The Devil's Collector (9 page)

THIRTY-ONE

“Chicken,” Sonnet said to the waiter.

“And you, sir?” the waiter asked Clint.

“Steak.”

“Comin' up.”

“Does it seem to you like we're always eatin'?” Sonnet asked.

“Eating is one of the most important parts of the day,” Clint said. “That and drinking coffee.”

“Not your coffee.”

“Hey,” Clint said, “I make good coffee.”

“We been ridin' together long enough for me to tell you, no, you don't.”

“That's just a matter of opinion,” Clint said, “and I'll thank you to keep your opinion to yourself.”

• • •

“Clint Adams?” Benny Nickles said.

“That's right.”

“And a member of the Sonnet family?”

“Right again.”

Nickles stared at his sometime boss.

“Do you have a problem with this?” Albert asked.

“Not as long as you're willin' to pay,” Nickles said.

“Oh, I'll pay,” Albert said, “as long as you get the job done.”

“So let me get this straight,” Nickles said. “You want me to kill 'em?”

“I want you to kill them if it looks like they're going to get close to me,” Albert corrected.

“And who decides that?”

“You can decide,” Albert said. “I'll trust you to analyze the situation.”

“What if I kill Adams just because I want to?” Nickles asked.

“That's up to you,” Albert said, “but in that case, you don't get paid.”

“Might be worth it anyway,” Nickles said. “That man's got a big reputation.”

“Like I said, up to you.”

“The kid,” Nickles said, “he's supposed to be pretty good, too, right? Like his pa and grandpa?”

“That's what I've heard.”

Nickles, a handsome man in his mid-thirties, tapped his knees with his right index finger while he thought over the situation.

“You taking the job, Benny?”

“I'll need some money in advance.”

Albert opened his top drawer, took out a brown envelope, and tossed it to Nickles's side of the desk.

“That do?” he asked.

Nickles picked it up, hefted it, then put it in his pocket without counting it.

“For now,” he said.

Nickles stood up and walked to the door.

“So I guess this means the kid didn't get the whole job done, right?”

“That's right.”

“Too bad.”

“Well,” Albert said, “that might leave more work for you later.”

“One thing at a time, Mike,” Nickles said, “one thing at a time.”

THIRTY-TWO

Clint and Jack Sonnet sat in wooden chairs in front of their hotel.

“Let me guess,” Sonnet said. “We're makin' the sheriff wait . . . again.”

“Right.”

“Or maybe somebody will try something.”

“Right again.”

“Wouldn't that be stupid?” Sonnet asked. “I mean, it's a big town. It's gonna be pretty hard for us to find out who was sending me those telegrams.”

“Somebody wanted those men dead,” Clint said. “That somebody is going to get nervous the longer we're in town.”

“So you think that person will send someone after us?” Sonnet asked.

“That would be helpful.”

“Do you think that's what happened to my brother?”

“I don't know, Jack,” Clint said. “Did your brother have any kind of reputation?”

“Carl was not a fast draw,” Sonnet said. “He didn't inherit that family trait.”

“But he was still the son and grandson of men with reputations.”

“That's right,” Sonnet said, “but why should he have to pay for that?”

“That's the problem with reputations,” Clint said. “They tend to hurt a lot of people.”

“Have you had that problem?”

“More times than I care to count,” Clint said.

“Is that why you have to be careful about what you pursue?”

“Yeah, but I didn't pursue it,” Clint said. “It pursued me.”

“Unlike me, you mean,” Sonnet said. “You think I'm tryin' to build a reputation?”

“No,” Clint said, “you're stuck with it. You're third generation. Instead of pursuing it, you're going to have to run from it.”

“Maybe,” Sonnet said, “but not yet. Not until I find the men who killed Carl.”

“And we're back where we started,” Clint said.

“You have a lot of patience,” Sonnet observed.

“Patience keeps you from going off half-cocked, Jack,” Clint said. “You just need to take the time to think before you act.”

“Well, you're sure giving me a lot of time to do that.”

“I'm giving someone else the time to think, too.”

