“Any way I could get out of it?”
McWhortle frowned. Legitimately this time, Longarm thought. “Too tired from last night’s acrobatics with some amateur whore?”
Longarm gave the young baseball manager a steely look to put the fellow in his place. “I got work t’ do, y’know, that don’t involve grown men playing at kids’ games.”
“I don’t want the boys to think you’re being rewarded after you missed the train yesterday.”
“Then whyn’t you get so pissed off that you suspend me for a game or two? You know. Get all red in the face an’ scream some more an’ jump up an’ down where they can see. I’ll get pissed off right back at you an’ storm off an’ not come back until suppertime tonight or about then. Would that work so’s you wouldn’t lose any control over your team?”
“That would be all right,” McWhortle decided after a moment’s thought. He hesitated a few seconds more, then winked at Longarm and took a deep breath.
When the man cut loose it was a marvel to behold. He raved. He shouted. He got so red in the face that Longarm became concerned for his health. If Longarm hadn’t known for certain sure that the whole thing was a sham, he might’ve felt impelled to beat hell out of the man in return for all the abuse McWhortle was dishing out.
But there was no question the two of them once again had the full attention of the Austin Capitals ball players.
Oh, it was a fine show McWhortle put on, Longarm thought.
And after a couple, three minutes of it Longarm commenced to shouting back and getting hot in the cheeks himself and pretty soon the two of them had worked themselves into a truly fine fare-thee-well.
They jumped and ranted and waved their arms about and when Longarm thought it had all gone on long enough and then some he shrieked a few well chosen insults, made as if barely restraining himself from punching out the manager, and with a flourish turned and stomped off down the street.
The last thing he saw as he turned away was Douglas McWhortle’s wink and, he thought, a flicker of silent laughter in the young fellow’s eyes.
Chapter 26
“Fifty cents,” the man behind the counter said. “Shouldn’t that be …?”
“Nickel apiece or fifty cents for the dozen. But thanks for being honest.”
Longarm very happily fished two quarters out of the change in his pocket, hesitated only half a second or so and laid down a silver dollar instead. “At that price, friend, I’ll take another dozen.”
“I see you’re a man who knows quality when he sees it.” The clerk, and presumably proprietor as well, counted out another dozen of the slim cigars, bundled the purchase together and wrapped them in brown paper that he tied with string, careful not to damage the delicate tubes within.
The cheroots had such a pale and pretty leaf that it probably should be illegal, or at the very least immoral, to set fire to one. Which Longarm suggested to the storekeeper.
“Prob’ly would be a jailable offense except they taste even better than they look,” the fellow said. “Here, try one.
“I don’t …”
“Go ahead, mister, this one’s on the house.” The man insisted, so Longarm let his arm be twisted. The storekeeper joined him in sampling the wares, and Longarm held a match so each of them could light up.
“By damn, it does taste even better than it looks.”
“Have I ever lied to you, friend?” asked the man Longarm never saw in his life before this moment.
“Never once,” Longarm answered solemnly.
The storekeeper drew deep on his smoke and smiled, and Longarm couldn’t much help doing the same when he inhaled the smooth, flavorful smoke.
“Thinkin’ of jailable offenses,” Longarm ventured.
“Uh huh?”
“Do you have a jail hereabouts? Town marshal? Police department? Whatever?”
“Yes, we do, and I thank you for asking.” The storekeeper took another puff on his cheroot.
“Would you please tell me where I can find such a place or person then?”
“That I would, mister. You go…” Longarm began paying less attention to the cigar and more to the instructions.
“Boone Crockett,” the man with the badge on his shirt said by way of introduction as he leaned across the desk with a hand extended.
Longarm couldn’t help but blink. But he didn’t say anything. That would have been rude.
“It’s all right. I know what you’re thinking, and I expect you’re right. It’s a damned strange name at that. My daddy, he had this fascination with the old-time longhunters. You know the term?”
“I do,” Longarm conceded.
“if you know the word then you know who those men were. My daddy, he claimed our line was descended from them. He never found any proof of it, but that didn’t stop him from believing it was so. Didn’t stop him from burdening me with this name either.” The town marshal—Longarm was close enough now to read the lettering engraved onto the six-pointed star—shrugged and sat back down. “Now that we have that outa the way,” he said, what can I do for you?”
Longarm completed the other half of the introductions and said, “I have reason to think there is a good possibility some cash-heavy business in your town will be robbed tomorrow afternoon between twelve thirty and, oh, three o’clock or thereabouts.”
“If you wanted my interest, friend, you sure as hell got it.” Crockett leaned forward, elbows on the desktop now and his attention rapt.
“Good because I’m hoping that between us we can do something about it. Stop any robbery from taking place here and nail whoever has been committing a string of others over the past couple months.”
“Deputy, I can promise you one thing. Whatever help you think you need, me and my deputies will be glad to oblige you in supplying it.”
“I appreciate your attitude, marshal. Look, uh, would you like a cigar?”
Boone Crockett smiled and accepted the cheroot Longarm held out to him. And just to be sociable, Longarm helped himself to another also even though he’d just gotten finished with one.
“Now,” Longarm said. “Let’s you and me do some serious talking …”
Chapter 27
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Crockett said. “Tonight we got to go to the cathouse.”
“Pardon me?”
“Cathouse. Means whorehouse. Same thing.”
“Hell, Boone, I know that, but …”
“Now I don’t know how it is where you come from, Longarm, but around here we don’t have much in the way of amusements for strangers to enjoy. Two saloons and one cathouse, that’s all we got.”
“I still don’t see …”
“Been my experience, Longarm, that in a small town like this one here, anything a lawman wants to know about strangers passing through, he’ll find it best in one of those two saloons or, more likely, in Belinda Joy Love’s cathouse.”
“Belinda Joy Love?”
“Oh, it ain’t her real name, of course. I happen to know that that’s Hilary Jean Thurmond. That’s the way she’s listed on the county tax rolls. I mean, everybody thinks she’s just hired on by some man to run the cathouse for him, but the fact is she owns the property outright. She even talks about this made-up boss whenever she wants to duck the blame for some unpopular policy or whatever. But I know different.” Crockett closed his eyes while he took another drag on the cigar Longarm had given him, then said, “We ought to drop by there about ten thirty—eleven o’clock.”
“And you think she will cooperate?” Longarm asked.
Crockett opened his eyes and smiled. “I can pretty much guarantee it, my friend. Belinda Joy Love and me got what you might call an understanding.”
“Whorehouses, cathouses that is, being in violation of the law hereabouts,” Longarm suggested. It wasn’t all that wild a guess.
“There’s a county ordinance to that effect, yes,” Crockett said cheerfully. “But no town statute, you see.”