranted, it would be devastating to blunder into a situation he had not anticipated and accidentally give her away.
And there was the problem. He was no longer certain of the edge delineating action from prudence. His hesitation unnerved him. He knew he was not the same since the stabbing. He pressed himself to heal mentally as well as physically. He caught himself reviewing his responses, comparing them to the past to see if his actions were consistent with those of the man he had been. His timing was off. He was thinking rather than reacting, and that was making him slow. While the one who draws second often wins, what if you fail to react? What if you fail to draw at all?
He thought about courage. It was a topic that had never before occurred to him, but then, he had never had cause to distrust it. With his courage in doubt, he began to question its source. These days courage seemed to come from a thing or a state of mind, a bottle or a full belly, for example, or maybe a good night’s sleep when he didn’t remember his dreams. He wondered if he could bank his courage for future access, to balance the grim moments when the pain in his side sucked it out, or when he doubted his judgment, his quickness, his aim. Was courage a pose? It never had been. Could he simulate courage and thereby bring it back? Did he dare test it now that it was no longer second nature?
He had neglected a chore, and that troubled him as well. He had planned to replace his bandanna, but so far he had not. He told himself it was due to time constraints, as he was busy hunting for Hightower. But he feared it was one more manifestation of his uncertainty. Without the bandanna, he might be less willing to go into action. He watched the street below. He was of two minds, and wondered which man he would be when the bear showed his face.
He did not know if Hightower frequented the Tall Boot, or if it merely served as the occasional meeting place. The bear might have been more likely to enter through the back, but there was no spot in the alley from where Longbaugh could watch without being seen. He was betting there was nothing to keep Hightower from using the front door if he happened to come from that direction. Longbaugh had been on the roof close to a week, convinced that sooner rather than later that day would come.
He did, on occasion, see Moretti’s messenger, the slick in the good suit, but he was not interested in Moretti at this time.
Living on a tenement roof offered one other advantage in that it put time between Siringo and himself. Siringo was unlikely to give up, but he might be convinced, if his vanishing act carried on long enough, that Longbaugh had found his wife and left the city or had given up in order to evade arrest. Not likely, not even truly plausible, but maybe not impossible. He also appreciated the value of this location in that Han Fei had yet to find him.
Longbaugh had taken advantage of early mornings to scout the neighborhood. Gangsters were nowhere to be found at that hour, when the rising sun lit the faces of skyscrapers. Those boys were too busy dragging themselves home or sleeping it off. He learned the surrounding streets and alleys. He had tried to find the building where he had initially met Giuseppe Moretti, but so far had failed.
The day came when Hightower rambled down the sidewalk. No one could mistake that walk, those wide arm swings, and that deep, furry, uninhibited voice. Longbaugh smiled with his quarry in view, admiring the man’s gregarious charm.
Longbaugh went down the narrow stairs and out onto the street. He watched passersby and looked for an appropriate candidate, one not yet inebriated, so that when Longbaugh threatened him, the threat would have the desired impact. He also wanted someone who was not a Tall Boot regular, and therefore could not be a Hightower ally. Longbaugh cut his choice out of the herd, and bribed the man to go in and tell the bearlike creature at the bar that Mr. Place was outside. The candidate grinned, took the offered coin, and made a merry step toward the saloon where he would now drink for free. Longbaugh grabbed his shoulder in a calculated display of ferocity, drew him close, showed him the gun tucked in his belt and met his eye. The candidate returned his look with appropriate solemnity, and his sincere promise to fulfill his task convinced Longbaugh he would do that for which he had been paid.
• • •
AFTER HIGHTOWER verified that the man had said Mr. Place rather than Mrs. Place, he hurried out the back of the saloon into the alley, not bothering to look both ways as he hustled toward the side street where Longbaugh stepped out to block his path.
“You tip him?” said Longbaugh.
Hightower gurgled in fear, almost losing his balance.
“The man who told you I was waiting, did you tip him?”
Hightower shook his head no and collected himself enough to do a serviceable imitation of steadiness. He affected a blustery smile and shrugged. “These are the times that try men’s souls.”
