‘… so I was saying, he didn’t come in here only the once, well, he could’ve been in other times when I wasn’t workin’, that’d be Sundays or every other Tuesday, or he could’ve missed this part of the place altogether, although that’d be strange …
He shuffled sideways away to serve a customer, more of a dance than a walk, a clean white towel thrown with studied negligence over his left arm. Hart gave the beer another chance and figured that if he had a free choice of places to drink in the Spanish Star wouldn’t rate high. It looked expensive and fake and he figured it might be more acceptable in somewhere like San Francisco than in a fishing town like Monterey. There had to be more people around with money to throw away than he’d figured. And whoever owned the Star was scooping up most of it.
‘ . . anyway, this one time he was here, if it was the one time, he had a couple of drinks and went over to where the big game was, that’s up there on the balcony at the back of the room, and he hung around for a while till Mister Aragon, he owns the whole place, he tells him to pull in a chair and …’
This time he didn’t break off to serve a customer. He stopped in his tracks and stood back from the bar as a side door opened and a Mexican came through, pushing a girl before him. The Mexican was in his fifties and looked pretty good in a white suit and a black hat with a white satin headband. A ring on the small finger of his left hand shone deep like a ruby, which was probably what it was. The pants would have had to be specially tailored to keep his gut in the way they almost did.
The girl was tall and thin; she wasn’t so young but she was pretty until she lowered her hand away from her face and showed a scar, deep and dark and right down through the middle of both lips. Her eyes focused on Hart’s for a moment and they looked dead.
Maybe she wished the rest of her was too.
The Mexican continued to push her in front of him like a reluctant child and only stopped when they reached an alcove table close by the front door. There were two men already there and they nodded at the man in the white suit and gestured that he should sit down. He did and the girl didn’t. Instead she took up her position at the back of his chair, slightly to her right, one of her hands resting lightly on his shoulder, precisely where he’d told her to place it before they’d come in.
‘That’s him,’ breathed the bartender hastily, ‘that’s Mr. Aragon.’
And then he was gone down the bar, setting up drinks with a quicker, more agitated pace.
‘Take it easy,’ said Hart when he came back.
‘Mr. Aragon, he doesn’t like people talking about him. Not them who work for him.’
Then maybe he shouldn’t walk around in a white suit.’
The bartender looked at Hart as if he’d said something close to blasphemy and backed off. This time one of Hart’s hands restrained him, fingers tight and hard through the white towel.
‘Finish the story.’
‘I got work down the bar.’ Fear flashed across his eyes.
‘You got work here. Give me a shot of whiskey an’ get on with what you’re sayin’.’
‘Well, this feller you’re askin’ about, he sits in on the game for a couple of hours an’ it’s getting late and people start drifting home, although the bands still playin’ like it will do all night and there ain’t no sign of the game breakin’ up. Maybe he’s winning, maybe he’s losing, I don’t know, but he’s playing.’ He paused to gulp down a little air and glance over his shoulder. That’s when she comes in, Velma.’ Another glance, quicker than the first, over the shoulder. ‘Her an’ this feller, this MacPhail, they start makin’ eyes at each other like the moon’s full and the band’s playin’ a serenade instead of some Mexican polka. When MacPhail cuts out of the game, he comes down here and orders a drink, a tequila. He ain’t got time to drink it when she’s at his shoulder and they’re talkin’ close. Not long, maybe five minutes, but from the look on his face whatever she’s sayin’ makes him feel plenty hot an’ plenty good. Velma goes back to the table and hangs around Mr. Aragon, MacPhail goes out. I figure that’s it.’
Someone down the bar yelled for some attention and Hart shot him a look that changed his mind about the kind of hurry he was in.
‘I don’t know exactly what happened after that, except that somehow they’re both together round the back, Velma and MacPhail and whatever they’re doin’ there it ain’t just greetin’ the dawn. There’s all kinds of commotion and shoutin’ and then Velma’s runnin’ in here till she trips an’ falls on the floor, smack in the middle of all the tables. Her dress is torn an’ dirty down the back and there’s blood all over her hands an’ face an’ at first I figure she’s got a punch on the nose, but that ain’t it.’ He shook his head with a mixture of sadness and fear. That ain’t it at all.’
