by Ed Gorman
Les looked straight at him. “Scared.”
“You’re gonna be fine tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
Les shook his head. “I don’t know, Harding. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess I was kind of hoping that Simmons would have a little better afternoon. In case I didn’t do so well tomorrow.” Harding threw an arm around Les’ shoulder. “Butterflies, that’s all.”
“I started out all right,” Les said, recalling the White Stockings’ camp, “but the more batters I faced, the more-”
"You just be quiet. Otherwise you’ll talk yourself into what the wife always calls a ‘funk.’ You don’t want to be in no funk for tomorrow.” I le nodded to the stands. “Why don’t you go have a nice cold drink with May?”
She stood now at the fence behind the bench.
Les sighed. “I don’t want to let you down, Harding.”
“Will you shut up for cripes sake and just go see May.”
This time, making sure, Harding guided Les over to the fence and said to May, “Take this fellow someplace and help him relax. Whatever you do, don’t let him get into a funk.”
“Yes, sir,” May said, smiling. “No funks.”
They walked along the river. In the first hint of dusk the sun was fiery gold on the water.
“It’s what happened to me at training camp,” Les said.
“I don’t think it’s good for you to talk about it. Harding’s right. You need to relax.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “I’m trying.”
“Why don’t we go have dinner?”
But by now he’d remembered Neely. “I’m afraid I can’t tonight, May.”
She searched his face. “It’s that man, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
She stopped and leaned back against a green-painted park bench that had been set along the river. Behind her, weeping willows touched the gold-red water.
“What does he want from you?”
“I-can’t talk about it, May.”
“I need to ask you something, Les.”
“I’ll answer it if I can.”
“Are you in trouble?”
He didn’t know what to say.
“You’re trembling,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
Again, she said, “You’re trembling.” Then, “Who is he, Les?”
“Somebody I used to know.”
“A friend of your brother’s?”
“It’s better not to talk about it.”
“Is he-a criminal?”
“Please, May.”
He saw how tense she’d become. “Now I’m the one who’s scared, Les.”
“I don’t want you to be.”
“I know you’re in some sort of trouble.”
“No,” he said. “No.”
“You’re not going to tell me the truth?”
He shook his head. “I’m not in any trouble, May. Really.”
But she was lost to him now. She had that ability. To slip away inside herself. She’d been like that when he’d told her about Susan Edmonds. Unreachable.
Then he saw Neely.
Obviously the man had been at the stadium and simply followed them along the river path.
May saw him, too.
“He’s a frightening man,” she said, as Neely drew closer. “You can feel his anger.” Suddenly, she clutched his hand. “Why don’t you walk me back to my house, Les?”
“I can’t. I need to-talk to Neely.”
For the first time in the two years he’d known her, she lost her air of a competent adult and became a child. “Les, you wouldn’t let yourself get in any trouble, would you?”
But before he could answer, Neely had come up.
“Afternoon,” he said. He smiled, but smiles to Neely were just one more expression of the ironic distance he put between himself and others.
May looked at him with the same apprehension she had earlier this afternoon. “Just who are you?” she said.
Neely’s smile only broadened now. “Nobody special, ma’am.”
“I’d like you to leave.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. Les and I have some business.” She looked at Les. “Please, Les, why don’t you come with me now?”
Les, feeling ashamed, lowered his head.
“Our business won’t take long, ma’am,” Neely said in his cool, even way.
Les had not raised his head.
May left.
Neely, watching her recede along the river path, said, “She’d give you fine children.”
“Where’s T.Z.?”
“There’s a tavern on the edge of town. He’s waiting there for me.”
“When are you going to do it?”
“Late tonight, early tomorrow morning.” Neely’s smile had returned. “I take it you got it, then.”
Les sighed. “Yes, I got it.”
Neely said, “Mexico’s going to be good for him.”
“I’m afraid for him.”
“I’m going to take care of him, Les. I promised you and I’ll keep my promise.”
Les just shook his head and looked miserably at the ground. He thought of what Black Jake Early had said. About a year of life being better than a bullet in the heart. Was it-when your year was spent awaiting execution.
"Tell him-” Les started to say something, but then he saw the anger in Neely’s eyes and felt intimidated.
You did not tell a man like Neely to convey the fact to your brother that you loved him.
On Neely’s tongue words like that had a way of becoming sarcasm. But Neely surprised him now. “He knows how you feel about him, Les; how you always felt about him. And he’s grateful. Believe me, he’s grateful. If there was any alternative to what we’re doing-” Then Neely raised his hands helplessly. “But there isn’t, Les. There really isn’t.” For the first time Les could ever remember, Neely’s smile looked genuine. “But we’re out of your life now. Out of it completely.”
