by J. Lee Butts
Could tell we’d about pushed the man to his outer limits when he whacked the bell on his marble-topped counter and motioned for an old guy seated in the corner to come on over.
Ancient feller hobbled up, snatched his Confederate trooper’s cap off, and bobbled his head. Clerk sneered, then snipped, “Mr. Beaudry will see you gentlemen to your room.” He handed a key to the geezer and, as he flitted through a doorway at the far end of the counter, said, “Two twenty-two, Tobias.”
Scarred and missing an ear, the codger tried to lift some of our gear, but when it appeared he just couldn’t be of any help, Nate eased him aside with, “’S okay, Pops. We’ll take care of this stuff. You just lead us to the place where we can bed down.”
While not much use as a porter, Beaudry proved a godsend. Man motioned for us to follow. Started talking as he mounted the hotel’s staircase, and I’m not sure he stopped during the entire time we were in town.
He parked himself in front of our room’s door, flashed a snaggle-toothed grin, waved the key, and said, “Mr. Smoot’s somethin’ of a pain in the rump at times, but he done give you fellers a damned fine room. One of our nicest, I think. Right spacious. Comfortable for all three of you boys.” He unlocked the door and flung it open. “Only drawback’s that it faces the street and, Sweet Jesus, it can get damned rowdy out there at times.”
Turned out Beaudry couldn’t have been more accurate with his assessment. While the room was large, airy, and well appointed, the noise level coming up to us from the board-walk below had the potential for making sleep nigh on impossible. Racket did finally die down around two in the morning. If memory serves, we all managed to get in a good nap before there was a knock at our door not long after the sun came up.
Nate stumbled to the knob. We were somewhat surprised to have the old soldier stand in the hallway, wave his cap, then say, “You fellers ain’t up yet?”
A group groan let him know exactly how we felt about his question, but that didn’t stop him. He strolled on in and pushed the door closed. “Thought you boys might need a good breakfast. Looked kinda wrung out when I brung you up last night. Nice place just down the street. Be happy to introduce y’all fellers to the owner if’n you’d stand me to a plate a eggs or somethin’.”
Carlton lifted the pillow off his bleary-eyed face and said, “’S the name of this place, Toby?”
Beaudry grinned, then took another step into the room. Said, “Bessie’s. Cain’t get a better plate a groceries in Waco, gents. Ain’t no other eatin’ joint even compares.”
Well, we let Tobias usher us on down to Bessie’s Place a bit later that morning. Think he spoke to just about every other person on the street. Appeared the entire population of Waco knew him. Soon as we hit the door of the eatery, he introduced us to a loud, jolly, red-faced lady wearing an apron the size of a revivalist’s tent. Guess she must’ve liked ole Beaudry ’cause a mountain of food ended up on our table. Stacks of pancakes the size of wagon wheels, whole slab of fried bacon, nigh on two dozen eggs, and enough coffee to wake up the whole of central Texas. Gal fed us so much we could barely climb out of our chairs once Carl had finally sopped up the last of his sunny-side up eggs.
We stood on the boardwalk outside Bessie’s that first morning, rolled ourselves a satisfying after-breakfast smoke, and jawed around about what to do and how to go about our task. Carlton and Nate took turns supplying Beaudry with smoking materials, but refused to roll them for the old bum.
Put our heads together and decided Nate should watch Pinky Falcone’s place. I told him not to do anything if he spotted John Henry, but to hustle back and find me and Carl soon as he could.
Second or third day out, Nate discovered as how Pinky had people following Carlton and me. Didn’t much care for having shadows, but figured there wasn’t much I could do about it. At the same time, Tobias led us all over town so we could talk with those he felt might be of some help in our search.
We spent long hours with bartenders, dance hall girls, shopkeepers, and local waddies who worked the cattle yards. Once, we even ran into a couple of the deputies who’d witnessed our encounter with Dud Tater. They laughed and told us how much they appreciated us putting the haughty, squirrel-headed bastard in his place. No doubt in my mind that everything we did or said to anyone got back to Falcone, one way or the other.
