Part 9 (1/2)
Hanrahan glanced at the other policemen, turned back to Grigsby, nodded. Together the two of them walked away from Tolliver and Hacker until they were ten or twelve yards distant.
”Anybody see anything?” Grigsby asked.
Hanrahan shook his head. ”You know better than that, Bob. No one ever sees nothin' in Shantytown.”
”You covered the street?”
”Not all of it. Waiting for Greaves now, we are.”
”He'll try to keep this under his hat.”
Hanrahan nodded. ”Bad for business, a thing like this gets out.”
”You send for Doc Boynton?”
”I did.”
”Tell him I'd like to hear from him afterward. Soon as he finishes.”
Hanrahan nodded. ”Greaves won't like it a-tall.”
”He won't if he knows about it.”
For a moment Hanrahan pursed his lips thoughtfully together. Then, ”What's yer interest here, Bob? Where's the federal side come in, exactly?”
”Like I said, somethin' I'm working on.”
”And might ye be sharin' that with us one day?”
”When I got somethin' to share.”
”Playing it a bit close to the vest, ain't ye, Bob?”
”The way I always play it, Gerry.”
Hanrahan glanced back at Tolliver and Hacker, looked again to Grigsby. ”Right you are, Bob. Time being, then, it's yer deal.”
Grigsby nodded. ”'Predate it, Gerry.”
Hanrahan shrugged. ”I owe ye one. Ye'd best make tracks, though. Before-ah, well. Too late. Here's himself arrivin' now.”
Grigsby turned. Drawn by four large black geldings whose sleek coats had been brushed until they gleamed like patent leather, the big black carriage rumbled down the narrow street. On the vehicle's door, gilded in ornate gothic script, were the words CHIEF OF POLICE, CITY OF DENVER.
The carriage stopped ten feet away from Grigsby and Hanrahan. The door opened and William J. Greaves stepped out. He was tall and broad-shouldered and, even now, despite the extra weight that good living had added to his frame, despite features that had somewhat blurred and thickened, he was still a striking man. His jet black mustache was artfully waxed and his curly black hair was theatrically silver at the temples, a color that was precisely matched by the fur lining at the collar of his elegantly tailored black wool topcoat.
He looked like everything a chief of police should be, very smart, completely fearless, and totally incorruptible; and he was, Grigsby knew, only very smart. In Denver, Grigsby had once told Clara, it wasn't just the cream that rose to the top. The sc.u.m did, too.
Greaves glanced down at the muddy ground, grimaced with distaste, looked up and saw Hanrahan and Grigsby. The grimace became an angry frown.
Stepping down from the carriage behind him came Harlan Brubaker, a.s.sistant to the chief. Brubaker was Greaves's bagman. He collected the protection money from the saloons and gambling halls, the brothels and opium dens. He was a short, officious, ferret-faced man who was wearing a fur-lined topcoat identical to Greaves's. The two men were the same age, midforties, but the difference in their size and the similarity of their dress made them look like prosperous father and promising son.
Greaves stepped onto the sidewalk and stalked up to Hanrahan. Pointing a blunt forefinger at Grigsby, he demanded, ”What is this man doing here?”
”We were just discussin' that, Chief,” said Hanrahan.
”This is city business. He has no jurisdiction here.”
Hanrahan nodded. ”Exactly, Chief. I just got finished ex-plainin' that very thing.”
Greaves's eyes narrowed. ”You and Grigsby go way back, don't you, Sergeant. Rode for a while together. Texas Rangers, wasn't it?”
Hanrahan shrugged. ”Years ago, that was. Can't hardly recall it a-tall now, Chief.”
”I certainly hope so. That dime-novel nonsense, cowboys and Indians and the wide open prairies-those days are gone, Sergeant. You're supposed to be a policeman now, working for the City of Denver. I hope, for your sake, that your loyalties haven't gotten confused.”
Grigsby, looking on, thought that Hanrahan's face might have grown a shade redder. But the sergeant's voice was level and unemotional when he said, ”n.o.body's ever had cause to doubt me loyalties.”
Grigsby said to Greaves, ”She was one of my informants.”
His face tight with displeasure, Greaves turned to him and looked Grigsby slowly, coldly, up and down. Finally he said, ”What?”
”The prost.i.tute. Molly Woods. She was one of my informants.”
Greaves snorted. ”Informants. Is that what you call them now? What'd she inform you about? The price of p.u.s.s.y?”
Behind him, Harlan Brubaker chuckled.
Grigsby took a step toward Greaves and Hanrahan interposed his bulk between the two men. To Greaves he said, ”I already explained to Marshal Grigsby that this here's a city matter. He was just leavin', Chief.”
”See that he does. And Sergeant, if I find out that this man, this old buckaroo of yours, has interfered in any way with a municiple investigation, I'm going to hold you personally responsible. Is that clear?”
”Absolutely, Chief.”
With another quick cold glance at Grigsby, Greaves turned and stalked away. A smirking Harlan Brubaker followed him.
Watching the two march toward Molly Woods's shack, Grigsby said, ”You shoulda let me slam him one, Gerry.”
Hanrahan shook his head. ”Too many witnesses. He'd be off in a flash to see Judge Sheldon, and between the two of them they'd have yer job by lunchtime.” He grinned. ”Besides, these days an old codger such as yerself is like to get sorely hurt in a donnybrook.”
Grigsby smiled. ”The day I can't take a bag of pus like Billy Greaves is the day I toss in my badge.” He watched as Greaves and Brubaker entered the ramshackle building.
”Ah,” said Hanrahan, ”yer only thinkin' that, ye see, 'cause yer still livin' in those famous dime-novel days of yers. How was it he put it now-cowboys and Indians and wide open prairies.”
Grigsby looked at him, smiled again. ”Maybe so,” he said. And added, ”buckaroo.”
Hanrahan grinned. ”I'll talk to Doc Boynton. Prob'ly he can get to yer office this afternoon.”
”Good, Gerry. 'Predate it.”
Just then there was a sudden bang as the door to Molly Woods's shack flew open and Harlan Brubaker came reeling out. His face white, he pushed aside Officer Hacker, staggered to the edge of the sidewalk, bent forward at the waist, and vomited into the street. The two city constables looked away.