Showdown

by Edward Gorman / Ed Gorman

  "In other words, he won't cooperate."

  "Well," Prine said, "I really haven't asked him yet. But I'm saving that as a last resort."

  Sims sighed, sat forward. Nodded to the bank president, Homer Styles, who was standing outside the teller windows talking with some of the customers. He was a courtly man, a southern man, and those who weren't put off by his southern accent were enchanted by it. For many Yankees as well as southerners, the Civil War had yet to end.

  "You see Styles out there? Can you imagine what he'd do to me if I gave you confidential information? I'd be out of a job, Tom. I just can't do it. The only way you could get it that I know of is to get a court order, and then you'd still have to deal with Styles, not me."

  Prine shrugged. "I figured that's what you'd say. But I thought I'd give it a try."

  "I'd help you if I could, Tom."

  "Yeah, I know." He pushed himself up out of the chair. He'd always had a vague admiration for drummers. They could get turned down ten times a day and they could still find a reserve of enthusiasm to knock on one more door. Getting turned down drained him.

  But as he walked out of the bank, his step quickened when he realized that there was one more person he could try. A person who didn't seem to like Aaron Duncan all that much. Aaron Duncan's wife.

  Richard Neville wondered if he could survive the late-afternoon gathering at his mansion. Another excuse for the local gentry to get drunk and stuff their bellies at his expense. And all the cloying, embarrassing speeches he had to endure. She was so lovely. She was such a fine person. You must be so lonely. Anytime you feel like talking, just stop over. She would've wanted you to go on with your life, Richard.

  She'd been a stupid, whiny little bitch who'd wanted to be praised constantly for all the inane little things she did. My God, she never stopped bragging about her charity work; never stopped regaling him with tales of the boy-men who fell in love with her; and never talked about how she was going to give half of her fortune to charity.

  What she hadn't known—few people did—was the catastrophic losses the business he'd inherited had suffered in the past few years. Against the advice of his lawyers, his accountants, and his bankers, he'd started buying up towns and hamlets rumored to have been chosen by railroads as railheads. He'd already squandered hundreds of thousands of dollars on bad cattle deals; on timberland that logging companies wouldn't meet his prices for; on a steamboat scheme that would've returned the rivers to their former majesty—despite the obvious fact that people preferred railroad travel these days. River travel was in terrible decline. All this was made even worse by the fact that he listened only to those cronies who agreed with him. Hell, he bought them drinks, food, women—why wouldn't they agree with him?

  He'd managed to survive last year only because he'd been able to blackmail Aaron Duncan into letting him buy into Duncan's various businesses—and then destroy them. Neville had witnessed a drunken Duncan cut up a whore pretty badly one night—the woman almost bled to death before Neville, terrified of the scandal, called in a doc to take care of her. Duncan had no choice but to go along with Neville's arson plans. Neville got the cash flow he needed. But then the insurance company sent that damned Al Woodward out here. Neville sent him a note luring him to the lake and killed him there.

  But he knew he was beyond the help of arson. He needed a large amount of money, and he needed it quickly. That meant his sister's half of the family fortune.

  He still remembered the day Rooney had come to Neville's buggy in town one day. The man even looked like a grifter, but it was easy to tell that Rooney thought otherwise. Rooney obviously saw himself as a very sleek-looking businessman. He would've ignored Rooney, but Rooney said, "I have some interesting news about your sister."

  My God, you couldn't ask for a better opportunity. The stupid bitch had hired two lowlife grifters to kidnap her to teach big brother a lesson. Rooney offered to do whatever Neville said if the price was right. Neville made sure the price was right. He wanted Cassie murdered, and these scruffy boys were just the two to do it. He would make sure to kill them if he ever got the chance.

  And he got his chance.

  Now he watched all the hypocrites. They'd be laughing with their mouths and lusting with their eyes until it was their turn to come over and pay their respects to Richard. And then they would put on their grief masks. And natter on about what a loss she was. And how much he'd obviously loved her. And how, someday, he'd be able to carry on with his life.

