Colonel Rutherford's Colt

by Lucius Shepard

  * * *

  It had not occurred to Colonel Rutherford to worry overmuch about Susan’s reaction to the murder. He knew that she would do nothing. For the next nine days she did not leave her rooms. Each morning the colonel asked her maid to inquire after Susan’s health. Only once did she respond, and then to ask permission to attend the funeral, a request he declined to honor. On the tenth morning, as he cast about for his briefcase in the alcove, she came down the stair and addressed him in an exhausted voice. She wore a riding skirt and a gray blouse that had been misbuttoned. Her face was tear-stained, haggard, and she leaned on the banister with both hands, as if her legs could not support her. “I’m going to leave you,” she said.

  The colonel spotted his briefcase, snapped it open to ascertain whether it contained certain papers. He glanced at Susan, stepped to the door, threw it open and said, “Leave.”

  “I want your promise”—her voice caught—“that you won’t harm my family.”

  “Unlike you,” said the colonel, “I refrain from making promises I have no intention of keeping.”

  Susan feebly brushed hair back from her face. “You bastard!”

  “Revile me if you wish,” he said. “But it was not I who violated my vows. It was not I who brought my lover into the marriage bed.”

  “I had no choice! You never let me out the house without one of your spies for company!”

  “I see. If I had been less concerned for your safety, you would have slept with him in the . . .”

  “Anywhere!” Susan descended a few steps, her face cinched with anger. “In the streets, the gutters. . . . Anywhere! When I was with him, nothing else existed. And that was such a blessing!” Her anger peaking, she hissed the word “blessing” and came down yet another step. “Do you know why? Because when I was with him, there was no you!”

  The colonel was taken aback. He had not realized Susan was capable of such strong emotion. The task ahead might well be more difficult than he had presumed.

  “If you force . . .” A sob bubbled forth, and Susan’s mouth worked. Then she continued in the tight, hushed voice of someone near to breaking. “If you force me to stay, I’ll kill you!”

  The colonel met her gaze with studied indifference. “Should you care to dine tonight,” he said, “Porfirio will be doing his chicken.” As a final insult, one he was certain she would understand, he left the door open behind him.

  * * *

  Of all the problems facing the colonel as a result of the murder, the most pressing was that posed by General Ruelas. He had known from the outset that were he to rid the world of Carrasquel, an affair between Susan and the general’s nephew would be suspected, and this would shed a wan light on his motives for the shooting. People would say—as, indeed, they were saying—why, if not for love, would a young man of so much promise attempt to climb to the bedroom of a beautiful married woman? In his grief, General Ruelas might very well be persuaded by this point of view. The colonel understood that he needed to confront the general quickly. To this end, using as an excuse a land dispute involving the United States government and a group of Cuban citizens from the general’s home province, he invited Ruelas to lunch at a Havana restaurant popular among the wealthy and powerful, a place of linen tablecloths and icy chandeliers where he and Ruelas would command an attentive audience. The more public their conversation, the better it would assist the colonel’s design.

  The general was a fit sixtyish man of diminutive stature who looked more at ease in a business suit than the comic opera uniform he wore at state functions. He had a closely trimmed gray goatee, thinning hair, and a bony, birdlike face. Not a menacing figure, yet he had a reputation for relentlessness both in war and in the political arena, and—if one were to believe the rumors—had no qualms concerning torture. This day he sported a black armband and was accompanied by a portly aide, also dressed civilian-style. Colonel Rutherford had previously sent a written apology to the Ruelas family, but once the general had seated himself and finished obsessively arranging his silverware into perfectly ordered ranks on the linen, the colonel again offered an apology, saying that if he had only recognized Luis, he would never have fired. All he had seen in the half-light had been a stranger attempting to break into his house.

  The general inclined his head in what the colonel interpreted as an acknowledgement, but not an acceptance, and said, “Why do you think my nephew was at your house?” He kept his gaze focused on his aide’s salad fork, as if coveting it for his little silver troop.

