Graves' Retreat

by Ed Gorman

  “Yes-nice.” It was obvious May didn’t know what to say either. She looked at him a moment longer and then she began walking again, down the avenue fragrant with summer flowers and beautiful with a moon all the more golden for the fleecy clouds passing over it.

  He stood and watched her retreat and then he caught up with her again.

  “Susan and I aren’t going to- Well, we’re not going to see each other again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “Well, I expect you feel the same way I did when you told me about Susan.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “And what would that be?” she said with just a trace of anger in her voice.

  “I don’t know what I feel.”

  “That’s what you said to me four months ago, when you told me you were seeing Susan.”

  “I’m just-confused is all.”

  “Part of it is probably the pressure from the game.”

  “Maybe.”

  At the street comer, she paused and startled him by taking his hand. “Les, I still love you, but right now I can't help you. You’re heartbroken and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “I’m not sure it’s that, May. I’m not sure I’m heartbroken. I think it’s-a lot of things.”

  For the first time her gaze seemed to imply that she sensed trouble in him that went beyond Susan Edmonds.

  “My brother’s in town.”

  “Oh, God,” May said. “And with that other man?”

  “Neely? Yes.”

  During their time together, Les had told her many things about himself. He had not told her about helping with that one bank robbery, or about all the minor trouble he’d been in as a youth. But obviously she’d imagined some of the things left unsaid.

  “What do they want?”

  He sighed. “I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell somebody.” She grabbed him by the elbow. “Don’t give in to them, Les. He’s your brother and I know how much you love him and how much you feel you owe him for helping to raise you-but don’t destroy your life over him.”

  He exhaled raggedly. “I-I’m scared. May. I guess that’s why I looked you up.”

  “Oh.” The single syllable carried a tinge of disappointment. “One of the reasons, I mean. May, I-” He shook his head. "If I said I missed you and that I still loved you, well-I couldn’t be sure of why I was saying those things right now. You understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

  “But I still think about you all the time and I think about all the things we used to do and the places we used to go and-”

  She took his hand again. “Les, don’t give in to them. Don’t go along with them. Please.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  "That’s still no reason to-”

  He blurted it out, unable to stop himself. "And he’s in bad trouble, May. Very bad trouble.”

  Within the past twenty-four hours a certain image had come to play in Les’s mind, one which just came alive with terrible vividness at odd moments. One over which he had no control at all.

  He saw T.Z. being led up to the gallows. The hooded executioner. The dangling noose. The trapdoor being tried, so they’d know it worked for sure. And then the image always became T.Z.’s face. T.Z. would look the way he had the night their father died, T.Z. sobbing and screaming “Don’t close your eyes! Don’t close your eyes!”

  Because T.Z. would know that he himself would be dosing his own eyes. Soon and forever.

  “You can’t let yourself get dragged into-whatever it is,” May said. The control she’d had over herself was going fast. “Promise me, Les. Promise me.”

  “I’ve got to help him.”

  “But he’ll destroy you, Les, just the way he’s destroyed himself.”

  “He’s not bad-not inside.”

  “I can’t judge him, Les. That’s not my place. You were raised differently from me. We didn’t have any money, but we did have a strong mother and father and that makes a difference. I know he’s your brother and I know he’s had a terrible life-but so have you, Les, and you haven’t turned out like him.” She clutched at his elbow again. “Oh, please, Les, promise me you won’t let him talk you into anything.”

  He sighed. “All right, I promise.”

  She leaned away and looked at him.

  “I’m afraid, now.”

  “It’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t care if I lose you to Susan. I could get over that. But if I lost you to prison or-something worse-” She shook her head.

  He realized that she had begun to cry, and then she turned away from him and started walking the half block left to her aunt’s place.

  He started to catch up to her but this time she turned around and said, “I need to be alone right now, Les. I’m going to say some prayers for you. Because I’m so scared.”

  And he knew enough to let her go, her prim form disappearing into the darkness lying between the splash of streetlights.

  He stood there for a time thinking mostly of T.Z. and what might happen, and then he thought of the coming baseball game.

  How could he ever pitch it with all these other things on his mind?

  He hurried on his way home to Time Check, hoping that tonight he could get some sleep.

  ***

  After leaving the note for Black Jake Early, Neely left the hotel and started walking north out of Cedar Rapids, along the railroad tracks. He remembered a deep woods in the hills surrounding the town. He also remembered something else.

  It took two hours to find what he was looking for.

  He left the tracks and climbed a steep hill thick with underbrush and burrs that stuck to him like sucking animals.

  Twenty feet back in the trees he saw the cabin. In the days when the railroads were laying rail from coast to coast, they occasionally built cabins for the supervisory crews that would stay behind. The buildings were sort of administrative outposts. But this late in the century, most of the cabins had been deserted, left to wild animals and the elements.

  The doorknob had rusted and was stuck, so Neely had to kick the door in hard.

  Then he went inside and stood amid the smells of mud and mildew, dog turds and a yellowing stack of newspapers.