  He had a meeting on Monday with her lawyers. He needed to tap into her fortune, and quickly.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Duncan home had been built on a shelf above a leg of the river. Isolation and privacy were further provided by the fact that it had been built inside a sprawl of pine and pin oak trees so that it could not be seen from the road.

  Prine's instinctive first response to this glimpse of the privileged life was one of unworthiness. He'd seen his old man roll over and grovel for rich people. He had the same shameful tendencies. You could try and convince yourself that all people were equal in the eyes of God and the law, but money bought power and power instilled fear. And fear . . .

  By the time he dismounted, ground-tying his horse by the river, he felt less intimidated by the Victorian house looming up out of what had once been a prairie. The badge made him equal to anybody who lived here. He just needed to remember that.

  Elenore Duncan came out the front door just as Prine reached the front steps. She wore an ice-blue frock that displayed her full but fetching body to advantage. Her hair was perfectly set, too, as if she might have been entertaining this afternoon. When she wobbled coming down the steps—he took her elbow just before she fell down—he realized that she'd been entertaining all right—herself. She was politely and properly drunk. She wasn't the first gentrified, middle-aged woman to suffer at the brutal hands of John Barleycorn.

  "I saw you come up," she said. She flung a hand somewhere in the vicinity of the yard to the west. The grounds were elegantly landscaped and tended. Arson must pay better than I realized, Prine thought. "I love to sit in the gazebo. Come."

  She slid her hand into his, as if they were teenage lovers. "Oh, God, I hate being sad all the time." She spoke to herself more than she did to him. "I used to sit by the window and wait and wait and wait for him to come home. Sometimes I'd sit up till nearly dawn. I didn't care about his gambling or his whores and all the stupid business deals he was always getting into. I just wanted him to come home to me."

  Her hand still in his, she turned her face to him and for the first time he saw, beneath the excess flesh, the fine lyrical bones of the young woman she'd been. One of those wry, melancholy faces you could look at for hours. "And now you know what? Now I don't care if he ever comes home. In fact, I'd prefer if he'd stay away. Because when he's here, all we do is argue."

  As they walked, her wide mouth became a full and appealing smile. "Have you guessed my secret yet, Deputy Prine?"

  "I'm not sure, Mrs. Duncan."

  "Oh, Lord. Don't make me feel older than I am. Please call me Ellie."

  "My secret—" She stumbled. He seized her elbow again. She was still smiling when she stood straight again. "I think I just gave away my secret."

  "You've been drinking."

  "How observant. Are all deputies as observant as you are?"

  "Yes. We take an oath to be observant."

  "I'm drunk, Deputy Prine."

  "Gosh, are you sure?"

  She laughed.

  "I like you. Do you like me?"

  "Very much."

  "You know something? My husband's afraid of you."

  "Did he tell you that?"

  "You paid him a visit the other day. I saw you in his office. That Mr. Woodward scared him, too."

  Prine was glad they weren't holding hands any longer. Because when she mentioned Woodward, his entire body tensed.

  They reached the gazebo—classically shaped with a blue roof and w
hite sides—and he helped her up the stairs and inside. They sat on a padded bench that allowed them to look at the river.

  Prine rolled himself a cigarette. He was trying to figure out the best way to keep her talking. "Did you ever meet Woodward?" he asked.

  "Would you roll me one of those?"

  "You smoke, huh?"

  "Only when I'm drunk."

  "Sure, I'll roll you one."

  He rolled her one. Got it lit for her. Handed it to her. She knew how to smoke just fine. She looked good, too, inhaling, exhaling, cocking her head at a certain angle so that her long, fine neck was emphasized. The lips she'd just wetted sparkled with erotic promise.

  She said, "Don't ask me to betray him."

  "I assume we're talking about your husband."

  "Yes, unfortunately—yes. All the times and all the ways he's betrayed me. I don't know why I should give a damn about betraying him. I guess I still love him. That's the terrible thing about all this. I still love him."

