“That’s what he did, and it’s cost him a bundle. But he didn’t give a damn about that. I’m not sure why, Tom, but he truly hates your guts.”
“So the McCords talked him into buying the place — or trying to — before I got out of Folsom.”
“Yeah. But that didn’t bother him either. He knew you wouldn’t sell, not in a million years.”
Benton leaned back, still puzzled, the anger still a painful knot in his chest; and not so sure any more that he wouldn’t sell. Moss emptied his glass and looked lovingly at the bottle in Benton’s grip. “Later,” Benton said. And then he said, “They must have forced him to make the offers to buy. They must’ve got gold fever bad — and Carswell was too chicken to admit the truth.”
“That’s what happened — at first anyway.”
“And you, Harry?”
“Me?”
“You. Where do you fit in? How come you know all this?”
“Hamp told me. We used to be in business together.”
“Yeah, I know — Hildy’s Place, the whorehouse.”
“That’s been — we closed it down. Hamp lives there now. He comes over from there at night to salt the — er, mine.”
“Harry, tell me — did the McCords sign the offers, or did you forge their signatures? What I mean is — can they write?”
“They can write. They signed.”
“In your office?”
“What difference does it make? Listen Tom, how about a drink?”
“Later. So you know them, you’ve dealt with them, it wasn’t all done through Carswell. They signed the leases too — right?”
“Right.”
“And you’re just as scared of them as Carswell is.”
“More so — you’ve got no idea.” His eyes were fixed on the bottle.
“How many of them are there? I saw three.”
“Five. Mama, two grown boys, a kid, and the old man. Each one worse than the other. Tom, listen—”
“Later. Harry, I want them out of there. What do I have to do to get them out right now?”
“Oh, no, not that!” Moss wasn’t drunk enough not to blanch. “Oh, no, Tom!”
“What do I have to do? What do you have to do as my agent?”
“Tom, for God’s sake, let them Jive put the lease!”
“The sheriff — right? The sheriff has to throw them out.” Benton paused, tasting his own words, like salt, like bile. “The sheriff.” He a parolee, barely twenty-four hours back in the world and hollering cop. He sighed gloomily. He’d loosened his grip on the bottle and Moss snatched it away at once, didn’t bother with the glass. Music thundered through the house. Benton stood up, frustrated and disgusted. “You stay in town,” he said. “No running away.” A pro forma warning. Moss would run nowhere for a while; when he finished the bottle, he might conceivably be able to crawl to bed.
The first show started at eight-thirty — a western he’d seen last month in prison. But he didn’t disclose that oddity to Bessie. He’d picked her up at eight, a little later than planned. He’d had to shower again and put on his last set of clean clothes, but he didn’t tell her that either. Instinctively he wouldn’t mix the Moss-Carswell-McCord world with hers. It would be like poisoning a well. He wanted only to relax for a few hours in non-threatening company, to give himself perspective on the next twenty-six days.
They ate popcorn and drank Coke and Benton thought of it as supper. He hadn’t had time to eat. But she, he found again, was good for him, her very presence proof of order, clarity, decency.
There was a lot of bang-bang-bang from the speaker that hung in the cab of the truck. Two groups of horsemen were trading shots on the screen. It was a noisy part of the film, obscuring what was about to happen outside, but he had a flashing premonition. He saw the shadowed figure just beyond his door window and reflexively ducked his head. His right hand, holding a Coke, shot out to hook Bessie’s neck and pull her down. The drink soaked her shoulder and breast; the bullet creased the pad of Benton’s thumb and hit her head. Shards of glass exploded across Benton’s bowed and twisted neck and Bessie slipped heavily from his hold against the door. Popcorn had spilled all over the place.
He didn’t hesitate a heartbeat; shock would come later. He started the truck and roared away, trailing the speaker cord, his bloodied right hand bracing Bessie’s limp body as he made the series of short sharp turns to get out of the place.
At first they said she’d probably live. And then they said she wasn’t badly hurt at all, that luckily the slug had rounded the base of her skull beneath the scalp and emerged above her right ear — it had no doubt given her a concussion, its severity to be determined later, but no fracture. He, in the meantime, with his hand treated and bandaged, could relax in the waiting room or go home.
A deputy sheriff named Michaels had arrived ten minutes after Bessie had been wheeled into the operating room. He’d listened politely to Benton’s angry story and then gone back out to his car. Twenty minutes later, with Benton planted in his chair, hand held high to reduce the throb, Michaels returned, his notebook out and a minatory look in his eye.
He sat down next to Benton and said, “You tell me a guy named Dan McCord fired the shot.”
“I said ‘probably,’ almost certainly. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but he had a cowboy hat on and—”
“Not many guys out here in the wild west wear cowboy hats, huh?”
Benton didn’t like Michaels’ tone of voice. He said, “Meaning what?”
“You just got out of Folsom, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Yesterday. I registered at the station today.”
“How many enemies did you make in Folsom?”
“None. Nor friends. What the hell has that got to do—?”
“Everybody makes enemies in jail.”
“I didn’t. I’m telling you, McCord was—”
“So this enemy of yours gets out a little ahead of you and lays in wait. He gets his chance tonight at the drive-in, and you tell me it’s a guy named McCord. O.K., why do you tell me that? Because you knew the McCords saw you this evening. You figure your best defense against them is a good offense. But it’s not so good, Benton.”
“What are you talking about? Saw me do what?”
“Kill Mr. Hampton Carswell. Run him over the cliff, just like you claim he did your wife.”
Benton stared at him. Their colloquy had been low-keyed, but the room had grown quiet, was watching. Benton thought it was some kind of a trick, cruel as it was clumsy. “You’re kidding,” he said finally. “Is he dead?”
Michaels smiled coldly. “As a doornail. Since about seven o’clock. Three McCord men, including your friend Dan, saw you do it.”
“You’re crazy! They’re crazy!”
“Sure we are, everybody but you.” He stood up. “Come on outside, Benton. Let me show you something you didn’t have time to fix. Pretty cool, I must say, taking your girl friend out to the movies so soon after.”
With his hand in firm custody of Benton’s left elbow, Michaels steered him out through the emergency-room entrance to where he’d parked his truck. There were two other deputies there and two county cars, roof-lights pulsing. One of the two men held a flashlight in his hand, while the other, on his knees at the right front fender of Benton’s truck, was examining, in the concentrated beam of the flash, a variety of damage there. Michaels released Benton’s elbow and bent forward to look. The man on his knees said, “It’s fresh — as of today, I’d say, and white as the driven snow.” He got to his feet. “We’ll send it to the lab tomorrow, but tonight’s book says it’s paint from Carswell’s car. This your man?” He was looking at Benton, his eyes pleased.