The Bridge (29 page)

“Just like everyone else,” I said.

“Fine and dandy,” Beauregard said. “But I don’t imagine there’s a day that goes by that either of you are even remotely close to being like everyone else.”

—

T
he insides of the tent’s walls were painted to look like a European landscape with various villages on the horizon.

Virgil, Allie, and I took our seats and the show began, starting with Beauregard stepping onstage.

“Appaloosa,” he said. “Let’s start by giving yourselves a big round of applause for being here tonight.”

He clapped and most everyone in the two-hundred-plus crowd did the same.

“Let your friends and family know,” he said. “We will be here each and every evening with a variety of new and exciting entertainment, so keep coming and we’ll keep you feeling glad that you did.”

Beauregard went through the list of the evening’s events to be presented. He let everyone know there would be a three-act play, with intermissions, along with singing, dancing, and fortune-telling by Madame Leroux.

Beauregard ended his intro by saying,
“Following the play, we have the most magnificent of magic from Dr. Longfellow, so sit back and enjoy . . . the show.”

The show got under way and for the most part it was very entertaining. The play was funny. Beauregard and Nell were good performers, and Beauregard actually made Virgil laugh.

The first intermission had a rousing singing and dancing number that included Nell showing off her legs as well as her vocal skills. The
bit was enjoyable, but I was curious to see what the next intermission brought with Madame Séraphine Leroux.

The second act of the play seemed to go on forever. It was engaging, but I was anxious to see her when the act ended and Beauregard stepped out onto center stage.

“Now, this is something really special,” he said. “Something I know you all have been waiting for. Allow me to introduce to you the one, the only, the mystic, the clairvoyant, the beautiful . . . Madame Leroux.”

Beauregard held out his hand toward the side wing and Madame Leroux walked onstage.

Virgil leaned forward and looked to me.

I could not take my eyes off of her.

Madame Leroux was a beautiful woman wearing a turban, but she was someone else, someone other than Séraphine. She was an exotic-looking woman, but she was weathered, with a dark complexion, and looked to be maybe sixty-five or seventy years old.

Virgil leaned Allie forward a bit and edged himself over behind her, cupping his mouth as he spoke in my ear. Allie looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“Nice-enough-looking lady, Everett,” he said. “A little long in the tooth for you, though, don’t ya think?”

He leaned back in his seat but remained looking at me.

I looked at him.

He nodded, offering a slight encouraging smile with his eyebrows raised.

—
78
—

B
efore Madame Leroux wrapped up her show of holding cards to her head and guessing the numbers and suits, or picking people from the audience and telling them where they came from and letting them know someone just died or someone was just born, I got up from my seat and walked out of the tent.

From inside the big tent I heard whistles and clapping as I made my way through the pavilions and found Madame Leroux’s trailer.

I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I opened the door and had a look inside.

“Hey,” a gruff voice said. “Whatcha doing there, mister?”

The voice was from a little fella in a high-top silk gent’s hat. He was wearing suspenders holding up baggy trousers over his long johns.

“Looking for Séraphine,” I said.

“This is Madame Leroux’s trailer,” he said.

Just then Madame Leroux came walking up.

“This fella was looking through your trailer,” the man said.

“Not looking through your trailer,” I said.

“Said he’s looking for . . . ?”

“Séraphine,” I said.

“This is my trailer, young man,” she said.

“Why are you looking through her trailer?” the fella said.

“I’m not,” I said.

“Looked like it to me,” the fella said.

“Séraphine. I’m looking for Séraphine.”

“I know,” he said. “You said that.”

Madame Leroux shook her head.

“This is my trailer,” she said.

“Do you know where I can find her?” I said.

“No,” she said. “I don’t know any Séraphine.”

The little man shook his head.

“No Séraphine on this show, bub,” he said.

“I saw her,” I said. “In this very trailer when you rode into this town. I saw her in the window of this trailer.”