Longbaugh resisted the urge to break his arm. There would be time for that later. He felt akin to his old self at th
at moment, but something held him back, and he hoped it was expedience rather than reticence. He hoped the bear would go for his gun or throw a punch or run, so he could test himself, so he could react. He reminded himself that this man had led him into a trap. He tried not to overthink it.
He took hold of Hightower’s arm and led him to the street, down the block and around the corner, down another two blocks, and into a creditable saloon, one that Longbaugh had found during his early-morning scouts. He was not surprised that Hightower made no effort to get away. By now, he would be curious and working out his own plan. He guided Hightower to a small booth in back and used force to sit him down. He was immediately sorry, as his display of aggression had done nothing to frighten Hightower, while Longbaugh felt resurgent pain in his side. He frowned to cover his wince and sat opposite.
“Cozy,” said Hightower, looking around. “I should get out more.”
Longbaugh waited.
“Looks like you got a little stitch in your side.”
Longbaugh stared and gave away nothing.
“So. Can I get a drink?”
Longbaugh glanced toward the bar and nodded. The bartender brought whiskeys. Hightower drank his and after it was gone, Longbaugh pushed over the one meant for him and Hightower drank that as well. Longbaugh imagined Hightower had his hand on a gun under the table.
Longbaugh continued to wait. He chose not to mention the night Hightower had set him up with Flexible and his friends. He was therefore surprised when Hightower brought it up himself. Of course, if pressed, he could deny it had been a trap. He could say those boys had it in for the tourist all along and had simply disobeyed him.
“There’s a story making the rounds. Funny story, maybe you heard it. Got most of the boys on edge, so maybe not so funny to them. Of course, they’re superstitious louts. You probably remember those punks, the ones jumped you in the alley?”
Longbaugh listened.
“The ones I pulled off you? You remember that, right? The way I saved your hide?”
Longbaugh listened.
“Well, something happened later that same night. With the timing, I thought maybe you would know something about it. But how could you? After all, here you are, flesh and blood.”
Longbaugh listened.
“Can I get another drink?”
Longbaugh did not react.
Hightower shrugged and his thick-tongued words came out archly. “If one isn’t offered, I shall not pout.” He took one of the empty glasses, drained the last drops into the other glass and angled that over his mouth for whatever dregs would fall.
“So those boys, Flexible and friends, said they’d had this encounter. Didn’t name names, although they could have been embarrassed, considering how it turned out. They did say he wore some sort of mask. So they met this fellow in the street and made him an offer. But this fellow, well, he was different. He seemed somewhat put out and decided to resist. They did not find much to like in that. It’s an intolerance they should probably be made aware of, one of their many faults. He drew a gun, this fellow, and before you say anything, let me point out it was their Christian duty to defend themselves. But here is where the story gets interesting. The boys said they shot him before he even fired. Not just shot him, but riddled him, dozens of hits, with their automatics, and you know those things don’t miss much, but I tell you this and I am sincere, he just would—not—die. They did not believe their eyes. They had guns smoking in their hands, and there he stood on his own two feet. They were beginning to think there was something supernatural at play, and they were also beginning to feel a wee bit of the nerves.”
Longbaugh listened.
“You could help here, a little grunt, a little nod, just to show you’re paying attention.”
Longbaugh offered neither.
“Well, there they were, practically unarmed as they had already emptied their guns into him, and he retaliated, he actually opened fire on them. How many spirits do you know carry a gun, much less know how to use it? It makes as much sense as, say, someone like you doing it. And this fellow, he was a deadeye, took them out one by one, a bullet apiece, and when he was done, they were in sore need of medical attention.”
Longbaugh said nothing. At least one of them had been uninjured, but to correct him would be to give himself away. Maybe that’s what Hightower had in mind.
“But that is not how the story ends. You remember Flexible? Well, he swears on a skyscraper built of Bibles that he got close enough to stab that fellow in the belly, and the fellow didn’t flinch, didn’t bleed, just lifted his finger and broke Flexible’s nose and two front teeth. Flexible woke up to find his knife blade in the wall. Here he thought he’d stabbed a man in the flesh and he found out he’d stabbed a brick wall instead. Now they’re all convinced he had to have been a ghost.”
“A ghost,” said Longbaugh.
“Otherwise they’d have made him one, if he’d ever been human in the first place.”
“You know who they were after?”
