by W L Ripley
“Never rolled over on nobody. But this bunch…no fuckin’ brains. You think about it. Why would Baxter kill Kennedy?”
“He could run for sheriff unopposed.”
“Only part of it,” Roberts said. “Where was Kennedy going the day he was killed?”
I thought about it. The day I met Kennedy, Baxter kept trying to find out what I knew about it, first, before Kennedy got back, then he tried to worm his way into the office, even with Kennedy threatening to fire him. It was crazy, but I had it. “It’s Baxter’s marijuana.”
“Yes,” said Roberts. His eyes looked into mine. “I should’ve zipped you and this one.” He indicated Chick with his eyes, since he was unable to move much else. “But I still never busted a cap on a vet. You understand that?”
I nodded.
“But I was going to have to, this time. And you, Easton. A man like you. Why stick your nose in this? Nothing to gain from it. You’re a pro. Why?”
Chick smiled. Shrugged. “Eccentricity, I guess.”
“Took the both of you to take the Sultan.”
“I got a hangover,” said Chick.
“Will you testify against Baxter, Candless, and Winston?” Morrison asked Roberts.
“No.”
“Might get a reduced sentence.”
Roberts seemed amused. Morrison was wasting his time. Roberts’s reticence was his final dignity.
“Will you get Baxter and Winston anyway?” Roberts asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
By eight o’clock Roberts’s house was crawling with paramedics, federal agents, and state troopers. Baxter made an appearance but was denied entry, so he was standing outside the house, cursing. Chick was soaking his hands in an ice bucket from the bar and drinking Glenfiddich from the bottle when the police arrived.
The highway patrol questioned Jill Maxwell. A paramedic treated Morrison’s wound while the agent talked with a man in a charcoal suit. Candless and Roberts were rushed to the hospital, but there was no help for the Mafia gunslinger. He’d been dead from the moment he’d reached for the gun. Cugat was arrested, then taken to the hospital.
“Place looks like a war zone,” said Sam Browne when he arrived. Sergeant McKinley and two other troopers were with him. “You’re still alive,” said Browne when he saw me. “I was afraid of that.”
“Glad to see you, too,” I said. “They have to tear you away from the speeders and jaywalkers?”
“Just set up a roadblock for a guy with a broken taillight when the call came in.”
Sergeant McKinley walked up and without preamble said, “You clowns got things to explain. There are three corpses outside and one guy out front with a concussion wearing Saran wrappers on his wrists. Got two more guys upstairs. Four of ’em got .22 holes. I’ve got two Italians from the big city look like Swiss cheese. We found an illegally altered shotgun that has been fired, and I’ve got an FBI man with a hip wound. Now, for all my trouble I can’t find a .22 pistol. And, of course, you guys don’t know nothing about it. Everybody’s been shot to shit, and all you guys got are cuts and bruises. How’d you manage that?”
“We dodged,” said Chick.
“One of them shot my sweater,” I said, showing him the hole made by Roberts’s gun. “It was brand-new, too.”
McKinley’s eyes grew large and hot. Browne said, “They think they’re comics, Mac.”
“Why ain’t I laughing, then?”
“Repression?” offered Chick.
“Which one of you smartasses had the .22?”
Chick shrugged, drank some scotch. I said nothing. Morrison had instructed us to make no statements, that he would construct the scenario. We were to give out no information; he would take care of everything, which I hoped he would do soon, since I didn’t like the color of McKinley’s face. He looked as if he wanted to chain us to the bumpers of two patrol units and head north and south, simultaneously.
“That’s the way it’s going to be, huh? Okay, fellas, you just bought yourself a load of—”
A fresh-faced trooper bustled up. “Found the gun, Sergeant.” He held up the pistol. He had stuck a heavy marking pen through the trigger guard.
“Run prints, though I doubt it’ll do any good. Notice you two guys are wearing gloves.”
“There was a little nip in the air when we got up, sir,” I said. “My mom used to always—”
“Shut the hell up! Sam, if this man opens his head again, shoot him.”