  He wondered if she was going to cry.

  As soon as Aaron Duncan got the telegram, he said goodnight to his secretary and left Pentacle Mattress. It was barely 3:30.

  He headed straight and fast to the Neville estate. He was trying to work up such an anger that not even Richard Neville could turn him aside. That was the hell of it with Neville. He was such a powerful man—both physically and because of his business reputation—that it was impossible for somebody like Duncan to take his verbal abuse. Like most people, Duncan always gave in to Neville, even when he knew he shouldn't. This time, at least, he was going to taunt him, say that Neville's idea for three arsons was stupid to begin with.

  You don't think they'll catch on, Richard? You think insurance companies are dumb? Three businesses I own burn down in a four-month period and they don't have any suspicions? You're so desperate for money, you're not thinking straight, Richard. This third one—They'll catch us before. And this time, they're going to find out who my silent partner is, too. You wait and see. This time, they won't quit until they've found out everything.

  Duncan had been drunk when he'd said all this one night in his office with Neville. Maybe that's what he needed now. The fortification, the wisdom of alcohol. But it was still the sunny afternoon. No way Neville would take him seriously if he showed up drunk.

  The telegraph rode in his pocket like a coiled snake, ready to strike. His lawyer warning him that Prine had tried to get the name of Duncan's secret partner from him. Now it was both Prine and the insurance company moving in on them. And Neville kept on killing people. One dead in the mattress factory fire. Al Woodward the insurance investigator murdered. And in both of these, by law, Duncan had been complicit.

  That first night when Neville had proposed it all, it all sounded so easy.

  You need money, Aaron, and so do I. Your company's about three or four months from taking bankruptcy. I owe so much money, they may not even give me the regular bankruptcy protection. One thing's for sure—they'll take every single thing I own. Every single thing. But I can lay my hands on just enough cash to buy into your businesses and fix them up some. Capital investment. My accountant'll doctor the books so that it'll look like you're doing very, very well for yourself Then I hire somebody to burn the buildings down and we'll split the proceeds.

  It had looked so easy.

  The insurance company did only a cursory examination of the first building. They were naturally more curious—and more deliberate—about number two.

  Richard Neville went through his arson money quickly, learning that it wasn't enough to keep people off his back for even a couple of weeks. So he'd proposed arson number three. With a wrinkle.

  We'll make it look like somebody's got it in for you, Aaron. We'll leave a note that says this is fire number three. Fire number four'll be your fancy new house. And we'll make it sound like this arsonist's got some kind of grudge against you. Maybe somebody you fired a long time ago. Somebody who's really crazy, he hates you so much. This way, it doesn't look like we had anything to do with it. There's this maniac running around. We can't help that, can we?

  Good ole Neville. The mastermind. The genius. Just ask him.

  Well, now he'd really have to be a mastermind. Obviously, the insurance company didn't believe the letter the "arsonist" left behind. And apparently neither did Prine, else why would he be firing off telegrams to Duncan's lawyer?

  The estate was coming into view. Normally, sight of it would have made him feel better. There were always stiff drinks and good food to be had at the Neville mansion. Even listening to Richard brag wasn't so bad most of the time. Richard was an entertaining braggart. He had no sense of humor about himself, that was the biggest problem from a social standpoint. He couldn't detect his underlings gently laughing at him rather than with him. He couldn't tell a smirk from a smile.

  But this afternoon, neither smirk nor smile would matter. All that counted was the telegram coiled in Duncan's pocket. With all the stress and strain Neville had been under lately, he was likely to go into one of his temper tantrums. These were truly terrifying and sickening spectacles. A grown man with no more control of himself than a spoiled seven-year-old. He'd curse, smash things, and then turn on whichever poor unfortunate had been designated to bring him the bad news. Killing the messenger was part of the fun for Richard—his eyes bugged out, his face scarlet with boiling blood, spittle flying like silver worms from his lips.

