The Crack in the Lens (5 page)

Or, Gustav and I Find Ourselves Painted into a Corner

My brother looked as wobbly at the knee as my chum Wishbone downstairs, and for a second I almost thought he was going to crumple onto the bed next to Big Bess.

“A stranger…just passin’ through,” he said, voice hoarse.

Then he snapped his spine straight, and his gaze turned into something hard and sharp—a blade aimed at Big Bess. The woman even flinched.

“If that’s all there is to it,” he snarled, “why didn’t you say so before we came up here?”

“Hey, you said you had questions about Adeline, so here I am. If you don’t like the answers, that ain’t my fault.”

“She’s right, Brother,” I said, “and she’s stickin’ her neck out just talkin’ to us, y’know. Instead of grousin’ about what the lady’s got to say, we oughta just hear it through quick and get the hell outta here.”

“Alright, alright,” Old Red grumbled. “I’m sorry, Bess. I’m just…edgy, is all.”

“Sure, I understand. Some things never change.” The “lady” threw me a wink that reminded me of the Big Bess I’d first seen downstairs—the one who was all wisecracks and frolics and hustling the customers. “So who else you talked to since you hit town?”

“Well, all we’ve really managed to do is—”

“Hear it through quick, you said,” Gustav snapped at me. “So let’s not get off the trail, huh?” He turned back to Big Bess, and his tone softened. A bit. “When was it Ragsdale told you about this supposed stranger?”

Big Bess furrowed her considerable brow. “When? I don’t know. A long time back.”

“
Think
. Could it have been the first time he sent one of you gals over to the Star after Adeline died?”

“You think Ragsdale was lyin’?” I asked Old Red. “So his chippies wouldn’t be afraid to make house calls?”

“I don’t know. I do know him sayin’ something sure as hell don’t make it true.”

Big Bess gave her head a quick, firm shake. “No, no…I remember now. It was the night Adeline died. That’s when Mr. Ragsdale mentioned the stranger at the Star, I’m sure of it.”

“That very night?” Gustav said. “Around what time?”

“What
time
? Christ! It was five years ago!”

“Well, if you can’t gimme the when, what about the how? I’m guessin’ Ragsdale didn’t just bring it up in the midst of friendly conversation. Cuz from what Adeline used to tell me, once that bastard has a gal in harness for him, he’d as soon spit on her as speak to her. It’s all ‘Yes, Mr. Ragsdale—no, Mr. Ragsdale’ and a slap to the face for anything more.”

Big Bess’s face flushed as if
she’d
just been slapped.

“I asked him what happened to Adeline, and he told me,” she said. “That’s all I remember.”

“You gotta admit, Bess,” I said, “it wouldn’t be beyond a feller like Ragsdale to lie.”

“Feh,” Gustav spat. “It wouldn’t be beyond that son of a bitch to kill Adeline himself and whip up some bullshit story to cover it.”

“Why would Mr. Ragsdale do that?” Big Bess asked.

“Well, there’s the money Adeline was savin’ up, for one thing,” Old Red said. “What happened to it?”

Big Bess shrugged. “I never heard about any money.”

“Really? Adeline told me all you gals sock cash away around the cathouse, cuz them two slave drivers of yours would take—”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” Big Bess boomed. For just an instant, her gaze flicked away to the wall, seeming to settle on the portrait of Lincoln behind us. There was sullen spite in her eyes, and I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t fair, Honest Abe getting the evil eye like that. But, hey…this was Texas. The woman was probably a Democrat.

“Look,” Gustav said, “the week before she was killed, Adeline told me her kitty was up to three hundred dollars. Now, that much money don’t just—”

Big Bess leaned back and barked a harsh laugh up at the ceiling. “Three hundred dollars? Well, ooo-la-laaaaaa!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

When Big Bess looked back down at my brother, her face wasn’t so much changed as unveiled. The anger and contempt etched deep into her blubber had been there all along, just underneath the grins and winks.

“It means Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Bock wouldn’t wipe their asses on three hundred dollars, let alone kill a good earner like Adeline for it. She could hump up more money than that in a month.”

Old Red stiffened, his jaw clenched tight.