“Love to,” Browne said, then smiled, but he did so where his boss couldn’t see it. Coward.
“Now, which one of you clowns does that gun belong to?”
“I’d never own a gun with an illegal silencer, sir,” said Chick. “That would be dishonest.”
“Dishonest?” roared McKinley. “We’ve got B and E, assault with a deadly weapon, homicide, illegally altered hunting weapons—Shit, why didn’t you break some real laws while you were here?”
“We were going to set fire to the place, but we couldn’t find any matches.”
Browne chuckled, and McKinley whirled on him. “You find something funny in all this, Browne?”
“No, Mac,” said Browne, but the grin stayed on his face. Just then, the man in the charcoal-gray suit walked up. He was finished talking to Morrison, who was being carried from the house on a stretcher. Morrison raised a hand to me as he left.
“Pardon me, Sergeant,” said Charcoal Suit. “May I speak with you a moment?” He pulled McKinley aside and talked to him. At one point, McKinley threw his head back and looked at the ceiling in disgust. Finally, he nodded, and the two men shook hands. McKinley came back to us.
“Well,” he said. “Seems the FBI has cleared the Marx Brothers here of everything.” He looked at us. “Says you were ‘assisting’ Agent Morrison. That he received an anonymous phone call that the Maxwell girl had been kidnapped and that Candless was dirty. Apparently, Baxter is implicated. Every one of the dead men has a sheet. Something big was going on here.” He turned to Browne. “Sam, go outside and arrest Baxter—suspicion of murder and drug trafficking. And you two get the hell out of my state.” He turned his attention to other matters.
Browne said, “We’ll impound the shotgun and the ownerless .22. I’ll have to take your handgun, Storme, but you can get it back—Hey! Where’re you going, Easton?”
“I want to watch you arrest Baxter. Hurry up.”
Browne looked at me. “I suppose you want to see this, too?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
“All right, but stay out of the way.”
Jill and I followed Browne outside into the morning light. Baxter was stamping around like a horny bull. Simmons was with him.
“I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna take this kinda shit,” Baxter was saying. “This is my county and I won’t—” He stopped when he saw Chick. “What the—? What the hell is this guy doing here? He should be under arrest. What’re you state guys doin’, Browne? In there scratching your balls?”
“Baxter,” said Browne, pulling his gun from its holster. “You are under—”
“Not yet,” said Chick, interrupting Browne and moving closer to Baxter.
“Dammit, Easton,” said Browne. “Stay out of this.”
“Stay out of what?” asked Baxter, ever the straight man.
“This,” said Chick, ramming a fist deep into the breadbasket of the fat ex-interim sheriff. Baxter doubled over and fell to his knees, as he tried to catch his breath.
“That’s it, Easton,” said Browne. “You’re under arrest. Couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
“Worth it,” said Chick. “You can put me in a cell with fat and stupid here. Save you the cost of the trial.”
“You gonna arrest Baxter?” asked Deputy Simmons.
“Yes. Easton, too. Les Baxter, you are under arrest. Murder and drug trafficking.” Then he read Baxter his Miranda rights. Baxter was still on the ground, gasping for air.
“Do yo
u understand your rights as I read them to you?”
Baxter continued to try to suck air into his lungs.
“Sounds like a big yes to me,” said Chick.
Browne was not amused. “Same goes for you, Easton.”
“What are you arresting Easton for?” asked Simmons.
“You saw it, Deputy. He assaulted a prisoner.”
A smile grew on Simmons’s face. “Didn’t see a thing.”
“Me neither,” I said.
“I’m a trained journalist,” said Jill. “And I didn’t see it, either.”
“So that’s the way it’s going to be?” said Browne.
Simmons held up a pair of handcuffs. “May I?” he asked Browne. Browne nodded.
Simmons cuffed Baxter and helped him to his feet. “I’ll get you for this, Simmons,” Baxter said.
“You bring it right on,” said Simmons. “Just anytime. I got a bellyful of you.”
