Роберт Паркер - The Bridge

There was something mysterious and haunting about her gaze.

Must be Madame Leroux, I thought. She remained looking at me and I looked at her until her trailer passed.

“Beauregard ought to put his brother to rest,” Virgil said. “Change the troupe’s name.”

“Change the troupe’s name?” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“Beauchamp’s Theatrical Extravaganza,” Virgil said. “Less of a mouthful.”

“Oh, Virgil, don’t be silly,” Allie said. “Clearly you don’t know the first thing about showmanship and advertising. You don’t go and spoil a name brand just because a brother got gobbled up by a tiger, for land’s sake. There’s a business to advertising. Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, for instance... Ol’ Mrs. Winslow’s been dead and gone forever and a day, and it’s a good thing they haven’t changed the name to... to deceased and six-feet-under Mrs. Winslow’s Syrup. They wouldn’t sell nothing.”

Allie uncocked her scorn as quickly as she’d cocked it, then turned her attention back on the passing troupe as if Virgil had said nothing.

Virgil looked at me and smiled a little, then glanced up to the dark clouds in the far distance that were slowly rolling in behind the Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza, headed for Appaloosa.

“Regardless of what it’s called,” Virgil said, “I don’t suspect the weather’s gonna be too favorable for opening night.”

Allie said the dinner we ate was just like the food they make overseas in Europe. Virgil told her it tasted more like the food they make south of the border in Mexico. That incited a minor disagreement between the two of them that was working its way toward an argument when I interrupted.

“Something burning?” I said.

“Oh,” Allie said. “My pie.”

Allie got up from the dinner table and hurried into the kitchen. She opened the oven and waved at the escaping heat with a towel.

“Thank goodness, it’s fine,” Allie said. “Perfectly fine. The filling under the pecans just oozed out is all. It’ll be delicious.”

“Oh, hell, Allie,” Virgil said. “I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

“Me, neither,” I said.

“Oh, nonsense,” Allie said, as she placed the pie on the trivet between Virgil and me. “Doesn’t that look good and crispy?”

Allie fanned it a little with her towel.

“It does, Allie,” I said.

“You got a good scald on it,” Virgil said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Oh,” Allie said, returning to the kitchen. “I churned up some cream to go with it.”

She returned with the bowl of cream. She whipped the substance with a wooden spoon before putting the bowl on the table.

“I’m sorry, it was fluffier before,” Allie said. “It’ll be good, though, just spoon a little across the top.”

“Smells good,” I said.

Allie left the dining room and walked off down the hall.

I cut a piece of pie, put some cream on top, and slid the bowl over to Virgil.

Virgil cut a piece and put it on his plate when Allie returned to the dining room, putting on a silk bonnet.

“Would you be so kind as to clean up for me, Virgil?” Allie said, as she tied the bonnet under her chin.

“Where you going?” Virgil said.

“Well, I’m off to gather the ladies of our social and pay Mr. Beauchamp and company a proper welcoming visit.”

Virgil looked to me, then to Allie.

“You think that’s necessary?”

“I do,” Allie said. “It’s not every day Appaloosa has someone as renowned as Beauregard Beauchamp visit us. And, as the new spokesperson of the ladies’ social, I thought it would be kind to make certain we do not let this occasion of ceremony slip by like it’s just any ol’ day like yesterday or the day before. Everett can help you with the dishes. Can’t you, Everett?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Wonderful, thank you,” Allie said, and then leaned down, kissing Virgil on top of his head. “Maybe we can play some cards when I get back.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Might want to take your umbrella,” Virgil said.

After Allie left, Virgil pulled a cigar from his pocket and I took a bite of the pecan pie.

“Tell you what,” I said. “That’s good.”

Virgil looked me, then looked to the pie.

“Is,” I said.

Virgil slid the cigar back in his pocket and took a bite. He nodded and took another bite.

“Damn sure is.”

After we finished a second piece of pie, Virgil and I cleaned up the kitchen and went back out on the front porch with the bottle of Kentucky.

It was almost dark out now when we settled in with the whiskey. The storm clouds we had been watching previously were close to being upon us and a light cool breeze preceded the looming darkness. It was quiet out and not many people were about. We could hear the evening train on the other side of town. It let out one long blast of its whistle as it neared the station.

“Beauregard Beauchamp,” Virgil said, as he pulled the cigar from his pocket.

I looked to Virgil but didn’t say anything.

“He look familiar to you?” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “Look familiar to you?”

“Something about him seemed kind of familiar.”

“Always something about everybody, isn’t there?”

“’Spect there is, Everett,” Virgil said, then bit the cigar tip and spit it over the porch rail. “’Spect there is.”

He fished a match from his pocket, dragged the tip across the grain on the porch post, and lit the cigar. He puffed on the cigar and got it going good.

“Allie sure seems to think he’s special,” Virgil said.

“Does.”

“Thinks he’s talented,” Virgil said.

“And renowned,” I said.

Virgil looked at me and discharged a sliver of tobacco from his lips with a spit.

“And glorious,” he said.

“That, too,” I said.

I played some lengthy games of Dark Lady with Allie and Virgil, and the three of us drank more of the Kentucky than we should have. Allie went on and on about Beauregard and how special he was. She said he held court in the town hall that night and how wonderful it was for her and the ladies’ social to welcome him and the troupe to Appaloosa.

Allie told us Beauregard introduced some of the Beauchamp players and his wife of three years. She was a blond actress, the leading lady, named Nell from San Francisco. Allie went on and on about how smart and beautiful she was and how in love they were and what a splendid couple they made.

I left Virgil and Allie’s place at about half past midnight. There was a light rain falling over Appaloosa and the temperature had dropped significantly.

I crossed Main Street by the Boston House Hotel saloon and saw Fat Wallis McDonough through the open saloon doors. He was closing up, putting chairs on the tables. When I stepped onto the boardwalk, Wallis looked up and saw me. He stood upright and put his large hands out wide like a welcoming kinfolk.

“Well, Everett Hitch,” he said warmly.

“Evening, Wallis.”

“How goes it?” Wallis said.

“Goes and goes.”

“Whiskey?” he said.

“Looks like you’re closing up.”

“Always open for you, Everett,” Wallis said. “Always open for you.”

He removed two upside-down chairs from a table and set them upright on the floor.

“Sit yourself down,” Wallis said.

“All right,” I said. “Just a smidgen, though.”

Wallis moved his big body behind the bar. He didn’t glide as swift and easy as he used to when Virgil and I first met him.

“I got some special stuff,” Wallis said.

Wallis was the time-honored chief barman at the Boston House Hotel saloon. Virgil and I had plenty of history with the Boston House, some good and some not so good.