Adolphina leaned on the counter. “Mr. Anderson, how is that lovely wife of yours?”
“She be fine,” the Swede answered. “Filippa tell me that if I see you I am to give her regards.”
“She is a daisy, that one,” Adolphina said. “The only woman I ever met who works harder than I do.”
Winifred almost swallowed his gumdrop. It was well known that Chester’s wife spent most of her time above the store reading and eating and whatever else it was that occupied her hours. The mention of sewing had surprised him. Chester once told him that she hired her sewing out to Mrs. Giorgio.
“Filippa is a good woman, ja,” Anderson said proudly. “She be fine wife. I pick well.”
“She had something to do with it, too,” Adolphina said. “Feminine wiles being what they are, probably more than you did.”
“Feminine wiles?” Anderson repeated, saying each syllable slowly.
“It means women are smarter than men,” Adolphina explained. “Always have been and always will be. Most of the great ideas men come up with they get from their women. If it weren’t for us, nothing would ever get done.”
The Swede’s sun-bronzed brow furrowed. “That not be true, Mrs. Luce. I be good worker. I get much done.”
“Yes, you do, I will admit,” Adolphina conceded, and bestowed a look on him that she never bestowed on her husband. “You are one of the few men I know who are worth a damn.”
Win sat up and stopped sucking. “Here, now. I don’t much like being insulted.”
“Then make something of yourself. You are one of the laziest creatures on God’s green earth, Winifred Curry, and we both know it. You stay up half the night, you sleep half the day. You do nothing but pour drinks and precious few of them these days. If it were up to you, if you had enough money socked away, you would close the saloon and spend your days doing absolutely nothing but drinking.”
Win chose not to debate her. Especially as everything she said was true.
A strained silence fell until the bell tinkled again. Chester came in and hurried to the counter.
Placido and Arturo entered but stayed well back near the door. They removed their sombreros. “You have sent for us, Senora Luce?” Placido asked.
“That I did,” Adolphina confirmed, and raked everyone with an imperious glance. “A godsend has been dropped in our laps, gentlemen. I am sure some of you are familiar with what other towns have done with dead outlaws and killers, and I propose we do the same.”
General puzzlement descended. Placido and Arturo and Minimi Giorgio and Dolph Anderson all looked at one another, plainly at a loss. Chester scratched his round chin and said, “I am afraid we do not follow you, my dear.”
“I do,” Winifred said. “My God, Adolphina, you can’t be serious?”
“Why not? I figure we can milk it for a week before the bodies start to stink up the town.” Adolphina grinned and enthusiastically rubbed her palms together. “Now, who here wants to make some money?”
Chapter 6
Ford County undersheriff Seamus Glickman was angry. He was angry at Edison Farnsworth and the Blight brothers for getting themselves shot and angry at Frank Lafferty for rushing to the sheriff’s office to report it. But his hottest anger was reserved for Jeeter Frost. It was Frost who did the killing, and Frost who was to blame for Sheriff Hinkle having no choice but to send someone to Coffin Varnish. Coffin Varnish, for God’s sake. And as luck would have it, all the deputies were busy.
If Seamus had his druthers, he would be town marshal instead of working for the county sheriff’s office. It was a matter of jurisdictions. The marshal had jurisdiction over everyone and everything within the town limits; he rarely had to leave town. The sheriff, on the other hand, was responsible for the entire county. Every crime committed in Ford County had to be investigated and the guilty brought to trial. Which meant those who worked in the sheriff’s office spent a lot of time traveling all over creation, or the part of creation that constituted the county.
Seamus would rather be in Dodge. He did not like to ride. He did not like horses. They were smelly and stubborn, and ever since one kicked him when he was eight and broke his leg, he had been secretly afraid of them. Not only that, but saddles chafed and hurt, and after a day in one his bottom was always so sore and stiff he could barely sit. Seamus did not like the country, either, mile after mile of wide-open space haunted by outlaws and renegades all too eager to make a ghost of a stray lawman.
