Ed Gorman: Showdown

"I'd enjoy that very much."

"Why don't you stop out around seven? Would that be all right?"

Prine had been scrupulous about not fixing his gaze upon the hypnotic swell of her breasts or the beautifully proportioned curve of her hips. But just for a heady moment, his glance fell to them. And when he looked up, he found her smiling at him in that secret way of females who appreciate being admired if the admiration is discreet and courteous.

A group of Mexican women and children clattered down the steps, ending the perfect moment of romance and proper lust Prine was feeling.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Suarez," Cassie said to the woman who reached the basement floor first.

"Well, I'd best get back to work," Prine said.

"I think you'll enjoy yourself tonight, Mr. Prine." Prine smiled. "I know I will."

Every other day, Lucy gathered up all the day-old bread in a basket and took it over to the church basement, where it was given free to the poor.

Lately, on most such trips, she had to argue herself out of walking past the sheriff's office. Seeing Tom Prine was exquisite agony. She loved him too much to simply accept him as another person.

Today she was stern with herself. More than half the time, she ended up walking past the sheriff's office and then slowing down in case Tom just happened to be coming out the door.

She'd never managed to see him on one of these furtive trips.

Today, she avoided anxiety and embarrassment by walking along the river. It was a longer route, but the day was pretty and she wouldn't have to worry about Tom.

But even on this route there was a surprise for her. A handsome—almost pretty—young man sat on a stool before an easel painting the river scene he saw before him—a crude barge and a couple of rowboats. The far shore is what would give the painting its romance. White birches and an old icehouse sat there, suggesting a gentler time when life wasn't as fast as it was now.

When he saw her, he jumped up so quickly he nearly knocked over the easel. He wore, as usual, a high-collared white shirt and tight black trousers and a gray vest. His dark curly hair lent him the air he wanted—that of an artist. His name was David Hearn, and he had been to London and Paris and Berlin before returning to his hometown of Claybank. He hadn't returned by choice. He'd never been a strong man, and a bout with consumption had left him even weaker. And it was probably just as well for him to come home. It was obvious to everybody but the blind that he didn't have much artistic talent.

Even by local standards, his paintings lacked any kind of originality or even spirit. They simply recorded, with no inspiration whatsoever, what he chose to paint. His family had money and supported him in his illusions about someday being a great painter.

"You're as beautiful as an apparition, Lucy, you really are."

She laughed. "And you're as corny as a bad actor."

He rushed over to her and kissed her on the cheek. "I count it a good day when I'm able to tell you that I love you. In person, I mean. Not in one of my little drawings."

He mailed her drawings two or three times a week. With sentimental poems attached. Every once in a while they'd be funny poems. She preferred those.

"So I think you should reconsider and marry me. Think of the children we'd have. So smart and good-looking and talented—"

Merry as he was, she was well aware of the underlying sadness in his eyes and words. He really did love her—had loved her since they'd shared a one-room schoolhouse—and she sensed that he would always love her.

She was crushing him just as Tom Prine was crushing her. And like Tom, she was careful to neither encourage nor hurt David unduly.

"David—"

"There's a choir at the church tonight. You like choir music, I know you do."

"Yes, but—"

"But what? Don't tell me about Tom. I know you think he's being nice to you, but he's going on with his life."

She'd never heard malice in David's voice before. It chilled her. She sensed now that he knew something—something she would find terrible. He'd never had any power over her, but he had some now.

"You mean he's seeing somebody?"

David put his hand to his head. "Oh, God, Lucy, forgive me. I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm so sorry."

But she was angry and not willing to give in to his sudden remorse. "You started to tell me something, David. Now you'd better damned well finish it."

He'd done serious damage to their relationship, and he knew it. He looked pale, sick, even more so than usual. "God, why did I say that?"

"I'm in a hurry, David. I have to drop this bread off at the church basement and then get right back to work."

He seemed to notice the basket of bread for the first time. He laughed sadly. "That's funny."

"What is?"

"You going to the church basement."

"Why is that funny?"

"Because that's what I was going to tell you. My mother had me drop some old clothes off there a while ago and—" He hesitated. "Damn, Lucy, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Well, you'd better say it now."

He sighed. His dramatics irritated her. "While I was there, I heard Cassie Neville invite Tom out to her house tonight. A piano recital."

"And he accepted?"

He nodded silently.

She said nothing, just began walking again toward the church.

"Lucy, Lucy, listen—" he called after her. But she paid no attention.

Her mind was filled with small dramas of how it would be when she faced Cassie, so beautiful, so elegant, so wealthy Cassie. She couldn't blame Tom for being attracted to her. At least he had good taste.

She imagined her and Cassie in an argument. Lucy declaring her love for Tom. Cassie declaring her love for Tom. The customers shocked and embarrassed at the two young women carrying on this way in public.

But when she got there, the basement was crowded. She set the basket of bread on the far counter and left. Cassie was so occupied checking people out that she didn't even notice Lucy.

Midafternoon, Rooney and Tolan rode out to the deserted farmhouse where they planned to keep Cassie Neville. The place was ideal because it had a trapdoor that led to a root cellar.

As they rode, a strange melancholy came over Rooney.

Here he was, perfectly capable of killing Tolan—which he planned to do as soon as they got the ransom money—but at the same time he was also capable of knowing that in some stupid way he'd miss him. Tolan was like having a pet, a big shabby dog that you couldn't train very well but who, if you applied enough pressure, would do your bidding more often than not. Brains and brawn, as the saying went, that was the two of them.

Too much brawn, as these things went. Tolan became more and more mercurial as the years went on. Rooney suspected that all the drunken brawls he'd been in had caused some permanent damage to Tolan's senses. He was too much of a risk these days. Rooney needed somebody younger, smarter, steadier as a partner.

But still and all, he would miss old Tolan. There was no doubt about that.

As they rode out to the farmhouse, Tolan kept glancing at his partner Rooney. The man always seemed to wear that ironic, superior smile. No matter what Tolan did or said, Rooney managed to convey his superiority nearly every time.

This was one road that had run out for Tolan.

There would be enough cash in this kidnapping to set him up for a good long time. One of his prison friends had a little shack down in the bayous of Louisiana and between screwing colored girls and fishing all day, the life there seemed unmatched by any other place on earth. And with the stash of greenbacks Tolan would be bringing along, he'd have money for the rest of his life—if, that is, he kept it hidden from his prison friend, who, when you faced facts, you had to admit would kill your mother for a dollar. Tolan'd have to hide his stash real, real good down there or his prison friend would kill him for it. Or maybe—it was nice to think so—all that screwing of colored girls and all that fishing had changed his prison friend. Maybe he was now a trustworthy fella. But then Tolan had never known a trustworthy fella. Or trustworthy gal, for that matter.