  “I have no comprehension of your nephew’s motives,” said the colonel. “But I assure you, I have utter confidence in my wife’s.”

  “My Dolores has not seen your wife at the Palace of late,” the general said. “Is she ill?”

  Though nearly full, the restaurant had grown quiet since General Ruelas had entered. Judging by the stares turned their way, the colonel was certain that everyone was straining to hear the exchange between them.

  “Not ill,” the colonel said, spicing his words with a trace of indignation. “Terrified.”

  At this, the general cocked a bright black eye toward him; a stirring arose from the adjacent tables. “The experience has . . . upset her, then?”

  “Why would it not?” The colonel propped his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “A woman wakes to discover that her husband has shot and killed a man, an acquaintance, as he attempted to climb through her window. She is somewhat more than upset. She has kept to her rooms ever since that morning. She no longer feels secure in a country we both have come to think of as our home.”

  The general nodded, or rather tossed his head first forward, then sharply back, like a horse startled by a June bug. “Luis . . .” he began, hesitated, then said, “I have been told that your wife and Luis spoke often at the Palace.”

  “My wife speaks often to many people. Most of them have not been inspired to enter my property unannounced.”

  “I do not like your tone, Colonel.”

  “Nor do I like your implication that my wife may have been unfaithful.”

  Ruelas stroked his goatee, thoughtful, and then said carefully, “I am not implying it.”

  “I’m afraid,” said the colonel, “such a neutral statement only serves to impugn my wife’s honor . . . if not my own.”

  A waiter approached—Ruelas waved him angrily away. His aide sat motionless, hands in his lap, gazing at the brocaded wallpaper. Ruelas seemed flustered, as if he had not been expecting this sort of aggressiveness from the colonel.

  “I have made no such imputation regarding your nephew,” the colonel went on. “I am willing to subscribe to a theory that may explain his actions in a kindly light.”

  “And do you have such a theory?”

  “Not a particular favorite. But I have heard it espoused by some that his actions were not premeditated. Perhaps it was a prank gone wrong. Or perhaps Luis was celebrating and mistook my house for that of one of his lady friends. Young men frequently commit rash acts of the sort. My point is”—Colonel Rutherford built a church and steeple with his clasped hands—“if I am willing to countenance your nephew’s actions as innocent, and further to cast myself as the inadvertent villain of the piece, why are you unwilling to extend a similar courtesy to my wife?”

  A vein pulsed in Ruelas’ temple, but he said nothing.

  “I know my wife,” said the colonel with ringing sincerity. “She is a modest creature. Not worldly in the least. An honorable woman. I can bring forward innumerable witnesses who will attest to her good character. Can you produce even one who will testify that she is not as I describe?”

  The silence that ensued extended throughout the restaurant. Watching Ruelas, the colonel concluded that the general had become aware of the fact that he was being forced to make a decision in public that he had planned to make in private, and he did not much like it. In effect, he had allowed the colonel to maneuver him into an ersatz trial before a jury of his peers in which the colonel served both
as witness and advocate—a trial whose focus was not upon the colonel’s guilt or innocence, as the general might wish it, but upon his nephew’s character.

  “Well, sir,” the colonel said. “Will you answer?”

  General Ruelas’ fingers closed about the aide’s salad fork, an action that the aide took notice of with a worried sidelong glance. “I cannot,” said the general hoarsely.

  The whispered conversations taking place in every quarter of the room swelled in volume as news of this development was passed from table to table. Elated, because it was clear that his presentation was winning the day, the colonel pressed his advantage.

  “Much as I wish I might,” he said, “I cannot undo the past. All I can do is to apologize for making a hasty judgment, and to regret the tragedy I have caused. And to assure you, sir, that from this day forward, your family will have in me the staunchest of allies in whatever cause they choose to support.”

