Potshot s-28

by Robert B. Parker

  "Think about it," Ratliff said. "I'm telling you."

  Chapter 6

  I TALKED TO five more people that day and learned a little less from each one. Everybody agreed that it was those bastards in the Dell. Everybody believed that Steve was a prince and Lou was a princess. I was sick of it.

  Back in the artificial chill of my hotel room, I put my gun on the bedside table, flopped on the bed with my shoes on, and called Susan. She would be through seeing patients. It was always complicated calling her when I was away. As soon as I heard her voice I felt better, and as soon as I hung up I felt worse. But knowing I could call her again made me feel better. There was nothing definably unusual about her voice. But there were colors in it. Overtones of intelligence, hints of passion, an undercurrent of completeness. It was the voice of a beautiful woman. The voice of someone willing to try anything once.

  "What's happening?" she said.

  "I've been running around asking questions and seeding the clouds," I said.

  "As in making rain?"

  "As in letting everyone know I'm looking into Steve Buckman's death."

  There was a pause. I imagined her sitting on her couch with her legs tucked up under her, the way she did, and her head tilted a little as she talked into the phone, and Pearl the Wonder Dog sprawled beside her with her head hanging over the edge of the couch cushion.

  "You're doing it again," she said.

  "What?"

  "Pushing," she said. "Pushing until someone pushes back."

  "Then I know who I'm pushing." I said.

  There was another pause, while she decided not to pursue the issue.

  "Have you seen your client?" she said.

  "Yep."

  "How about this gang up in the woods?"

  "Hills actually," I said.

  "But that's who we're talking about."

  "Yes."

  "Have you seen them?"

  "Not yet."

  "But you will," Susan said.

  "But I will."

  "Have you talked with the local police?"

  "Guy named Walker," I said. "Affable, open, friendly, straightforward. I don't believe anything he says."

  "Man's intuition?"

  "I've been getting lied to for a lot of years now," I said. "I'm getting good at recognizing it."

  "Is she cute?" Susan said.

  "Who?"

  "Mary Lou Whatsis," Susan said.

  I smiled happily in my cold hotel room.

  "Very," I said. "I told you that before."

  "Is she cuter than moi?"

  "No one is cuter than tu," I said.

  She was quiet. So was I. There was nothing awkward in the silence. I knew she was thinking. I waited.

  "I don't want you to get hurt," Susan said.

  "Me either," I said.

  "And I worry when you put yourself out as a lure."

  "Me too," I said.

  "But you do it anyway."

  "Seems like a good idea sometimes," I said.

  "Because?"

  "Because I don't know what else to do," I said.

  "Sometimes…" Susan paused again.

  I listened to the soundless distance between us.

  "Better than not being in love with one," she said.

  "Any idiot in a storm," I said.

  "How long are you planning to be out there luring the gang from the woods?"

  "Hills. I don't know."

  "Why don't you find the murderer quickly, and come home."

  "What a very good idea," I said.

  "Just a suggestion," Susan said.

  "Would you like to swap sexual innuendoes for awhile?" I said.

  "Of course," Susan said.

  So we did.

  Chapter 7

  I PARKED my rental Ford at the mouth of a narrow dirt road that struggled through the scrub growth and cacti of the low mountains into a short valley, which, according to the map Mary Lou had given me, was called the Dell. I wasn't high enough up to be any cooler, and the heat pressed in on me as I waded through it up the road. There was no sound except the hum of insects in the scrub. I was wearing sneakers and jeans and a T-shirt. I left the T-shirt hanging out, over my belt, to cover the 9-millimeter Browning I had brought-no sense offending the sensibilities of the folks in the Dell. A half-mile in, the dirt road opened up into a grassless clearing with a main house and several Quonset huts scattered about it, and, a hundred yards upgrade, the opening of a mineshaft that looked like hellmouth in an Elizabethan play. There were a couple of four-wheel-drive vehicles parked near the main house, and several all-terrain scooters, and a herd of motorcycles. The house had a veranda, and on it there were half a dozen men, and women, doing nothing. The men's uniform tended to be motorcycle boots, jeans, T-shirts and black leather vests. The women weren't wearing vests. From a long Quonset carne the smell of onions frying. There was a satellite dish on the roof of the house, and I could hear television noise.