‘He did it to her, the feller in white?’
The bartender nodded, retreating slowly.
‘And MacPhail? What about MacPhail?’
But he’d gone and was concentrating hard on the tequila bottle he was pouring from. Hart didn’t think he’d get him to say any more without pushing the barrel of his Colt into his ribs and that would cause more trouble than he wanted to stir up right then. If Aragon had taken his revenge on his woman, then he wouldn’t have let MacPhail off free.
That seemed to leave three possibilities: MacPhail was dead and left on the outskirts of Monterey for the vultures to pick over his bones; he’d had the good sense to clear out as fast as he could; he was still around and Aragon was taking his time in settling their account.
Hart pushed himself down from the stool and took a slow walk down the bar; he was curious to get another look at Luis Aragon and Velma, but also he was interested in the men Aragon was talking to.
When he saw them close-up he was even more interested. He pushed through the doors and out on to the wharf and set out to meet Fowler.
~*~
The silver flask glinted in the light of the sun that was bright enough to be near to silver itself. In the distance, back of where Fowler was leaning over the railing, a rectangular boathouse with a steeply sloping roof stood out like a black cut-out against the sea. Silver ripples sprayed up against the legs of the walkway which was little more than a squared-off spider’s web linking the boathouse with the land.
Fowler waited until Hart was almost upon him before taking a last swig and stoppering the flask. He patted it affectionately and dropped it down into his pocket.
Hart wondered what had put the detective in such a good mood.
‘Found him?’ he asked, taking off his hat just long enough to wipe the rim of sweat from his forehead with the already damp sleeve of his shirt.
‘Maybe.’ Fowler’s eyes twinkled deep in his face. ‘How ’bout you?’
Hart told him what he’d learnt at the Spanish Star.
‘Don’t let up, does he? Our friend Jordan MacPhail.’
‘No. An’ neither does this Aragon the way I heard it.’
‘Yeah.’ Fowler scowled at the prospect of some new difficulty butting in when everything seemed on the point of being settled pretty easily. Tell me about them two fellers again.’
‘One was Mex. Skin more olive than brown. Small features and small bones, I’d guess he weren’t more’n a hundred an’ twenty, thirty pounds. Seven or so inches above five foot. Wearin’ a yellow tan vest with a couple of them concho things sewn on it. Tan pants an’ boots with gold spurs. Had some sort of pistol holstered to the right, couldn’t make out what.
‘Other one was American. Ten years older, taller, beefy-lookin’ without a trace of fat. Had a fist wrapped round his glass like he could lose the damn thing from sight just by shiftin’ his fingers a little. He had a Smith and Wesson in a holster own by his left leg, knife big enough to butcher a steer with across from it in a plain leather sheath. Oh, yeah, he had somethin’ wrong with his face … here …’ Hart touched his left cheek, immediately under the jutting cheek bone. ‘… Looked like it was sort of dead skin. I don’t know.’
&nbs
p; ‘Saw all that walkin’ by?’ Fowler’s expression was one of admiration.
‘Hung around the bottom end of the bar a little.’ He shrugged.
‘Ought to be a detective.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What’s the matter, you don’t like the pay?’
‘Pay’s fine. It was more the company I was thinkin’ of.’
Fowler shook his head and automatically pulled out his flask. When Hart declined, he took a swallow, then another and said: ‘Feller with the face. He goes by the name of Oklahoma. Like you said, the skin’s dead down that side. Got cut up in a fight an’ never grew again. Not properly. Look at it close, you can see where the blade went in, right along the contour of the bone.’
‘How come you know so much about him?’
Fowler took another shot of bourbon and the flask rattled as though it was close to empty. ‘I did it.’
‘You did?’
