Robert B. Parker's Bull River Read online

  “What kind of information?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Holly said. “Ira Cross told me, I’m just relaying the message.”

  “Likely wants to let you know he don’t much like his jailer,” I said.

  “I don’t much care for him myself,” Virgil said, looking at Hawkins.

  Hawkins jerked the bay’s reins again to keep him from gnawing.

  “Truth be told,” Hawkins said. “I don’t care for him much, neither.”

  “Well,” Holly said, “he is good at his job.”

  Hawkins nodded and shrugged a bit, then popped his reins and snapped at his bay, “Blisters! Stop with the goddamn gnawing!”

  22

  Virgil and I left Holly and Hawkins to check in on Strode’s condition, and we made our way back to the sheriff’s office to see what it was Alejandro was interested in chatting about.

  Ira Cross led us through the metal door into the hall to the cells. Alejandro had his boots off and was sitting Indian-style on his bunk. A short, round fella with rosy cheeks wearing a checkered-patterned suit with a silk fold tie and high flattop hat was in the cell next to him. He was passed out snoring with his hands folded across his big round belly.

  “Hola, mis amigos,” Alejandro said when we entered.

  “Stand up,” Ira said.

  “Fuck you, old man,” Alejandro said.

  Cross whacked the bars with his club.

  “Why, you brown—”

  “Let us sort this out with him, Mr. Cross,” I said.

  Alejandro just smiled and the drunk in the flattop hat kept on snoring.

  Ira steamed an irritable look to Alejandro, then returned back to the office.

  “You wanted to see us,” Virgil said.

  “Sí,” Alejandro said with a smile.

  “You got something you’d like to share?” Virgil said.

  “Yes,” Alejandro said. “But Alejandro’s información comes at a price.”

  “Alejandro, you’re in no position to put a price on nothing,” Virgil said.

  “But you do not know what información Alejandro has got to share.”

  Virgil didn’t say anything.

  “What if I were to tell you Alejandro knows much about the robbery.”

  “Robbery,” I said. “What robbery?”

  “Why, the bank robbery, of course.”

  Alejandro nodded to the drunk in the cell next to him.

  “My little amigo here, Proctor Pugh. He writes for the newspaper. He told me.”

  “What do you got to say, Alejandro?” I said.

  “Maybe I know where you could find them.”

  “Find who?” Virgil said.

  “The robbers, of course. To be honest, though, Alejandro should say, I know where they most likely may be.”

  “Honest?” Virgil said. “That’s a notion way outside of your ability, Alejandro.”

  “Get on with it,” I said.

  Alejandro shook his head.

  “I will share what I know, but only when you want to make Alejandro a deal.”

  Virgil looked at me, grinning a little.

  “You’d tell any lie you could,” I said, “to get out of this jail.”

  Alejandro nodded.

  “True, Everett,” he said. “But do you think I would have you come here to see me and not have something of importance to share with you?”

  “Hell, Alejandro,” I said. “It’s hard to know what you’d think.”

  “You will be impressed!” Alejandro said.

  Virgil shook his head.

  “There is nothing about you that is impressive, and nothing you’ve got to say, Captain,” Virgil said. “When you broke out of jail up in Butch’s Bend you shot a friend of ours in the back. Before that you killed two men in this town. Men you’ll most likely get strung up for, so wade into what you got to say and say it.”

  “I did not kill your friend. But let Alejandro start with the two men you say I killed here in San Cristóbal.”

  “Start,” I said.

  “Those men. They tried to kill me.”

  “You’ll have an opportunity to tell your side of it to the judge,” Virgil said. “Let’s go, Everett.”

  “Wait!”

  Alejandro got to his feet and moved closer to the bars.

  “There were three men that night that tried to kill me. One of them got away.”

  “What does this have to do with the robbery?” I said.

  “It was his plan.”

  “Whose plan?” I said.

  “The one who got away.”

  Alejandro opened one side of his naval jacket and put his finger through an in-and-out hole in the jacket’s side, showing us an apparent bullet hole.

  “He shot at Alejandro one last time. Two men coming out of the church saw us in the street. They say I killed the men, but they do not know the whole story. I jumped on my horse running north, and the man who shot at me jumped on his horse running south. I have not seen him since, but he is the man responsible for robbing the bank. This much I know.”

  Virgil looked at me.

  “You expect us to believe you?” I said.

  “Sí,” Alejandro said with a broad smile. “He was planning to rob the bank then. I found out about it and tried to stop them.”

  “That was months ago,” I said.

  “Sí.”

  Virgil shook his head.

  “Tell the judge.”

  Virgil and I turned for the door.

  “Okay,” Alejandro said. “They tried to cut me out of the deal, Everett . . . They tried to kill Alejandro.”

  “Who you talking about here?” I said.

  Alejandro shook his head.

  “There is one thing I can tell you,” Alejandro said. “He is perhaps the Diablo himself.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “I have to hold a few cards, Everett,” Alejandro said, “you know that . . . I am a very good card player, but you have to help Alejandro.”

  “We don’t have to do nothing,” Virgil said, and walked out.

