Part 18 (2/2)

Greaves grinned. ”And now, old man, you don't have anything. Not a wife, not kids, not even a job. Not anything at all. In six months time you'll be scrounging drinks in the n.i.g.g.e.r saloons.”

Grigsby nodded. ”Prob'ly. But I reckon you'll be wantin' the information on the other hookers.” He swung his legs off the desk and stood up.

Greaves frowned. ”What information?”

”About the other hookers. In all those other cities. Maybe you can make somethin' out of it. I surely can't.”

Greaves was watching him, his eyes wary. Grigsby walked over to the file cabinet, opened the top drawer, took out a sheath of papers. Holding them in his left hand, he turned and offered them to Greaves. As Greaves stepped forward, Grigsby dropped the papers and hit Greaves as hard as he could along the side of the jaw. Greaves went flying toward the wall, arms opening wide, and Grigsby turned to Brubaker.

Brubaker was going for his holster, a cross-draw rig on his left hip, below his overcoat. Grigsby took a step and grabbed Brubaker's wrist and squeezed. Brubaker's eyes winced narrow and then they closed completely and his mouth opened wide in a silent scream with his teeth showing and his lips white. Grigsby squeezed some more and Brubaker dropped to his knees. Grigsby brought up his own knee into Brubaker's face.

Brubaker banged back against the doorjamb and Grigsby turned again to Greaves. The chief of police was coming off the wall now and his hand was moving toward his gun, another cross-draw rig, and Grigsby took a step toward him and smiled. His own gun was hanging on the coat rack in the anteroom. He knew there was no way to get to Greaves before Greaves had the gun out, but he didn't much care because he also knew that no matter how many bullets Greaves put into him he was going to kill the man. ”Yeah,” he said. ”Do it.”

Greaves jerked his hand away from the holster and held it up, palm outward. ”Hold on, Grigsby. You listen to me.”

”No,” Grigsby said. ”I already did that. Maybe I'll be marshal tomorrow and maybe I won't, but I'm still marshal today and you're in my office and I don't want you here. Get out. And wipe up that gob of spit on the way.” He nodded toward Brubaker, still slumped in the doorway.

Greaves opened his mouth to speak and Grigsby shook his head. ”Out,” he said.

Greaves pulled himself fully upright and tugged once at the lapels of his overcoat, settling the coat back over his broad shoulders. He walked around Grigsby and over to Brubaker. He kicked him lightly on the hip. ”Harlan.”

Brubaker groaned. Greaves bent forward and took Brubaker under the arms and levered him to his feet.

His left arm supporting Brubaker, he looked back at Grigsby. ”Tomorrow,” he said.

Grigsby nodded.

Greaves walked Brubaker out the door.

Grigsby stepped over to the desk and poured himself another drink. His right hand was shaking so badly that he had to use his left to steady the bottle. Even so, a half ounce of whiskey splashed across the desktop.

He raised the gla.s.s and swallowed. The rain rattled at the windowpane. Far off, thunder rumbled.

Grigsby took another drink. His hand was still trembling.

He looked down at the papers scattered along the floor. He set the drink on the desktop, then squatted down and gathered the papers together. He tossed them to the top of the file cabinet, returned to his desk, and lifted his gla.s.s.

Someone knocked at the door and Grigsby wheeled around. A few dollops of bourbon sloshed onto his hand.

A tall young man in an expensive tan topcoat. Curly black hair, a pale, narrow, clean-shaven face. ”Are you Marshal Grigsby?” A soft fluting voice.

”Yeah?” Grigsby growled.

”I'm Wilbur Rudd.i.c.k. Mr. Vail-”

”Get your a.s.s in here!” Grigsby bellowed.

THE CEILING WAS LOW, made from unfinished planks of knotted pine supported by beams of stripped pine logs whose uneven, and dangerously splintered, lower ridges were no more than a few inches from the vulnerable top of Oscar's head. Smoke had stained the wood a dull tobacco brown. Three oil lamps, shaded by funnels of oiled paper and hung from the beams on sooty metal chains, provided most of the illumination, musty yellow pools of light in which sat some rickety tables and some rickety chairs and two or three rickety-looking people. Most of the customers stood at the bar, which ran the length of the narrow room and which, like the ceiling and the floor, was constructed of raw pine, now stained and drab. More sawdust was scattered everywhere-whoever owned the sawdust concession in Denver was doubtless a millionaire by this time-and the thick, still air was cluttered with the smell of stale beer and mildew and perspiration.

Oscar swept up to the empty s.p.a.ce at the center of the bar, Henry following slightly behind him. The barkeep, a tubby little person who had been leaning over the low counter into a cl.u.s.ter of elderly men at the right, waddled slowly toward him, wiping his hands against the dirty ap.r.o.n, taut as a sandbag, that encased his belly. He glanced sidelong at Henry, bit his lip, and said to Oscar, ”Sorry, mister, but we don't serve no coloreds here.”

Oscar smiled engagingly. ”But I didn't order one.”

The barkeep shrugged, uneasy. ”Sorry, mister.”

”Mistuh Oscar,” began Henry.

Oscar asked the barkeep, ”Is that a local law?”

The barkeep shrugged again. ”It's the principle of the thing. I'm sorry and all, but I got other customers to think of.”

”Perhaps I should explain,” Oscar said, smiling again as he put his big hands on the bartop and leaned forward to look down at the barkeep. ”Henry here is my personal attendant. I'm subject to fits, you see. Really quite frightful fits that cause me to foam at the mouth and leap about the room. I tend to break things, I'm afraid. Tables. Chairs. These attacks can come upon me at any time, and for virtually no reason at all. Henry is the only person able to cope with me. It's a matter of precise physical pressure being applied to certain highly complicated neuralgic intersections. And, of course, in order to apply this pressure properly, Henry requires an occasional steadying drink of whiskey. Surely you can understand this?”

The barkeep was frowning. ”You're not from around here,” he said.

”Not originally,” said Oscar, ”no.”

The barkeep nodded toward Henry, whose face was blank. ”He's like a what? A nurse, kind of?”

”Something like, yes. He studied with Hegel in Germany.”

The barkeep scratched at his jaw. ”Well, shoot, mister.” He s.h.i.+fted his glance, and then s.h.i.+fted his weight from one foot to the other. Once again he wiped the palms of his hands against his ap.r.o.n. He said, forlornly, ”I got customers to think of.”

”Of course. Foolish of me.” Oscar turned to the three old men on his right, all of whom were staring at him with undisguised interest. ”Gentlemen, would you mind sharing a bottle of the best with me and my attendant? My treat, of course.”

Grins appeared, two of them entirely toothless, and Oscar was suddenly reminded of the witches in Macbeth. ”Set 'em up, by G.o.d!”

”Get 'em a drink!” ”Let 'em stay, Harry, let's see the big dude throw hisself a fit!”

”Drinks all round, then,” said Oscar to the barkeep, and smiled again. ”Two whiskeys for us. And something for yourself.”

The barkeep nodded. ”Yeah. Well. Just this one time, right? But I mean, look, mister, these fits you get ...”

”Yes?”

”I mean, you get them, you know they're coming up ahead of time?”

”Certainly. Never fear. And Henry will have me right as rain in an instant.”

The barkeep nodded, turned away.

Henry said quietly, ”Mistuh Oscar, I don' drink no hard liquor. Only beer.”

”Ah.” Oscar smiled. ”Well, Henry, under the circ.u.mstances, I think it might be best if we kept mum about that. Eh?”

”Yes suh.”

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