Potshot (5 page)

‘Except that it ain’t dead,’ he said.

‘And Buckman?’

‘We charged him rent for his business. He refused to pay it. He was told there would be a penalty.’

‘That bring him around?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘So?’

‘So somebody shot him,’ The Preacher said.

‘Not you.’

‘Not none of us. We was going to stomp his sorry ass. But we’d rather have him alive and earning so he could pay his rent.’

‘How about his widow?’ I said. ‘I understand she runs the business now.’

‘We’ll get to her,’ The Preacher said. ‘We thought we’d let the murder thing sort of burn out, ’fore we hit on her.’

‘Grieving widow,’ I said.

‘Sure,’ The Preacher said.

‘Sheriff’s detectives,’ I said.

‘Sure.’

‘So that’s the local industry here in the Dell?’ I said. ‘Living off the town?’

‘We was here first,’ The Preacher said.

‘We was?’

‘Been people in the Dell since the Mexican War.’

‘Your ancestors?’ I said.

‘What you might call spir-it-u-al ancestors,’ The Preacher said. ‘Been people like us living here hundred and sixty years.’

‘Supporting themselves off the town,’ I said.

‘Hell,’ The Preacher said, ‘we was the town at first. Then the mine went dry, and all the fucking yuppies moved in. There’s the money. Might as well take it.’

‘Whether they want to give it or not.’

‘You think lambs want to get eaten by wolves?’ The Preacher said.

‘So are you really a preacher?’

‘I preach,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘What do I preach?’

‘Un-huh.’

‘I preach self-reliance,’ he said.

He didn’t seem to be kidding.

‘You and Emerson,’ I said.

‘Who’s Emerson?’

‘One of the Concord Transcendentalists,’ I said.

He frowned. I seemed to be serious.

‘Are you fucking with me?’ The Preacher said.

‘Sometimes I can’t help myself.’

He stared at me like some kind of reptilian predator. I could feel it in the small recesses of my stomach.

‘Could get you hurt really bad,’ he said.

‘How long you been here?’ I said.

‘I come here about three years ago,’ The Preacher said. ‘Found a bunch of degenerate bums, no rules, no ambition, fighting each other over booze and dope and women. I put in some rules, turned them into something.’

‘What rules?’

‘No dope. No hard booze. No fighting with each other. No unattached broads. Any women come here, the man that brought them is responsible for them. You fight with one of us, you fight with all of us.’

‘You gave them pride,’ I said.

He studied me again. This time, his gaze was no less reptilian, but it wasn’t predatory.

‘Yeah,’ he whispered, ‘you might say so.’

‘Probably got some for yourself,’ I said.

He stared out over the desert flats below us, for a time. The heat shimmered up over the town.

‘You might be a smart fella,’ he said after a time.

‘I might be,’ I said.

He looked closely at his fingertips as he rubbed them together. The temperature was ferociously hot. I knew I was sweating. But the sweat evaporated almost instantly in the dry air.

‘I come in here,’ The Preacher said, ‘these people were lying around here like zoo animals,’ he said. ‘Farting, fucking, fighting over the women. Dope, booze. They ran out of money they’d boost something in town, or beg. Nobody cleaned the barracks. Nobody washed themselves. The place stunk.’

I nodded.

‘You know Buckman?’ I said.

‘I knew him.’

‘Know his wife?’

‘Enough,’ The Preacher said.

‘You got any thought who shot him?’

‘You’re like a fucking dog with a fucking bone,’ The Preacher said. ‘Maybe she shot him.’

‘Mrs Buckman?’

‘Could be.’

‘Got any reason to think so?’

The Preacher laughed his dry, ugly laugh.

‘
Cherchez
la fucking
femme
,’ he said. ‘Ain’t that right?’

Him too.

‘Sometimes.’

‘More than sometimes,’ The Preacher said. ‘Broads are trouble.’

‘I take it you’re not a feminist,’ I said.

‘A what?’

‘Never mind.’

The feral ferocity came back into his look.

‘You fucking with me again?’ he said.

‘Only a little,’ I said.

‘You take some bad chances, Boston.’

‘Keeps me young,’ I said.

The Preacher cackled. It was a startling sound.

‘Well you go ahead and find out who killed old Stevie Buckman,’ The Preacher said. ‘And good luck with it… long as you stay out of our way.’

‘Do what I can,’ I said.