• • •

They sat there until late afternoon, and then Clint said, “Time to talk to the sheriff.”

“You think he's got something to tell us?”

“I think he does,” Clint said. “The question is, will he tell us?”

Clint got up and Sonnet followed. They walked to the sheriff's office and entered. Koster wasn't there, but Deputy Will Romer was.

“Hello, Deputy,” Clint said.

“Uh . . .” the deputy said.

“Clint Adams.”

“Uh, yeah, I know,” Romer said. “And, uh, Jack Sonnet, right?”

“That's right,” Sonnet said.

“Uh, the sheriff's not here right now,” Romer said. “He should be back soon.”

“That's okay,” Clint said. “We can talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About five men gunning down one. Where were you when that happened, Deputy?”

“Uh, I dunno.”

“You know about the shooting, right?” Clint asked.

“Well, sure,” Romer said. “Everybody in town knows about it.”

“Were you a deputy then?”

“I was, yeah.”

“So where were you when it happened?”

“I dunno,” he said again. “Probably makin' my rounds.”

“If you were here—right here in this office—would you have been able to hear the shots?”

“I dunno.”

“Come on,” Clint said, “five shooters. How many shots must that have been? Somebody had to have heard it. It must have sounded like a battle.”

“I guess.”

“Isn't that something that would bring most lawmen running?”

“Um, sure.”

“So where was the sheriff?”

“I, uh . . .” He hesitated.

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “You don't know. Is he off talking to his boss now?”

“He's probably with Mr. Alb—”

The door opened then and Sheriff Koster walked in. He stopped short when he saw them. The deputy stopped before he could say the name that was on his lips. So close, Clint thought.

“What's goin' on?” the sheriff asked.

“Nothing much,” Clint said. “Your deputy was just helping us out with some information about the shooting.”

“What the—”

“I didn't say nothin', Sheriff. I swear.”

“Get out,” Koster said. “Make your rounds.”

“Yessir.”

Romer hurried from the office. Koster moved around behind his desk.

“What did he tell you?” he demanded.

“Something about the noise,” Clint said. “I mean, with that many men firing their guns, it must've sounded like the Battle of Bull Run.”

“He didn't hear a thing,” Koster said. “He wasn't even here.”

“Here in town?” Clint asked. “Or here in the office?”

“Whatayou—”

“I mean, from here,” Clint said, “I think you'd be able to hear the shots. One shot, maybe two might go unnoticed, but that many? Makes me wonder why half the town didn't come running, let alone the sheriff.”

“I told you,” Koster said, “I didn't hear a thing.”

“Not sure I believe that, Sheriff,” Clint said, “not sure at all.”

THIRTY-THREE

“You're callin' me a liar?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint said, “and so's my friend here. Only he's not as patient as I am. He won't wait for me to prove you're a liar.”

“Really?” Koster asked. “So you're threatenin' me?”

“No threat,” Sonnet said. “If I find out—no, if I think you had something to do with my brother's death, I'll kill you.”

“A lawman?” Koster asked. “You'll kill a lawman?”

“I'll kill you,” Sonnet said. “Whether or not you're wearin' a badge won't matter to me.”

“That is,” Clint said, “unless you want to tell us that somebody else was involved?”

“Like who?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “That's why I'm asking you.”

“I think you fellas better get out of my office,” Koster said.

“Sure, Sheriff,” Clint said.

“But I'll be seein' you again,” Sonnet said. “Soon.”

They turned and went outside.

• • •

Outside, Clint said, “You caught on pretty quick.”

“It seemed to me you wanted to press him,” Sonnet said.

“I did,” Clint said. “Let's see what he does now.”

“You think he's workin' for someone here in town?” Sonnet said.

“Definitely,” Clint said. “Somebody with money. Those people always think they can buy the law.”

“Must be quite a few people in town who match that description.”

“Mmm,” Clint said. “We could look into that.”

“How?”

“There are two kinds of people with that information,” Clint said. “Bartenders, and newspapermen.”

“I can check with the bartenders,” Sonnet said.

“And I'll check the newspaper,” Clint said. “I'll meet you in the saloon in our hotel in about two hours.”