  There were three cots and a desk and a wall with hooks that had been used to hang clipped papers to.

  He went over to one of the mattresses and sat down on it. Enough dust came up to make him sneeze.

  He stood up. He picked up two of the mattresses and took them outside and began slamming them against a spruce tree. The night was alive with insects and the odors of ginseng and wild ginger.

  Then he took the mattresses back inside and put them on the beds.

  T.Z. would complain at first, of course.

  T.Z. always complained.

  He’d say it was dirty and that the prospect of mean dogs and snakes scared him.

  He’d say he’d only stay out here if Neely stayed with him.

  Neely took out the makings and had a cigarette. The moist tobacco taste was sweet in his mouth. He exhaled, watching the way the moonlight fragmented through the branches of a pine tree.

  Since leaving the note in Black Jake Early’s room, Neely had come to calmly accept what he was doing. T.Z. was wanted-admittedly for a crime that Neely himself had committed-and was known to the law and so their traveling years were over.

  T.Z. was too dangerous to be with.

  And anyway-and this was the most difficult of things to admit to himself-anyway he was tired of T.Z.

  His nightmares.

  His women.

  His fears.

  There had been a time when Neely felt almost paternal to T.Z., but no longer. Now Neely was more like his keeper and the role had become a burden…

  He finished the cigarette and stamped it out in the earth.

  But there was one more thing he needed from T.Z. The combination to the safe at Clinton Edmonds’ bank. On
ly T.Z. could convince Les to get it for them…

  Neely went in and looked around the cabin once more, at the moonlight tumbling through the hole in the roof and shining on a broken kerosene lantern. He walked back outside, took in a good, deep breath of piney air and then walked back to town.

  ***

  Les was half a block from home when a huge man stepped from the shadows.

  “Evening,” the man said.

  Les, shaken by the man’s sudden appearance, said, “Evening.”

  “Beautiful night.”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  Les looked around him. The lights were out in most of the houses. Distant down the block he could hear Mr. Waterhouse’s voice telling more tales of Cedar Rapids.

  “You’re Les, aren’t you?”

  Instantly, Les knew something was wrong. “That’s my name.”

  “I guess we need to have a little talk.”

  “About what.”

  “About your brother.”

  “How do you know I’ve even got a brother?”

  “Oh, now, Les, don’t start saying things like that. You know and I know that you’ve got a brother. And you know and I know that his name is T.Z. And you know and I know that he’s wanted for train robbery and murder.”

  “I’ve got a brother named T.Z. But I don’t know anything about him being wanted for train robbery and murder.”

  “There’s a tavern down the block. Why don’t we walk down there?”

  “Don’t think I’d care to.”

  “Hate like hell to have to talk at your boardinghouse. I mean, everybody you live with’s likely to find out.”

  “They’re friends of mine.”

  “Don’t doubt that for a minute, Les. But you know it’s a funny thing. When you’ve got a good friend and you think you know everything about him, but then you find out something secret-say something like his brother being a killer and a train robber-well, you start looking at that friend in a slightly different way. You may not even want to. You may even try to stop yourself from it. But you can’t. Because when you know something about a person, your mind changes. That’s just human nature.”

  Les thought a minute and said, in a sigh, “All right. Let’s go down to the tavern.”

  ***

  Neely got the Rayo table lamp going and then went over and nudged T.Z., who slept hunched up like a baby.

  “C’mon.”

  “Wha’s wrong?” T.Z. said. He wasn’t even awake yet and he was scared.

  “We got to move. Fast.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I found Black Jake Early’s room.”

  "And what happened?”

  “I found the poster.”

  “My poster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Neely, what the hell am I going to do?”

  “We got to move fast, T.Z. Damn fast.”

  “Where we going?”

  “You just got to trust me, T.Z. You just got to trust me. Start packin’ your things.”

  T.Z. was up and off the bed and packing.

  Neely watched him and for just a moment he felt the guilt again. T.Z. couldn’t help it that he was the way he was-

  But then Neely couldn’t help it that the baggageman had lived long enough to identify T.Z.

  “Hurry up,” Neely said.

  “God, Neely,” T.Z. said. “I’m hurryin’ as fast as I can.”

  ***

  He was one of those men who are surprisingly nimble despite massive weight. All the way to the tavern he kept easy pace with Les, and when a dog jumped out of the shadows and nearly knocked him over, he stepped effortlessly out of its way.

  Business at the tavern had thinned out. Tomorrow was a workday. The place smelled of yeast and the free Swiss cheese placed on big plates at several places along the bar.

  When Les and the fat man came in, the six customers turned to stare at them. Several smiled at Les and one made the remark “You should be home sleepin’ for the game.”

  His voice carried admiration for Les.

  “You’re something of a celebrity,” the fat man said after the bartender had brought them two mugs of beer, the heads of which he’d cut off with the edge of his hand.

  “I guess.”

  “Guess, hell. Right now you’re the most famous man in Cedar Rapids. And I hear you’re very good, too. You ever thought of trying out for the pros?”