  I gave one last look to Alejandro and followed Virgil into the office. Then we heard Alejandro call.

  “What if I told you I know Henry Strode is not Henry Strode?”

  23

  “Wake up,” Cross said.

  Cross poked the newspaperman, Proctor Pugh, in his round belly with the police club.

  “What?” Pugh said with a fright. “Good God!”

  Pugh talked out of the corner of his mouth, as if one side of it was stitched together. He rambled as he spoke and stretched his words longer than they needed stretching.

  “Lord have mercy!” Pugh said with a disoriented look on his face. “What? What is it? What time is the print?”

  Pugh pulled out his pocket watch and held it at arm’s length, trying to focus on the time.

  “Time to wake up, Pugh,” Cross said.

  Pugh looked around. He looked at Virgil and me, then pocketed his watch, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  Cross poked him again.

  “Up,” Cross said. “Wake up.”

  “Oh, good God,” Pugh said. “Can’t a lady get any rest? I’ll get up when I’m exceptionally good and ready.”

  “You’ll get up right now,” Cross said, and pulled Pugh to his feet.

  Pugh’s hat tumbled off his head. Cross picked it up and put it back on Pugh’s round head.

  “All right,” Pugh said, swatting Cross away like he was a pesky fly. “All right! I can manage. I can get around quite well on my own volition, thank you very much.”

  Pugh turned, looking for his hat, and then turned again until he realized it was on his head. He took the hat off, looked at it, and placed it back atop his head. He started out of th
e cell and looked Virgil and me up and down.

  “Proctor Pugh,” he said with a tip of his hat. “And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting on such a postulate occasion?”

  “Get!” Cross said.

  “Mr. Cross,” Pugh said. “Never have I had the displeasure of knowing a character of such unimaginable insolence as I have with the likes of you.”

  Cross jerked Pugh from the cell and walked him out, leaving us alone with Alejandro.

  Alejandro was on his feet behind the bars. Virgil faced him.

  “What do you have to say, Captain,” Virgil said, “about Henry Strode?”

  “I know him since I was a boy,” Alejandro said.

  “Who is he?” I said.

  “Will you help me?” Alejandro said.

  “You are a prisoner,” Virgil said. “Start answering. Depending on what you got to say will determine what I might and might not do.”

  “That does not sound too good for Alejandro.”

  “Alejandro don’t got much choice.”

  “He is,” Alejandro said, “a huérfano, from my country.”

  “Orphan?” I said.

  “Sí. His brother, too, and me.”

  “What’s his name?” I said. “His real name?”

  “Joe.”

  I looked at Virgil. His arms were crossed in front of him, and he leaned with his shoulder to a post. He was looking at Alejandro with a fixed expression of distrust.

  “We came to America together. Me, Joe, and his brother, Jack.”

  “Keep going,” I said. “Last name?”

  Alejandro shook his head.

  “I did not kill your friend, and I did not kill those men. I kill only to protect myself, same as you, Virgil Cole.”

  “Don’t go comparing yourself to me,” Virgil said.

  “Don’t ask me to help you for nothing,” Alejandro said.

  Virgil walked out, and I followed.

  “You let me out,” Alejandro called out. “I will take you to where you need to go! Otherwise you will never, ever find him! Ever!”

  Ira Cross was sweeping the floor. He stopped and looked to us.

  “That Mezkin brown bean is full of shit,” Cross said as he continued to sweep.

  “You hear him talking to the newspaperman?” I said.

  “Newspaperman my ass,” Cross said. “Proctor Pugh gets paid some to write for the newspaper, but he ain’t nothing but a damn drunk.”

  “Did you?” Virgil said.

  “Nope, I did not hear them talking,” Cross said, and went back to sweeping the already swept-clean floor.

  “Where is Proctor Pugh?” Virgil said.

  “I don’t know. I sent the rat on his way. Why?”

  “Where would we most likely find him?” I said.

  “That’s easy,” Cross said as he swept. “He’s bellied up at the closest place for him to get liquored up, no doubt.”

  Virgil looked at me as Cross continued to sweep.

  “Where would that be, Mr. Cross?” I said.

  Cross stopped sweeping. He pointed.

  “Up the street here, there is a joint called the Gold River Saloon.”

  “Appreciate it, Mr. Cross,” I said.

  Cross nodded and resumed sweeping as I followed Virgil to the door.

  “Most likely, though,” Cross said without looking at us as he dragged the broom in small whisking moves across the floor, “he’s at Benedict Arnold’s Saloon, down the street, on the right.”

  24

  Benedict Arnold’s was a dark, dank place, and it was near empty except for a couple of teamsters sitting in the corner playing a contemplative game of checkers, and, like crotchety Cross had thought, the newspaperman Proctor Pugh was there, too. He was sitting at the bar, finishing off a mug of beer.

  “Pugh,” Virgil said.

  He turned, looked at us, and removed the mug from his lips.

  “A rose by any other name,” Pugh said with a crooked smile.

  His upper lip retained the froth from the mug.