“I know Deputy Chastain,” Madame Leroux said. “He’s made an arrest here before and he will do it again. If I find anything missing, you could find yourself in trouble.”

I was listening to her, but I wasn’t really listening to her. I looked around, thinking, but wasn’t even sure what the hell I was even thinking about. My mind was racing as I tried to come to some understanding about everything that had led up to this very moment.

Without even thinking, I showed Madame Leroux and the fella with the top hat my badge.

“You don’t have to worry about me stealing anything from you, Madame Leroux,” I said. “I’m a territorial deputy marshal. My name is Hitch, Everett Hitch.”

“Oh,” she said, “Well, okay, I’m sorry . . .”

“No, no,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“Do you have a young lady on the show,” I said, “lovely, intense, beautiful, with very long dark hair, pale complexion, blue eyes. She’s slender, a little on the tall side?”

The little man shook his head.

“Sorry, young man,” Madame Leroux said. “Sounds to me you’ve been duped.”

The little fella nodded.

“No woman like that on this show,” he said. “I can tell you that for certain.”

Wallis,
I thought.
Wallis.

“Appreciate it,” I said. “Thank you . . .”

I walked off, leaving Madame Leroux and the little fella in the top hat and headed for the Boston House.

I walked briskly through the streets as my mind raced.
What the hell? What was this? Who is she? Where is she? Why did she leave me to believe she was with this damn show? She was here, by God. She was most certainly here.

The Boston House was busy when I entered, and Wallis looked up at me when I walked in and made my way through the crowd and up to the bar.

“Everett,” he said with a big smile. “What can I get you?”

“Need to talk to you,” I said.

“You want something?” he said.

“Not at the moment,” I said.

“What’s up?” he said.

“You remember when I was here,” I said, “a while back? I came in when you were closing up?”

“Sure,” he said.

“You remember the woman that walked in?” I said. “We sat right there?”

“What woman?” he said with a blank look on his face.

I pointed to the table where we sat.

“Right there,” I said. “You served her a brandy.”

Wallis looked at me, maintaining the blank look on his face, then smiled.

“Well, hell, Everett, I’ve drunk my share and have dropped a few marbles in my day, but I damn sure do remember her, of course I do,” Wallis said.

“You do,” I said.

“Sure,” he said.

“Have you seen her?” I said. “Have you laid eyes on her since?”

He shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “She sift through?”

I just looked at Wallis, then looked around the room. Everybody in the place seemed to be talking louder than they needed to be talking. I looked back to Wallis.

“I suspect,” I said.

Wallis looked at me a moment, then grabbed a bottle and poured us both a healthy swallow. He scooted the whiskey across to me and held up his glass.

I looked at the whiskey, staring at it for a moment, then picked up the glass and looked to Wallis.

“To the moon,” he said.

—
79
—

N
ice evening,” I said.

“Damn sure is,” Virgil said.

We sat silent for a bit, sipping on the Kentucky.

“That weather came on good,” I said.

“Damn sure did,” Virgil said. “Didn’t it?”

“Next few months might prove to be mild,” I said.

“You think?” Virgil said.

“For some reason,” I said, “I do.”

“Warm now,” Virgil said.

“Unseasonably so,” I said.

“Is,” Virgil said. “Ain’t it?”

“Might be a good time to paint,” I said, looking up at the underside of the porch.

“Thought you said you’d help build but weren’t interested in painting?” Virgil said.

“I did say that.”

“Change your mind,” Virgil said.

“Often do,” I said.

“A man does that once and a while,” Virgil said.

“They do.”

Virgil looked up at the underside a bit.

“I’ll get the paint,” he said.

“Do,” I said. “Before I change my mind.”

“By God,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

Virgil looked back out to the horizon and we sat quiet for a long spell without talking, as we watched the evening sun.

“She rubbed off on you,” Virgil said, without looking at me.

I looked to Virgil.

“Obvious?”

“Is,” he said.

I shook my head a little.