  Les glared at him. “I don’t think you brought me here to talk about baseball.”

  The fat man smiled. “I guess that’s one of the drawbacks to my job. I try to be nice to people, but they don’t seem willing to accept it.”

  “Just what is your job, anyway?”

  “It goes by various names.”

  “Such as?”

  “The most popular is bounty hunter. But when I worked for judge Parker, he always told me to refer to myself as an ‘auxiliary peace officer.’ That sounds a lot more official, I guess.”

  “Judge Isaac Parker?”

  “You’ve heard of him then?”

  Les stared at the fat man. “I don’t think I’d brag about the fact that I worked for a man like that.”

  Isaac C. Parker had once been a Missouri senator who, after being turned out of office, had been made a judge by President Grant. In seventeen years the judge had personally seen to it that more than one hundred sixty men had been hung. In addition to outlaws, he enjoyed executing anybody who had anything to do with the labor movement or what he invariably called “anarchy.” His executioner, an emaciated man with a flowing white biblical beard and the gaze of a zealot, was named George Maledon, whom the newspapers called "The Prince of Hangmen.” To date, he had hung sixty men and shot down four others.

  “My name is Jake Early,” the fat man said, putting forth his hand. Les did not accept the handshake.

  Early withdrew the gesture and smiled.

  “I guess I wouldn’t shake my hand if I were you, either. I mean, given what I’m here to do.”

  “You’re Black Jake Early,” Les said.

  “That’s what they call me. Because my mama was a Blackfoot Indian, I guess.”

  Only a slight red cast to the man’s skin gave any indication of Indian blood. Otherwise he might have been a successful merchant with his expensive suit and massive gold pocket watch chain and clean celluloid collar and deep red necktie and Vandyke beard. Only the Smith and Wesson.44 he wore strapped to his waist betrayed his real purpose.

  Early said, “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Who?”

  Early smiled and nodded to the bar. “Like that fellow said, you should be home sleeping. You don’t have any time to be sitting here playing cat-and-mouse with me.” Early had some beer, wiped off the foam with the back of his thick hand. “I seem to have developed a reputation for being rough sometimes.”

  “You’ve developed a reputation for being a butcher.”

  “I’m trying to make a point here.”

  “Make it.”

  “When I get riled, or when I feel it’s necessary, I pursue men without much mercy. That I’ll admit. But I always try to contact their kinfolk first so that things don’t have to get that way.” He smiled. “It’s a matter of playing the odds, Mr. Graves. The fewer men I have to fire on, the fewer men who have to fire back on me. I have a wife and two children and one of those children is about to make me a grandfather.

  I want to live long enough to see that grandchild. So I’d just as soon take your brother peaceably.”

  “I don’t know where my brother is. I haven’t seen him in two years.”

  Early smiled again. “Do you know a man named Dubbins?”

  Les said, “Sort of. He’s a friend of my brother’s.”

  “Well, he’s also serving time in Judge Parker’s jurisdiction for assault and battery. The judge gave him twenty years.”

  “Why should I be interested in that?”

  “Because the judge asked me to interview him. The judge asks me to do that to
some of the prisoners, sometimes.”

  “That’s a fine-sounding word. ‘Interview.’ ”

  “As I said, sometimes I pursue men without much mercy. That’s also how I pursue the truth.” He had some more beer and then pointed to the bartender for two more. Les had not touched his. “In the course of interviewing Mr. Dubbins, I learned a number of things. And one of the things I learned was that your brother and a man named Neely planned to come here to Cedar Rapids and look you up.”

  “Well, they must have changed their minds. They’re not here.” The bartender set down two beers and put out his hand. Early set some coins in it.

  “You don’t seem to understand the situation here, Mr. Graves.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  Early leaned forward on his elbows. “If at the end of this conversation you haven’t agreed to turn your brother over within twenty-four hours, then I’m going to find him myself.”

  Les just sat there and stared at the man. His ears rang and his stomach was painful with knots. He did not know what to say or do. All he knew was that this man meant to kill his brother and he had no idea how to stop him.

  Les had his first sip of beer. He needed it to wet his mouth, which had dehydrated from fear. “Just say, for the sake of argument, T.Z. is here.”

  “All right, for the sake of argument, let’s say that.”

  “You’re saying you wouldn’t shoot him.”

  “Not unless he forced me to.”

  “What would you do to him?”

  “Take him back to Judge Parker.”

  Les sighed. There was no hope. Either way-if T.Z. resisted or if he allowed himself to be taken back to Missouri-he would die.

  Les said, “Well, he isn’t here.”

  Early laughed. He seemed genuinely amused. “Cat-and-mouse, Mr. Graves. I thought we both agreed we didn’t have time for it.”

  “I haven’t seen him for three years.”

  “A few minutes ago you said you hadn’t seen him for two years.” Les stood up. He was sweating and trembling and he felt as if he were going to vomit.

  He kept thinking of Judge Parker’s executioner George Maledon and his zealot eyes and the fact that he boasted he wanted to “hang two hundred men before the Lord sees fit to take me.”