One for Hell

by Jada M Davis

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He flipped his lid when I made chief instead of him. Man, he blew his top! Said he’d been on the force a long time and that I was a johnny-come-lately. They say he really blew his stack to Halliday.”

  “That’s news to me. I hadn’t heard.”

  “So long, Messner.”

  “So long, Ree.” The sheriff walked away. Ree watched him go and wondered how much he knew—or guessed. Maybe—maybe he’d seen Wesley today.

  Not that it mattered, really. He’d find a way to take care of Wesley.

  Out on the street he walked slowly and envied the people who brushed past him. Untroubled, they seemed, and unconcerned.

  He decided to see Baldy’s landlady.

  In a way, I’ve been lucky, he thought. Sure, maybe it was lucky I got the call from the old lady. Maybe my luck is turning, after all. Maybe I can ride out the storm.

  At least, with everything piling up, things were bound to get better soon.

  But his very luck scared him. When things get so bad that you need luck, it’s time to blow. Luck plays out, eventually.

  What’s happened to me? he thought. Once, not so long ago, I never worried. Never thought about luck, good luck or bad luck. Hell, all I need do is play the cards right, and everything will come out in the wash.

  But he wondered if he’d played things wrong. He’d made more money with Baldy alive. And, maybe he’d have made more money with Wesley as his partner.

  Ah, no. Baldy was going to quit, and Wesley couldn’t be trusted....

  People stared at him. They knew about last night. The news about the Barrick boys must have spread.

  The clucks, he thought. The dumb clucks. Pulled around by their noses and robbed blind.

  Ree started to turn the corner by the hotel, and then he saw Laura. Her car was parked at the curb, and she was sitting behind the wheel. There was a funny little smile on her face. Ree’s steps faltered. He half stopped, half turned toward her.

  Not now! he warned himself. Don’t be seen with her in public, in case something happens to her.

  He walked on, conscious of her eyes following him, wondering if the funny little smile was still there.

  At the steps of the Hall he changed his mind, decided not to go in, and recrossed the street to his car. Laura’s car was still at the curb when he drove by the hotel, but Laura wasn’t in it.

  The greedy bitch! She had smiled, but she wouldn’t smile long. Not long, she wouldn’t smile, for he who smiles last smiles best and she might be smiling now, but....

  He crossed the railroad tracks and turned left on Oak. The street was paved for several blocks. He passed a lumber yard, a machine shop, a junk yard, and a feed store. The pavement ended and he was in shack town, surrounded by Negro shanties, Mexican hovels, poor white huts. Children played in the street and chickens scratched in the dust.

  Shack town thinned at the edges. Only scattered huts flanked the street. He passed the last shack and had the street to himself, unmindful of the flanking mesquites, scattered sage, dusty sunflowers, and the railroad.

  The house rested among elm trees, long ago transplanted and watered in this bare land. It was an old house, high-roofed and shabby white, with a porch extending along its entire front.

  A dog ran around the corner of the house, stood near the car and barked.

  “Here, pooch, good pooch, here pooch!” Ree called. The dog backed away, growled, and then made a stiff-legged advance.

  “Josh!” It was the old woman, standing on the front porch. The dog backed away.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Ree said.

  “Don’t know what’s got into that dog. He’s usually a friendly animal,” the woman said. She was old, incredibly old, her hair white and her face lined with wrinkles and leathery. She wore a black dress, long and billowy. “You don’t look like a policeman,” she said.

  “I don’t wear a uniform.”

  “So I see.”

  “If you’ll show me the room....”

  “Of course. Come with me.”

  He followed along a high-ceilinged hallway, dark and quiet, cluttered with massive marble-topped tables, and funny high-backed chairs. Pictures of men and women, long ago dead and gone and half remembered, stared from the depths of mahogany frames, dim in the gloom.

  The old woman stopped at a door. “In here,” she said. “All his things are in that trunk.”

  “Thank you.”