  “I’m Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch, and this is Marshal Virgil Cole,” I said. “Like to have a word with you.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Pugh said. “Words are my forte. I’m never without them.”

  “Good,” Virgil said.

  “They, the words, however, are sometimes without me, which provides embarrassing discomfort for a man such as myself confined to the vocation of journalism.”

  Virgil looked at me. He smiled some.

  “And,” Pugh said, “as of late, they, the words, have just been leaving me by the wayside, I tell you, the absolute wayside. It’s troubling, aggravating for that sort of—”

  “Three beers,” I said to the bartender.

  “And an aperitif of some sort, my good man,” Pugh said with urgency to the bartender. “The good stuff.”

  The bartender looked and me and I nodded.

  “I’ve seen you fellows before,” Pugh said, tapping his temple with his stubby first finger. “I never forget a face.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “You just saw us, when we saw you at the jail a short time ago.”

  “So I did,” Pugh said. “So I did. I stop in there now and again to see what might be newsworthy. I’m always on the job, you see. They are my friends there—well, with the exception of that specimen of leather they refer to as the jailer. He’s not going to heaven, I tell you, I’m sure of it, but the jailhouse is a good place to gather information.”

  “That’s what we want to talk about with you,” I said.

  Pugh looked at the whiskey and the beer the barkeep set in front of him.

  “Outstanding,” Pugh said, and downed the whiskey. “My vocabulary is becoming more bountiful by the minute.”

  “Good,” Virgil said. “Talk to us about the fella that was in the cell next to you.”

  “The Mexican?” Pugh said.

  “Yes,” I said. “What was the nature of your conversation you had with him?”

  “His English is very good,” Pugh said.

  “Do you remember?” I said.

  “Well, of course,” Pugh said. “I remember everything, Deputy. I have a mind like a steel trap.”

  “The conversation?” Virgil said.

  “Yes, well, we discussed his incarceration, naturally,” Pugh said. “Always a common topic of discussion for a man behind bars.”

  Pugh drank a big gulp of beer.

  “What did you tell him about the bank?” I said.

  “The bank, the bank,” Pugh said, as if he was trying to remember.

  “Let’s not fuck around here,” Virgil said.

  Pugh cocked his head and backed it up into the grimy collar of his shirt and looked at Virgil with a sideways glance.

  “Well, since you put it that way,” Pugh said. “A proclivity I’ve managed to avoid in my fifty-plus years, mind you, I will say I told the Mexican—Alejandro, that is—about the robbery, that I did.”

  Pugh took another gulp of beer.

  “How did you know about the robbery?” I said.

  “Well,” Pugh said with a belch, “I was engaged in a winning game of rummy the previous evening with a few colleagues. Our game ended about the time the bank opened, and there was some god-awful bellyaching spindrift swirling about in front of the bank. Naturally, I caught wind of what was happening and I cornered one of the tellers. That’s what I do, you know? I investigate. Anyway, he divulged to me what had happened.”

  “What did the teller tell you?” I said.

  “He told me the bank’s president, Henry Strode, had robbed the bank. Ha! I rushed to the office with the breaking news but only made it to the corner of Fifth before I got into an altercation with Gertrud Bavenger, a bitch wolf in heat, I tell you. Anyw
ay, as a result, I was escorted to the jail for a little respite.”

  “Did the Mexican share anything with you about Strode?” I said.

  “As a matter of fact he did,” Pugh said. “He told me he knew the man—he told me they were old friends.”

  “Anything else?” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “He tell you where they were from?” I said.

  Pugh shook his head.

  “Nope,” Pugh said.

  Pugh looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

  “This is a corroborative effort on your part, is it not?” Pugh said.

  Virgil looked at me.

  “That’s right,” I said to Pugh. “We are trying to verify a few things.”

  Hawkins came through the door followed by Holly. He spotted us at the end of the bar and stumbled over a chair in the dark room as he hurried over to us with Holly on his heels.

  “We have a problem,” Hawkins said. “A big goddamn problem!”

  25

  Hawkins’s announcement awakened Pugh’s journalistic curiosity like a wasp’s nest getting hit by a swiftly thrown rock. Pugh tumbled his round body off the bar stool with the intention of following us out of Benedict Arnold’s, but Virgil turned on him and talked to him like a house dog.

  “Stay put,” Virgil said.

  Pugh looked back and forth between Virgil and me and nodded.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Pugh said.

  He removed his hat, bowed, and crawled back up on the bar stool and repeated himself, “Don’t mind if I do.”

  We walked out of the darkness of Benedict Arnold’s and into the blazing bright sunlight of the afternoon. Virgil and I kept stride with Hawkins as he moved up the street. Holly was behind us, doing his best to keep up.

  “Dr. Mayfair, Davy, and Danny were all tied up,” Hawkins said.

  “Just awful,” Holly said, “awful. We found them locked in a closet in Mayfair’s office.”

  “They hurt?” Virgil said.

  Hawkins shook his head.

  “Pride’s all,” Hawkins said.

  “They’ve not been harmed,” Holly said. “Thank God!”

  “They’re good and angry,” Hawkins said.