“Oh…you didn’t know that about her, did you?” Big Bess went on. “That she was popular with the boys? Well, she was.
Real
popular. I tell you, that bird-with-a-wounded-wing act of hers sure worked. She must’ve had twenty dumb drovers on her string, all of ’em thinkin’ they was her one and only. You want the truth about your sweet Adeline, well, there it is: You didn’t mean any more to her than any other horny ranch hand plunkin’ down his dollar.”

Gustav just stood there, utterly still, utterly silent. Lot’s wife in a Stetson and blue jeans.

“Oh, hon…I’m sorry,” Big Bess said, her tone suddenly turning tender, remorseful, sickly sweet. “I should’ve told you nicer. But the important thing is now you know, and you can save yourself a lot of trouble. Adeline always said you was thick, but I never believed it. You’re smart, I can tell. And a smart man wouldn’t tangle with Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Bock. Not for
her
. You don’t owe that lyin’ bitch a thing. Just go. Now. Before it’s too late.”

Old Red made no move to go, though. He made no move—no sound—of any kind.

“Brother,” I began. I’m not even sure I had more to say than that. I was just reminding him I was there. That he wasn’t as alone as Big Bess’s words might make him feel.

Then words finally came to him again, slow and low.

“Tell me again…who sent Adeline to the Star that night?”

“Mr. Bock.”

“Hmm.” Gustav turned away, head bowed, and began pacing around the room with heavy, deliberate steps. “And who was it told you about the stranger?”

Big Bess hesitated, like this was some kind of trick question.

“Mr. Ragsdale.”

“Uh-huh.”

As Old Red was passing the picture of Lincoln, he stopped, then pivoted again and leaned back against the wall next to it. His face and gloomy old Abe’s were perfectly even, and it was like there were two men staring at Big Bess now.

“Just one more question, Bess,” Gustav said. “Why are you still callin’ both them bastards ‘mister’ when ain’t neither of ’em around to even hear it?”

“Oh. Huh. I don’t know.” Big Bess’s wide mouth twitched into an overcooked smile of the sort she’d been serving up for the customers. “Habit, I suppose. It’s like you said a minute ago—them macks of mine get awful persnickety if us gals get too familiar.”

My brother shook his head sadly. “Oh, Bess…”

And he swung up his right hand, the index and middle fingers stuck out in a
V
, and poked Abe Lincoln right in the eyes.

Even more shocking than that, the Great Emancipator
spoke
—though the Gettysburg Address it was not.

“Fudge!” he screeched. “Ow ow ow! Oh, that fudgin’ motherfudger!”

Lincoln’s eyes took on a dull glow—light shining through from a room on the other side of the portrait.

The eyes were empty slits, I now saw, the canvas cut away to make two wee peepholes. And the man who’d been doing the peeping was staggering around on the other side shouting, “Get in there and fudgin’ kill that little fudger!”

“Sweet Jesus,” I said. “Is that Ragsdale?”

My brother’s only answer was “Run run run!”

This seemed like sensible advice indeed, and as I was closer to the door I reached it first and jerked it open—and found myself facing Stonewall, a Peacemaker looking puny in his huge sausage-fingered fist.

“Remember, now,” I said to him. “Your boss told you to kill the
little
fudger.”

Stonewall wasn’t the sort to let such niggling details stand in his way, however.

He thumbed back the hammer and pointed the gun at a spot midway between my eyes.

Or, Ragsdale and Bock Take Suite Revenge for Our Meddling

“Don’t,” someone said.

To my great amazement, it wasn’t me. Had it been, I assume Stonewall wouldn’t have listened.

He didn’t just have a clear shot at my forehead. He looked eager to take it.

“Inside,” the voice said, and Stonewall stepped into the Bridal Suite, herding me back with his .45.

Round-bellied, blank-faced Gil Bock walked in after him. He was still wearing the top hat and oversized frock coat we’d seen him in earlier that day, and as before his dead eyes registered no emotion—not even satisfaction at seeing me and my brother cornered.

“Against the wall,” he said.

We obliged him, backing up till we were lined up three abreast: me, Old Red, Abraham Lincoln.

Remembering how things had turned out for Abe did
not
cheer me up.

“Ohhhhh, fudge fudge fudge
fudge
…”

Pete Ragsdale stumbled in rubbing his eyes. He closed the door behind him, then blinked at us blearily.

