The table he was indicating was the table of workers Roper had initially picked out during his earlier visits to the Bullshead. Meeting Larry and Stan Fixx had saved him from having to find a way to introduce himself to them. Now the brothers were taking care of that.
“Hey, boys!” Larry yelled.
The six men looked up at Larry and five of them grinned. Roper noticed one man roll his eyes and look away.
“Meet Andy Blake,” Stan said. “He’s new. Andy, that’s Benny Williams, Luke Taylor, Mark Brecker, Sam Ambler, and Lester Hayes. And that unpleasant-lookin’ fella, that’s Jerry Tucker.” Stan lowered his voice. “He don’t like us.”
“Nobody likes you, Stan, or your brother,” Jerry said. “They’re just bein’ nice to you.”
Jerry was in his mid-thirties, was dressed better than the others, and projected an attitude that said he was better. He was also the only one in the group who was wearing a gun. Roper had decided that Andy Blake wouldn’t be wearing a gun when he was at work, and since he had gone out right after work with the Fixx boys, he still didn’t have one on. He did, however, have a two-shot derringer tucked into one boot, and a knife in the other.
“Don’t listen to him,” Mark Brecker said. “Pull up some chairs. Whatta they got you doin’, new guy?”
“I’m workin’ in Orton’s office as a clerk,” Roper said.
“How’d you manage that?” Luke Taylor asked.
Roper shrugged and said, “It was the job he offered me, and I really needed a job. I was prepared to work knee deep in shit, but—”
“Hey, don’t knock it,” Benny Williams said. “If I could get out of the shit, I would.”
“You were born for the shit, Benny,” Jerry Tucker said, “like these boys.”
“Fuck you, Jerry,” Larry said.
“Watch how to talk to me, dummy,” Jerry said. “I’m the one wearin’ a gun, remember?”
“We’ll take that gun away from you and stuff it up yer ass,” Stan said.
“The other dummy speaks,” Jerry said. “The Dummy brothers.”
Larry made a move, but Stan put his hand on his brother’s arm.
“Shut the hell up, Jerry,” Lester Hayes said. “None of us know why you have to wear that gun anyway.”
“Because I’m good with it,” Jerry said.
“Ha,” Larry said. “You wanna see somebody good with a gun, you shoulda seen what Andy did here last night.”
“Larry,” Roper said, “I told you I got lucky.”
“If you’re so good with a gun, why ain’t you wearin’ one?” Jerry asked with a sneer.
“Now that I’ve got my job,” Roper said, “I don’t have any need for a gun.”
“But you needed it last night,” Mark said. “Why would you come back here without it?”
“We went to a saloon right from work,” Roper said. “I didn’t know we’d end up here.”
“If you’re good with a gun,” Jerry said, “you wear it.”
“I’m not here to prove anythin’ with a gun,” Roper said. “I’m tryin’ to make a livin’.”
“Ain’t we all?” Sam asked, speaking for the first time.
Most of the men were in their late thirties or early forties, but Sam. He looked to be fifty or so, but he had big beefy shoulders and arms and certainly looked like the kind of man who could push cows and steers around.
They all had another drink and managed to direct the conversation away from Jerry’s gun.
Jerry didn’t take part in much of the conversation, and Roper really couldn’t see why he was sitting with the group. For that reason he stuck out to the detective, which made him interesting when he was looking for a suspect.
He was going to have to check out Jerry Tucker.
29
Roper woke the next morning in a feather bed in Mrs. Varney’s Rooming House. The Fixx brothers had been right about one thing: This place was much better than the hotel he’d been in.
He wanted to stay in the feather bed longer, but Mrs. Varney had warned him that if he missed breakfast, he’d have to eat out.
When he came down the stairs, dressed for work, Mrs. Varney’s long wooden table was crowded with her boarders. There was, however, one spot left, and he claimed it.
“We got some new boarders this mornin’,” Mrs. Varney said, “but I ain’t got time to make introductions, so you boys better take care of it yourselves.”
“Hi,” the man on Roper’s left said, “I’m Bill Catlin.” He was in his forties, dressed like a businessman in a suit, although his jacket was hanging on the back of his chair.
“Andy Blake.”
The man to his right was eating, and didn’t bother to introduce himself.
The table was covered with plates of scrambled eggs, ham, potatoes, flapjacks, biscuits, and grits. Apparently, none of the other boarders—new or old—were interested in getting acquainted, so they all pretty much ate in silence. Roper found it odd. In other boardinghouses he’d usually found there’d be some drummer anxious to hawk his wares to the captive audience. Not the case here.
The food was excellent, and Mrs. Varney—all four-feet-ten of her—kept bustling in and out with even more food. The coffee was the best Roper had tasted in a while—well, since the day before in that café with Nancy. He still wondered why a place with coffee that good had been so deserted. Maybe the food didn’t match. He still intended to go back and try it.
At one point he leaned over to Catlin and asked, “Is it always this quiet at breakfast?”
“Wasn’t always,” Catlin said. “We had a salesman with us last week, kept tryin’ to sell us all new underwear at breakfast.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody broke into his room, gave him a few whacks, and tore up his undies,” Catlin said. “Since then nobody talks much.”
