Wilde West (25 page)

Wilde? O'Conner? Vail? Von Hesse?

He couldn't buy von Hesse's theory. Okay, you drink too much, you black out, you maybe act like a born fool (you grab Brenda from the saloon and drag her home). But you don't spend hours cutting a prostitute into careful bloody strips. You don't hang pieces of her from the mirror, from the dresser. That took an act of deliberate will. A completely crazy will, for sure, but a will. And enough physical strength and enough coordination to carry it out.

So how come von Hesse wanted him to buy the story? He was blowing smoke, maybe. Trying to confuse the issue.

Only reason to do that was if he was the killer.

But he really seemed to believe all that shit. And he even admitted that if he was right, he could've been the killer himself.

More smoke? Trying to flimflam the bonehead country marshal?

Just then, Grigsby heard a commotion out in the anteroom, beyond the closed door. He heard Carver's voice rising almost to a squeak as it called out, “You can't
do
that!” and then another voice, gruff and deep, bellowing, “
Out of my way, you fool.
”

Grigsby recognized the second voice as Greaves's. He frowned and remained where he was.

The door swung open, smacked against the doorstop, bounced back. Greaves slammed at it with his open palm and strode into the room. Behind him, Harlan Brubaker held his splayed hands to Carver's narrow chest, preventing the deputy from moving forward. Carver's face was red and his mouth was twisted in frustration.

Greaves stopped, still looking sleek and prosperous in his fur-lined overcoat, and he smiled broadly, theatrically, at Grigsby. “Well, my friend,” he said, “you really fucked up this time.”

Carver said, “Marshal, I told 'em you were busy, they couldn't come in, but they—”

“S'okay, Carver,” Grigsby said. He took a swallow of bourbon. “Greaves, you tell your boy there to let go my deputy.”

Greaves laughed, a deep booming baritone. He turned to Brubaker and nodded. Brubaker stood back away from Carver and put his hands in his topcoat pockets. Carver adjusted his black wool vest and then, glaring at Brubaker, elaborately brushed it off with his fingers. Brubaker smirked.

Grigsby said, “Go get some coffee, Carver.”

Carver glanced at Brubaker, at Greaves, back to Grigsby. “You sure, Marshal?”

“I'm sure.”

Frowning, Carver glanced again at the other two men, and then turned and walked away.

Grigsby looked at Greaves. “You got somethin' to say to me?”

Greaves grinned. “I've already said it. You fucked up.”

“That right?”

“I told you to stay away from the Molly Woods killing. I told you, I
reminded
you, that you don't have any jurisdiction over a municipal homicide. I made that very clear this morning. Imagine how surprised I was when I found out, a few hours ago, that you've been snooping around, asking questions, disturbing people, sticking your fat nose in places where it doesn't belong. So I went and had a long conversation with Judge Sheldon. I have to tell you that the judge was shocked.”

Grigsby smiled. The only time Sheldon ever got shocked was when someone forgot to slip him a bribe.

“But he agreed with me,” Greaves said, “that this meddling of yours has got to be stopped.” He reached into the inside pocket of his topcoat, came out with a folded sheet of paper. “This is an injunction ordering you to to cease and desist your interference in the Molly Woods investigation.” He tossed it onto Grigsby's desk. “And I think it only fair to tell you that Judge Sheldon has sent a telegram to Washington, demanding your immediate recall.”

Poor Mort would be earning his keep today. “Sheldon tried that once,” Grigsby said. He shrugged. “Didn't get him very far.”

Greaves grinned again. “Like I say, Grigsby, times have changed. Even at the attorney general's office. Your friend Dan-ner is out. And by tomorrow, you'll be out too. Just another saddle tramp.” Still grinning, he added, “I'm going to enjoy that.”

Grigsby nodded. “Fella's got to take his pleasure where he finds it.”