Seamus much preferred town life, city life, cultured life. He enjoyed his creature comforts. He liked good food served in a comfortable restaurant. He liked to drink fine liquor in a plush saloon. He liked to spend his evenings at the theater and then visit one of the better brothels.
Dodge City had all those in abundance. The last time anyone counted, there were fourteen saloons, including his favorite, the Long Branch, with its billiard parlor and club room. There were half a dozen brothels, including Madame Blatsky’s, who imported only the prettiest and most refined whores. As for the theater, Seamus much preferred the Comique, in large part because he owned a part interest, a fact he kept to himself since the county’s more upstanding residents took a dim view of doings on Front Street and anyone who had anything to do with them.
All of which made Seamus wonder why he ever accepted the job as undersheriff. At the time it had seemed to have its merits. He was on good terms with George Hinkle, the sheriff. The job paid a hundred and forty dollars a month, plus a percentage of the taxes and fines he collected. Annually, that amounted to over twenty thousand dollars, nothing to sneeze at when the average yearly income was under a thousand.
But, God, he hated leaving Dodge! Usually Seamus avoided it by sending a deputy. But one of the deputies was returning a couple of deserters to the army, another was helping escort a federal prisoner to Kansas City, and the third went and shot his own foot while practicing with his six-shooter.
Buildings sprouted ahead and Seamus sat up straighter. He wanted to make a good impression. He took off his bowler and slapped it against his leg to shake off the dust. Before putting it back on, he took out his comb and ran it through his well-oiled black hair. He liked to slick it with Macassar oil, as much for the shine as the perfumed scent. He had a pompadour, but his hat invariably flattened it, and wide muttonchops. In his suits and polished boots, he presented a fine figure of a man, or so he often flattered himself.
As he drew closer, Seamus parted his jacket so the badge on his vest and the ivory-handled Merwin and Hulbert revolver on his left hip could be plainly seen. The pistol was another vanity. He was no kind of shot with it unless whatever he was shooting at was less than ten feet away, and even then he had to hold the revolver steady with both hands and take good aim. But then, he was not in the law business to shoot people. He was in the law business to make money. That he actually had, on occasion, to enforce the law was a nuisance he could do without.
Seamus had only ever been to Coffin Varnish once and that had been once too many. He recalled hearing that in the early days Coffin Varnish had been fit to rival Dodge as the queen of the plains, but Dodge had long since outstripped its rival in every respect. Fact is, he had forgotten Coffin Varnish even existed until Frank Lafferty came huffing and puffing into the sheriff’s office. Damn him.
Nothing had changed since Seamus’s last visit. The single street ran from south to north. On the right was the general store and some other buildings, four or five abandoned and in disrepair. On the left was the livery, an empty building, then the saloon, then more empty and boarded-over buildings, and finally a cottage. What in hell a cottage was doing there was anyone’s guess, but Seamus remembered it from his last visit.
It was near eleven o’clock when Seamus, after a two-hour ride, drew rein at the hitch rail in front of the saloon and gratefully climbed down. As he looped the reins, he noticed a man in a rocking chair in the shade of the overhang. The man’s gray hair sparked another memory. “Winifred Curry, as I recollect. You own this sa
loon.”
“You recollect rightly, Sheriff Glickman,” Win complimented him. “It has been a spell since you were here last.”
“Undersheriff,” Seamus corrected him. “Hinkle is the sheriff.”
“Is that the same as a deputy?” Win asked.
“Higher than a deputy but lower than the sheriff,” Seamus clarified, stretching.
“Then what do we call you? Is it Deputy Glickman or Undersheriff Glickman? Undersheriff is a mouthful.”
“I guess calling me Sheriff Glickman won’t hurt anyone’s feelings,” Seamus said. Certainly not George Hinkle’s, who at that time of day was usually sitting in the cushioned chair at his desk with his feet propped up, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. Seamus was angry at him, too.