“Probably wise,” Roper said.
Catlin nodded and said, “I think so, too.”
Mrs. Varney’s three-story home was a virtual mansion, with the second and third floors turned into rooms for rent. The first floor had a sitting room and the large dining room they were eating in. The table was made of sturdy wood, about fifteen feet long, with a long bench on either side. Apparently, she wanted her boarders to eat and get out and not get comfortable. Roper’s ass was already complaining about the hard wooden bench.
As Mrs. Varney came in and out through a swinging door, Roper could see the large kitchen. There was one other person in there, but he only caught a glimpse, as Mrs. Varney was the only one who ever came out. Roper assumed there were other rooms on the first floor, in the rear of the house, where Mrs. Varney lived.
One by one, the boarders finished eating, got up, and left. Most of them looked like men who worked in town. One or two of them wore a gun and trail clothes, appearing to be men who were just passing through.
Eventually, it came down to Roper, Catlin, and two others at the opposite end of the table.
“How long have you lived here?” Roper asked him.
“A few months,” Catlin said. “I’m tryin’ to get myself established in town before I get a place of my own.”
“What do you do?” Roper asked.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“And these others?”
“Various jobs,” Catlin said. “Several of the men work in the stockyards. Mr. Henry there, at the end, has a gun shop. He’s talkin’ to Mr. Avery, who works at the local apothecary. Others are just passin’ through. Mrs. Varney doesn’t discriminate. How about you?”
“Stockyards,” Roper said.
“Really? You don’t strike me as that kind of man.”
“What kind of man do I strike you as?”
“Educated,” Catlin said.
“Well,” Roper said, “I just got the job yesterday. I’m clerking in the office.”
“Ah,” Catlin said, “that’s more like it.”
“What kind of law do you practice?”
“Whatever I can get, really,” Catlin
said. “Some estate work, an occasional criminal case. Came here from the East to get myself a more interesting life.”
“How’s it going so far?” Roper asked.
“Not much excitement, I have to admit,” Catlin said. “But I’m hopeful.”
“Seems I heard of some excitement here…what was it, last month? Fella died in the yards?”
“Yeah, but he just fell into a pen and got trampled,” Catlin said. “Nothing there for a lawyer to get involved in.”
“Unless he was killed.”
“Well,” Catlin said, slapping his napkin down on the table, “I didn’t hear anything like that. I’ve got to get to my office. See you tomorrow morning.”
“Sure.”
Catlin left, and a few minutes later, the other two men did as well.
Mrs. Varney came out of the kitchen and looked startled to see him there.
“Still eatin’, I see, Mr. Blake.”
“Last one down, last one done, I guess, ma’am,” he said. “The food was amazing.”
“I have a good cook,” she said, nodding.
“Well,” he said, dropping his napkin on the table and standing, “I guess I’d better get to work. Don’t want to be late on my second day.”
Mrs. Varney nodded and started to clean up. She carried two armfuls of plates to the door and opened it with her ample behind. Roper caught a better, longer look at the kitchen, and the cook—a younger woman, very pretty, wearing an apron. She had long brown hair, held back in a long ponytail, and just for a moment their eyes met before the door swung closed.
30
Roper’s first week at work was uneventful.
He was able to come up to speed fairly quickly on the way Orton did things, his filing system, his purchase orders, his personnel files. He even saw some ways he could have improved on everything, but he didn’t want to seem that smart. All he was interested in was blending in, not standing out.
One of the surprises of his job was meeting his boss’s wife, and that happened on the eighth day.
Orton had never even talked about his wife that week, and they had even eaten lunch together twice right there in the office.
On day eight, Orton was out in the yard when the door opened and a woman walked in. She was dressed simply, but expensively, in a brown fringe skirt, tan blouse, and black boots. Her auburn hair was worn long and she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.
She turned her head to look at him, stared a bit too long, appraising him.
“You look interesting,” she said. “When did you start working here?”
“A week ago.”
“I guess I should come around more often,” she said, her tone overly flirtatious.
“Are you lookin’ for Mr. Orton?”
“I am,” she said. “Is he around?”
“He’s out in the pens,” Roper said.
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said. “I suppose I can look forward to him coming home smelling like manure.”
“Comin’ home?”
She came close enough to Roper’s desk to bump it with her hip.
“I’m Louise Orton,” she said.
“His…daughter?” Roper asked.
“Why, how sweet,” she said. “No, actually, I’m his wife.”
“Oh,” Roper said, standing quickly, “Mrs. Orton. I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”
“Relax, Mr.—”
“Blake, ma’am,” he said. “My name’s Andy Blake.”
“Well, Andy,” she said, “from here, you don’t smell like manure.”
“Ma’am—” he said, but stopped short when she came around the desk to stand next to him. She leaned in close enough for her nose to touch his neck as she sniffed him.
“Nope,” she said, “no manure.”
Her perfume tickled his nose and he thought, under other circumstances, this little dance would have been enjoyable.