  That was when you needed to stand up to him.

  Duncan had to remember that. He was a full partner in all this. He was complicit in the murders of at least two people. He had the right to speak up and the right to be listened to with great seriousness.

  Even if Richard tried to shut up him, Richard was going to by God listen to him. Even if Duncan had to put a gun to his head.

  He was sick of Richard, sick of his life—and, most especially, sick of himself.

  He rode through the open black wrought-iron gates leading to the dusty road that eventually wound past the mansion.

  After tying his horse to a hitching post, he went quickly up the front steps and knocked on the towering front door. So like Richard to have a door this size. Loom over you and intimidate you even before you'd gotten inside.

  "Yes, sir. Good evening, sir." This was whitejacketed Carlos. The butler. The man seemed to work twenty-four hours a day.

  "I need to see Neville."

  "Very good, sir. Wait here and I'll announce you." All with a Mex accent, of course.

  But there would be none of that royal bullshit this time. Duncan pushed past Carlos and rushed down the parquet hall leading to the home office Neville preferred to work out of. The place still stank from all the funeral flowers that had been in the front room where the wake—complete with body—had been held.

  He didn't knock. He burst in.

  Neville, behind his desk, looked up. He was startled for perhaps two seconds. Then he was enraged.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing, Duncan?"

  "Shut the hell up," Duncan said.

  He slammed the door hard enough to make a few of the paintings on the walls dance a little. Then he took the telegram from inside his suit jacket and pitched it onto Neville's desk.

  "I asked you what the hell you thought you were doing?" Neville said, not even looking at the telegram.

  "And I told you to shut up. And I'm still telling you to shut up. And read that telegram."

  Neville had to say something before he read the telegram, of course. His kind always have the last word.

  "You're going to regret coming in this way, unannounced. You seem to think you've got some sort of upper hand now, but you don't. And I don't give a damn what that telegram says."

  Duncan slid his Peacemaker out from inside his coat.

  "Read it, Richard. Now."

  "That's just one more thing you're going to regret, Duncan. Pulling a gun on me. You must be losing your mind."

  "Read it. Now."

  Neville fina
lly picked up the telegram. Unfolded it angrily. Laid it flat upon his desk and scanned it.

  Wasn't a long telegram. Didn't take much reading, much time.

  "Sonofabitch," Neville said when he finished reading it.

  "Those lawyers of yours better know how to save our lives, Richard, or I'm going to cooperate with the law."

  Neville, curiously, spoke softly now, almost gently. "We've had our differences, Aaron. But I've always liked you."

  "Sure, Richard. You don't like anybody but yourself."

  "Will you listen to me? You can't stand there with that ridiculous gun of yours—I'm sorry, Aaron, you just don't look that threatening with a gun in your hand—and tell me that we didn't have same good times when we started hanging around together a couple of years ago. That trip to New Orleans? That trip to St. Louis? Those mulatto girls we found in Cheyenne that time?"

  But Duncan wasn't caught up in Neville's attempt at nostalgia.

  "We didn't kill people then. The men who died in those fires we had set—"

  "It was an accident, Aaron. An accident. It's almost as if you want to feel guilty about those men." Duncan held up his free hand.

  "All that matters now is that we figure out how to deal with the insurance company and Prine, Richard. You're supposed to be the smart one here. What the hell are we going to do?"

  "I'll tell you one thing we're not going to do," Neville said. 'We're not going to start running around in circles and looking like we've got something to hide. You understand that, Aaron?"

  Duncan's resolve had been waning. Going up against Neville was just too difficult. He wasn't afraid of the telegram, he wasn't afraid of Duncan's gun. He was a man naturally given to controlling all situations. And this situation was no different.

  "Now, will you put that stupid damned gun down here on the desk, Aaron?"

  "You really have an idea?" Duncan knew how desperate, childlike, he sounded.

  "I really have an idea, but I'm not saying anything else until that Peacemaker of yours is right here on my desk."