Part 20 (2/2)
”Right,” said Grigsby, and slipped the tobacco pouch from his vest pocket. ”So where were you at last night?”
Rudd.i.c.k frowned, sulky and resentful again. ”Where would you like me to start, exactly?”
”Start with suppertime,” Grigsby said, and curled a sheet of cigarette paper with the tip of his left forefinger. ”Where'd you eat at?”
”The Decker House. I had the trout in mushroom sauce.” He frowned. ”It was awful.”
Tapping the brown flakes from the pouch, Grigsby nodded. ”They never have worked out how to cook up a fish. What time you leave the Decker House?”
”Nine o'clock. Ten, possibly.”
Grigsby glanced up at him from over the half-finished cigarette.
”I really don't know,” Rudd.i.c.k said. ”Honestly. I don't own a watch. It was round ten, I suppose. But I really couldn't swear to that.”
Grigsby nodded. He licked the paper, rolled it closed. ”Where'd you go to afterwards?”
Rudd.i.c.k shrugged. ”Really, Marshal, I can't remember.”
Grigsbye stuck the cigarette in his mouth, reached into his vest pocket for a match. ”Saloons? A casino?”
Rudd.i.c.k shrugged again. ”A saloon or two, I suppose.”
Grigsby snapped his thumb against the match, held the flame to the cigarette, puffed. Eyes narrowed against the smoke, he said, ”Gimme a f'r-instance.”
”The Palace. I think.”
Exhaling smoke, Grigsby smiled. ”You only been in town for two days. Either you went to the Palace last night or you went the night before. Which one is it?”
Rudd.i.c.k sighed again. ”I suppose it must've been last night.”
Grigsby smiled, nodded: See how easy it is? ”And what time are we talkin'?”
A shrug. ”Eleven o'clock, I think.”
”How long you there?”
”An hour or so.”
”Talk to anybody?”
Rudd.i.c.k's eyelids fluttered. ”Not really.”
Grigsby inhaled on the cigarette, exhaled. Silently, he stared at Rudd.i.c.k.
Rudd.i.c.k s.h.i.+fted in his chair, uncrossed his legs, then recrossed them, left knee over right. ”I had a few drinks and I got a little bit tiddly.” He smiled now as he stared levelly at Grigsby. ”That's probably why I don't remember much.”
Grigsby flicked his cigarette ash into the ashtray. ”You sure you didn't make yourself a friend?”
A frown, as though genuinely confused. ”What do you mean?”
”A friend,” Grigsby said. He smiled sociably, man to man. ”Look, son. I ain't especially interested in your personal life.” As far as Grigsby was concerned, the less he knew about that, the better. ”I don't care whether you favor women, men, dogs, or rattlesnakes. I'm just tryin' to clear up a killin'.”
Rudd.i.c.k sat back and for a moment he stared at Grigsby. Finally he smiled a small bitter smile and he said, ”Son? You're going to be my father, is that it?”
”Come again?” said Grigsby.
”Look, Mr. Marshal, if I wanted a big, brave, manly father, I'd use my own. Why don't we just admit that you're not especially fond of me and I'm not especially fond of you, and just leave it at that.”
Grigsby frowned. ”It don't matter here who likes who. I need to find out where you were last night. Can't you see that the best thing you could do for yourself is tell me?”
Rudd.i.c.k smiled. ”And what if I don't? What happens then, Dad? Are you going to beat it out of me? That's what fathers are supposed to do, isn't it?”
”It's an idea could grow on me,” Grigsby said.
This was a mistake; he knew it as soon as he said it-from his smile, the boy took Grigsby's admission as a vindication, as a personal victory.
Grigsby said, ”Okay. Let's stop f.u.c.kin' around. Who was it?”
Rudd.i.c.k smiled again. ”I guess that's for me to know and you to find out.”
Grigsby sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked at Rudd.i.c.k. He said, ”Now you listen to me. I told you, we're talkin' here 'bout a murder. Some sonovab.i.t.c.h sliced up a hooker, and I'm tryin' to find out if it was you. I don't give a d.a.m.n about anything else. I don't give a d.a.m.n if you whacked off every G.o.dd.a.m.n cowpoke at the Palace. What I wanna know is, who you were with, and how long you were with 'im, and if you don't G.o.dd.a.m.n tell me, and tell me now, I'm gonna sling your a.s.s in the lockup.”
Rudd.i.c.k was staring at him, lips compressed, face flushed.
”Lockup'll be right up your alley,” Grigsby said. ”Got a guy in there name of Andre. Trapper. Ripe as a dead skunk. 'Bout seven feet tall, mean old f.u.c.ker with a dose of clap, picked it up from some Cheyenne dog soldier, and young fellas like you are his meat exactly.”
The threat of the lockup (a threat which was pretty much as empty as the lockup itself) hadn't worked with O'Conner, but it worked like a charm with Rudd.i.c.k. Looking directly at Grigsby, the boy said, ”Dell Jameson.” He spit out the name as though it were a piece of tobacco caught on his tongue.
”Dell Jameson?” said Grigsby.
Rudd.i.c.k smiled coldly, viciously. ”You wanted to know who I was with. I was with Dell Jameson.”
Grigsby exploded. ”He's married, he's got kids. He's a G.o.dd.a.m.n fireman.”
Rudd.i.c.k's brief little laugh was brittle and shrill. ”I met him at eleven o'clock,” he said. ”You can ask at the saloon, at the, Palace. They'll tell you. We left around twelve and went to my room at the hotel.” He smiled a hard, nasty smile. The poisonous little s.h.i.+t was enjoying himself. ”Poor Dell was a bit nervous about being seen, so I let him in through the service entrance. It didn't really matter, because the desk clerk was asleep. He stayed until two.” He smiled again. ”It's the truth. You can ask your friend Dell.”
Grigsby lifted his gla.s.s, took a swallow of bourbon. ”You leave the room afterwards?”
”No.”
But he knew about the service entrance.
”Is that it?” said Rudd.i.c.k. ”Can I go now?”
”Yeah,” Grigsby said. He waved a hand. ”Take off.”
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