“Some,” I said.

“Where you figure she went?” Virgil said.

“Don’t know.”

“Maybe she ain’t gone.”

“She is.”

“How do you know?”

“Just do.”

Virgil looked at me.

I saw Allie up the street. She was walking our way, carrying a box of groceries.

“Allie,” I said softly.

Virgil looked to her. We just watched her. The setting sun was shining on her. Her hair was a bit untidy and moving with the breeze as she walked. She looked almost angelic the way the golden sunlight was shining on her. She greeted a few folks on the boardwalk as she neared. She looked as happy as I’d ever seen her.

“Allie,” I said quietly again.

Virgil nodded.

She saw us as she crossed the street.

“Hey, boys,” Allie said with a smile. “It’s so nice out, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Virgil said.

“You need some help,” I said.

“No, no,” she said. “I got it.”

She walked up the steps, carrying the box.

“Just wait and see what I’m fixing for supper,” she said.

“Okay,” Virgil said.

I got up and opened the door for her.

“It will be scrumptious,” she said. “Oh . . . got you something, Virgil.”

Allie balanced the box a little on her knee. She retrieved a cigar from the box and handed it to Virgil.

“Don’t say I never got you nothing,” she said. “Mr. Sadler said it came all the way from Cuba.”

“Why, thank you, Allie,” Virgil said.

“You’re very welcome,” she said, as she continued on inside. “You know I’d have got you one as well, but thankfully you don’t have the habit . . . Just leave the door open for the breeze, Everett.”

Virgil looked back to me and smiled a little.

I picked up the bottle of Kentucky, refreshed our drinks, then sat back down.

Virgil looked at the band on his cigar and nodded a little. He bit the tip and spit it over the rail. He fished a match out of his pocket and dragged the head of it on the leg of his chair. He cupped his hand, keeping the flame from the breeze, and lit the cigar. He worked on it some till he got it going good, then flicked the match away and leaned back and looked at the cigar for a moment.

We heard the familiar clamor of pans from inside.

“You okay in there?” Virgil called.

“Oh, yes. Fine,” Allie said. “I’m fine, just, it’s fine . . .”

“You sure?” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Virgil smiled a little. He sat back in his chair and puffed on his cigar for a bit.

We sat quiet for a bit, watching the very last piece of sun until it was gone.

“What is it?” Virgil said, tilting his head a little. “Where are we?”

“December,” I said. “Second day of.”

“Is it?”

“It is.”

Virgil shook his head.

“What happened to November?”

“It came and went, Virgil,” I
said.

—

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Much obliged to my crew of enduring construction workers for helping me get this bridge across the divide. First and foremost, Jan Griesenbeck, for allowing me to set up camp and bunker down in her Spicewood retreat—thank you so much, Jan! Outrider Rob Wood of Rancho Roberto, for keeping the bullethead blueprints in order, and Jamie “Whatnot” Whitcomb, for his continued supply of ammo. My ex–oil field pard Lowell Reed, for his knowledge in all things engineering, mountain guide Rex “Hook-em” Linn, for his steady tracking, and Kevin “PG” Meyer, for his expertise across the deep and wide. Also, a big thanks to ex-con Billy Ray Snipes for his policy smarts, and Vanessa Rose and Genevieve Negrete, for sorting out the rivets. Robert Woodfin Griesenbeck, for keeping it between the ditches, and most certainly and always, Ed Harris, for bringing Virgil Cole to life on the big screen, and talking in my ear as a sounding and unwavering foreman.  

My deepest sympathy to all of those who carried the dynamite: Alison Binder, Steve Fisher, Josh Kesselman, Jayne Amelia Larson,
Nat Toppino, Alice DiGregorio, Gabriel Marantz, my sisters—the Clogging Castanets—Sandra Hakman and Karen Austin, and as always, Julie, for everything . . .

And for Bob and Joan, for without them looking over this construction, Appaloosa would be but a memory.

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