According to popular opinion, Hickok held only four cards—the ace of spades, the ace of clubs, and two black eights—the subsequent draw for the deprived fifth card having been interrupted by Broken Nose Jack McCall, who fired a bullet through Bill’s head that exited his right cheek to rest in the wrist of a fellow card player, the fifth card being the least of Wild Bill’s problems at that point.
Getting breakfast at the run-down café of the same name as the dreaded dead man’s hand was as elusive as Wild Bill’s hole card. The short counter was where the waitress supposedly served meals, but she was a little slow in responding, and getting a second cup of coffee was proving difficult. We’d gotten the first cup all right, but refills appeared to be in high demand, which was strange, since we were the only customers in the place.
Every once in a while the young Hispanic woman who had poured us our initial cup rushed through the restaurant, and we’d ceremoniously hold up our mugs, but she would continue on and out the door.
Lucian watched as the girl breezed in again, once more ignoring our two-mug salute and disappearing through the swinging kitchen doors. “Damn, what’a ya got to do to get another cup of coffee outta that Mexican jumping bean.”
“Lucian.”
He flipped the side of his old hunting coat back, the one that had the 1951 Wyo. Rifle Association patch on the shoulder, and rubbed at the small of his back where the rented bed had not agreed. “What?”
I gazed into the kitchen, where I could vaguely see the smoky visage of the ghost of breakfast future. “I think she’s cooking our Denver omelets.”
“Think they’ll be done before the fire alarm goes off?” The old sheriff studied the massive coffee urn at the bar-back, and I could see him eyeing the prospect of climbing over the counter to get at it.
The young woman passed us again, and we raised our mugs to no avail.
“So, what’d you see up there in room twelve?”
I sat my coffee down and looked at him. “Apparently . . . a man killed himself.”
“I knew I trained you well.” He continued to stare at the brushed stainless steel surface of the coffee urn longingly. “No question about it?”
I swirled the tiny bit of coffee at the bottom of my own cup in an attempt to make it last. “You read the report; look at the pictures?”
“Nope, I just called those assholes over here at the field office, and they made it clear that they were doin’ me some kind of big damned favor by talkin’ to me. They said that as far as they were concerned, he’d killed himself and that was that, case closed.”
I reached over and tapped the thick manila folder that sat between us. “That the investigator who did the scene?”
“Two of ’em.”
“I’ll talk to them, but if I have to I can get in touch with T. J. Sherwin.” I left my hand on the report. “Instantaneous rigor in the strong-side hand, trace elements.”
He nodded. “I figured as much.”
“There’s one thing though.” He turned his head at the tone of my voice. “He shot himself twice.”
I watched the dark eyes sharpen. “With that big .357?”
“Yep.” I sighed. “Wadcutters.”
“Seems like once woulda been enough.”
“If he had wanted it to be.”
He raised his mug to his lips but then, remembering it was empty, sat it back down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Either somebody else shot him first, or your friend, Investigator Holman, raised that big revolver up and pointed it in his own face and pulled the trigger. Then he stuck it in his mouth and blew out the top of his head. Now, why does a man do that?”
Lucian scooted his cup toward me, and a sadness seemed to overtake him as he spoke quietly. “I don’t know; I don’t know what comes over a person to be driven to the point where they don’t see any other way out than . . .” His words stuttered to a stop. “I just don’t understand any of it. I guess I’ve fought so hard to keep my life that I can’t conceive of a situation where I’d voluntarily give it up.” The old sheriff sat there moving his jaw in anticipation of the words. “Why would he do that?”
“Possibly to punish himself?”
“For what?”
“I guess that’s what I really have to find out.” I glanced around. “And why here?”
“Hell, he was probably waitin’ on a cup of coffee.”
I repeated the question and then added, “Did you see his house? Spotless; he wouldn’t stay in a place like this unless there was a reason.”
He nudged the handle of his mug with a thick thumbnail. “Maybe he didn’t want to make a mess for Phyllis to have to clean up.”
I sat there quietly for a moment. “Hey, Lucian?”
“What?”
“That story you told me in the Holman driveway about the woman you used to come over here and see on Sundays? That was Phyllis, wasn’t it?”
“By God, I warned her . . .” He turned and looked at me again. “I told her that you were a force to be reckoned with and that if she didn’t want the answers, she better not have you ask the questions.”
“You’ve got a lot of women in your past.”
Absentmindedly, he lifted his mug and then slammed it down. “Yeah, and I’m pretty damned proud of it.”
“Were you driving when she was hurt?”
He pivoted on his stool to look at me, and his glare was like a blast furnace. “No, I wasn’t, and this doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the case.”
I didn’t look at him but stared straight ahead and spoke in a low voice. “Maybe you better tell me the story, and I’ll decide if it does or not.”
“You go to hell.”
“It’ll be a matter of public record, but I’ll be wasting more time looking it up.”
“Wasting time is right . . .”
I didn’t move, and if I’d had more coffee I wouldn’t have drunk it. I did one of the things I do best; ask a question and then wait for the answer—something he’d taught me quite a few years ago.
Our waitress passed through again, once more leaving our mugs like ships in the night. After a while he turned back and thumbed his coffee cup some more. He took a deep breath, and I could feel the emotion leave him. “But I was in the car.”
I continued to wait and then listened.
“We was headed down Route 59 for the rodeo in Cheyenne. Hell, I don’t know, she wanted to see men fall off horses or some damn thing. We’d been drinking. This is back before she was married to Gerald. Hell, they didn’t even know one another . . . You remember how it was, they used to hand you mixed drinks out of the drive-through in every bar in Wyoming—to-go cups.”
“I remember.”
He sighed. “She was in a hurry. Like a damn fool, I bet her a hundred-dollar bill that we wouldn’t make it and let me tell you, she put her foot into that Eldorado and we damn well flew.” His jaw moved up and down, chewing on the words he said next. “Wasn’t even another car involved. We came around one of those big, sweeping turns and the thing just decided it wanted to go to Nebraska . . . She didn’t have on her belt and flew out on the first roll.”
He didn’t say anything more and just sat there.
“You’re not doing this for him; you’re doing it for her.”
He stared into the empty mug.
I let the dust settle and patted the report. “No signs of drugs, alcohol—”
“He didn’t drink.”
“At all?”
“Nope.”
I dwelled on Phyllis Holman. “What did she say about him?” I leaned in closer. “Change in sleeping habits, lack of appetite, sex—disinterest in the job?”
He shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her that.”
“No, you will. You know her, and she’s more likely to open up to you.”
The waitress passed us again and both of our mugs levitated from the surface like some magic act and hovered there before slowly returning, in tandem, to the counter.