“Fine,” Sonnet said, “I'll hit that one last.”

“See you then.”

They separated from there.

THIRTY-FOUR

Clint found there was only one town newspaper, the
Monroe City Chronicle
.
The office was about three blocks from the sheriff's office. As he stood out front, he thought it would have been pretty hard not to have heard those shots from here.

The name of the newspaper was etched on all the windows, and the glass was frosted, so he was unable to see inside. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and went inside.

It was quiet, the printing press sitting unattended. He looked around, didn't see anyone, but there was an inner office behind a frosted glass door, again with a name etched in the glass. This time, however, instead of the newspaper, it bore the name of the editor:
J. ABBOTT, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
.

He knocked on that door before opening it and entering.

A woman turned and stared at him, her eyes wide.

“You startled me,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I was looking for J. Abbott, the editor.”

“That would be me,” she said.

“You're J. Abbott?”

“Jennifer,” she said.

Her honey-colored hair was piled high on top of her head. She was wearing a purple, high-collar blouse underneath a brown jacket, and a matching brown skirt and boots. She looked to be in her late thirties, maybe forty, but she was lovely nevertheless.

“And you are?”

“Oh, my name is Clint Adams.”

“Clint . . . Adams?” she said. “You mean . . . the Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“Well . . . wow,” she said. “What is the Gunsmith doing in Monroe City?” She grabbed up a pad of paper. “And can I quote you?”

“Um, no, you can't quote me,” Clint said. “I came here to ask some questions, not answer them.”

“Well, you can understand if I'm more experienced asking them than answering them.”

“I do understand,” Clint said. “But my questions are very simple.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe we can come to an understanding.”

Clint did know why he'd met so many attractive newspaperwomen in his life. Was there something about the job that made the women in it appealing?

“Miss Abbott, I just need to know who the rich men in town are.”

“That's it?” she asked. “You could get that information from any bartender in town.”

“I know that,” he said, “but I thought while I was here, I'd have a look at your coverage of the shooting that took place a few months back.”

“The shooting?”

“Five men shot down a man named Carl Sonnet.”

“Of course. I know what shooting you're referring to.”

“Well, nobody else in town seems to want to admit to knowing about it,” Clint said. “At least, everybody claims to have heard and seen nothing.”

“Well, it was a terrible thing.”

“Tell me,” Clint said, “were you able to hear the shooting from here?”

“Actually, I didn't hear anything that way.”

“How could that be?” Clint asked. “That much shooting would have made plenty of noise.”

“Well,” she said, “the printing press . . .”

“I see,” he said. “Can I look at a copy of your newspaper from the next day?”

“We are a weekly paper,” she said, “but I can show you the issue that covered the shooting.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Come in the back with me,” she said. “That's what we consider our morgue.”

He followed her to a back door that led to a hallway, then along that hall to another door, which she opened with a key. The interior of the room smelled musty. She lit a lamp and he could see the stacks of newspapers on shelves.

“Wow,” he said, “this is a lot of paper for a weekly.”

“We started out as a daily,” she said. “Feel free to look through it all.”

“Thanks,” Clint said. “Where's the most recent—” But before he could finish his question, she was gone, closing the door behind her.

He started leafing through papers . . .

• • •

When he came out, the printing press was still not running. He reentered the editor's office, and she turned to look at him from her desk.

“Find what you wanted?”

“I did.”

“What did you learn?”

“That everybody in this town is probably deaf and blind,” he said. “Thanks for the look.”

He started for the door.

“Wait,” she said.

“Yes?”

She walked to him and handed him a piece of paper.

“What's this?”

“The list you wanted,” she said. “Richest men in town? I included some of the ranchers in the area.”

“Oh . . . thanks.”

“Didn't think I was going to come through, did you?” she asked.

“Well . . .”

“Look,” she said, “I'd love to do an interview with you while you're in town, but that's up to you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I do ask one thing.”

“What's that?”

“If you come across anything that's newsworthy, you'll let me know?”

“Miss Abbott,” he said, “since you're the only newspaper in town, you'll be the first to know.”