Greaves smiled. “You know, Grigsby, the sad thing is, it never had to come to this. I'm a reasonable man—I told you that a long time ago. We could've worked together. We could've cooperated. But no, not you. You chose to go your own way. And after all this time, you still haven't learned that your way, the old way, is finished now. Forever. You're like one of those big lizards they dig out of the ground, so old they've turned into stone. And the pitiful thing is, you don't even know it. In a way, it's a real.tragedy.”

Grigsby smiled. “You want to borrow a hanky?”

Greaves grinned at him. “I've always admired your spirit.” He turned to Brubaker. “Haven't I, Harlan? Haven't I always said so?”

Brubaker smirked. “Sure.”

“But the fact is,” said Greaves, “you're washed up. Look at you. You're a pathetic old drunk. A lush. A rummy. No good to anybody, not even yourself. No wonder you couldn't hold on to that pretty young wife of yours. No wonder she took your brats and ran off to California.”

Behind Greaves, Brubaker snorted.

Greaves grinned. “And now, old man, you don't have anything. Not a wife, not kids, not even a job. Not anything at all. In six months time you'll be scrounging drinks in the nigger saloons.”

Grigsby nodded. “Prob'ly. But I reckon you'll be wantin' the information on the other hookers.” He swung his legs off the desk and stood up.

Greaves frowned. “What information?”

“About the other hookers. In all those other cities. Maybe
you
can make somethin' out of it. I surely can't.”

Greaves was watching him, his eyes wary. Grigsby walked over to the file cabinet, opened the top drawer, took out a sheath of papers. Holding them in his left hand, he turned and offered them to Greaves. As Greaves stepped forward, Grigsby dropped the papers and hit Greaves as hard as he could along the side of the jaw. Greaves went flying toward the wall, arms opening wide, and Grigsby turned to Brubaker.

Brubaker was going for his holster, a cross-draw rig on his left hip, below his overcoat. Grigsby took a step and grabbed Brubaker's wrist and squeezed. Brubaker's eyes winced narrow and then they closed completely and his mouth opened wide in a silent scream with his teeth showing and his lips white. Grigsby squeezed some more and Brubaker dropped to his knees. Grigsby brought up his own knee into Brubaker's face.

Brubaker banged back against the doorjamb and Grigsby turned again to Greaves. The chief of police was coming off the wall now and his hand was moving toward his gun, another cross-draw rig, and Grigsby took a step toward him and smiled. His own gun was hanging on the coat rack in the anteroom. He knew there was no way to get to Greaves before Greaves had the gun out, but he didn't much care because he also knew that no matter how many bullets Greaves put into him he was going to kill the man. “Yeah,” he said. “Do it.”

Greaves jerked his hand away from the holster and held it up, palm outward. “Hold on, Grigsby. You listen to me.”

“No,” Grigsby said. “I already did that. Maybe I'll be marshal tomorrow and maybe I won't, but I'm still marshal today and you're in my office and I don't want you here. Get out. And wipe up that gob of spit on the way.” He nodded toward Brubaker, still slumped in the doorway.

Greaves opened his mouth to speak and Grigsby shook his head. “Out,” he said.

Greaves pulled himself fully upright and tugged once at the lapels of his overcoat, settling the coat back over his broad shoulders. He walked around Grigsby and over to Brubaker. He kicked him lightly on the hip. “Harlan.”

Brubaker groaned. Greaves bent forward and took Brubaker under the arms and levered him to his feet.

His left arm supporting Brubaker, he looked back at Grigsby. “Tomorrow,” he said.

Grigsby nodded.

Greaves walked Brubaker out the door.

Grigsby stepped over to the desk and poured himself another drink. His right hand was shaking so badly that he had to use his left to steady the bottle. Even so, a half ounce of whiskey splashed across the desktop.

He raised the glass and swallowed. The rain rattled at the windowpane. Far off, thunder rumbled.

Grigsby took another drink. His hand was still trembling.

He looked down at the papers scattered along the floor. He set the drink on the desktop, then squatted down and gathered the papers together. He tossed them to the top of the file cabinet, returned to his desk, and lifted his glass.