‘Sure. Over in Folsom. Feller I was tailin’ went through the back of one saloon, in through the front of another. I went after him and he weren’t alone. Oklahoma was with him. What happened exactly don’t matter, ’cept that there was a struggle an’ I got that butcher knife out of his belt and sliced him with it. While that was goin’ down, the man I was after cut the traces on my horse, rode his own out of there so fast it took me a week to catch up to him again.’
‘And Oklahoma?’
‘Looked awful bloody last sight I got of him.’
Hart shook his head ruefully. ‘He wouldn’t be like to forget you, I guess?’
Fowler found a smile from somewhere. ‘Guess not.’
‘Makes it a mite difficult, don’t it?’
‘Could do. Only …’
‘Only what?’
‘We know where MacPhail is an’ maybe Oklahoma don’t. That is if what we’re thinkin’ is right and this Aragon’s sent for Oklahoma an’ his friend to teach MacPhail a lesson he’ll carry to the grave.’
‘They wasn’t just passin’ the time of day.’
Fowler spat and narrowly missed the head of a drifting gull. ‘I believe it.’
Hart sighed and said: ‘How close is MacPhail?’
Fowler grinned and left the flask alone long enough to point along the wharf rail, out towards the dark outline of the boathouse that was trapped between the ocean and the spindly web of walkway leading out over the kelp and whitened stones that had been uncovered by the tide.
Chapter Fourteen
Jordan and Robert MacPhail were sitting at the far end of the jetty, beyond the boathouse. They were hanging their legs towards the water and their mouths were running greasy with the fat from the bacon they’d cooked up for their first meal together. Whatever time they’d had since Robert had found his father, they’d never got around to sitting down and eating—not at the same time.
It tasted good.
Robert wiped off one side of his mouth and drank some of the bitter coffee, twice as strong for being reheated more than it should. His father was drinking beer from a glazed stone bottle, which he jerked away from his mouth every once in a while to belch loudly. He seemed to think that was a deal of fun and laughed a lot, so Robert, although he figured it was a kind of stupid thing for a grown man to be doing, laughed as well. Maybe his pa was doing it to make him feel at home or something. Maybe he just didn’t know how to react.
Robert could understand that.
He didn’t know how to behave himself; didn’t know what to say. He’d tried asking his father a couple of times what had happened back when he, Robert, had been three and his father had disappeared. What had he done? Where’d he gone? And why had his mother lied the way she had?
But Jordan either didn’t hear or he didn’t want to talk about it, so all Robert got were blank looks and a turning of the head and another damn belch.
Later, when his father was more used to the idea of him being around, that was when he’d tell him.
The other thing Robert had tried to find out was what his father did to earn money. It wasn’t a hell-hole like Frisco where everyone was begging and stealing from everyone else, most folk here seemed to hold down some job of work. They fished or they mended nets and boats, they worked the land in the valley, hell, they did something!
His father, he …
Jordan MacPhail farted as a change from belching and winked at Robert. ‘Bet that’s one thing your ma don’t let you do back home, huh?’
Robert nodded a little gravely. She sure as hell did not.
Jordan laughed: ‘When you get back to her, you …’
‘What?’
‘I said …’
‘You said when I get back to her.’
‘Sure. When you get back home—’
‘What home? What damn home?’
‘Your home. Your home with her. That goddamn mansion stuck up in the hills. That’s where.’
‘That ain’t my home. My home’s where you are. Here.’
‘I ain’t fixin’ to stay …’
‘Then wherever you go.’
‘Look, kid—’
‘Robert! Call me Robert for fuck’s sake! You forgot my name already?’
Jordan reached out a hand and let it fall; Robert sprang to his feet, spilling what remained of the coffee on to his bare toes. He took a pace towards the boathouse and stopped short.
“You expectin’ company?’
‘What sort of company?’
‘There’s a couple of men walking this way.’
‘You sure?’ Jordan pushed himself to his feet and stood alongside his son. His question didn’t need any other answer. Two men, right enough, striding along the narrow walkway like they meant business.