Week or so after we arrived, Carl stood in the street, shook his head, toed in the dirt, and muttered, “You know, Hayden, this here mess would be a whole bunch easier if we could find just one person willin’ to bad-mouth John Henry. Just one. Sure you’ve already figured it out, but this case is beginning to depress the hell outta me.”
Said, “You’re right, Carl. No sense continuin’ the way we’re goin’. Wanted to get the lay of the land ’fore we bothered the lady, but I think it’s time we spoke with Laticia Gallagher.”
Early next morning, we headed for the Yellow Rose. Thought maybe our old soldier, Tobias, would drop out and find something else to do, being as how we’d about walked him slap to death that week. But he was waiting at the door as usual. And as soon as the Yellow Rose was mentioned, he lit up like a Christmas tree with a scented candle mounted on the tip of every branch.
“Jes’ foller me,” he said, and limped off down the boardwalk like a crippled tour guide parading ignorant Easterners around for a viewing of all the wildest spots you could see in a den of iniquity like Waco. Really didn’t need his guidance, since we’d already passed the place at least a dozen times that week. But the old man appeared to be having such a fine time, neither of us could bring ourselves to run him off.
The Gallagher woman’s parlor house looked exactly the way Pinky Falcone had described it. Coat of paint so bright in the morning sun you had to shade your eyes and squint just to look at the place. Tiny bell on the white picket fence jingled when we opened the gate and strode up to a fine, deep, shaded veranda littered with at least two dozen cane-bottom rockers.
Beaudry grabbed himself a seat near the house’s entrance, and rocked back like a pig who’d just been put on payroll to do nothing but wallow in cool mud. “Cowboys what cain’t get in the parlor on real hectic nights sit out here,” he said. “Ofttimes I sneak down. Take a spot just to sit ’round and visit. Most of them horny brush poppers bring a jug along so’s to build up their courage. Nerves make ’em right free with their liquor, too. And, best of all, you can see everthang on the street from here. Finest view in town, I think.”
Carl pulled his pocket watch and snapped the cover open. He glanced at the silver-plated, two-dollar, fist-sized railroad ticker, then looked at me. “Little after nine o’clock, Hayden. Reckon anybody in there’s even up this time of the mornin’?”
I pulled the screen open and tapped on the door. “Oh, oughta be someone stirrin’ by now. Know these girls have a rough way. Lot of ’em sleep late. Even so, I’d bet the owner’s already prowling around checking on ’em just to make sure last night’s business went well.”
Second time I tapped on the door, it popped open just enough for us to see inside. Attractive blond gal in a lace-trimmed camisole she hadn’t bothered to close stood at the opening. ’Course, we snatched our hats off and tried to act like gentlemen. Not sure our efforts at false civility worked, as bug-eyed as Carl got.
Less-than-dressed gal put a hand on the doorframe and leaned her head against it in a most fetching way. Said, “Well, you boys are handsome devils. Ain’t no doubt about it.” She reached out and fiddled with Carl’s vest buttons. “Tall, stalwart, and, oh, my God, you’re both wearing badges. But, truth is, much as I’d like to take care of you, we won’t be opened till ’bout five. Fellers are gonna have to come back then.”
She made to close the door, but Carl stepped up and gently leaned his shoulder against it. “Not here for a good time, darlin’. Need to see the lady in charge. Laticia Gallagher, I think.”
A confused look washed across the girl’s angular, once pretty face. Then she shrugged. “Oh, well, guess you can c
ome on in.” She stepped aside and waved us into the parlor, then lifted one arm, which further exposed her near-complete state of undress. “Just down the hallway, other side of the landing. Mrs. Gallagher’s office is the third door on the left. Knock ’fore you go in, though. She sometimes gets right testy if’n you don’t.”
Place was as quiet as a grave. But the hardwood floor, scarred and abused by thousands of pairs of Mexican rowels, creaked and groaned under the girl’s diminutive weight as she disappeared from view. Left to our own devices, we made our way down the narrow hall and past the stairs. Tried to be quiet, but the springy boards went miles toward giving our approach away as surely as if we’d danced over while beating on an empty washtub.