Les thought of his brother living out his life so far away in the alien heat of Mexico. His only solace was that it was better than waiting for the executioner.
From his pocket Les took the copy he’d made of the combination to the safe.
Neely took it and said, “I appreciate it, Les.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“I will, Les. I sure will.”
“And-take care of him, Neely. I mean it.”
“I know you do, Les. And I will. I really will.”
With that, Neely nodded and was gone.
Les drifted over to the river’s edge. Rowboats carrying lovers drifted down the Cedar. On the opposite bank a dozen fishermen waited patiently for catches. Beyond them you could see the silhouette of the business district and the first stars of night shining down.
He thought of T.Z. So much pain in his brother. And it would never go…
He turned and started back up the path, winding his way home.
When he reached First Avenue, a voice came from behind the shrubbery and said, “I’ll walk home with you if you’d like.”
It was May.
She had never looked lovelier nor could he remember a time when he’d more needed to see her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Black Jake Early was writing a letter to his wife when a knock startled him out of his concentration.
Early had left his Missouri home two weeks ago at a point when his second-youngest child had been running a fever of 104. This whole trip the child’s suffering face had stayed with him. He wanted to assure his wife that he was thinking of their little girl and praying for her and that when he got back they would, the whole family, go into St. Louis for a long weekend vacation.
He had been at the point of writing about the proposed St. Louis trip when the knock came.
The first thing he did was pick up his weapon. The second thing he did was turn down the table lamp. No sense in giving a potential killer an
y more light than you needed to.
He sighed and stood up. He took three steps away to the left of the hotel door and leveled his weapon and said, “State your business please.”
Silence.
"I said, state your business please.”
A tiny voice said, “I-” but not much more.
Black Jake went to the door and opened it so quickly it slammed back against the wall with the force of a gunshot.
He had a cowlick and freckles and suspenders and shoes so poor the toes were tom out.
He could easily have been Black Jake’s own fourteen-year-old.
“What in the Lord’s name are you doing in a hotel this time of night?” Black Jake said. “Don’t your parents keep track of you?”
“There’s just my dad,” the boy said. He couldn’t keep his eyes from the gun.
“What are you doing here, son? Don’t you know what kind of men and women you find in hotels like these? Don’t you go to church on Sunday and listen to the minister?”
“I was only playing marbles.”
The kid had muttered.
“Speak up, son.”
“I was only playing marbles.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Well, I was just playing marbles when the man came up.”
“What man?”
“The man who gave me the note.”
And then Black Jake Early understood. “May I see the note, son?” The kid dug into the pockets of his frayed denims and handed it over.
“Did he give you money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much?”
“Ten cents.”
Black Jake Early dug into his pocket and put a coin in the kid’s palm. “Now you’ve earned twenty cents.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Did you gel a good look at him?”
“Not real good. It’s dark out.”
“Could you describe him even a little bit?”
The kid then proceeded to give him a perfect portrait of T. Z. Graves.
“Where’s your pa?”
“At home, sir.”
“And that’s where you should be, too.”
“Yes, sir."
“I want you to promise me that’s where you’re going."
“I promise.”
“And tell your father he should be ashamed of himself, letting a line young man like you come into hotels.”
“Yes, sir.”
And with that the kid was gone.
***
Black Jake closed the door and went over to the table and set his weapon down and turned up the kerosene lamp again and read the note.
IN THE FIELD BY THE ICEHOUSE. 10:30.
Black Jake smiled.
He might have encountered more perfect setups in his time as the assistant to Judge Isaac Parker, but at the moment he couldn’t recall what they might be.
Did T. Z. Graves really think Early would go to the field by the icehouse and stand around and wait for Graves to open fire?
Black Jake had maneuvered himself out of such traps many times in the past. He had a simple rule about them. Don’t be ambushed; ambush.
He pulled out his Ingram.
10 P.M.
There was still time to finish his letter to his wife before he went and collected T. Z. Graves.
***
“You’re drunk.”
Susan said it with a mixture of contempt and amusement. Proper Byron had never exhibited such a fondness for alcohol before and his newfound love was both exasperating and endearing.
Byron stood in the light beneath the Edmonds’ front porch. He tried to stand erect, but he weaved and bobbed a bit.
She wanted to smile but would not let herself.
“You’re three hours late.”
“I needed to work up my nerve.”
“To see me?”
He shook his head. He had never looked more the lost little boy. “Your father.”
“Oh, Byron-”
He held up a hand. “No. I insist. There are certain things I need to say.”
She glanced behind her into the vast and dark house. “Are you sure, Byron?”
“Very sure.”
Even though his mussed hair and wobbly manner made him seem the child, there was steel in his voice and she welcomed it.
“He’s on the back porch. With Mother.” She paused. “I talked to him for two hours this afternoon.”
“And?”