  At this point the colonel offered his hand. It was a dicey moment. By the standards of Cuban justice, if not the letter of the law, Colonel Rutherford was in the right no matter the reason for Carrasquel’s incursion upon his property. A man who did not defend the honor of his marriage was not a man. The colonel’s admirable forthrightness in challenging the general’s aspersions would seem to speak eloquently to the possibility that if Carrasquel and Susan had been having an affair, the colonel may not have been aware of it. If the general did not accept his hand, Colonel Rutherford had lost nothing; but he was banking on the fact that Ruelas was a realist and would ultimately decide that having a friend in high places, a friend who was in his debt, would compensate for the loss of a nephew-by-marriage who, no matter what slant one put on it, had behaved in a disgraceful fashion. Then, too, his behavior would appear less disgraceful if the general were to validate the colonel’s view that Carrasquel was either drunk and misguided, or playing a prank. The colonel believed that this would prove an irresistible lure and that the general would accept the handshake, perhaps telling himself that he reserved the option to change his mind at a later date—by that time, however, the colonel suspected that he and Ruelas would be involved on many levels, on their way to becoming the best of friends.

  Ruelas’ eyes flitted over the silverware as if he were choosing a weapon with which to assault the colonel. But at length, albeit with a small show of bad grace, still declining to meet Colonel Rutherford’s eyes, he shook the colonel’s hand and said, “Muy bien.” He squared his shoulders, fussed with his tie, then beckoned imperiously to the waiter.

  * * *

  Brandywines was less than half-full that night. Jimmy and Rita ate cheeseburgers at the bar, watching a Seahawks exhibition game. The Hawks were getting their asses kicked by the Jets in the first half—Coach Holmgren, walruslike in his teal and blue jacket, looked as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of bad salmon. The Seattle quarterback overthrew a screen pass, and Rita shouted, “Jesus!” and pounded the bar with the hilt of her hunting knife. “That’s the guy’s gonna take us to the Super Bowl? You believe this shit?”

  The bartender, a glossy little man with slicked-back hair and extremely white teeth, wearing a yellow vest with black piping over a shirt with blousy sleeves, shook his head in agreement. He did not appear to know very much about football, but had become somewhat intimidated by Rita’s vehemence, and now was doing his best to keep up with the game.

  “Hasselbeck,” she said disdainfully to Jimmy. “Y’can’t have a quarterback with a name like that and expect to go to the goddamn Super Bowl!”

  Jimmy had on his suede jacket and an old cowboy hat with a grease stain on the crown that he’d worn on-and-off ever since she had met him. The hat shadowed his face, giving him a lazy, sulky look. He stared at his fries and muttered something inaudible.

  Frustrated, Rita addressed herself to the bar in general. “Lookit the guys who win Super Bowls. Kenny Stabler. Troy Aickman. Brett Favre. Joe Namath. John Elway. Solid leadership-type names. And what do we got? We got Matt fucking Hasselbeck.”

  “Dilfer,” said a wide-shouldered fortyish man with a seamed, tired face, wearing a work shirt and a Sonics cap. Nice-looking in a low-rent kind of way. He was sitting two stools farther along the bar. Rita challenged him with a stare. “What’d you say?”

  “Trent Dilfer. That’s a doofus name there ever was one, and he won the Super Bowl with the Ravens.”

  “Dilfer . . . Oh, yeah.” Rita mulled this over, then smiled at the guy. “Fuck, I guess I’m wrong.” She showed the bartender her empty glass and he hustled to bring the Jack Daniels. “Wouldn’t hurt me none the son-of-bitch changed his name, though.”

  “He can call himself Madonna for all I care, he gets us to the big game,” said the man.

  Rita laughed and slapped the countertop. “I wanna buy that dude a drink,” she said to the bartender, who was busy pouring. “Matt Madonna. That’s better than fucking Joe Montana.”

  Jimmy was turning out his pockets, searching for something.

  Rita put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  He gazed at her vacantly.