  The trunk was in the middle of the room, resting deep in the rug, iron-ugly and looking out of place. No pictures of men and women, dead and long remembered, on these walls. There were prints in graceful frames. A dresser, chest of drawers, bed, desk, and easy chair. Antiques, but not heavy brought-from-the-east monstrosities. These were imported-to-the-South-before-the-War antiques, graceful and warmly glowing with rich color.

  Baldy—in this room? he thought.

  It took a few minutes to go through the trunk, but there was little to see. Shirts, a couple of suits, underwear, handkerchiefs, two pairs of shoes. No papers, no diary, no money.

  “I’ll put these things back like I found them,” he said. “I’ll make an inventory and give you a receipt.”

  “And I’ll make some tea.” She closed the door behind her.

  He examined the trunk for a false bottom, knowing Baldy was too smart to trust such an obvious hiding place.

  Where did the old boy hide his money?

  Maybe the old woman knew. Or maybe she found it, though not likely. Baldy wasn’t a trusting sort of person, and she wouldn’t have guessed he had money in the first place. He sat on the trunk and surveyed the room. Pictures? Too simple. The first place examined for hidden objects. Same with the mattress and the rug. Light fixture? Taped to the bottom of the dresser or chest of drawers? In this room at all? Maybe in the house, but not in this room.

  The old woman opened the door. “The tea is ready.”

  He followed her down the hall and into the living room, and knew he was looking at a fortune. The room was huge. It wasn’t necessary to know furniture, for the feel was there, in the harmony of the curved line and the feel of the upholstery, the thickness of the rug. Part of the wall was paneled, part papered in a hunting print. Drapes at the windows blended with the panel work, in contrast to the paper. Sedate marble-topped tables flanked a marble fireplace. A hanging lamp sent a cone of light toward the ceiling, high and ornate.

  There were two pictures on the wall, and he knew—without knowing—that they were fabulously valuable.

  And Baldy lived here. Or did he?

  “Mr. Lemuelson loved this room,” the woman said.

  What had she said—Baldy?

  “You are surprised,” she said. “I really didn’t want to know what to do with his things, he was my brother.”

  “You just wanted to get me out here, Mrs. Lemuelson.”

  “You killed my brother.”

  “He was a burglar.”

  “So are you.”

  “No,” he said, and knew it was useless to argue.

  “Yes, he told me.”

  “Was there a diary?”

  “No. There was no diary, Mr. Ree. I just wanted to give you a scare. I knew the Barrick boys were fighting you. I read their paper. So, I just said that about the diary to scare you.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  She smiled. “Shall we have our tea?”

  “I’ve never cared for tea.”

  “You’ll have a cup with me.”

  “No.”

  Her smile was not the smile of a sweet old woman.

  “What do you want?” he asked again, his voice trembling, tense.

  She chuckled, threw back her head and chuckled. “Maybe I want revenge,” she said.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m not crazy. You’re the crazy one, I’m afraid.”

  “I merely did my duty. You knew what Baldy was.”

  “Oh, yes, I knew my brother was a burglar. He neve
r tried to hide his occupation from me.” She laughed again, her old body shaking. “If you had been an honest police officer doing his duty, Mr. Ree, I couldn’t find it in my heart to blame you.” Her voice became shrill and a pale blush tinged her withered cheeks. “But you are worse than my brother! You hide behind the law—but you are a robber and a thief! And a murderer! You killed my brother for his share of the loot!”

  “There was no loot! I tell you, there was no loot!”

  “Oh, yes, there was!” Her voice was calm again. “He told me there would be forty thousand dollars in that safe, Mr. Ree! He was going to take his share and retire, here with me. We were going to live our lives out here, together!”

  “You’re crazy! I’m leaving here.”

  “No you’re not leaving, my friend! Not until I tell you to leave. We’ll have our tea now.”

  “You think I’m nuts? You think I’m going to drink poison?”