Chick walked over and put his arm around Simmons’s shoulders. “Louie,” he said, his upper lip stretched tight over his upper teeth. “This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
Browne stood there shaking his head at us. “You two are a couple of jug-butts. Come on, Baxter, you know how it works.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
They finally let us go at noon. Morrison was a man of his word. He did take care of everything. We were released into our own custody and told by McKinley to drive under fifty-five for the remainder of our lives. We would probably have to return at a later date to testify.
We hadn’t eaten since the night before. I was starved. “I know a place where they serve you a whole fricasseed Clydesdale on a platter,” said Chick.
“Good. But I don’t think I could eat more than two.”
We settled, however, for Burger King. Junk food. It tasted marvelous.
We drove through the pickup window and ordered two of everything, hold the anchovies, then drove to the emergency room at Citizens Memorial to see how Morrison and Jill were. He was in a private room and not allowed visitors, but was all right. We checked on Jill, who was being released when we caught up with her. She had been treated for minor bruises. We sat in the coffee shop and drank coffee that tasted medicinal. Chick and Jill smoked cigarettes.
Jill looked down at her coffee. “You saved my life.”
“Wait’ll you get the bill,” I said.
She laughed. “All I did for you was cause trouble. Bothered you for interviews when you wanted privacy. Stuck my nose in this terrible business and almost got us all killed.”
“It’s a pretty nose, though. Didn’t whine when they had you. Got a good lick in on Cugat. You also uncovered the mystery man, Simmons, and kept digging when another reporter would have quit. You’re tough and smart.”
“I found out about your visit to Winston’s office through his secretary. She must’ve told Winston I was nosing around, though I’m sure she isn’t involved. I also found out that Winston and Candless had old school ties. Apparently, they found out I knew, too. That big goon, Cugat, he grabbed me last night when I was getting into my car in front of the paper. It was late. Nobody around. If I’d stayed put, you could’ve taken them without any risk.”
“There was risk either way,” Chick said.
“What’s going to happen to Winston?” she said. I wondered myself. There wasn’t enough evidence to issue a warrant for his arrest. He had not been at the scene. He’d made sure he kept himself clear. Unless Candless dumped on him he was untouchable.
“He’ll walk,” I said.
“That stinks,” Jill said. She reached out and put her hand on top of Chick’s. She left it there. “What about Horton? He’s got a thing for Winston. Maybe he knows something. Worth a try. I hate to think about that oily rat getting away with this.”
“It’s not a perfect world,” I said, quoting Sandra Collingsworth. Chick turned his hand over and took Jill’s hand in his. It’s not a perfect world, I thought, but sometimes we get close.
“What do you think Horton would say if he thought Winston and Candless had something going?” said Chick.
“He’d go nuts,” said Jill. “He’s got a bad temper.”
“You think Horton knows anything about Winston’s involvement with Roberts?”
“I doubt Horton’s part of that.”
“Not my meaning. I’m not asking if he’s involved. I’m asking if we could get Horton to tell us anything about Winston?”
“I see what you’re getting at,” she said. “Horton likes to think he’s in the know. But he wouldn’t snitch-off Alan.”
“Not even if he thought Alan had another boyfriend?”
“Oh. I see.” She shook her head and pursed her lips. “That’s an interesting thought. A very interesting thought.”
“Speaking of interesting thoughts,” said Chick. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
We caught up with Horton at the newspaper office. He was wearing a tapered oxford shirt and a chocolate-and-tan-striped tie. Brown pinstriped slacks with a knifelike crease and tan tasseled loafers. “He looks absolutely scrumptious,” lisped Chick.
“Don’t start that stuff. I don’t want to spook him.”
“You’re saving him for yourself, you bitch, you,” he said, still with the lisp.
“I don’t want to talk to you guys,” Horton said when asked if there was anyplace private we could talk.
“You’d be surprised how many people feel that way,” I said.
“Besides, you look like you’ve been in a fight and lost. Thought you were rough, tough guys.”
