Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack

“We been friends for a while and he hired me to work with him.”

“Friends from where?” Virgil said.

“New Mex,” he said. “Las Vegas.”

“What’s in Vegas?”

“What ain’t in Vegas?” he said. “I mean, I been there for a while, was living there, and I met him there at the Double Nickel next to the Harvey House. We played cards when he come through and, hell, I got to know him and, well, we was friends, that’s all.”

“But why Appaloosa?”

“I hadn’t seen him in a while and he came in and offered me a job, well, me and Ricky. He met Ricky and he said he could use a few hands.”

“When was this?”

“Three weeks back.”

“Why?”

“Well, shit, Bill was always normally in the money and I’m always normally in need of money, so I come along to Appaloosa.”

“With Ricky?” Virgil said.

“Yeah, Ricky was the reason he wanted to hire me in the first place.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause Ricky is... was... was a gun hand and Bill needed a gun hand.”

“What do you know about Black being a wanted man?”

“All he told me was there was a good chance someone would be looking for him and he was not about being caught.”

“So the two of you were Black’s bodyguards?” I said.

He nodded.

“From what?” I said.

“Black... got wind a bounty was on his head and that there would be bounty hunters coming.”

“How did he get wind there was a bounty on his head?”

“Don’t know.”

The two men that Virgil killed in the Socorro cantina were in fact the men Ricky had warned us about. That night we locked up Truitt in the Socorro jail and we spent the following morning seeing if we could get some kind of idea as to the whereabouts of Bill Black. But by noon we came up with nothing, so we collected Truitt from the jail and we set out for Appaloosa.

It was a three-day ride back. The journey was without incident or much in the way of conversation with Truitt. He was quiet and sullen, and damn sure not interested in being in the situation he was in.

We arrived just after midnight and I slept on the bunk in the cell next to Truitt. In the morning, as the sun was coming up, I found Virgil waiting on me to tell Chastain, Book, and the rest of the deputies the story of Skinny Jack’s murder.

“Not gonna be easy,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said, “it’s not.”

We sat quietly on the porch and drank coffee as Appaloosa started coming to life, and within an hour, Chastain, Book, and the remaining deputies had heard the story of Skinny Jack’s demise.

After Book and three deputies left Appaloosa with a buckboard to collect Skinny Jack from the shallow grave behind Ray Opelka’s place, Virgil and I sat on the porch with Chastain and he got us caught up on what had taken place since we’d been on the hunt.

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “Messenger is still with it?”

“Still hanging on, but he ain’t with it, not at all,” Chastain said.

“Figured he’d be dead,” I said.

“Doc said considering the amount of blood he’s lost that if he does come back he’s likely to not be right in the head.”

“What about the Denver police?”

Chastain nodded.

“Oh... they showed.”

“The unit,” I said.

“Two detectives. One older fella, Claude... Lieutenant Banes is his name. He’s a senior with the department, nice enough, but the one that did all the talking was a younger fella... A little smart kind of guy, his name is King, kind of full of shit. Made a point of introducing himself as a detective... Detective Sergeant King.”

“What’d they have to allow?” Virgil said.

“Questions about Roger Messenger.”

“Like what?” Virgil said.

“Wanted to know if we talked with him, how long he was here, if he was alone, who he came in contact with, what happened. The details ’bout the shooting and so on.

“When I started asking questions, the young fella said that this case, the details about it were... confidential.”

“Confidential?” Virgil said.

Chastain nodded.

“That’s what the smart-ass shit, the young detective told me... confidential.”

Virgil looked at me and shook his head.

“Maybe Messenger was acting on his own, without the department’s knowledge,” I said.

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“So you don’t know anything about the murder of Ruth Ann Messenger? How or when it happened or the evidence that was found?” I said.

“No. They shared nothing, really. All I can really say is they had more goddamn questions than they did answers.”

“When did they arrive?” I said.

“Afternoon train, yesterday... Soon as they got off the train they stopped to see me.”

“What other questions?” Virgil said.

“’Bout Bill Black, of course.”

“What did they want to know?” Virgil said.

“Same thing everybody wants to know.”

“Where is he?” I said.

“Yep,” Chastain said. “Now there is three thousand dollars on his head. Where the hell is he.”

“What did you tell them?” Virgil said.

“I told them you were after him but had no idea where you were or if you’d caught up with him.”

“I don’t guess you know anything about who put the money on Black’s head?” I said.

“Don’t know, they didn’t say...”

“They say anything else about Messenger and how he was related to the victim?”

“No, but they was anxious to get to him, to see him. I pointed them to the hospital, so they could go see him.”

“And?” I said.

“Well, hell,” Chastain said as he got the coffeepot and topped off our cups. “I told them that all they could do was see him, have a look at him. I told them he was in bad shape, but they wanted to see him anyway... They might as well have been looking at drying hay.”

“Now what?” I said.

“Got no idea,” he said.

“They say what they were planning on doing here?” I said. “By staying here?”

“No, but I suspect they’re interested in seeing how the two of you fared.”

Chastain walked to the edge of the porch and poured his cold coffee in the street, then filled his cup with some hot coffee from the pot. He stood with his back to us, looking out at the street with his cup in one hand and the coffeepot in the other. He stood silently for a moment, then spoke to Virgil and me without turning to face us.

“Gonna miss that boy...” Chastain said. “He was like a son to me. I’m sure gonna miss him.”

Chastain had one of his young deputies fetch the Denver policemen and bring them to the office to talk with Virgil and me. We closed the door between the front office and the cells, separating us from Truitt.

Detective Lieutenant Claude Banes, the larger and older one of the two, had broad shoulders and large hands. He had that look of a man that likely drank too much whiskey.

After the introductions Lieutenant Banes dropped in a chair, unbuttoned his jacket, and leaned back with his hat in his hand. Everything about his demeanor suggested he was tired, had seen it all before, and was less than interested in his job.

The younger one, Detective Sergeant Sherman King, was a lean, clean-shaven man with a bowler pulled down just above his eyebrows. His manner was precise and rigid, and as Chastain had said, he was certainly full of himself and every gesture he made let us know he took his job seriously.

Chastain, Virgil, and I sat across from Lieutenant Banes, but Sergeant King remained standing as if he were an officer at attention. King looked to Banes and the lieutenant nodded a little, as if to give the young sergeant permission to speak. King quickly weighed in with some brazenness that would be short-lived.