Steven Havill - Double Prey

“No, I don’t think so,” Estelle responded. “Maybe later.”

“She told me about Butchie,” Christine said. Her amber-green eyes flooded with sympathy. “How horrible . Your son was with him?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s okay?”

“Francisco is fine. Shaken, but fine.”

Christine blinked hard. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for George and Tata right now.”

“A hard time,” Estelle said.

“You let ’em run wild, that’s what you get,” Prescott said ungraciously, and Christine shot him a withering glance.

“I came out to tell you that Cam Florek wants you to call him,” Christine said to her father.

“Now I’m crushed,” Gastner quipped. “I thought you came out to deliver a much needed hug.”

“Oh, I did, I did,” Christine laughed, and she slid her arm through Gastner’s, ready to promenade.

“I got to make that call,” Prescott said, obviously thankful for a handy excuse. “You need anything else from me?”

“Thank you for taking the time, sir.” Estelle watched the rancher stalk off and then turned to Gastner and Christine. “Christine, do you recall a fellow named Eddie Johns?”

“Dad and mom were talking about that earlier,” Christine replied incredulously. “They were saying that somebody’s skeleton was found over on the neighbor’s, and that it might be Eddie Johns?”

“That’s correct.”

“My God. Is that…Freddy’s accident, I mean…are they…”

“We’re not sure,” Estelle said.

“My God.”

“You remember Johns, then?”

“Who doesn’t,” Christine said. “I didn’t like him, and I know daddy didn’t.”

“You remember why not?”

“Well, sure. I mean, I know why I didn’t like him much. Johns was a bully. You know the type. Pushy, loud, my way or the highway.” She glanced at the house as if she didn’t want her father to overhear. “You know what I think? I used to watch Johns, you know. In the saloon. You do that with someone who’s going to cause trouble. And that’s the deal with Eddie Johns. Every time he came into the saloon, I was always half expecting him to get in a tangle with somebody, just because he couldn’t keep his fat mouth shut. He couldn’t just take a beer and drink it and leave. He liked to scare people. He got a kick out of that.”

“He carried a gun from time to time,” Gastner offered.

“Oh, yeah, he carried a gun. I once told Victor that I was going to call the cops, but he always waved it off. It would have been one thing if Johns kept it concealed, but it always seemed important to him that other people know he was armed. Packing , he called it. What a jerk. I mean, I suppose I shouldn’t talk ill of the dead, but that’s what he was…a jerk.”

“Did he ever argue with your father, Christine?” Estelle asked.

“He argued with everybody , sheriff. My dad didn’t like him, and tried his best to ignore him. Johns liked to pick at him, you know. See if he could get a rise out of him.”

“With any success?” Gastner asked.

“My dad’s patient most of the time,” Christine replied grimly. “He drinks too much, but he has a lot on his mind. He just did his best to ignore Mr. Johns. I did too, but sometimes a bartender has to be more of an actress than anything else.”

“To put up with the jerks?”

“That’s exactly it, Bill. Victor doesn’t like to see the paying customers driven away. So we have to pretend sometimes.”

“And you had to do that with Eddie Johns?” Estelle asked.

“Too much,” Christine replied. “Mr. Johns assumed that women were naturally attracted to him. Dream on. He needed to look in the mirror more often and spend some time considering his ‘yuck’ factor. I know that when he was flirting with me, my dad was on a low boil. But he didn’t say anything. He knows I can take care of myself.”

“He just worried a lot,” Gastner added.

“That’s what dads do, right? Now he’s worried about Casey. He didn’t like Freddy Romero very much, but I know he’s sorry Casey has to go through all this.” She smiled faintly. “That’s why I showed up on the doorstep, I guess. I’m sort of the de facto family mediator, and it’s hard to meddle from Las Cruces.”

“I’m sure no one considers it meddling, Christine,” Gastner said. “Damn hard times for everybody involved.”

“It is.” She turned as her father reappeared from the house, then looked back at Estelle. “Any notions about Johns? Who he tangled with?”

“Not yet,” Estelle replied.

“He talked about his connections south of the border.”

“So I understand. We’re looking at that, but it’s a slim trail.”

“He was shot?”

“It appears so.”

Christine shook her head slowly. “Makes you wonder. Shows that I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t inquire about Eddie Johns going missing. Doesn’t look like anyone missed him enough to look into it.”

“We’re getting a late start,” Gastner said. “Like five or six years too late.”

“You think it happened that long ago?”

“It could have,” Estelle said. “You were full time at the saloon around then?”

“I was. I just quit last year, you know. And here I am, twenty-seven years old, and only a sophomore in college.” She chuckled. “Slow starter, that’s me.”

“What do you think of this college kid?” Gus Prescott said as he approached. Christine reached out and hooked his arm once more, a protective gesture as if she were the parent and he the child. Estelle slipped her notebook into her hip pocket.

“You must be proud, sir. I may need to talk with you again.” When Prescott nodded, he was looking at Gastner, not her. “Christine, how long will you be home?”

“Just this week, probably. I really need to get back to class. I’m not one of those fireballs who can miss half the lectures and still sail through. I want to be able to go to Freddy’s funeral with Casey. I think it’s on Thursday.”

“Well, we’re gonna talk about that,” Prescott muttered, but Christine ignored him.

As they walked back to their respective vehicles, Estelle noticed that Gastner’s gait was even more leisurely than before, but his face wasn’t its usual cheerful self, despite a warm final hug from Christine Prescott. His brow was furrowed in thought and she recognized the vexed set of his mouth and heavy chin. He walked with head down, not soaking in the pleasures of a sunny day on the prairie.

“Check with you in about a mile,” he said cryptically, and headed for his truck. Behind them, Stub Moore was putting the finishing touches on the top of the load, adding the remains of a Chevy Suburban to even the pack. “Oh,” and he stopped short. “You got your camera?”

“Of course, Padrino . ”

“ Do me a favor and take a good picture of that load before Florek gets here with the tractor,” he said. He pointed his index finger pistol-fashion at the trailer.

“Easily done.”

“I’ll meet you in Moore.”

Estelle watched him settle into the truck, and saw him glare at the steering wheel for a moment, then shake his head in disgust. Bill Gastner’s usual unflappable humor had been flapped by something. She unzipped her digital camera and walked off to one side, framing the loaded trailer neatly from margin to margin using the zoom. Both Stub Moore and Gus Prescott watched her, but didn’t intrude. She took a series of a dozen shots, and by the time she closed up the camera, the dust from Bill Gastner’s pickup had dissipated across the prairie.

“You know,” Bill Gastner said, “there’s a lot to be said for being wrong.” He leaned hard against Estelle’s county car, both hands flat on the roof above the window. “I hope to hell that I am.” He nodded toward her camera, still sitting in its boot on the center console. “Lemme have a look at what you took.”