‘Get inside.’
‘You know ’em, pa?’
‘Inside!’
Jordan hustled Robert through the side door and told him to keep out of sight. He lifted up a length of tarpaulin and took a pistol from underneath. Checked that there were five loads in the chamber. He gave Robert one last warning glance, stuck the pistol down into his belt and went to the small, square window at the front. He wiped a circle through the dust and dirt big enough for him to peer out.
They’d passed the angle of the jetty and had no more than twenty yards to come. The one on Jordan’s right as they walked was over six foot, a flat-crowned, flat-brimmed hat angled across his eyes so that it dipped a little above his right eye. He let the curve of his fingers pass within inches of the gun that was holstered at his right side. His eyes seemed to be staring directly at the window, directly at Jordan MacPhail’s staring eye.
The man alongside him was a head shorter, possibly more. He was wearing badly creased and baggy black pants, a white shirt and a black vest. He had a heavy dark beard and moustache and his eyes seemed almost to have disappeared into the center of his face. Over his heart he wore a shoulder rig with what looked to be a .44 inside.
Jordan licked his lips, his mouth dry as all hell despite the fact that he’d been swigging back beer for the past hour. All he could taste was that goddamn salt bacon and something he had no difficulty in recognizing as fear. He pulled finger and thumb down over his top lip, rubbed the knuckle of his forefinger back and forth across the bottom of his mouth.
Ten yards out and they’d stopped walking, were quite still, looking at the boathouse as if waiting for him to come out. He could see that the tall one’s eyes were pale blue. It wasn’t him that spoke.
‘Jordan MacPhail! Want to talk with you!’
The words spilled either way across the ocean.
Jordan fingered his gun. If they were from Luis Aragon he didn’t stand much of a chance anyway. He’d heard that Aragon had sworn to settle with him for messing with his woman; heard, too, how he’d exacted his revenge on her. He drew the pistol a few inches up from his belt then slid it back down.
What if they weren’t from Aragon? What if?
‘We know you’re in there. Why’n’t you come out an’ talk? We don’t mean no trouble.’
The voice was low and gruff, as if it came from a throat as dry as Jordan’s felt right then.
Jordan watched as the shorter man ostentatiously lifted his hand well clear of his weapon, to show the truth of what he’d said. His companion did the same, hooking his thumb into the center of his belt, the rest of the hand covering the buckle. Jordan knew that didn’t matter a two-cent damn. If they were Aragon’s hired guns, they still be able to draw and shoot faster’n he could squeeze off a shot with his gun already out.
‘Come on out, MacPhail! We’re kinda anxious to talk.’
Jordan sweated on to the grip of his gun. He glanced at Robert, the kid watching anxiously to see how his father was going to play this thing. Great! thought MacPhail. He wants me to show what kind of man I am. Wants me to be a hero and go stridin’ out there and get my face shot off!
Jordan wiped his palm down the side of his pants, opened the door and stepped out. Not because he wanted his son to think him brave—simply because there didn’t seem to be anything else for him to do.
The wind took the door and slammed it shut behind him and for a split second Jordan thought he’d been shot. His eyes blinked closed and his breath caught and his right hand froze on the grip of his gun. But nothing hammered into him with an unbelievable force and he wasn’t hurled back against the boathouse door. He looked at the two strangers and both of their weapons were still holstered; neither their positions nor their expressions had changed.
‘You Jordan MacPhail?’ It was still the shorter man doing the talking. The other one simply stood and stared and looked almighty dangerous.
‘Sure. Sure.’
‘Names Fowler. I’m with the Didion Detective Agency.’
Relief oozed from the pores of Jordan’s skin for as long as it took him to figure that someone out of his past could’ve sent this pair after him. It wasn’t Luis Aragon’s way, but there’d been others with cause enough.
‘Your wife sent me—’
‘I ain’t got no wife.’
‘That’s not the way a judge would see it, but it isn’t important either. You see, she wants the boy back.’
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