He made a grab for the bottle, and got it on the second try. I took it away from him, and filled his glass myself.
"That sounds fine, Bob," I said. "I'd sure like to do that. But shouldn't we be getting back to Central City? I mean, with Conway feeling the way he does, it might not look good for us-"
"I said t'hell with him. Said it, an' that's what I meant."
"Well, sure. But-"
"Done enough for Conway. Done too much. Done more'n any white man should. Now, c'mon and slide into them boots an' let's go."
I said, sure, sure I would. I'd do just that. But I had a bad callus, and I'd have to trim it first. So maybe, as long as he'd have to wait, he'd better lie down and take a little nap.
He did it, after a little grumbling and protesting. I called the railroad station, and reserved a bedroom on the eight o'clock train to Central City. It would cost us a few dollars personally, since the county would only pay for firstclass Pullman fare. But I figured we were going to need privacy.
I was right. I woke him up at six-thirty, to give him plenty of time to get ready, and he seemed worse off than before his nap. I couldn't get him to take a bath. He wouldn't drink any coffee or eat. Instead, he started hitting the whiskey again; and when we left the hotel he took a full bottle with him. By the time I got him on the train, I was as frazzled as a cow's hide under a branding iron. I wondered what in the name of God Conway had said to him.
I wondered, and, hell, I should have known. Because he'd as good as told me. It was as plain as the nose on my face, and I'd just been too close to it to see it.
Maybe, though, it was a good thing I didn't know. For there was nothing to be done about it, nothing I could do. And I'd have been sweating blood.
Well. That was about the size of my trip to the big town. My first trip outside the county. Straight to the hotel from the plane. Straight to the train from the hotel. Then, the long ride home at night-when there was nothing to see-closed in with a crying drunk.
Once, around midnight, a little while before he went to sleep, his mind must have wandered. For, all of a sudden, his fist wobbled out and poked me in the chest.
"Hey," I said. "Watch yourself, Bob."
"Wash-watch y'self," he mumbled. "Stop man with grin, smile worthwhile-s-stop all a' stuff spilt milk n' so on. Wha' you do that for, anyway."
"Aw," I said. "I was only kidding, Bob."
"T-tell you somethin'," he said. "T-tell you somethin' I bet you never thought of."
"Yeah?"
"It's-it's always lightest j-just before the dark."
Tired as I was, I laughed. "You got it wrongs Bob," I said. "You mean-"
"Huh-uh," he said. "You got it wrong."
10
We got into Central City around six in the morning, and Bob took a taxi straight home. He was sick; really sick, not just hung-over. He was too old a man to pack away the load he'd had.
I stopped by the office, but everything was pretty quiet, according to the night deputy, so I went on home, too. I had a lot more hours in than I'd been paid for. No one could have faulted me if I'd taken a week off. Which, naturally, I didn't intend to do.
I changed into some fresh clothes, and made some scrambled eggs and coffee. As I sat down to eat, the phone rang.
I supposed it was the office, or maybe Amy checking up on me; she'd have to call early or wait until four when her school day was over. I went to the phone, trying to think of some dodge to get out of seeing her, and when I heard Joe Rothman's voice it kind of threw me.
"Know who it is, Lou?" he said. "Remember our late talk."
"Sure," I said. "About the-uh-building situation."
"I'd ask you to drop around tonight, but I have to take a little jaunt to San Angelo. Would you mind if I stopped by your house a few minutes?"
"Well," I said, "I guess you could. Is it something important?"
"A small thing, but important, Lou. A matter of a few words of reassurance."
"Well, maybe I could-"
"I'm sure you could, but I think I'd better see you," he said; and he clicked up the receiver.
I hung up my phone, and went back to my breakfast. It was still early. The chances were that no one would see him. Anyway, he wasn't a criminal, opinion in some quarters to the contrary.
He came about five minutes later. I offered him some breakfast, not putting much warmth into the invitation since I didn't want him hanging around; and he said, no, thanks, but sat down at the table with me.
"Well, Lou," he said, starting to roll a cigarette. "I imagine you know what I want to hear."
"I think so," I nodded. "Consider it said."
"The very discreet newspaper stories are correct in their hints? He tried to dish it out and got it thrown back at nim.
"That's the way it looks. I can't think of any other explanation."
"I couldn't help wondering," he said, moistening the paper of his cigarette. "I couldn't help wondering how a woman with her face caved in and her neck broken could score six bulls-eyes on a man, even one as large as the late unlamented Elmer Conway."
He looked up slowly until his eyes met mine. I shrugged. "Probably she didn't fire all the shots at one time. She was shooting him while he was punching her. Hell, she'd hardly stand there and take it until he got through, and then start shooting."
"It doesn't seem that she would, does it?" he nodded. "Yet from the smattering of information I can gather, she must have done exactly that. She was still alive after he died; and almost any one-well, two-of the bullets she put into him was enough to lay him low. Ergo, she must have acquired the broken neck et cetera, before she did her shooting."
I shook my head. I had to get my eyes away from his.
"You said you wanted reassurance," I said. "You- you-"
"The genuine article, Lou; no substitutes accepted. And I'm still waiting to get it."
"I don't know where you get off at questioning me," I said. "The sheriff and the county attorney are satisfied. That's all I care about."
"That's the way you see it, eh?"
"That's the way I see it."
"Well, I'll tell you how I see it. I get off questioning you because I'm involved in the matter. Not directly, perhaps, but-"
"But not indirectly, either."
"Exactly. I knew you had it in for the Conways; in fact, I did everything I could to set you against the old man. Morally-perhaps even legally-I share the responsibility for any untoward action you might take. At any rate, we'll say, I and the unions I head could be placed in a very unfavorable light."
"You said it," I said. "It's your own statement."
"But don't ride that horse too hard, Lou. I don't hold still for murder. Incidentally, what's the score as of to date? One or two?"
"She's dead. She died yesterday afternoon."
"I won't buy it, Lou-if it was murder. Your doing. I can't say offhand what I will do, but I won't let you ride. I couldn't. You'd wind up getting me into something even worse."
"Oh, hell," I said. "What are we-"
"The girl's dead, and Elmer's dead. So regardless of how funny things look-and this deal should have put the courthouse crowd into hysterics-they can't prove anything. If they knew what I know, about your having a motive-"
"For killing her? Why would I want to do that?"
"Well"-he began to slow down a little-"leave her out of it. Say that she was just an instrument for getting back at Conway. A piece of stage setting."
"You know that doesn't make sense," I said. "About the other, this so-called motive-I'd had it for six years; I'd known about Mike's accident that long. Why would I wait six years, and then all of a sudden decide to pull this? Beat some poor whore to a pulp just to get at Chester Conway's son. Now, tell me if that sounds logical. Just tell me, Joe."