Hightower was innocence incarnate. “Not a clue.”
“A mystery,” said Longbaugh.
“Better than a mystery, it’s a damn spook story. He’s a new legend, got the rest of the gang sleeping with their eyes open and cricks in their necks from looking over their shoulders, expecting the specter to come for them. Although with the ghost laying low the last few weeks, they’re starting to get brave again.”
Longbaugh considered him. Hightower knew. But he couldn’t be sure, as the story made no sense, not if he’d survived bullets and stabbings. Until Hightower could make it make sense, he couldn’t swear it had been Longbaugh.
Hightower also knew that Longbaugh knew Hightower had set him up.
“Why tell me?” said Longbaugh.
“No reason.”
“Uh-huh.”
Hightower chuckled. “I only know I’m not their ghost. Innocent as a puppy’s nose.”
That was the second time Hightower had used that expression, and Longbaugh could not decide if a puppy’s nose was innocent by virtue of its curiosity, or, considering where it ventured and what it encountered, the least innocent thing on the planet.
He had yet to decide what to do about Hightower. He had knowledge Longbaugh did not, so for the time being he was prepared to pretend Hightower had not tried to send him to his death.
“So tell me: Why am I here, what can I do for you, Mr. Place?”
“Find my wife.”
“Still looking for her?”
“What’s your bargain with Moretti?”
“Like I told you, I promised, for a fee, to locate her, and as you can see, I’m not getting any richer.”
“So we have the same goal.”
Hightower scratched himself. “Although you’re not likely to help me get Moretti his revenge.”
Longbaugh said nothing.
“I do wonder why you’re so intent on finding her,” said Hightower.
“You and Moretti seem to share that question.”
“Does she owe you money? Is her daddy rich? Do you need divorce papers signed because your mistress is with child?”
Longbaugh said nothing.
“Oh, now, wait just a pelican’s breath, it can’t be that, no, sir, not that easy. It isn’t love, now, is it?”
Longbaugh said nothing.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it is love. It’s love and it’s been love the whole time. I tell you, it was right in front of my nose and I missed it. Serves me right for being a cynical bachelor. I’ll be damned and go straight to Hell. Oh, don’t worry, tourist, I am a sucker for love. And I’m going to help you, because, and I’ll admit it without an ounce of shame, I’m a sentimental guy.”
Longbaugh was skeptical. “You’re going to help me.”
“You found my weakness. Amore.”
“Yo
u’d give up a payday from Moretti?”
“A farthing, a pittance, barely worth a dice throw. I answer to a higher power.”
In the end, Hightower’s reason didn’t matter. If he pointed Longbaugh in the right direction, whatever unpleasantness Hightower had in mind could be dealt with then.
Longbaugh thought to test Hightower’s new sentimentality. “One thing. Were you the one after her when she ran off so suddenly?”
“Well, that was a while ago. It could have been anyone.” Hightower began moving the empty glasses around in front of him. “Sure, Moretti wanted revenge because she’d been hiding Queenie, but he really lost his temper when she cut his cheek. Threatened to dynamite the boardinghouse she lived in. And Moretti has built his reputation by executing the extended families of his enemies. She was smart, she cut off contact with everyone she knew. It was like she put up a wall, I couldn’t get a line on any of her people. I didn’t even know about you.”
Then Longbaugh understood. She no longer dared to write, and all letters from husband and sister were returned unopened so that Moretti would not know. It was either bad luck or poor timing that Etta’s last letter to Mina had been intercepted. Etta had imagined Mina opening her door to some hired lug with a loaded shotgun. Mina had been lucky to get off with a warning. Etta had imagined Longbaugh stepping out of prison into the cross fire of Black Hand flunkies. She had been protecting him.
“Where does the trail begin?”
“Trail? What trail, there is no trail. She disappeared, she’s gone. Like she never existed.”
“Someone knows. There’s a clue out there, somebody knows something.”
“You tell me who and I’ll talk to them.” Longbaugh heard danger return to Hightower’s voice for the first time that night.
“Queenie.”
“Oh, tourist, you’re barking up the wrong pussy. I talked to her, talked to her twice, and again on Sunday. She knows less than nothing, that pretty little head full of rags has been broom-swept of all intelligent matter.”
“Then it’s my turn.”