“Why the fudge are these fudgin’ fudgers still fudgin’ alive?”

“Questions first,” Bock said.

Ragsdale sighed like a farmboy who’s been told he has to slop the hogs before he can go fishing. He had a chore to do…
then
he could have his fun.

“Get back to work,” he said to Big Bess.

She fought to haul her flab up off the bed.

“Come on, come on,” Ragsdale said, clapping his hands. “Get a fudgin’ move on. You’re done here.”

Big Bess finally got her feet planted on the floor and headed for the door. Old Red stared at her hard as she waddled past.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she sneered. “After all these years you decide to stir up old shit, and you actually expect me to help?”

“Maybe not,” Gustav said, “but I wouldn’t expect you to sell me down the river to these—”

“Shut your fudgin’ mouth,” Ragsdale said to my brother.

“Hurry the fudge up,” Bock said to Big Bess.

Charming conversationalists, those two—and it would only get better.

“So long,” I said as Bess shuffled out. “Thanks for the royal screwin’.”

She slammed the door behind her.

“Well. Well well fudgin’ well…” Ragsdale sauntered over to the nightstand near the bed and leaned over the old, withered rose in the vase atop it. He lifted it to his beaklike nose, gave it a sniff, then began idly picking off the brittle black petals. “Where to begin?”

“How about with you goin’ to hell?” my brother snarled.

Ragsdale snickered.

“Bales,” Bock said.

“Right. Fudgin’ Bales.” Ragsdale plucked the flower down to nothing, then stuck the thorny stem through his lapel hole. “What did you two fudgeheads talk to the marshal about after you left our store this afternoon?”

Gustav said nothing.

I said nothing.

Stonewall said nothing—he just pushed the muzzle of his gun so close I had to go cross-eyed to look at it. Which said plenty, actually.

“Oh, we chatted about this and that,” I said. “The weather. Recipes. Neighborhood gossip.”

The gun whipped out of sight…but only because my head was jerking to the side, lights flashing in my eyes, cheek stinging, ears ringing.

“What did you talk about?”
Ragsdale barked.

He’d swooped in and slapped me, pimp style.

“We didn’t talk about nothin’, alright?” I said. “It was Bales talkin’ and us just listenin’.”

Ragsdale brought up his hand again, palm flat.

Stonewall still had his gun on me.

I steeled myself for the blow.

It never came.

“Bales was warnin’ us off!” Old Red blurted out. “Said he didn’t want us stirrin’ up any trouble in town. You two didn’t even come up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Ragsdale glanced back at Bock, looking pleased.

“The timing,” Bock said.

Ragsdale nodded. “Why’d you fudgers show up now?” he asked us. “After all these fudgin’ years?”

“We just never got around to it before,” I said. I wasn’t even trying to be a wiseass this time. It was the only answer I could give that wouldn’t take an hour to get out.

Ragsdale raised his hand again—and this time he was making a fist. “There ain’t no special reason, ya bastard,” Gustav said. “I just finally
had
to come back, and that’s all there is to it.”

Ragsdale dropped his hand. “I told you these motherfudgers had squat,” he said to Bock. “Can we be done here?”

“The picture,” Bock said.

“What about it?”

Bock nodded at Honest Abe watching over the proceedings with his sad, empty eyes.

“Oh. Fudge. Yeah,” Ragsdale said. “
That
picture.”

“You know, don’t you?” my brother muttered. “You dirty sons of bitches know who killed Adeline and you’re tryin’ to—”

Ragsdale drove a fist into his stomach.

Old Red oofed and doubled over and grabbed his gut with both hands.

I reached out to help steady him.

Something cold and hard pressed against the side of my head.

“Back.”

I did as I was told, but the cold spot—the muzzle of Stonewall’s Colt—stayed against my skull.

Ragsdale had one more question—and when he was done, it seemed, so were we.

“When it was just you two and Bess,” Ragsdale said, “how’d you know someone was fudgin’ watchin’? And don’t say it was just cuz that fudgin’ lard-ass kept callin’ me and Gil ‘mister.’”

