The Fourth Durango (22 page)

Merriman Dorr’s small office in Cousin Mary’s was two doors down the corridor from
the poker room where the weekend table-stakes games were played. The office was about the size of the average living room rug and contained a large Chubb safe, three bar-locked steel filing cabinets and two wingback chairs.

There was also a desk—a child’s desk Dorr had salvaged from the old schoolhouse—with a wooden top that lifted up, a round inkwell and a fold-up seat he had moved back a foot or so to make room for his knees.

Dorr was now seated at the desk, shaking his head at B. D. Huckins, who sat in one of the wingback chairs, her legs crossed and her navy-blue dress pulled well down over her knees.

“Sounds like gore on the floor to me, B. D.,” Dorr said after he stopped shaking his head no.

“Five thousand, Merriman, for the use of two rooms and your safe for one hour.”

“If you need two rooms and a safe, that means you’ve got two people or two groups of people involved. One of ’em’s got the goods and the other’s got the money and nobody trusts anybody. If one of ’em forgets to bring the money or the goods, then there’s liable to be some bang-bang. And if that happens, five thousand won’t even come close to paying for the misery I’ll get from Charlie Coates or maybe the DEA.”

“I don’t need to tell you it’s not drugs.”

“Yeah, but it’s something that needs two rooms and a safe for an hour, and that means big bucks’re changing hands because, if they weren’t, they could do it down near the teeter-totters in Handshaw Park.”

“Ten thousand,” she said. “Final offer.”

“In advance.”

She hesitated, nodded reluctantly and said, “All right.”

Dorr rose from the child’s desk, smiling. “Now how’s this sound for lunch, B. D.? A ham loaf made out of real Virginia ham; fresh peas, new potatoes, an endive salad and, for dessert, homemade peach ice cream?”

“If it comes out of your ten thousand, it sounds fine,” Huckins said.

Once again lunch had been served at the round table in the large room with no windows. When they had all finished their peach ice cream, except for Kelly Vines, who hadn’t wanted any, Parvis Mansur lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling, smiled his most genial smile and said, “Shall we begin, B. D.?”

The mayor looked at Vines and said, “Merriman wants ten thousand in advance.” She paused. “Today.”

“What do we get in return?” Vines asked.

“A safe and two rooms—this one and the poker room. And since you’re paying, you get first choice.”

“I’d like to see that poker room first,” Vines said.

“Merriman’ll let you see it after he gets his ten thousand.”

“I know what it looks like,” Sid Fork said. “It’s got the standard poker table and chairs, a couple of couches, a little bar, a refrigerator, a toaster oven, a commercial coffeemaker, a bathroom and no windows.”

“What about the door?” Vines asked.

“Steel door.”

Vines looked at Jack Adair. “What do you think?”

“I like the steel door.”

“So do I,” Vines said and turned to Huckins. “Where’s Merriman?”

“In his office.”

Vines pushed his chair back from the table and rose. “Then I might as well go pay him his money.”

After he knocked and the voice said come in, Vines entered Merriman Dorr’s small office and looked around curiously. “Nice safe,” he said. “I also like your desk.”

“Will I need to open the safe?”

“I think so,” Vines said, went over to Dorr, took a thick white No. 10 envelope from his jacket breast pocket and placed it on the desktop. Dorr picked it up, lifted its flap and looked inside. “Think I’ll count it,” he said.

Vines nodded, turned, went to one of the wingback chairs, sat down and watched Dorr count the $10,000.

“All there,” Dorr said when the count was finished.

“Tell me something,” Vines said. “What’s the contingency plan?”

“In case of what?”

“In case the sheriff raids the game.”

Dorr shrugged. “Out the back door.”

“And into the arms of the deputies? I don’t mean that plan. I mean the real one.”

“Well, sir, if I was sitting in that game—although I never do—and heard Charlie Coates and his deputies trying to beat down the poker room door, which oughta take ’em at least four minutes, maybe five, well, I’d pick up my money and head for the bathroom that doesn’t have a bathtub, but does have a tin shower stall.”

Dorr rose, went to the safe, turned his back on Vines to protect the combination and began turning the dial.

“Then what?” Vines asked as Dorr tugged open the safe door and placed the money envelope inside.

Dorr left the safe door open as he turned back to Vines and said, “Hardly seems worthwhile to close it and then open it up again for less than a thousand, does it?”

“Leave it open and I’ll put a thousand on your little desk. You tell me what happens in the shower stall. If I like it, you put the thousand in the safe. If I don’t, you only put five hundred in.”

“You’ll like it,” Dorr said.

Vines took ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, placed them on the child’s desk, returned to the wingback chair, sat down and nodded at Dorr. “Let’s hear it.”

“Once I got inside the shower stall with all my clothes on,” Dorr said, “I’d turn the cold water handle to the right and push pretty hard. The metal panel would open up on an old flight of wood stairs that leads down to the school basement. On the landing there’s a flashlight. I’d turn that on, shut the shower panel real tight, go down the stairs, take a seat and wait.”

“For what?”

“For the sheriff to leave.”

“No way out of the basement then?”

“It’s just a hidey-hole, Mr. Vines. Only way out’s the way you come in.”

