Showdown (5 page)

Carlyle dropped his pen on the desk, sat back, and locked his hands behind his head. "I'm not bein' funny when I say this—he don't have enough of a life for somethin' to
be
wrong. Far as I know, he doesn't have a woman or any kin. Told me his folks died some time ago."

"That's what he told me, too."

"He was seein' that Lucy over at the café, but I think she scared him off. Always talkin' about marriage and such."

Daly stuck his unlit briar in his mouth. "He seem to be havin' a hard time with anything he's workin' on?"

"Not that he's mentioned to me. I meant what I said the other day. He's a damned good deputy. A hell of a lot better with people than I am, for one thing. And he keeps that desk of his organized twenty-four hours a day. Not like this piece of shit." Carlyle's desk was a paper swamp of forms, letters, legal documents, and arrest sheets he wrote out every time he brought somebody in.

"Maybe there's a gal he hasn't told us about," Daly said.

"Could be."

"Or maybe he's just not feelin' well."

"There's somethin' goin' around, that's for sure. Two of my little granddaughters got sore throats."

Daly glanced back at his own desk. It wasn't exactly a monument to orderliness either.

P
rine came in an hour later carrying a package from the general store. He set it over in the corner of the office and sat down at his desk.

Both Daly and Carlyle were busy doing paperwork.

Prine opened the middle drawer of his desk, where he kept work that he had yet to complete. When he looked over at the other two, he realized they were watching him. Carefully. He wondered what the hell was going on.

"You get to Liddy Washburn yet?" Daly said.

"Thought I'd do that soon as I finish up with these two forms. I've got to get them over to the post office."

"Damned forms," Carlyle said. "I'd like to burn every one of them."

"You must've been pretty busy this afternoon, not getting around to Liddy yet," Daly said.

"Yeah, I was busy," Prine said. And then he turned back to his work before Daly could ask anything else.

Prine finished up his two forms, stuck them in appropriate envelopes, slapped stamps on them, and then said, "Well, I'll head out to Washburn's place now."

Daly smiled. "I knew he wouldn't do it. Didn't you, Bob?"

"No, to tell you the truth. I figured he
would
do it."

"You two ever going to tell me what the hell you're talking about?"

Washburn winked at Carlyle. "Listen to this, will you. Like he don't know what we're talkin' about."

"I really don't." Prine felt the way he had when he was a little kid and his older brothers kept the ball from him, throwing it back and forth over his head so he couldn't catch it.

"The sack," Daly said. "Carlyle here wrote me a note while you were busy working on your forms. He said you'd tell us what was in the sack before you left."

Prine felt his cheeks heat up. "Hell, can't I have any personal business?"

"Sure, you can, son. We're just trying to figure out why you're acting the way you are the last few days," Daly said.

"And just how would that be, Sheriff? I'm acting the way I usually do."

"Not really," Carlyle said. "You're just—different is all."

"We worry about you, Tom. We like you. We want to make sure that everything is all right."

"And why wouldn't everything be all right?" Prine said.

"We don't know," Carlyle said. "That's what we hope you'd tell
us
."

"Well, if there is anything wrong, the answer sure isn't in that bag over there."

"Why don't you let us judge that for ourselves?" Daly said, smiling. He obviously sensed he was making Prine nervous, which meant that there was something revealing in the bag, after all.

Prine went over and picked up the sack and said, "You're so eager to get me out to the Washburn place, I'd better get going."

Carlyle laughed. "Boy, that must be somethin' in that sack."

"Something," Daly said, "mighty special. Just look at him blush."

Prine shook his head. "You're like two little kids. Little devils."

"We got him now, Sheriff."

"I think you're right. I think we got him real good."

Prine scoffed and then tossed the bag so that it landed on the sheriff's desk. "There. Go ahead and look. Look till your eyes fall out."

But Daly wasn't done teasing. "You know, Bob, I almost don't want to open it."

"Now, why would that be, Sheriff?"

"Well, when a fella builds somethin' up as much as Prine here did—well, you're just bound to be disappointed when you finally see what it is."

"You could be right about that, Sheriff," Carlyle said, going along with the sly tone.

"You idiots," Prine said.

He walked to Daly's desk, grabbed the sack, shoved his hand inside, and brought forth a handsome, expensive black western shirt with the kind of white piping they wear in Wild West shows. About as fancy as a feller could get in a burg like Claybank.

"You got matchin' silver pistols to go with this shirt?" Daly said.

"Very funny," Prine said. "Now, if you're finally satisfied, I'll take my shirt and ride on out to the Washburn place."

"Be sure and wear your shirt," Carlyle said. "I hear those widow women get awful lonely. And she sees you in that shirt, she's liable to come runnin' out to greet you bare naked."

Daly smirked. "She's got a nice set on her, nobody could argue with that."

Prine decided to have a little fun on his terms. He said, "I'm more worried what Cassie Neville thinks of me than the widow Washburn."

"Cassie Neville? You spendin' time with her?" Carlyle said. "Oh, bullshit."

"Afraid it's not," Prine said.

"You serious, Tom?"

"Invited me out to her place tonight. Some kind of violin recital. Some girl who studied music back east."

"Well, I'll be damned," Carlyle said. "He ain't woofin'."

"Cassie Neville?" Daly said. "No offense, Tom, but I thought she . . ."

"Well, she apparently changed her mind," Prine said. "At least for a night."

There was no doubting the pleasure in his voice. Not only had Cassie Neville actually invited him to her mansion, Prine had also had the extreme fun of seeing Daly and Carlyle stammer and stutter and try to make some sense of how—even if he was young, strong, and nice-looking—a deputy got himself an invite to such an event.