“Adeline,” Gustav wheezed. “She told me there was a room y’all used when you wanted to peep on folks at the Eagle. For blackmail and…‘special requests,’ she called it. Wasn’t much of a stretch to guess you’d have one in your new pl—”

“Oh, don’t worry, honey!” a new voice cut in, and I heard the door swing open behind me. “I’m always welcome to use the Bridal…shit.”

Then that cold spot on my temple came in real handy, actually, for the moment Stonewall turned to look over his shoulder, I felt it waver.

I shot up my left hand, snagged Stonewall’s wrist, and pushed the gun toward the ceiling. My right hand, meanwhile, was busy bloodying Stonewall’s nose.

The Peacemaker spat a slug upward, and a puff of gunsmoke surrounded us. The recoil made it all the easier to pry the gun from Stonewall’s grip, and when I had it firm in hand, I gave it back to him. Over the top of his head.

Stonewall went down like the walls of Jericho.

“Come on!” Old Red hollered, and through the gray haze around me I could see him charging toward the doorway—and the extremely slender, extremely shocked customer standing there with an equally stunned floozy by his side.

My brother darted between them, but I (being about twice as broad across) had no such option. So I went
over
them.

Ever the gentleman, I made way for the woman as much as I could…which meant I gave the man the worst of it. I got a good look into his goggling eyes before he bounced off my chest and disappeared beneath my feet. He had the leather-tough look of someone who doesn’t usually let folks walk all over him, and I couldn’t help but notice (as I stepped on it) that he had a holstered gun at his side.

“Stop ’em!” Ragsdale roared. “Don’t let those motherfudgers get away!”

I looked back just long enough to spray the hallway with lead. All of it toward the ceiling, of course—no killer of innocent (or not so innocent) bystanders am I. Still, the barrage was enough to clear the hallway and keep it clear. When the Colt was emptied, I tossed it aside and went bounding down the stairs after my brother.

“Some drover just went crazy and shot Stonewall!” I wailed at the top of my sizable lungs.
“And the SOB’s reloadin’!”

If the Phoenix had been merry chaos before, now it was
panicked
chaos multiplied by bedlam plus anarchy squared.

Women screamed.
Men
screamed. A few brave souls rushed past us up the stairs. Another, much larger bunch stampeded for the exit. Still others made the most of Stonewall’s supposed demise by rushing the bar and helping themselves to whichever bottles came to hand.

The gunman from out front passed us before we reached the door, wriggling against the fleeing throng like a salmon trying to make its way upstream. I looked back and saw Bock and Ragsdale and that slim/tough customer trapped halfway down the stairs amidst a swirl of milling cowboys. All three were bellowing and gesticulating wildly in our direction, but their words were swallowed up in the general hubbub, and Gustav and I were outside before the gunny could figure out what they were so fired-up eager to tell him.

“Ain’t got no choice, Brother,” Old Red said, dashing toward a string of horses hobbled beside a barberry bush.

“I never figured it’d come to this,” I panted as I sprinted after him. “You and me…horse thieves.”

“You wanna walk back to town with them bastards on your heels, you go ahead.”

I pointed at a pretty palomino.

“Dibs,” I said.

We rode into San Marcos at a gallop, but rather than retreat directly to the Star, Gustav insisted we leave our borrowed mounts in front of the courthouse in the town square.

“Ike Rucker, the county sheriff—he keeps office here,” Old Red explained as we tied the horses to metal hitching posts in front of the building. “And whoever these belong to, they’ll have to go to Rucker to report ’em stolen. So this way, they’ll get their ponies back quick—”

“And nobody’ll want to hang us for stealin’ horses.”

“That’s the idea.”

“What if Rucker spots us out here, though? He’ll have us red-handed.”

Gustav shook his head, finished his hitch, and hustled away.

“Rucker ain’t in town tonight,” he said when I joined him in the shadows of the nearest side street.

“How do you know?”

My brother glanced over at me, and even scurrying through the dark, I knew the Look when I saw it. I was being dense.

“Didn’t you notice?” Old Red said. “That feller you flattened back at the Phoenix was packin’.”

“So?”

Then, before my brother could even answer, “Oh.”

The Phoenix had a no guns rule.

Then, “Oh” again.

Rules don’t apply to everybody.

And finally, “Oh, hell.”

The customer I’d rolled out like a pie crust?

That was Sheriff Ike Rucker.