Back at The Jack Rabbit Inn I went to the bar. I liked air-conditioned bars on hot afternoons, when there weren’t many people there and it was quiet and sort of dim. They had Coors on draught. I ordered some and it arrived in a chilled glass. Perfect. When I had drunk half of it, I turned and rested my elbows on the bar and looked around the room. The walls were paneled in bleached oak. There were some Georgia O’Keeffe prints. Behind the bar was a mirror, with the booze stacked in front of it, backlit so it looked enticing. Above the mirror was a large painting of a nude woman with a red silk scarf over her pelvis. I finished the beer and ordered another one. The doors to the bar were bat-winged. Posted on the wall to either side were an assortment of fake wanted posters. The whole look made me want to wear my gun low in a tooled holster. Except the gun was real.

‘No one should drink alone,’ someone said, and Bebe Taylor slid her good-looking butt onto a barstool next to me.

‘So I’m volunteering,’ she said. ‘Tough dirty work,’ I said.

‘But someone has to do it,’ Bebe said. ‘I drink gimlets.’

I gestured the bartender down and ordered for her.

‘Why aren’t you out selling a house?’ I said.

‘I came down here to see you,’ she said.

The gimlet arrived, and she picked it up and held it toward the light.

‘I think one reason I like these is that they look so nice,’ she said.

‘Any reason’s a good one,’ I said, just to be saying something. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘Your nose has been broken,’ she said.

‘Thank you for noticing,’ I said.

‘I like a man whose nose has been broken,’ she said.

‘That’s why I had it done.’

‘And,’ she said, ‘I like men who are silly.’

‘Well, little lady, you’ve got the right hombre.’

She smiled. Each of us drank.

‘You know, you’re something of a hunk,’ Bebe said.

A middle-aged couple in shorts and tank tops came in and sat at the end of the bar and ordered vodka and tonics, and something called Alamo burgers.

‘What the hell is an Alamo burger?’ I said to Bebe.

‘A cheeseburger with a chili pepper on it.’

‘Let the good times roll,’ I said.

‘You’re a big one, aren’t you,’ Bebe said.

‘Just the right size for my clothes,’ I said.

Bebe leaned back a little and looked me over as if she might buy me.

‘You’re not fat at all,’ she said. ‘How’d you get so big?’

‘Practice,’ I said.

She reached over and squeezed my bicep.

‘Oooo,’ she said.

‘Oo?’

‘You must be very strong.’

We drank again, which took care of Bebe’s gimlet. I nodded to the bartender and he brought her another one.

‘Are you in town alone?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that because you are alone?’

‘You mean do I have a person?’

‘Yes.’

‘I do,’ I said.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Susan,’ I said.

‘You married?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly? What does that mean?’

‘It means not exactly,’ I said.

Bebe tasted her new gimlet. Quite a lot of it.

‘Leaves you room to maneuver,’ she said.

I saw no reason to explain Susan and me to Bebe, so I nodded.

‘She pretty?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Well aren’t you gallant?’ She put the stress on the last syllable.

‘I’m accurate.’ I stressed the last syllable too.

‘Is she as beautiful and as sweet as Lou Buckman?’ Bebe said.

‘Do I hear irony in your voice?’ I said.

‘Of course not,’ Bebe said.

She finished her second gimlet in another big swallow. I nodded at the bartender.

‘Lou is very beautiful… and very sweet.’

She looked at her empty glass and looked up at the bartender. She saw that he was putting the finishing touches on her next gimlet, and looked relieved.

‘As sweet as you?’ I said.

Bebe grinned. She was already a little sloshed.

‘Almost,’ she said.

The bartender put her third gimlet on a napkin in front of her. She picked it up promptly and drank some.

‘And how sweet are you?’ I said.

‘Maybe you’ll find out,’ she said.

‘Okay, so how sweet is Lou?’

Bebe giggled.

‘Maybe you’ll find that out, too. You wouldn’t be the first.’

‘I thought she was blissful in her marriage,’ I said.

‘Sometimes.’

Bebe had a little gimlet.

‘Tell me about it,’ I said.

She looked at my half glass of beer.

‘You’re not staying up with me,’ she said.

‘I started before you,’ I said.

‘You don’t like to get drunk?’ she said.

‘I find it hampers me when I do.’

She giggled.

‘Wouldn’t want you hampered,’ she said and bumped her knee against mine.