“It’d be better if there were another way out.”

“But there’s not.”

“Pick up your thousand,” Vines said.

After Kelly Vines returned to the round table to report he had arranged for the two rooms and the safe, Parvis Mansur took over the discussion.

“The simplest of ruses is usually the best,” he said. “So the one I’ll use to lure Mr. Vines and Mr. Adair here on Monday next, the fourth of July, is a holiday poker game.”

“At least that’s what you’ll tell whoever’s willing to pay a million dollars for the pair of us,” Adair said.

“Correct.”

“What time does the game start?”

“Three in the afternoon.”

“And what will you tell him—this guy who keeps calling you?”

“You mean about the procedure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, first I’ll speak of money.”

“Good,” Sid Fork said.

“I shall also emphasize—rather strongly, I might add—that nothing will happen until the money has been tallied and secured.”

“What’s the deal on the safe?” Fork asked Vines.

“Dorr’s agreed to leave it open and let Parvis lock the money inside.”

“So when it’s all over, Merriman’ll unlock it and hand over the million?” Fork said.

Vines nodded.

“Seems to me if something happened to some of us,” Fork said, “old Merriman could just say, ‘What money?’—couldn’t he?”

“What an interesting thought, Chief,” Adair said.

“I think while all this is going on,” Fork said, “Merriman and I’ll play a few hands of gin out at my house—just to pass the time.”

“Extremely wise,” Mansur said.

“Well, let’s see now,” Adair said. “Mr. Mansur has counted the money and locked it away in the safe. Now what?”

Mansur said, “Next I turn to the person or persons who’ve paid me the money and hand over the key that unlocks the poker room where you and Mr. Vines are ostensibly waiting to commence your game.”

“You’ve locked us in?” Vines said.

“I’m afraid so—for the sake of realism.”

No one said anything after that for several seconds until B. D. Huckins quietly asked, “What happens then, Mr. Vines?”

“It all depends,” he said.

At 12:09
A.M.
on Saturday, July 2, the chief of police rose naked from the mayor’s bed and pulled on the Jockey shorts that were lying on the floor next to the jeans and white shirt he had worn to Soldier Sloan’s burial.

“Like me to get you something before I go?” he asked B. D. Huckins, who lay on her back, the sheet up to her chin, staring at the bedroom’s textured ceiling that always reminded Fork of three-week-old cottage cheese.

“Maybe a glass of wine.”

“Zinfandel?” he asked as he zipped up the jeans and began buttoning the shirt.

“Fine,” the mayor said.

Stuffing the tails of his shirt down into the jeans, Fork said, “Maybe I ought to stay, B. D.”

She shook her head. “I need time to think.”

“About what?”

“Just think.”

“I’ll get the wine,” he said.

When he came back with two glasses of Zinfandel, Huckins propped herself up against the bed’s headboard, letting the sheet slip almost to her waist. Fork smiled at her bare breasts that he long ago had decided were perfect.

“When I see ’em like that,” he said, handing her the wine, “sort of accidentally, I still think exactly what I thought twenty years ago: she’s got the best-looking set of jugs in California.”

“Jugs,” she said, looking down at her breasts with what could have been either detachment or indifference. “I guess you could call them that since their main purpose is to supply milk to the young I’m probably never going to have.”

“That bother you?”

She sipped the wine, as if reflecting on Fork’s question. “I’m thirty-six, Sid. Another four or five years and—”

“You wanta get married?”

“I don’t need to get married to have a kid.”

Fork finished his wine, put the glass down on the bedside table and said, “Lemme ask you something else, B. D.”

She nodded.

“Did it ever sort of happen to cross your mind that we could take that million and just tell Durango good-bye, good luck and
hasta la vista
?”

She stared at him with eyes that—perhaps because of the dim light—had taken on the color of gunpowder. “That’s one of the things I need to think about.”

At 12:49
A.M.
on that same Saturday, Virginia Trice arrived home after closing the Blue Eagle early to find Jack Adair again in the kitchen of the old house. He had just finished making two toasted Spam and cheese sandwiches when she said, “You really like to cook?”

“I like to eat,” Adair said, placed the sandwiches on two plates and served them on the pine kitchen table.

“Looks good,” she said, sitting down.

“Milk okay?” he asked, opening the refrigerator.

“Fine.”

Adair served the milk, sat down at the table, took an enormous bite of his sandwich and chewed it with obvious enjoyment. As they ate the sandwiches and drank the milk, she told him how a waitress at the Blue Eagle had quit that afternoon without notice. It could’ve put her in a bind, she said, because it was the first of the month and the government checks were arriving.

“But it didn’t?” he asked.

“In Durango? An hour after she quit five girls came in to apply for her job. I told each one I’d call her tomorrow—today now—and tell her yes or no. That way they don’t have to sit around waiting for the phone to ring.”

“That was a decent thing to do.”

“When I was a waitress I learned pretty quick that this country’s got a real shortage of decency.”

She reached into her small brown leather purse, hesitated, looked at Adair and said, “You smoke?”

“Used to.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Not at all.”

She took a pack of filtered Camels from the purse and lit one with a disposable lighter. “I started again on Tuesday right after the funeral. I’d been off for sixteen months.”