  "How you all doing today," I said when I was close enough to the veranda.

  Everyone stared at me.

  "Hot enough for you?" I said.

  One of the men, or maybe two, got up and came to the top step. He was maybe six-foot-five, with shoulder-length hair, and he weighed maybe 280.

  "Who the hell are you?" he said.

  "Spenser. I'm looking for The Preacher."

  "No shit," the big man said.

  "None," I said.

  Men and a few women came out of the other buildings and stood, staring at me. There might have been fifty people. The weight of the Browning on my hip felt mildly reassuring. I would have preferred intensely, reassuring.

  "What you want to see The Preacher for?" the man said.

  "I'm trying to find out what happened to Steve Buckman," I said.

  The big man frowned a little, concentrating, then he smiled.

  "Steve Buckman," he said. "He got shot dead."

  "I'm trying to find out by whom," I said.

  A fat guy on the veranda said, "Whom," and everybody laughed.

  I smiled. Easygoing. A guy who could take a joke.

  "We heard about that," the big man said. "You're the guy."

  "I'm the guy," I said.

  "Matter of fact," he said, "Preacher wants to talk with you."

  "Good."

  The big man turned and walked across the veranda and went through the screen door into the house. In a moment he came back with another man half his size, who radiated an interior kinetic ferocity that made size irrelevant.

  "You The Preacher?" I said.

  The man nodded once. He was slender and pale and hairless. He had no eyebrows and there was no hint of a beard. He ware a black dress shirt buttoned to the neck, black slacks and black sandals with black socks. Consistent. He had very little chin. His mouth was thin and sharp and sort of underslung, like a shark's.

  "I'm trying to find out who shot a man named Steven Buckman."

  The Preacher nodded again, once.

  "Do you know who did it?" I said.

  The Preacher stared at me without speaking. I waited.

  Finally he said, "You come out here alone?"

  His voice was raspy, and so soft I could barely hear him. But it had a discernible chill.

  "I did."

  "Who hired you to bother us about Buckman?"

  "Nobody," I said. "I'm just a nosy guy."

  "We could stomp it out of you."

  "Some of you would get hurt," I said.

  The Preacher smiled, sort of. He probably meant it to be a smile.

  "You got a pair of balls," he said softly. "I'll give you that:"

  "Thank you," I said. "Can we sit somewhere and talk?"

  The big man with the long hair said to The Preacher, "Want me to stomp his ass?"

  "Not yet, Pony."

  We all stood without saying anything. It was like one of those awkward pauses in routine conversations where everyone is frantically thinking of something to say.

  "We'll take
a walk," The Preacher said.

  He came down off the veranda. Pony came right behind him. The Preacher shook his head.

  "Just me and him," The Preacher said.

  Pony looked a little hurt. But he stayed where he was. The Preacher nodded at me, and we walked around the house. There was a view back there. The land dropped away sharply, almost a cliff, and the town and the desert beyond it stretched out like a Bierstadt painting. There was a wooden bench near the edge of the drop-a wide plank nailed on the top of two tree stumps.

  "Sit," The Preacher said.

  "Nice view," I said.

  "Un-huh."

  It was a strain listening to The Preacher's barely audible voice.

  "You know who shot Steve Buckman?" I said.

  "What I know," he whispered, "and what I'll tell you ain't got much to do with each other."

  "What do you know about me?" I said.

  "Your name's Spenser. You're a private shoo-fly from Boston. Somebody hired you to see who killed Buckman."

  "You know a lot," I said.

  "I'm supposed to," he said.

  "So you have sources in town," I said.

