Stokes, who had been silent throughout the entire revelation, stepped toward McCord. “One thing, Edward. You wouldn’t really have... killed us after you got the money... would you?”
McCord’s silence confirmed what Shayne had told them earlier.
Though Tim had been in the Venice Hospital for only one day, the rumpled sheets and soiled gown suggested to Shayne that he had already made it his home.
“I don’t know if I can take a week in this place, Mike. Are you sure you can’t help me escape?” joked the Irishman.
“You need the rest,” said Shayne, “and besides you have three millionaires picking up the tab. You said you wanted a little rest and relaxation — enjoy it.”
“I’ve never seen people so grateful.”
The big detective waved it off. “It’s not what I did for them so much as what they found out they could still do for themselves. I had them underestimated. When the chips were down, those guys had a lot of guts.”
“There’s only one thing that would make this occasion perfect,” said Rourke.
Shayne turned to the door. “O.K.,” he called.
“Room service,” said a smiling James Edward as he came in carrying a tray on which were a bottle and three glasses.
The reclining reporter picked up the bottle. “Three-Star John Exshaw — just what the doctor ordered.”
Shayne poured the liquor into two glasses. James Edward held out the third one. From his coat pocket, the redhead pulled a bright can and popped the tab. He filled James Edward’s glass with Nehi soda and then offered a toast. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
The Legacy
by Alan Warren
It was a crazy offer, and only a madman would accept it!
I still get gooseflesh thinking of it.
It began in Le Bouc, a French restaurant a stone’s throw from Dallas — that is, if the stone were encased within a guided missile. My traveling companion and I had sat down for a drink, having heard the bar prices were reasonable. I doubt we had twenty dollars between us.
It was a blistering hot day, the kind that numbs the senses and fries the brain to the texture of a fine Swiss cheese, and the reason most Texans wear wide brimmed ten gallon hats had just occurred to me: the brims protected the wearer’s forehead from the sun’s fearsome rays. Of course!
“The armpit of the nation,” Landry suddenly announced, apropos of nothing. He spoke so loudly I glanced around to make certain no one had overheard. I was suddenly aware that both of us were conspicuous non-Texans by our lack of hats, Levi’s, and rangy drawls, and were, for that reason, interlopers.
“What makes you say that?” I said, and instantly regretted asking, realizing it would lead into one of Landry’s monologues filled with machismo, seasoned with chauvinism, and leavened with the occasional off-color remark or description.
“Because these sonsabitches have all the money in the world, and they flaunt it,” he said.
“Do I detect a note of jealousy there?”
“Damn straight. You know what I could do with the kind of money in this state? This drifting around is for cockroaches. If I had one tenth the money of one of those sonsabitches in Dallas, I’d plant my ass down in Big D and stay, y’know? Get me one of those estates with a winding driveway so long you run outta gas just driving in from the front gate. Y’know?”
“I know,” I said. I’d heard this diatribe before, and although it changed slightly in the re-telling, it was essentially the same tirade I’d heard during our travels through Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico. And it always began after a drink, or two, or three. Up until then, Landry was a pleasant enough companion.
“I’d do anything to get that kinda dough,” Landry was saying. “Anything. I wouldn’t care who I’d have to screw.”
The waiter drew abreast of our table. “Another?” he asked.
I was about to say no. My chamois-thin wallet wouldn’t permit it, but Landry rumbled before I could speak. “Yeah, two more.”
The waiter nodded, took our empty glasses away, and left.
I could have questioned the wisdom of ordering drinks when our pocketbooks were rubbed raw and we had little hope of getting back to California, but decided against it. Landry was again speaking of his obsessions, and he was a dangerous man to cross, even verbally.
“These sonsabitches think money’ll buy anything, and maybe they’re right. Truthfully, I couldn’t stand living here. Too hot, for one thing. And the women — most of ’em are high priced whores.”
“Are you talking about Dallas,” I asked, “or Texas in general?”
Landry shrugged. “The whole damn South. I couldn’t stand being here more than a couple of days. You think we could—”
The waiter returned with two double bourbons on a tray. He set them down before us, and before I could pay for mine Landry dropped a five dollar bill, folded lengthwise, on the tray. “Keep the change,” he said. The waiter stared down a moment, looked as if he were about to comment and thought better of it, and carried the tray away.
“Thanks,” I said, sipping my drink. I was about to comment on it when I froze.
Academicians will tell you there is no such thing as a sixth sense, but they in turn will proffer no explanation for the unmistakable sensation any animal, including man, experiences when he is being watched. He may not see, smell, hear, taste, or touch the observer, but he is nonetheless aware of his presence. I was thus fully cognizant of the rangy Texan standing directly behind me before I turned and stared up at him.
He was Texas personified. His black Stetson, string tie, and enormous stature spoke of oil and wild Mustangs and flashy bankrolls. There was even something about his stance that suggested the wide open spaces: it was not arrogant or showy, merely self-confident. I would have been willing to wager, without even glancing down at his feet, that he was wearing a tall pair of boots with spurs. And I would have been right.
“Y’all have to excuse me,” he said, and the drawl was thick enough to cut with a pearl-handled knife, “but I was listenin t’some of what yuh was sayin. Don’t git the idea ah’m the kinda fella listens in on private conversations, but I caught yer general drift, an it kinda intrigued me. Yuh said there’s a general feelin roun these parts that money’ll buy anythin’.”
“That’s right,” said Landry. He did not look embarrassed or even surprised. I had to give him credit for a certain bravery: he was not one to step back from a challenge or an obstacle. He was hot headed, certainly, but he was not without the courage of his convictions. You had to give him that.
The stranger pushed his hat back, exposing a high, lined forehead and, above it, a mane of thinning gray hair. He might have been a retired Western star, or a champion rodeo rider, or a cardsmith. But I had a premonition he was none of these things.
“Well, that may be the feelin, but y’all excuse me if I tell yuh there’s at least one thinget money cain’t buy. No, sir. And that’s courage.”
“Courage?” Landry repeated.
The Texan nodded, then glanced from Landry to me and asked, “Y’all mind if I sit down here?”
Landry shook his head and indicated a chair.
The big man sank into it and exhaled, then looked up with a startled expression as if he had just been caught cheating at cards.
“Shucks, I forgot t’introduce m’self. That’s downright rude. M’names DuBose. John Jacob DuBose. J.J. to m’friends.”
He reached out a hand the size of a small ham, and pumped Landry’s first, then mine.
“This is Paul Gardner,” Landry said, indicating me. “My name’s Steve Landry.”