I tried to look seductive.

‘Tell me about Lou and Steve.’

‘Them,’ she said.

I nodded encouragingly.

‘Well I know at least two men she had flings with. I assume they weren’t the only two.’

‘I’ll be damned,’ I said. ‘Who were they?’

Bebe slugged in some gimlet.

‘Who?’

‘The men she had flings with,’ I said.

Spenser, you old gossip.

‘Well Mark, for one, and dear old Dean-o for another.’

‘Mark Ratliff?’

‘Un-huh.’

‘And the cop?’

‘Dean Walker,’ she said.

‘And how do you know this?’ I said.

Bebe smiled as serenely as she could, being fairly well bagged.

‘Men like to kiss and tell,’ she said.

She might have said, ‘kissh.’

‘These guys just stopped by the office one day and told?’ I said.

‘Not exactly,’ she said.

‘Am I to gather that you were flinging a little yourself?’ I said.

She giggled and drank.

‘I like to kissh and tell, myself.’

‘Don’t we all?’ I said.

She finished her gimlet.

‘You got a room?’ she said.

‘Sure do,’ I said.

‘Let’s go see it,’ she said.

‘Let’s,’ I said.

I was trying to leer, but she was too drunk to notice. I signed the tab and took her arm and we went out of the bar and into the lobby and up the stairway to my room.

Inside, she looked around the room.

‘So neat,’ she said. ‘Whyn’t you have room service bring us up a drink? I gotta freshen up a little.’

‘You bet.’

She was in the bathroom for a long time. When she came out I could see that she had worked on her hair a little, and there was a fresh smell of newly sprayed perfume.

‘Room service come yet?’

‘Not yet,’ I said.

‘Well maybe we should lie on the bed and wait for them,’ she said.

‘That would be swell,’ I said.

She walked over to the bed, and lay down on it. She smiled at me and patted the bed beside her.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I won’t bite.’

I sat on the edge of the bed next to her.

‘So tell me a little about Steve Buckman,’ I said.

She stared up at me. Her eyes were unfocused. Her pupils looked very big.

‘Steve?’

‘Yes, what was he really like?’

She kept looking at me.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it now.’

‘You think Steve was different than he seemed?’ I said.

Her eyelids drooped. I thought she might be trying to look vampish. Then her eyelids shut. I was saved. She was asleep. I straightened her out a little, put the spread over her, canceled the room service and left.

When I came back into the bar, the bartender gave me a look full of questions he knew he shouldn’t ask.

‘Beer,’ I said.

‘Will there be a gimlet with that, sir?’

‘Couldn’t resist, could you?’ I said.

He shrugged.

‘There’s always other jobs,’ he said.

‘Mrs Taylor is resting,’ I said.

The bartender smiled.

‘She started resting as soon as we got upstairs,’ I said.

‘Never heard it called that,’ the bartender said.

‘Beer,’ I said.

He brought it and moved back down the bar, smiling to himself. I sipped a little beer.

I missed Susan. I was spending too much time alone in my head. Solitary speculation is good up to a point. Your mind is uncluttered. You can focus. But with no one to test your perceptions against, things eventually begin to circle on themselves. I had spent a lot of time during my life inside my own head. Since I’d been with Susan I had her to help me think, and even when I was away from her, I could sometimes clear my head by explaining things to her in absentia.

It was clear that Bebe was restive in her marriage.

Indeed
.

Everything else is less clear. If I believed what she told me, then things are not quite what they had seemed. This is not surprising. Almost nothing is quite what it seems. Even The Preacher is a little different than I’d expected.

Of course
.

Unless both Bebe and Ratliff are lying, it’s pretty sure that Lou Buckman knows Mark Ratliff well, and omitted him from her list. She could have forgotten, though it seems unlikely, especially if she’d slept with him. She could be ashamed of sleeping with him and omitted him in hopes it wouldn’t come up. And if she had been sleeping with Dean Walker, it’s reasonable that neither would mention it. But it would suggest that Lou also was restive in her marriage.

Cherchez la femme?

Susan too?

Lou being restive in her marriage doesn’t mean she killed him. Why would she hire me to find out who killed him if she was the one? Why would she hire me to find out who killed him if she didn’t love him enough to be faithful? My imagination shrugged. Maybe she loved him in her fashion and her fashion was different from the ones I endorsed.