Carl surprised me when he kind of swayed at the portal as though confused about how to approach the problem of getting inside. He finally gifted the door with several barely audible taps, then stepped away as though fearful the room might explode in his face. He needn’t have been concerned.
A delicate, very pleasant female voice called out, “Do come in, gentlemen.”
Stepped into one of the finest offices I’d ever seen. Airy and open. All the furniture and trappings were of the most tasteful and expensive that could be had at the time. A number of landscape paintings, of what appeared to be colorful Texas locations, hung on virtually every available bit of free wall space. Seemed as how most of them included rolling hillsides covered with the image of a particular, small, purple flower.
A huge, lifelike rendition of a rough-looking cowhand who’d just roped an angry longhorn graced the wall behind the lady of the house’s fine European-style desk. Wall on the opposite side of the room from the entry was comprised of three six-over-six glass-paned windows surrounded by heavy drapes. Altogether, Laticia Gallagher’s brilliantly lit nest appeared the exact opposite of Pinky Falcone’s.
Handsome, Spanish-looking, Laticia Gallagher did not rise. She was tall, dark-complexioned, ruby-lipped, and ramrod stiff, and her eyes sported the same hue as the flowers in her paintings. The ruffled white collar of a modest, wine-colored dress tickled her chin. With the casual wave of one imperial hand, she invited us to come inside and directed us to chairs opposite her throne.
I suddenly felt as though we’d somehow intruded on the regal lady’s privacy. Carl must’ve sensed the same thing, ’cause he came damn nigh on to tiptoeing from the doorway to the empty chairs reserved for guests. Man held his hat in both hands. Slid it around between anxious fingers. Can’t imagine where it all came from, but my antsy friend got to acting like a fat chicken at a coyote convention.
The amazing woman flashed a quick, but somehow insincere, smile our direction, then said, “Jingle bobs on your spurs and all that iron you’re carrying announced your approach as surely as if you’d both blown a trumpet all the way from the front door.”
Soon as we got settled, she moved forward a bit so as to perch on the edge of her own seat. Leaned onto the desktop as though seeking reassurance from its weight and strength. Got the impression the lady also used the move to demonstrate that she’d given us her full attention. She opened a brass-hinged box, then held it out to offer us one of the machine-made cigarettes within.
Carl glanced into the fancy little chest, but crinkled his nose and declined by saying, “Thank you, ma’am, but no. We swore off smokin’ anything lavender-colored some months ago.”
An amused grin curled one side of our hostess’s crimson lips. She fired her own smoke, took a deep drag, and said, “Well, then, what can I do for you today, gentlemen?”
Took less than two minutes for all the back-and-forth introductions and explanation of our mission. Longer I talked, the more agitated she appeared to become. By the time I finished with the ugly tale of John Henry’s fall, Laticia Gallagher had literally pushed herself into the padded refuge of her overstuffed leather chair as though seeking shelter from something awful she wished not to confront. She stared into her lap, puffed on the lavender cigarette, and clicked a thumbnail against the nail of the middle finger of her left hand.
Surprised me a bit when she sputtered, “Are you sure he’s coming back to Waco?”
Nodded and said, “Well, ma’am, this is where John Henry’s remaining family and all his friends reside. Seems only logical to us that, once he started his run from the law, he’d come to the place most likely to provide him with aid and comfort.”
Without looking at either of us, she growled, “Please don’t call me ma’am, Marshal Tilden. You can call me Laticia, or Miss Gallagher, but don’t call me ma’am, or missus, or granny—and don’t make me remind you.”
Carl went totally speechless. Took on the aspect of a man intimidated to the point of shocked lack of awareness.
Forced a smile of my own, and said, “As you command, Miss Gallagher. Please be mindful, though, that I meant no offense.”
Of a sudden, she bolted from the chair, strode to the sun-filled window, stood, and stared out at the treeless landscape that rolled away to the west. She continued to puff away on the cigarette and blow smoke toward the ceiling. After some seconds, Carlton glanced at me and shrugged as though to ask, “What the hell’s she doin’?”
