Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack

“Here you go, Everett,” S.Q. said.

I watched her for a moment. She stopped and walked back and looked in the window. For a brief second I thought she was looking at me, but she looked down at the display of fruit S.Q. had laid out. I could not see her face clearly, but well enough to see she was pretty. She twirled her parasol a little, turned, and then walked on.

“She was in here the other day,” S.Q. said.

I moved back to the counter where S.Q. had my goods laid out.

“Who is she?”

“Don’t know, but she’s a flower. Smelled like one, too... Every now and again a little nice comes to town, an element that brings value and beauty. But that is only now and again. Damn place is getting bigger every day, Everett. I don’t have to tell you most of what is populating Appaloosa these days is nothing but riffraff.”

“No, S.Q. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I don’t, but I am telling you anyway... riffraff, like that gambler you and Virgil were after.”

“Well, it’s a growing place, I’ll give you that.”

“You ever catch that murderer?”

“No, sir.”

“Shame,” S.Q. said. “I remember that fella that got shot ’cause of him. He came in here and bought a can of beans... Oh... I forgot your ice.”

S.Q. turned and walked slowly to the back room.

“Yeah,” S.Q. said, “that fella came in here just before it happened. I visited with him for quite a while, nice man.”

“That so?”

S.Q. said nothing else, but I could hear him chopping some ice. After a moment he walked back slowly from the rear of the store.

“What did you visit with him about?” I said.

“Who?” S.Q. said.

“The man that got shot in front of the gambling place.”

“He came in here.”

“Yeah. You said. He bought a can of beans.”

“He did.”

“You talked to him?”

S.Q. nodded.

“He came in here just before he got shot, poor fella.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“He sat there on the porch and ate his beans,” S.Q. said. “Nice morning. I sat there with him and we visited.”

“What did you visit about?”

“Oh... a little bit of everything.”

“Like what?”

“Think he was feeling the effects of a bit too much of the good stuff, Everett.”

“Do you remember what you talked about?”

“Oh, let’s see... He told me he was a policeman.”

“Anything else you remember?”

S.Q. leaned in closer.

“Said that he had come to town to arrest the man responsible for murdering his wife. Was gonna take him in single-handed.”

“He said that to you?”

“He did,” S.Q. said. “Said he had nightmares ’bout it, it was haunting him. Poor fella. Guess it didn’t turn out like he had planned.”

“You remember anything else?”

“About what?”

“Anything else he said?”

“Who?” S.Q. said.

When I walked out of S. Q. Johnson’s Grocery it was even hotter than it had been when I entered not fifteen minutes earlier, and there was not so much as a hint of moving air.

I gave Ajax a chunk of apple. He gobbled it up, then I gave him the rest and untied him from the hitch. He was clearly not too happy about standing saddled in the blazing sun.

“I know, it’s hot... We’re moving, we’re moving...”

I draped the gunnysack with the beer and ice on the horn and mounted up. The saddle was so damn hot I had to stand in my stirrups. I moved off without sitting and let my seat cool as I rode down 2nd Street.

When I turned onto Main Street, I saw the woman with the parasol again.

She was ahead of me a ways on the busy boardwalk. I slowed, sat back in the saddle, and followed her as she walked.

The silk wheel was casually spinning above her head as she strolled leisurely. She paused, looking in the window of a barbershop. As I got closer I could see she was watching a small boy getting a haircut.

I angled a little toward the boardwalk to have a better look at her, and when I slowed, she turned, looked right at me.

This time she was looking at me.

She had dark, almost black hair, rosy cheeks, and big brown eyes. I tipped my hat and she smiled as I rode past. I looked back to her, she gave her parasol an extra spin, smiled a slight more, then slid effortlessly through the open door of a fabric shop.

“She smiled at me, Ajax, not at you...”

I rode on up the busy street and there were a lot of people moving about for such a hot day.

Like S.Q. was saying, the place just gets bigger every day. It was hard to keep up with all the comings and goings, but there was most certainly more coming than going.

There was always something new happening, some new business opening, but mostly the growth — no doubt — brought a mischievous lot.

There were not any new churches, but there were plenty new saloons and whoring establishments.

Pritchard’s gambling hall was opening soon, and it had already caused a good deal of trouble with its own brand of mischief, like Boston Bill Black, Truitt Shirley, and Ricky Ravenfield.

When I rode past the place, prominently located on the corner of Main and 3rd Street, there were a slew of onlookers watching workers on tall ladders hoisting a huge colorfully painted canvas banner above the entrance.

I slowed to a stop next to Juniper Jones. Juniper was an amusing little man with a round body and red face. He sported a tall dark green flattop hat, was always sharply dressed, and was without exception the best attorney in Appaloosa. He was Harvard educated and wealthy, but he was also most assuredly gaining a reputation as the town drunk.

Juniper was perched on the edge of a water trough with a newspaper tucked under his arm, looking up at the sign being strung up across the street. He glanced up, squinting at me.

“Everett,” he said.

“Juniper.”

He looked back to the sign being hoisted.

“What’s this place coming to?” Juniper said.

“Good question.”

“I’m not talking about this godforsaken place, not Appaloosa. I’m talking about this country. What is it coming to?”

“Another good question.”

“Gambling has this motherland by the short hairs, Everett.”

“’Spose it does, Juniper.”

“Oh, it does... It’s an insidious kaleidoscope, offering the illusion of chance as a contender, a competitor to hard work and discipline. Not to mention it is a catastrophe for meaningful relationships.”

“Everything is a gamble,” I said. “This motherland was a gamble coupled with hard work.”

Juniper looked at me.

“Yes, but it has become an addiction for many, you see. Even when the gambler knows the odds are against him, when he can’t afford to lose, he still rolls the dice.”

Juniper got to his feet and brushed the back side of his trousers as he looked at the sign.

“Believe that’s French, Everett?” Juniper said. “Maison de Daphne?”

“Believe it might be,” I said.

Juniper laughed.

“Might?” Juniper said. “Besides me, you are the smartest person in this goddamn godforsaken town. You know French when you see it.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do.”

The workmen got the banner where they wanted it and tied it in place. Then I saw her again: the smooth-walking woman with the parasol. She came through the gathered crowd, waited as a buggy passed, then crossed the dry street and stopped, looking up at the sign. She watched the workers for a moment, then turned and looked at the onlookers. After a few seconds she walked between the ladders, up the steps, and entered Maison de Daphne.

Allie was working in the garden when I rode up. She was draping bed linens over the top of her plants so they didn’t fry in the hot sun. She looked up, seeing me as I tied off Ajax under one of the two oak trees that had grown tall enough in the past year to provide a little shade.