  The Preacher was staring out at the view. He had high, narrow shoulders, I noticed. When he sat they sort of hunched up so that seen from below, he'd look like a gargoyle on a medieval tower.

  "You let everybody know pretty quick," The Preacher said, "what you was doing here."

  I nodded.

  "I figure that was on purpose," The Preacher said. "I figure you're poking a stick into the hornets' nest. See what comes flying out."

  "Un-huh."

  "And now you come poking up here."

  "Seemed a good place to poke," I said.

  "If you don't get stung."

  "Exactly," I said.

  The Preacher made his dreadful smile face again.

  "What I'm wondering about is how she picked you, all the way from Boston. You famous?"

  I nodded.

  "For my wit and charm," I said.

  "So I figure you must be pretty good," The Preacher said.

  "There's that," I said.

  "I'm pretty good, myself."

  "How nice for you," I said.

  "And I got forty men with me."

  "Even nicer," I said.

  "So you're clear on it."

  "So who killed Steve Buckman?" I said.

  The Preacher croaked an audible version of his smile. It was like hearing a shark laugh.

  "You keep after it," The Preacher said.

  "Un-huh."

  "Would you believe me if I told you it was nobody from the Dell?"

  "Not so much that I'd declare it solved and go home," I said.

  "I'll tell you anyway."

  "Did you threaten him?"

  "I authorized it," The Preacher said.

  "Because?"

  "Because he wouldn't abide by the rules."

  "Your rules?"

  The Preacher nodded.

  "Dell rules," he said. "You can look out there, and you can see that it ain't a huge fuck of a lot. But it's enough, and it belongs to us."

  "Like a carcass belongs to vultures?" I said.

  The Preacher smiled without showing any teeth. They were probably pointed.

  "Except that it ain't dead," he said.

  "And Buckman?"

  "We charged him rent for his business. He refused to pay it. He was told there would be a penalty."

  "That bring him around?" I said.

  "No."

  "So?"

  "So somebody shot him," The Preacher said.

  "Not you."

  "Not none of us. We was going to stomp his sorry ass. But we'd rather have him alive and earning so he could pay his rent."

  "How about his widow?" I said. "I understand she runs the business now."

  "We'll get to her," The Preacher said. "We thought we'd let the murder thing sort of burn out, 'fore we hit on her."

  "Grieving widow," I said.

  "Sure," The Preacher said.

  "Sheriff's detectives," I said.

  "Sure."

  "So that's the local industry here in the Dell?" I said.

  "Living off the town?"

  "We was here first," The Preacher said.

  "We was?"

  "Been people in the Dell since the Mexican War."

  "Your ancestors?" I said.

  "What you might call spir-it-u-al ancestors," The Preacher said. "Been people like us living here hundred and sixty years."

  "Supporting themselves off the town," I said.

  "Hell," The Preacher said, "we was the town at first. Then the mine went dry, and all the fucking yuppies moved in. There's the money. Might as well take it."

  "Whether they want to give it or not."

  "You think lambs want to get eaten by wolves?" The Preacher said.

  "So are you really a preacher?"

  "I preach," he said.

  "What?"

  "What do I preach?"

  "Un-huh."

  "I preach self-reliance," he said. He didn't seem to be kidding.

  "You and Emerson," I said.

  "Who's Emerson?"

  "One of the Concord Transcendentalists," I said.

  He frowned. I seemed to be serious.

  "Are you fucking with me?" The Preacher said.

  "Sometimes I can't help myself."

  He stared at me like some kind of reptilian predator. I could feel it in the small recesses of my stomach.

  "Could get you hurt really bad," he said.

  "How long you been here?" I said.

  "I come here about three years ago," The Preacher said. "Found a bunch of degenerate bums, no rules, no ambition, fighting each other over booze and dope and women. I put in some rules, turned them into something."

  "What rules?"

  "No dope. No hard booze. No fighting with each other. No unattached broads. Any women come here, the man that brought them is responsible for them. You fight with one of us, you fight with all of us."