At that moment the front door opened and Pete Orton stepped in. Louise Orton turned her head to look at him, but made no move to back away from Roper, so he took the liberty of taking a couple of steps away from her.
“Louise,” Orton said. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t seem at all happy to see her, and also didn’t seem to mind how close she had been standing to Roper.
“Why, looking for you, darling,” she said, moving back around to the outside of Roper’s desk. “Your new clerk has been entertaining me while I wait.”
Orton walked to his desk. He did, indeed, reek of manure. Roper could smell it from across the room. Orton dropped the papers he was carrying on top of his desk.
“What do you want, Louise?” he asked again.
“What do I usually want, my dear?” she asked. “I need some money.” She looked at Roper. “He keeps me on such a short leash.”
Orton scowled, took some money from his pocket, and held it out to her. She had to walk across the room to take it from him.
“I assume that will be enough?” he said.
“That should do it,” she said. “I only need a few things.”
“I’m busy,” he said. “I’ll see you at home.”
She walked to the door, opened it, and said to her husband, “Don’t overwork your handsome new clerk.” Then she looked at Roper. “Good-bye, Andy. Thanks for keeping me company.”
She left, pulling the door closed behind her, not quite hard enough to break the glass.
Orton sat down behind his desk, still scowling. He took a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer, along with two glasses.
“Join me for a drink, Andy,” he said.
Roper walked over and accepted a glass from his boss.
“Mr. Orton,” he said, “I, uh, I wasn’t—”
“I know you weren’t,” Orton said. “The woman is a shark, Andy. You’d do well to steer clear of her—and not only because she’s my wife.”
“Yes, sir.”
Orton downed his whiskey and poured two more fingers.
“And like I told you, don’t call me sir, or Mr. Orton,” he said. “Just call me Pete. Got it?”
“I got it, Pete.” Roper drank his whiskey and set the empty glass down.
“No more for you,” Orton said. “Back to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roper went back to his desk. Orton finished his second drink, then replaced the bottle and closed the drawer. He went into the water closet for a short time and came out smelling only slightly less of manure.
* * *
Roper waited half an hour before bringing up the subject of Jerry Tucker. He brought some paperwork over to the desk for Orton to peruse and sign. In just a week Roper had come to understand how mind numbing office work could be.
“Good,” Orton said, looking the paper over. “Good.” He signed it and handed it back.
“Pete, what can you tell me about Jerry Tucker?” Roper asked.
“Tucker,” Orton repeated. “Tucker.”
“Wears a gun when he’s not workin’,” Roper said. “Thinks he’s pretty good with it.”
“Oh, him,” Orton said. “He’s an idiot. He’s going to get himself killed one day.”
“Or somebody else.”
“That’s why you should stay away from him when he’s drinking,” Orton said.
“I intend to,” Roper said, “but he seems to have it in for me because of what happened the other night in the Bullshead.”
“How did he find out about that?”
“The Fixx brothers,” Roper said, “they like to, uh, brag.”
“Those two,” Orton said, shaking his head. “Why would you make friends with them?”
“Well,” Roper said, “for one thing they introduced me to you.”
“You seem much too smart to be friends with them, Andy,” Orton said.
“Everybody thinks I’m so smart,” Roper said. “Why is that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Orton said. “Maybe we’re just wrong.”
“Yeah, that may be,” Roper said, and went back to his desk.
“No, we’re not,” Orton said, standing up. “I can see that you’re an educated man, Andy. Why don’t you tell me where you got that education?”
“I got it by the seat of my pants,” Roper said. “Travelin’, lookin’, and listenin’.”
Orton eyed him for a moment, then said, “That might make sense.”
Before he could decide whether it did or not, the door opened and a man came in. He was wet with sweat and looked as if he was covered with dirt—or manure—from the waist down.
“Problem, boss.”
“What is it?” Orton demanded.
“You better come and look.”
Orton hesitated, then turned and pointed a finger at Roper.
“Another month and I’m going to let you handle things like this.”
As Orton followed the man out, Roper was thinking that in a month’s time he hoped to be gone and done with this case.
31
When the last man entered the saloon, the leader yelled out to him, “Lock that door!”
“Yessir.”
The last man locked the door, then walked to a chair and sat down. He was the sixth man in the room.
“I’ve called you all here,” the leader said, “because we need to escalate our efforts.”
“Huh?” one of the men, Cal Edwards, said.
“He wants us to try harder,” another man, Nick Brady, said.
“We been doin’ a lot of damage,” still another man, Steve Wilson, said. “And that detective gettin’ killed—”
“That was unfortunate,” the leader said, “not necessary. But it still hasn’t persuaded the Eastern interests to forget about Fort Worth as a place for them to invest. That means we need to redouble our efforts to make them see.”
“Redouble?” said Edwards, who still didn’t seem to quite understand.
“He means we need to try harder,” Brady explained.
“Why don’t he just say that?”
Edwards shrugged.
“So whatta you want us to do?” Wilson asked.
“Just be ready,” the leader said. “We’re coming up with a plan, and when we have it in place, we want you all to be ready to act.”
The Reluctant Pinkerton Page 11