  “Jimmy,” she said firmly. “Stop screwing around with the story and talk to me. What you looking for?”

  “Loretta’s address.”

  “It’s stuck in the receipt book. I left it in the van.”

  A chorus of grousing came from the other patrons at the bar. Rita glanced up at the TV, now showing a replay of Hasselbeck being sacked for a huge loss. She turned again to Jimmy. “You gonna go see her?”

  “Yeah . . . uh-huh.”

  Rita tossed back her whiskey. Her butt was starting to go numb, and she shifted about on the stool. “One of these days,” she said morosely, watching the Seahawks’ punt team running onto the field, “you gonna seriously fuck us up, y’know that?”

  “I’ll be back in a couple hours.” His voice had acquired a soft, flat intonation, as if he were under a spell. Which, she supposed, he was. The voices of his characters squeaking at him from the tiny stage he had constructed in his head.

  “I really hate this part,” she said. “It’s like you’re in another damn dimension.”

  He had no response.

  “You gonna space out one day and run the van into the side of a wall, you don’t watch yourself.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  She dug the keys to the van out of her hip pocket, held them above her head, and, with a flourish of the fingers, dropped them to clatter onto the bar. “Go on,” she said. “Get outa here.”

  His hand swallowed the keys; he slid off his stool, straightened his jacket. “Couple hours.” It seemed he was about to say something more, but he merely stood there a few seconds before heading toward the door.

  Feeling apprehensive, disgruntled, Rita returned her attention to the screen. The Jets had fumbled the punt, and the Seahawks had recovered on the 23. Hasselbeck’s first play from scrimmage was a pass intended for the tight end that sailed high and outside.

  “This game sucks!” she said.

  “It’s just an exhibition game,” said the man in the Sonics cap. “They’ll pull it together.” He toasted her with the shot she had bought him and tossed it down.

  “I ain’t talking bout tonight, I’m talking ’bout the NFL, man!”

  Rita gobbled a handful of peanuts, chewed and talked. “Free agency ruined the game. Now you got some teams with a good offense, some with a good D, and the rest of them ain’t worth a shit either way. The players switch sides every year or two. Most of the time it’s like watching air hockey.”

  “The Ravens. Now they got Gerbach playing QB, they could be awesome.”

  “Fuck a bunch of Gerbach,” Rita said. “What’s he ever won?”

  “Hey, he put up some numbers with the Chiefs.”

  Rita scraped up her change from the bar and stood.

  “You’re not leaving, are ya?” asked the man. His eyes ranged over her body. “They’re gonna play that new kid at QB next quarter. Kid’s supposed
to be pretty good.”

  “Gotta make a phone call.”

  She threaded her way among tables to the pay phones in an alcove next to the johns. Loretta Snow’s number was written on a slip of paper in her shirt pocket. She misdialed the first time, cursed, and tried again. Two rings, and then that melting-lump-of-sugar voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Hey, Loretta. This is Rita Whitelaw of Guy Guns. How you doing?”

  “I’m . . . I’m all right.” Pause. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m just calling to tell ya Jimmy’s comin’ out to your place. He’s got some business he wants to discuss.”

  “Oh . . . well . . . that’s fine.”

  Oh well that’s fine. Jesus. Rita had the notion she could have said Jimmy was bringing a chain saw and a body bag, and the woman would have responded in the same timid, shivery tone.

  “ ’Member what I told you other day at the coffee cart? About you being vulnerable and all?”

  Silence. Then, anxiously: “I don’t want any trouble.”

  Rita had the urge to start banging the receiver against the wall. Get a spine, for Christ’s sake!

  “There ain’t gonna be no trouble,” she said. “The only reason I’m calling’s to refresh your memory.”

  Another silence.

  “You’re a free agent, Loretta,” Rita said. “You can do whatever you want. You wanna get crazy with Jimmy, that’s fine by me. I’m not in the picture.”