“And-for the first time since I was eight years old, I told him I loved him. Your words-affected him, Byron. Very much.”
“You’re sure you don’t mean devastated?”
“Yes-that, too. But they made him think. He let himself cry. I could never have imagined that happening.”
He leaned against the door frame. You could see the alcohol working through his system. “But before I go in there, I have a question for you.”
She said it simply. “I’m not going.”
“My God-is that for sure?”
“Yes. For sure.” She did her best to laugh. “Omaha has too many stockyards. The odor would ruin my clothes.”
He swept her up then and held her close to him and kissed her with a frank passion that he’d never shown before.
“My God, but I love you, Susan.”
“And I love you too, Byron.”
Then he set her down and set about composing himself. “Now I need to see your father.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait?”
“No, Susan, I’ve been working myself up to this. I need to do it now.”
So they went through the house, over hardwood and then oriental rugs and finally over the brick of the veranda.
Mr. and Mrs. Edmonds sat at a white wicker table that the lamp glow made golden.
Mrs. Edmonds frowned when she saw Byron. But she didn’t say anything.
“Father,” Susan said, “Byron would like to speak with you.”
Her father turned around and faced them. Oddly, instead of showing anger, he showed a certain embarrassment, as if Byron knew some terrible secret about him.
“Mother, why don’t you help me make fresh tea?”
Mrs. Edmonds looked first at Byron and then at her husband. “Is that all right, Clinton?”
Clinton, saying nothing, only nodded.
You could hear birds in the sudden silence and the distant yipping of dogs and the explosions of fireworks the night before the Fourth.
Mrs. Edmonds stood up. “Byron, you had no right to take that tone with Clinton today.” The harshness of her voice surprised them all. They were used to hearing her speak in soft and subservient tones. Then she surprised them all again by going up and kissing Byron on the cheek. “But I have to say, it seems to have gotten Clinton talking again to everybody. The way he used to.”
Susan touched a fragile hand to her breast. So it had all been worth it after all.
She knew now that her father and Byron would settle their differences.
She guided her mother into the kitchen so the two men could have their talk.
***
Neely and T.Z. stood across the street, in the shadows of an alley, watching Black Jake Early’s hotel.
T.Z. made a remark on every pretty woman who passed down the sidewalk. God knew there were plenty to gawk at. Hundreds of people milled around laughing, drinking, nuzzling each other animallike. The night before the Fourth was a major event.
In front of the opera house, a few blocks away, they’d seen dozens of fancy carriages shiny beneath the streetlights, dispatching men and woman in formal garb. And everywhere there seemed to be workingmen dressed in white shirts and blue or black trousers cinched up with new leather belts and their women in colorful summery dresses window-shopping or hopping from tavern to tavern or strolling along the river and throwing pieces of bread to the ducks floating on the warm current below. A few of the nighteries had live music, everything from piano recitals of popular songs in the more fashionable places to th
e blasting joy of polkas in the Czech spots several blocks away.
T.Z., who had still not gotten used to the idea, said, “You sure we have to do this, Neely?”
Neely said, “You want him to follow us the rest of our lives?”
“He’d give up eventually.”
“Black Jake Early?”
T.Z. sighed. “I guess you’re right.”
“By dawn we’ll have the money and be riding.”
T.Z. said, “You sure you can make it look like Les didn't have anything to do with it?”
Neely clapped him on the back again. "I promise you, T.Z. I promise you.”
Then T.Z. stiffened and pointed. “There he is.”
And so it was.
At ten-fifteen exactly Black Jake Early appeared from the hotel and stood on the sidewalk smoking a cigar. For a time he was obscured by a group of passing revelers but then he reappeared, still standing there, calmly working on his stogie.
As usual, he wore a dark suit. As usual, he looked like an Indian who had had most of the Indianness worked out of him somehow.
He dropped the cigar to the sidewalk and crushed it with a big foot and then proceeded west, through the crowd.
“Let’s go,” Neely said.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Neely said. “I’m sure.”
To reach the field near the icehouse, Early should have turned right at the end of the First Avenue bridge.
Instead, he kept walking straight ahead, giving Neely an indication of what the man had in mind.
T.Z. said, “Why isn’t he turning?”
Patiently, as if to a child, Neely said, “He’s going to ambush us.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. He’s going to sneak up on the other side of the place where I said you’d be. He thinks he’s going to get the drop on you.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Neely sighed. “We’re going to ambush him, T.Z. We’re going to ambush him.”
Neely swung wide in an arc, moving along the alleys on the other side of the street, so that Early would not be able to see them walking parallel to him.
Early got up even with the icehouse and then turned right. Across the river, factories poured hot gray smoke into the night sky. There were enough small buildings and few enough lights that they lost sight of him.