“We have been expecting someone with a badge ever since that Lafferty fellow lit out,” Win informed him. “I reckon he told you about the shootings.”
“I came to view the bodies and talk to any witnesses,” Seamus said. “But first I can use a drink. My throat is dry from all the dust I swallowed on my way here.” He started toward the batwings but abruptly stopped to avoid stepping in pig droppings. “Damn. Your street is worse than the streets in Dodge.” He hated the streets in Dodge.
“Not by much.” Win rose and preceded him.
The saloon smelled of stale odors and some not so stale, notably the unmistakable odor of fresh blood. Seamus knew the smell well from the short time he had spent working in a slaughterhouse when he was younger. Vile work, that, and hardly fitting for a man of his refined sensibilities. He regarded the new stains on the plank floor. “You have moved the bodies, I see.”
“I didn’t want folks tripping over them,” Winifred said. He produced a glass and a bottle of his best Monongahela. “Want me to pour?”
“If you would.” Seamus tried not to breathe too deep. Resting an elbow on the bar, he accepted the glass and let the whiskey burn a path down his throat to his stomach. “Ahhh. I’m obliged.”
“It’s not on the house,” Win said.
Seamus fished a half eagle from a vest pocket and flipped it to Curry, who deftly caught it. He was tempted to say Curry could keep it, just to show off, but he didn’t.
“Here is your change,” Win said. “You will need it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I will let the mayor tell you.” Win changed the subject by asking, “After you are done here, are you going after Jeeter Frost?”
“By myself?” Seamus said. “A rip-snorter like him, I would need a posse, and the county is not about to foot the bill when he is probably halfway to California by now.”
“It is too bad about that gent from the Times,” Win said. “He sort of fancied himself. Did you know him?”
“Farnsworth? Knew him well,” Seamus said. Which was not entirely true. He had talked to the pompous ass every now and again, principally because Farnsworth spent a lot of his after hours at the Comique, and they shared a few drinks, but that was the extent of it.
“Being in the wrong place at the wrong time kills more men than smallpox,” Winifred commented.
Seamus drained his glass and set it down. The idle chat was already wearing thin. “I reckon I should get started.” The sooner he talked to everyone involved, the sooner he could head for Dodge. Maybe he could make it back by nightfall. A nice meal, his seat at the theater, and then a visit to Madame Blatsky’s would set the world right again. “Suppose you tell me what you saw.”
Winifred did more than that. He showed the lawman exactly where each of the Blights had been standing when they were shot and mimicked the positions of their bodies after they fell.
Seamus only interrupted once, to chuckle and say, “The bastard shot them from under the table?” He crouched and peered under the table in the corner. “Damned sneaky, that Frost.”
“You ever heard of anyone doing that before?” Win asked.
“No, I surely haven’t,” Seamus said. He had heard of men shot from behind trees and from behind boulders, and he had heard of men shot from rooftops and from horseback and from a moving stage, but he had never heard of anyone shot from under a table. Until now.
“It is probably just as well you are not going after him,” Winifred said. “He would only add to his tally.”
“I appreciate the confidence,” Seamus said dryly. “Now why don’t you show me the bodies.” It was a command, not a question.
“I would like to,” Win said, “but they are over to the livery and no one can see them without the mayor’s permission.”
Seamus tapped his badge. “This tin star gives me the right to do as I please. The county has jurisdiction, not Coffin Varnish.”
“I know, I know,” Win said. “But—”
Before he could finish, a door at the back opened and in sashayed Sally Worth. She had done herself up, brushed her hair, and put on her best dress. It was faded but accented the swell of her bosom and her hips. Brazenly, she came up to Glickman, hooked her arm in his, and curled her red lips in a seductive smile. “I thought I heard a new voice down here.” She introduced herself. “I don’t believe we have ever met.”
“No, we haven’t,” Seamus said. He never forgot a whore. He was particular about those he slept with, and never in a million years would he sleep with one as old as this one. Although he had to admit she had a nice body.
“Care to buy a working girl a drink?”