“We have been in a fight,” said Chick. “And we won.”
“I suppose I should see what the other guys look like.”
“Some of ’em are dead,” said Chick.
He looked at us from thirty-year-old eyes in a fifteen-year-old face. Looked much younger than he was.
“Still not interested,” he said.
“It concerns Alan Winston.”
His face flushed, like a junior high kid caught with his fly open. “And what is that to me?”
“Come on, Horton,” said Chick. “We know Alan’s your squeeze. So cut the shit.”
A funny look appeared on his face; it was pride mixed with a little heat. “If that were true, and it’s not, what would you have to tell me?”
“Not here,” I said. “Somewhere private.”
“Okay.” He led us into the publisher’s office. “Uncle Marvin’s not here. We can use this.” The office was simple and comfortable. Dark paneling. Heavy odor of cigar smoke, couple of chrome-and-leather chairs for visitors, a high-backed fabric swivel chair, large walnut desk. Pictures of fish and game birds on the wall. Several newspaper awards, word processor on a side table. Chick and I sat in the leather chairs. Horton sat in Uncle Marvin’s executive swivel. The privileges of nepotism.
Horton assumed a superior air, as if the chair had transformed him into a man of power. “Now, what is it you wish to tell me, and quickly, because I have things to do. Another thing, if you say anything I find distasteful, I will terminate this conversation, and you will have to leave.”
Chick looked at me, raised an eyebrow, a playful smile on his lips. “Bet old Horton’s real popular around here.”
“Hey, Horton,” I said. “Time for a wake-up call. Take a look at us, then think about what you just said.”
He fidgeted in his chair. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning,” Chick said, “we’re between you and the door, hoss.”
He swallowed noticeably, his cheeks turned blotchy, and he began straightening things on the desk. “I won’t be intimidated.”
“We’re not here to do that, either,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Chick. “ ’Fraid you might like it.”
“Maybe you could beat me up,” said Horton. “Slap me and kick me around.” He licked his lips, warming to it, his voice becoming husky. “Two big guys like you.”
“Holy-gee-gosh,” said Chick. “You beli
eve this?”
Horton sat back, laughed, and took a deep breath. “If you’re going to tell me about Alan and that Bennett slut, I already knew about it.” Suddenly, no denials. “Just a fling. She’s anybody’s. He got over her.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’m talking about a man. Guy named Dan Candless.” I didn’t like lying to him, but I needed what he knew. “He’s a DEA agent. There’s a teenaged girl, too.”
It was as if I had stuck a cattle prod under his seat. He sat bolt upright, and his boyish face twisted into an ugly thing. “That bitch!” he screamed. “That cocksucker. He’s a liar. He lied to me.”
“Be fair,” Chick said. “Lawyers get paid for that stuff.”
“Do you know anything about a drug called dreamsicle?”
“What?” He stood up and was looking wildly about the room, as if gargoyles were floating in the air. A spooky exhibition. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“This won’t take long. Just settle down some.”
He picked up a coffee cup and smashed it against the wall. Tiny bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth. He slammed both hands down on the desk.
“Get the fuck out! NOW!” he screamed, his voice high-pitched.
We stood up. “Geez,” said Chick. “You’re going to have to lay off the sugar, Horton.”
“Assholes! Get out!”
We complied. He was kicking furniture and throwing things about the office when we left.
Getting into the Bronco, Chick said, “Not one of your better ideas, pard.”
I now doubted that Winston trusted Horton with information about his operation. He’d surely seen Horton’s jealous rages before. Probably when Horton found out about his affair with the Bennett woman, whoever she was. I was also beginning to doubt the rumors of Winston’s gay side. Horton was Winston’s toy. Right up Winston’s alley. He used everybody and everything. Horton was a kept woman, or man, or whatever. There was a tinge of unrequited passion and frustration in Horton’s behavior. Winston probably kept him on a string. There’s no thirst like that for the water you can’t have. But Chick was right, talking to Horton was a waste of time, a mistake of judgment.