Someone knocked at the door and Grigsby wheeled around. A few dollops of bourbon sloshed onto his hand.

A tall young man in an expensive tan topcoat. Curly black hair, a pale, narrow, clean-shaven face. “Are you Marshal Grigsby?” A soft fluting voice.

“Yeah?” Grigsby growled.

“I'm Wilbur Ruddick. Mr. Vail—”

“Get your ass in here!” Grigsby bellowed.

T
HE CEILING WAS LOW,
made from unfinished planks of knotted pine supported by beams of stripped pine logs whose uneven, and dangerously splintered, lower ridges were no more than a few inches from the vulnerable top of Oscar's head. Smoke had stained the wood a dull tobacco brown. Three oil lamps, shaded by funnels of oiled paper and hung from the beams on sooty metal chains, provided most of the illumination, musty yellow pools of light in which sat some rickety tables and some rickety chairs and two or three rickety-looking people. Most of the customers stood at the bar, which ran the length of the narrow room and which, like the ceiling and the floor, was constructed of raw pine, now stained and drab. More sawdust was scattered everywhere—whoever owned the sawdust concession in Denver was doubtless a millionaire by this time—and the thick, still air was cluttered with the smell of stale beer and mildew and perspiration.

Oscar swept up to the empty space at the center of the bar, Henry following slightly behind him. The barkeep, a tubby little person who had been leaning over the low counter into a cluster of elderly men at the right, waddled slowly toward him, wiping his hands against the dirty apron, taut as a sandbag, that encased his belly. He glanced sidelong at Henry, bit his lip, and said to Oscar, “Sorry, mister, but we don't serve no coloreds here.”

Oscar smiled engagingly. “But I didn't order one.”

The barkeep shrugged, uneasy. “Sorry, mister.”

“Mistuh Oscar,” began Henry.

Oscar asked the barkeep, “Is that a local law?”

The barkeep shrugged again. “It's the principle of the thing. I'm sorry and all, but I got other customers to think of.”

“Perhaps I should explain,” Oscar said, smiling again as he put his big hands on the bartop and leaned forward to look down at the barkeep. “Henry here is my personal attendant. I'm subject to fits, you see. Really quite frightful fits that cause me to foam at the mouth and leap about the room. I tend to break things, I'm afraid. Tables. Chairs. These attacks can come upon me at any time, and for virtually no reason at all. Henry is the only person able to cope with me. It's a matter of precise physical pressure being applied to certain highly complicated neuralgic intersections. And, of course, in order to apply this pressure properly, Henry requires an occasional steadying drink of whiskey. Surely you can understand this?”

The barkeep was frowning. “You're not from around here,” he said.

“Not originally,” said Oscar, “no.”

The barkeep nodded toward Henry, whose face was blank. “He's like a what? A nurse, kind of?”

“Something like, yes. He studied with Hegel in Germany.”

The barkeep scratched at his jaw. “Well, shoot, mister.” He shifted his glance, and then shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Once again he wiped the palms of his hands against his apron. He said, forlornly, “I got customers to think of.”

“Of course. Foolish of me.” Oscar turned to the three old men on his right, all of whom were staring at him with undisguised interest. “Gentlemen, would you mind sharing a bottle of the best with me and my attendant? My treat, of course.”

Grins appeared, two of them entirely toothless, and Oscar was suddenly reminded of the witches in
Macbeth.
“Set 'em up, by God!”

“Get 'em a drink!” “Let 'em stay, Harry, let's see the big dude throw hisself a fit!”

“Drinks all round, then,” said Oscar to the barkeep, and smiled again. “Two whiskeys for us. And something for yourself.”

The barkeep nodded. “Yeah. Well. Just this one time, right? But I mean, look, mister, these fits you get …”

“Yes?”

“I mean, you get them, you know they're coming up ahead of time?”

“Certainly. Never fear. And Henry will have me right as rain in an instant.”

The barkeep nodded, turned away.

Henry said quietly, “Mistuh Oscar, I don' drink no hard liquor. Only beer.”