  The old woman sat in a chair beside a table, quietly chuckling, her shoulders bobbing. She motioned toward a silver service. Her gnarled old hand looked like a claw. “We’ll have our tea,” she said.

  “You’ll have the tea,” Ree said. “You’ll drink tea, but I won’t. You’ll drink the tea you made for me.” He walked toward her.

  “I know how to use this, Mr. Ree,” she said. There was a tiny gun in her hand.

  “A pop gun,” he said, wondering if all this could be true. He took another step.

  “That’s just a pop gun, old woman.”

  “It’s a small gun,” she admitted. “It might take more than one shot to stop you, but I’m prepared to shoot.”

  She would shoot. He knew she would shoot. She was crazy as a bed bug, and she would shoot. His scalp prickled, and chilly pin pricks shot up and down his back, between his shoulder blades, to his neck. And he thought, A little old woman. A cold, crazy, deadly little old woman. There was nothing he could do—for the moment.

  “This is crazy,” he said. “Silly.”

  “We’ll have some tea,” she said. “Maybe you’re just imagining things. Maybe the tea isn’t poisoned. Perhaps I just want to scare you.”

  “You’ve succeeded.”

  “Or, then again, perhaps there’s poison in the tea.”

  “You’re bluffing, lady. This is fantastic—silly! Not in cold blood you wouldn’t poison me!”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “We’ll have the tea,” he said.

  “We will.” Her pale, thin lips spread in a smile. “Have a seat, Mr. Ree.”

  He was forced to sit across the table from her. She was smart. The little gun snuggled in her hand, and she used it to point at one of two cups, saying, “That is yours, Mr. Ree. Do you take lemon or cream?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Then we’ll have lemon. Sugar?”

  “One lump.”

  “We’ll see if you’re a brave man, Mr. Ree. I have a theory about brave men, and I doubt that you are one. Only cowards shoot men in cold blood, and that’s the way you killed my brother.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. And now we’ll see if you’re brave. You have to die, you know, for the crime you committed. If your crime became known, you’d have a trial. But the result would be the same. You’d die—in a different way, perhaps. In the electric chair or on the gallows. I believe in an eye for an eye, Mr. Ree. Don’t you?”

  “You’re crazy, or I’m dreaming.”

  “I’m not crazy, and you certainly aren’t dreaming, my friend. This is happening, fantastic as it seems to you.”

  “Here’s where I get off.”

  “I wouldn’t try to leave. I have the gun.”

  “A pop gun!”

  “It will kill!”

  He sat still, hand touching the hot cup.

  “Do you have a sister, Mr. Ree?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a shame. That would have made your death equal—a brother for a brother.” She tittered, gasping for breath. “But you must have had a mother.”

  He said foolishly, “Yes.”

  “Then it’ll be a son for a brother.”

  “You’ll be arrested.”

  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “There’s the car....”

  “I have a barn in the back of the house.”

  “Someone might have seen it.”

  “Oh, someone saw you come here, no doubt. And I shan’t deny it, if they ask me. I’ll say you came to investigate the prowlers I reported yesterday.”

  “You’re crazy all right.”

  She giggled again, a ghastly and tittery giggle, her body shaking.

  “I’ve listened to all the foolishness I can stand for in one day, lady.”

  “Sit still, son. I warn you!”

  “I’d advise you to put that gun on the table, Mrs. Lemuelson. If you do, we’ll forget this. If not—”

  “I’ll shoot!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She cackled, “Oh, but I would! Be assured of that, Mr. Ree! I truly would, and if I miss—and you succeed in getting away, I would be forced to tell the police you were my brother’s partner!”

  “They wouldn’t believe you. It would be your word against mine. Besides, you could be arrested as an accomplice if you made them believe you.”

  His hands were sweating.

  “I do hope you show some courage,” she said. “One way or the other, you must die. Believe me, Mr. Ree, it’s better to go like this than die in the chair or on the gallows.”