“I am on official business, Miss Worth,” Seamus said. “In fact, I am just on my way to talk to your mayor. Luce, isn’t that his name?”
“Chester Luce,” Sally amended. “But he is not the one who runs Coffin Varnish. Not really.”
“Sally,” Win said.
“Then who is?” Seamus asked.
“Chester’s wife, Adolphina. He never does a thing without her say-so. It was her idea to have the bodies taken to the livery and—”
“Sally,” Win said sharply.
“What?”
“It will be better if Chester tells him. Let them hash it out officially,” Winifred advised.
Seamus was confused. “Hash what out? What the hell are you talking about? I just want to get this over with and get back to Dodge.”
“Visit the general store,” Win urged. “His Honor will fill you in.”
Sally touched Seamus’s cheek. “And when you are done, come on back so we can get acquainted. I will make your ride here worthwhile.”
Seamus inwardly shuddered. He would have to be booze blind to let a dove her age lure him under the sheets. The gray streaks in her hair, all those wrinkles, and, he noticed, a few teeth missing. “I will give it serious consideration, madam,” he assured her.
“You do that.” Sally beamed.
Seamus was glad to get out of there. Swirls of dust rose from under his boots as he crossed the street. Two Mexicans were in front of the livery, watching him. Two boys were out in front of the cottage, equally curious. Seamus smiled and waved. He couldn’t say why, since he did not give a good damn about any of them.
The general store had not changed, either. Seamus bought tobacco on his last visit. It cost him fifty cents more than it would in Dodge. He started down an aisle, ignoring the items for sale.
The Luces were waiting for him behind the counter. Chester smiled somewhat nervously and held out his pudgy hand. “Undersheriff Glickman. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Seamus was staring at the wife. She was big enough to wrestle a bear, and win. In fact, except for her pale skin, she resembled more than anything a she-bear in a dress.
Adolphina extended her own hand. “I did not have the honor of meeting you on your last visit, but my husband told me all about you. He said you are a fine lawman, and in the next election might take Hinkle’s job.”
“Oh, really?” Seamus had never expressed any interest in being sheriff, and if he did, he certainly would not tell someone he hardly knew.
“We imagine you want to see the bodies?” Chester asked.
“That was nice of him,” Adolphina said.
“My point is, I don’t need your permission,” Seamus said. “Coffin Varnish does not have a marshal. If it did, he would have jurisdiction. Since it doesn’t, the sheriff enforces the law just as he does in the rest of the county outside of town and city limits.”
“We could quibble the finer points of the law, but we won’t,” Adolphina told him.
“No?”
“Not at all. Our concern is that you intend to take the bodies with you. We would rather you didn’t.” Adolphina smiled sweetly. “You see, we have plans for them.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Seamus was at a loss.
Chester and Adolphina came around the counter and Adolphina took Seamus’s arm in her hands. “We would rather you see for yourself. It will save a lot of explaining.”
Confused and curious, Seamus permitted them to lead him down the street to the livery. The Mexicans had disappeared and the wide double doors were closed. But on the doors, in freshly painted red letters, was the answer.
“I’ll be damned,” Seamus Glickman said.
Chapter 7
Frank Lafferty tried not to fidget in his chair as he waited for his editor’s decision. He was dressed in his finest suit and had paid the barber a visit to give the best impression. So much was riding on the outcome that a fine sheen of sweat covered him from crown to toe. He hoped the editor would not notice.
Ezekiel Hinds, or Zeke as those at the Times called him, had been in the newspaper business for more years than everyone on the staff combined. A seasoned journalist who knew all there was to know and then some, he was responsible for hiring and promotions.
Lafferty desperately desired to move up. He had been at the Times for a year and a half, half of that as Edison Farnsworth’s assistant. Farnsworth had regarded himself as God’s gift to journalism and treated Lafferty as little more than his personal errand boy. He once told Lafferty, “The only way you or anyone else will ever fill my shoes is if I die.”
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