Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack

“But if Roger did do it,” I said, “why would he come here and see to it that Bill be arrested?”

“Retribution, maybe, get back at him for the humiliation, hell, I don’t know.”

Banes shook his head.

“Roger was a good policeman. Honest, fair, and he believed in the law and that every man deserved his day in court, including Boston Bill, I guess... He did everything by the book... but a man can be pushed only so far.”

Chastain had been working on a plug the whole conversation, and now spit it into a spittoon by his desk and said, “Then you got to ask yourself, Why would Bill take off like he did if he didn’t do it?”

“Don’t know,” Banes said.

Chastain worked the plug a bit.

“Men do get jumpy,” he said, “when they are wanted.”

Banes nodded.

“Also,” he said, “I think at some point Bill realized, maybe not until Roger come upon him, maybe before, that he stepped into a big pile of shit when he started up with Ruth Ann. She was really something to look at, but, well, Ruth Ann brought with her a damn rat’s nest full of trouble.”

“What about the warrant?” Virgil said.

“Not sure of all the particulars, but it was standard. Once information came in, all of it pointing to Black, the chief issued the warrant.”

“Chief suspect Roger, too?”

Banes was quiet for a moment, then...

“I can’t say... but the warrant was drawn up for Bill Black.”

Banes looked to King, then back to Virgil.

“There you have it,” Banes said.

“What about the reward money?” Virgil said.

Banes glanced to King again, then back to me.

“That was offered by the chief, too.”

Virgil looked at me and squinted a little.

“Why all the fuss about confidential,” I said.

“Roger Messenger,” Banes said. “Is the son... of our beloved chief of police.”

Within a few days Roger Messenger died of the gunshot wound he received from Truitt Shirley, and Truitt was subsequently charged with his murder.

The day after Messenger died, Detectives Banes and King returned to Denver with his body. The fact that it was anyone’s guess as to the whereabouts of Boston Bill at this point in time left the two officers no real choice other than to move along and wait and see if a law official or bounty hunter was lucky enough to apprehend him.

Skinny Jack, too, had a proper funeral. He was buried alongside his mother, who he had taken care of during a long, drawn-out illness and had passed away one year to the day Skinny Jack was killed.

After the funeral, Allie, Virgil, and I sat at a table near the bar, where Virgil and I were drinking mugs of cool beer and Allie was sipping on a glass of Irish whiskey.

“Just awful,” Allie said.

“Nice funeral, though,” Virgil said.

“Was,” I said.

“I am just so sick about it, though,” Allie said.

“Me, too, Allie,” I said. “Me, too.”

“And to think he was killed exactly a year after his poor, sick ol’ momma’s passing away is just, well, it’s just as sad as can be. He was so young and sweet. He had no business being a deputy lawperson, none whatsoever.”

“It was his job, Allie.”

“I don’t care, it is sad and wrong.”

“He was a good man, Allie, and I share your deepest sympathy, but he liked the job he did and he was good at it.”

“Well, it is just terrible, and to think that skinny young boy took such care of his poor, sick ol’ momma like he did for as long as he did and now this. Just is not fair.”

Virgil nodded.

“Not much is fair, Allie.”

“That could have been you,” Allie said.

“It wasn’t,” Virgil said.

“And then what on earth would have become of me, can you tell me that?”

“Well, we don’t have to think about that, Allie.”

“We do have to think about it, Virgil.”

We’d been through this before with Allie. Many times. It was like a burr under her saddle. She would be doing fine until there was an incident that got her imagination churned up and she imagined things she had no control over.

“You don’t have to dwell on it,” Virgil said.

“Not dwelling, Virgil. It could happen.”

“Well, hell, Allie, everybody has to face such things, whether they are lawmen or law-abiding citizens or criminals or whoever, everybody has to think about it.”

“I just don’t like what you do.”

“Without men like me, you, the people, are not protected.”

“Don’t mean it has to be you being the one that is the protector.”

“Can we just enjoy this beer?” Virgil said.

“Absolutely,” she said as she took a sip of her whiskey. “Everett, you will look after me, won’t you?”

“Well... sure, Allie.”

“I’m right here, Allie,” Virgil said.

“For now,” she said. “And thank God for Everett.”

“What about Everett?” Virgil said.

“What about him?” she said.

“What gives Everett this good fortune that you ain’t pointing in my direction?”

“Don’t be silly, Virgil. I’m not saying that, not pointing good fortune in Everett’s direction at all. Though I do wish you all the good fortune God has available to grant you, Everett, I do. I’m just concerned about having a contingency plan is all, Virgil. You have to understand that. Everett understands that, don’t you, Everett?”

“A contingency plan?” Virgil said.

“Yes,” she said. “A contingency plan. You want me to be taken care of, don’t you?”

Virgil looked at me for a second, then looked at Allie.

“Well, of course I do, Allie.”

“Well, good, then, I’m glad to know that you agree with me and Everett.”

Allie turned in her chair and held up her empty glass for Wallis to see.

“Wallis,” she said as she wiggled her glass a little. “Would you be so kind?”

“Right away, Mrs. French,” Wallis said.

Two weeks after burying Skinny Jack, there was still no sign of Boston Bill. Old Man Pritchard stayed in town and continued with the duties required for his gambling parlor’s July Fourth grand opening, which was less then a month away.

With the expansion of the silver mining north of town, the parlor was already being rumored as a popular destination, mainly because Pritchard was quite the salesman. He let it be known the opening of the casino would be the grandest, most spectacular event to happen west of the Mississippi. Nothing the likes of Appaloosa had ever seen, complete with fireworks, a lively orchestra, spinning roulette wheels, and dancing girls.

It was cloudy when the sun first came up, but the day turned out to be a warm one. I’d spent the morning cleaning out the stable and working with a new horse I’d recently purchased. He was a big ornery black geld named Ajax, and I saddled him up and rode to S. Q. Johnson’s Grocery near the depot to buy Ajax and me some refreshment.

S. Q. Johnson was almost eighty and was one of the original men that started Appaloosa when the first mine opened up thirty-five years back. He was spry for his age, but slow, and with each passing day was becoming more forgetful.

After I placed my order with S.Q. and he moved off to the back room, a bright flash of light caught my eye. It shot through the dimly lit store, ricocheting off a mirror behind the counter for a brief instant, then was gone. I looked back.

It was glaring sunlight reflecting off a silky white parasol carried by a slender woman. She was passing by on the boardwalk, and I moved a bit toward the window for a closer look.

I couldn’t see her face under the dome of fabric as she walked on, but she was a graceful creature, and there was something damn sure arresting about the way she carried herself.