  His laugh couldn’t fool her.

  He could see the humor in the situation. The whole thing was crazy funny, but he didn’t feel like laughing.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What do you intend to do with my body?”

  She seemed pleased he had asked. “You know, I have that all figured out! Did you see that old well on the railroad right-of-way?”

  He stiffened.

  “You must have noticed it.” She leaned forward, eyebrows arched. “It’s a covered well, you know. Believe me, Mr. Ree, it would be a perfect place to hide a body!”

  Was she playing cat and mouse?

  “Why, Mr. Ree,” she tittered, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if a body or two had been thrown in that well before now!”

  She’s crazy, screwy, he thought. The old bat would have used the same tone of voice if she’d been speaking about someone discovering her favorite recipe for jelly.

  He threw the cup of tea in her face. It was easy. She didn’t have time to raise her gun—didn’t even have time to think of raising the gun. He slapped it out of her hand.

  The dog, the crazy dog, came for him when he cleared the porch. He kicked out viciously and his toe caught the brute in the ribs. Sprinting, he reached the car and slammed the door closed behind him.

  He drove fast, thinking, Maybe this was all a dream, and surely this was all a dream.

  Aloud, he said, “I wonder what she would have done with the body.”

  Crossing the railroad track, edging into the business district, he began to laugh.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Some dame has been trying to get you on the phone,” Swing said.

  Ree sighed, mopped his face with the back of his hand. “She leave her number?”

  “Said she’d call back.”

  Ree tried to lose himself in routine work, but shifted most of the work to Swing. His nerves were shot.

  The day wore on.

  The Telegraph hit the street. There was a short story about the Barrick boys, saying both were injured while resisting arrest—drunk and disorderly charges—on and on.

  Ree smiled. So much for that.

  Halliday had pull.

  Swing answered the telephone. “Yeah, he’s right here,” he said.

  It was the waitress.

  “I’ve gotta see you,” she said.

  “Sure, babe. Tonight. We’ll dance.”

  “No—I mean, all right, but I’ve got to see you now!”
<
br />   “What’s up?”

  “Maybe I’d better not tell you over the phone.”

  “Okay, Barbara. I’ll drop by.”

  It had to be trouble, again trouble, more trouble, piling up.

  He admitted it now. He was scared. Part of his mind warned him that scared plans would be bad plans, but he had to make plans. Some kind of plans.

  Things had been going hit or miss, and things weren’t working out. Some little something had gone bad somewhere, and a chain reaction of bad happenings followed the first little something that had gone bad.

  Now, until his plans were made, he had to take things as they came along.

  There were several customers in the café. He sat in a corner booth and watched Barbara.

  She was scared, all right. She wasn’t faking. Her face was white, pinched.

  She came swinging toward him, bent over his table and mopped it with a cloth. Her dress was stiffly starched, buttoned at the front, and bulged down and out. He could see her breasts, wide spread and outward and upward pointed, not small, not large.

  “It’s Slick,” she murmered.

  “Slick?”

  “Slick Macklin, the cook. He must have seen you give me the money. Now he claims he saw the trouble. He says he’s going to talk. He says he’s going to the Barrick boys’ lawyer and tell him what happened.”

  “Is he in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go talk to him.”

  She went back to the counter, her buttocks wriggling, and he was amazed that desire could come at such a moment.

  The curious eyes of the customers were on him as he walked toward the kitchen. Whispers, nudges, curious eyes probing. He pushed the swinging door.

  The cook was tall and skinny, sunken faced and thin lipped, dull eyed and sullen, with stringy hair falling over his forehead. He was slicing pickles. His white cap was dirty, and his apron was filthy.

  “You say you saw the fight in here,” Ree said. “Did you?”

  “Yes. I saw it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the county attorney?”

  The cook pursed his lips and examined the knife blade. “That wouldn’t have made me any money,” he said.

  “You want to make money?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “How much do you want to make?”