"Well, gentlemen, I guess I'd better get out to the Washburn place."

He turned when he got to the door, his sack under his arm, and gave them the biggest grin he could summon. "And I sure wouldn't want to hold my new friend Cassie up, either."

Both men gaped. Neither said a single word.

T
he horseshoe-shaped drive in front of the plantation-style house allowed room for every expensive, elegant, and remarkable surrey and buggy in the area. Three Mexican servants in red coats, white shirts, and black trousers hastened about helping people with their vehicles, then leading them to the open front doors of the mansion.

Conversation and laughter poured from the doors. Many of the guests had arrived somewhat early and the liquor was flowing freely. Richard Neville was a drinker, even if his sister was not.

Some of the younger guests strolled the perfectly kept rolling lawns on the sides and back end of the house. They were dressed so well they looked, from a distance, like huge flowers in the gauzy half-moon dusk, lilies floating on a stream perhaps.

Prine's first reaction to all this—he was the only person to arrive on horseback—was to flee. He'd grown up poor enough to be intimidated by anybody who seemed connected. He knew that a lot of rich people were stupid, venal, and corrupt—probably just about the same percentage of poor people who were that way—but they had a social edge he couldn't deny. And in the face of them, he always stammered and made foolish statements. As soon as he left the party tonight, he'd think of all the dumb and inappropriate and shitkicker things he'd said. He could get drunk, of course, but that would ensure that his remarks would be even dumber.

He stood just inside the doors, in a vestibule large enough to hold twenty people. The servants didn't seem to know quite how to deal with him. True, he wore his nice new shirt, but all the other men wore suits and cravats.

Finally, Cassie swept up in a navy blue chiffon gown that hinted at cleavage and exposed a span of elegant, fragile shoulder.

"You certainly look handsome tonight."

He gulped, hoping that nobody nearby had heard her. He wasn't good at accepting compliments in public. "You sure look pretty yourself."

She leaned to his ear to whisper. "Don't worry about being shy. I'm the same way. But my brother needs me to play hostess, so I have to force myself to be outgoing." She touched his hand. Pleasure flooded him. He hadn't felt like this in a long, long time. "C'mon, I'll introduce you to Richard. I've told him all about you."

"I didn't think you knew that much about me."

"Oh, I'm a devil, Tom. I have spies everywhere." Her perfume was hypnotic. He followed her through the mansion.

The home managed to feel spacious despite the fact that each room he glimpsed was filled with art and artifacts of all kinds. He didn't know what periods the various furnishings came from, only that the furnishings had been organized to complement the art. One room was given over to French art. He recognized it because he'd happened to see an article about it. The furnishings were all French, too, including a large fireplace whose mantel was covered with a line of music boxes that two women were discussing. The tiny sounds were quaint and fetching in the large room. The paintings were all of girls in ballet poses. He could imagine Cassie in such attire and pose.

The flooring was parquet, the decorative molding and trim on the walls classically Roman. In the halls, huge urns of numerous colors gleamed in the dancing light of carefully placed sconces. Two of the large rooms he saw had verandas off them, crowded verandas. People were everywhere, perhaps a hundred in all.

T
he music room was large enough to seat everybody. A grand piano sat near open French doors that let in a slash of dramatic moonlight. A rather square-bodied young girl with thick eyeglasses and a moon face and a pink formal sat at the piano, not playing, simply staring, as if she were having a secret dialogue with it. Prine felt sorry for her. He would have preferred—as would most of the people here—that she were a slip of a girl whose ethereal face hinted at a charming and socially acceptable form of eroticism. He felt guilty for not being able to accept her as she was. What the hell, why couldn't a sort of mannish girl play a good piano?

He'd seen Richard Neville around town many times, so he recognized him right away—the handsome, blond man whose size and power made him the focus of any room he walked into. There were men like that. You could say it was their money, you could say it was their looks, you could say it was their cunning. But what you really meant was that there were men—and women—whose magnetism would have been just as strong without any of these things. They were the superior branch of the species, and there was no denying it.

Neville, like most superior people, was holding court. He talked, you listened. This particular portion of his godlike utterances had to do with a short-haul railroad he was thinking of investing in—and that he wanted them to invest in, too.

They waited at the edges of the court until Richard released his charges. "But you didn't come here to listen to me," he said with no hint of modesty in his voice—of
course
you came here to listen to me!—"you came here to have fun."

And then Neville came forward like a politician sighting a particularly scruffy poor person. "Hello there," he said, pushing forth a wealth of hand that was twice the size of Prine's. At least he didn't try to impress Prine with his strength. Strapping blond gods didn't need to impress people. People knew enough to be impressed without having a demonstration. "You're Prine. You work for Sheriff Daly. Darned good man. I got him elected the first time, and I'll keep right on getting him reelected. And you can tell him that for me. I think he's done a fine job."

He looked around to see if any of his courtesans were nodding in agreement, but, to his surprise, they seemed to have found other interests.

"And my sweet little sister has told me a lot of good things about you, too," he went on. "I'm not always too happy with her choice of friends. Her taste will improve as she grows up and learns to be responsible. But from everything I've heard, you're a start in the right direction, Prine. And I'm darned happy you could be here tonight. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."

Prine wondered how old Neville had been when he adopted this act. The insolence in his eyes had been expressed only once, in the dismissive, nasty way he'd referred to his sister. Otherwise the act had been without fault. Hail-fellow-well-met and all that businessman bullshit. But Prine knew better. What you had in Richard Neville was an animal who could go dangerous on you in a second. No wonder he'd tripled the value of his father's estate. No wonder he was being talked about as the next governor.