’Bout then, she stomped back to her chair, stubbed the cigarette out in a smoky, glass ashtray shaped like a shriveled apple with the top cut off, then steepled her fingers under her chin. “You cannot imagine the danger to his well-being if he comes back here.”
Carlton suddenly revived. “Oh, but we can, ma’am. Should he resist, we’ll be forced to take the most violent and drastic kind of action. We hope to talk him into putting his weapons aside and accompanying us back to Fort Smith.”
She shook her head. Not a single hair moved. “It’ll never happen. Besides, if you don’t kill him, Pinky Falcone’s assassin most likely will.”
Leaned forward in my chair. “We’d assumed Falcone and Slate were friends.”
Her violet eyes seemed to sparkle. “Well, you assumed incorrectly, Marshal Tilden. Let me assure you, they hate each other. In my considered estimation, if John Henry does resurface here in Waco, it’s because he’s determined that one more killing won’t matter much.”
Studied on all she’d said for about five seconds, then said, “What’s at the root of their animosity?”
“Me. And that’s all I’ll say about the situation, except to add that I no longer work for Pinky Falcone because our relationship had deteriorated to the point of intolerance.” Then, as though spitting out a six-inch hair she’d found in her food, she added, “The man’s a walking abomination. Don’t trust anything he says and only half of what you can see that he’s doing.” With that she stood, motioned toward the door, and said, “This discussion is over, gentlemen. I have nothing further to add.”
Back out on the veranda we had to shake Tobias awake. He dragged himself out of the rocker and followed us onto the street. Ten steps or so along the boardwalk, just out front of a billiards hall that was under construction, a curtain of gunfire fell around us like someone had pushed a brick wall over in our direction.
Hot lead chinked rough-cut, pine wallboards that seeped rivers of fragrant sap. Blue whistlers scorched trenches in the wooden planks beneath our feet. Cayuses, tied at hitch rails two doors in every direction, squealed, pulled their reins loose, and ran for safety.
I dove for cover between a horse trough in the street and the pool hall’s yet-to-be-finished front porch. Carlton thudded down beside me. Scrunched up next to my back. The horse trough shuddered and shook as though it was being whacked with an ax handle.
Half a dozen bullets perforated the massive front window of the fragmentary pool hall. Sheet of beveled glass snapped at the bottom and the rest spilled out onto the porch just above our heads and behind us. Flew all to pieces in a shower of shards that sprayed out in all directions. Rolled in the dirt trying to get at our weapons, but before we could get ourselves armed, the dance came to an abrupt end. Roar of gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had begun and, in less than
a few passing seconds, was nothing more than a fleeting memory.
Wild-eyed, missing his hat, and looking like he’d just seen Satan himself, Tobias hobbled up, leaned over, and said, “You boys still alive?”
Carlton rolled onto his back, ignored the old soldier, and stared at the sky for several seconds. “Well, that was semi-interesting,” he muttered.
Joined my friend in his examination of passing clouds. Lay there with hands crossed atop our chests like a pair of corpses in a funeral home waiting for the loved ones to show up and talk about what fine fellers we once were. “Who do we know that might be behind such promiscuous gunfire?” I wondered aloud.
No hesitation when Carl said, “My money’s on our dear friend, and freight wagon unto himself, Mr. Pinky by-God Falcone.”
“Think it’s time we paid the man a more-than-serious visit,” I said.
“Damn right,” Carl growled, then hopped up and went to checking the loads in his pistols.
20
“YOU DONE WENT AND KILLED THREE PEOPLE . . .”
WE STOPPED AT the hotel long enough to grab up our shotguns and a pocketful of shells apiece. Damn near ran to the Ten Spot. On the boardwalk outside Pinky’s place, we took a few seconds to breech our weapons, make sure nothing was amiss. Loud metallic clicks when we snapped them shut.
Grim-faced, with a snarl on his lips, Carl nodded at me, then pushed through the batwings. Followed him inside. Stepped off to his right. Splash of sunlight trailed and painted a bright yellow spot on the floor at our feet. We’d gone through the same deadly process so many times in the past, felt certain my partner and I shared thoughts in some mystic way beyond our understanding.