  "You gave them pride," I said.

  He studied me again. This time, his gaze was no less reptilian, but it wasn't predatory.

  "Yeah," he whispered, "you might say so."

  "Probably got some for yourself," I said.

  He stared out over the desert flats below us, for a time. The heat shimmered up over the town.

  "You might be a smart fella." he said after a time.

  "I might be," I said.

  He looked closely at his fingertips as he rubbed them together. The temperature was ferociously hot. I knew I was sweating. But the sweat evaporated almost instantly in the dry air.

  "I come in here," The Preacher said, "these people were lying around here like zoo animals." he said. "Farting, fucking, fighting over the women. Dope, booze. They ran out of money they'd boost something in town, or beg. Nobody cleaned the barracks. Nobody washed themselves. The place stunk."

  I nodded.

  "You know Buckman?" I said.

  "I knew him."

  "Know his wife?"

  "Enough," The Preacher said.

  "You got any thought who shot him?"

  "You're like a fucking dog with a fucking bone," The Preacher said. "Maybe she shot him."

  "Mrs. Buckman?"

  "Could be."

  "Got any reason to think so?"

  The Preacher laughed his dry, ugly laugh. "Cherchez la fucking femme," he said. "Ain't that right?"

  Him too.

  "Sometimes."

  "More than sometimes," The Preacher said. "Broads are trouble."

  "I take it you're not a feminist," I said.

  "A what?"

  "Never mind."

  The feral ferocity came back into his look.

  "You fucking with me again?" he said.

  "Only a little," I said.

  "You take some bad chances, Boston."

  "Keeps me young," I said.

  The Preacher cackled. It was a startling sound.

  "Well
you go ahead and find out who killed old Stevie Buckman," The Preacher said. "And good luck with it… long as you stay out of our way."

  "Do what I can," I said.

  Chapter 8

  BACK AT THE Jack Rabbit Inn I went to the bar. I liked air-conditioned bars on hot afternoons, when there weren't many people there and it was quiet and sort of dim. They had Coors on draught. I ordered some and it arrived in a chilled glass. Perfect. When I had drunk half of it, I turned and rested my elbows on the bar and looked around the room. The walls were paneled in bleached oak. There were some Georgia O'Keeffe prints. Behind the bar was a mirror, with the booze stacked in front of it, backlit so it looked enticing. Above the mirror was a large painting of a nude woman with a red silk scarf over her pelvis. I finished the beer and ordered another one. The doors to the bar were bat-winged. Posted on the wall to either side were an assortment of fake wanted posters.

  The whole look made me want to wear my gun low in a tooled holster. Except the gun was real.

  "No one should drink alone," someone said, and Bebe Taylor slid her good-looking butt onto a barstool next to me.

  "So I'm volunteering," she said.

  "Tough dirty work," I said.

  "But someone has to do it," Bebe said. "I drink gimlets."

  I gestured the bartender down and ordered for her.

  "Why aren't you out selling a house?" I said.

  "I came down here to see you," she said.

  The gimlet arrived, and she picked it up and held it toward the light.

  "I think one reason I like these is that they look so nice," she said.

  "Any reason's a good one," I said, just to be saying something. "Why did you want to see me?"

  "Your nose has been broken," she said.

  "Thank you for noticing," I said.

  "I like a man whose nose has been broken," she said.

  "That's why I had it done."

  "And," she said, "I like men who are silly."

  "Well, little lady, you've got the right hombre."

  She smiled. Each of us drank.

  "You know, you're something of a hunk," Bebe said.

  A middle-aged couple in shorts and tank tops came in and sat at the end of the bar and ordered vodka and tonics, and something called Alamo burgers.

  "What the hell is an Alamo burger?" I said to Bebe.

  "A cheeseburger with a chili pepper on it."

  "Let the good times roll," I said.

  "You're a big one, aren't you," Bebe said.

  "Just the right size for my clothes," I said.