Black Night Falling (10 page)

When I thought about it, seemed like there was one man in town with as much antipathy towards Cole Barrett as me.

Early the next morning, I parked outside a converted real estate broker’s office off Central that was listed as the headquarters of the GI movement. I expected to have to wait a while for the staffers to show up, but there was a man sitting inside already, leaning against a desk and flicking through the morning’s paper.

I rapped on the window and he looked up. If he was surprised to have a visitor at that hour, he didn’t show it. I held my press card up to the window and waited as he crossed towards me. When he opened up, I introduced myself and told him I was looking for Samuel Masters.

‘Well, you’ve found him, sir.’ The man flashed an uneven smile that wasn’t the usual practised effort of elected officials, his eyes narrowing almost to slits.

‘Mr Masters, there are matters I’d like to speak with you about, most particularly a former sheriff by the name of Cole Barrett. I think you know him.’

He looked reluctant until he heard the name. ‘Barrett? What about him?’

‘I’d like to know why you threatened to put him in front of a grand jury over the Glover case.’

He opened the door fully and stood against it with his arms folded. ‘I don’t usually conduct my business on the doorstep. Come in.’

I stepped through the doorway and waited for him to show me inside. The office was makeshift and utilitarian; row upon row of tables served for desks, most overflowing with campaign materials and other papers. More posters and signs were piled in the corners and against the walls, which were themselves plastered with electioneering slogans and bills. I noticed there were no partitions or private offices. Incongruous among all of it was a hand bell strung from a bracket attached to the wall. I realised it was a sale bell, presumably left behind by the previous occupants.

He perched on the nearest desk and gestured for me to take the one opposite. ‘We don’t go in much for comforts here, I’m afraid.’

Masters would have made for a good defensive lineman. He looked to be in his early forties and was built like a fire plug, a head shorter than me, but with a barrel chest and wide torso. He had mid-length wavy hair, combed to one side and receding some along the part. He wore a clean white shirt, a pen in his top pocket, and a sober necktie that was already loose. His front left tooth was chipped. At a guess, he cultivated his appearance carefully; he looked like a blue collar Joe, with smarts enough to go toe-to-toe in a courtroom or a bar room without looking out of place in either. ‘I’m fine standing, thank you.’

‘If you’ll pardon my speaking plain, what’s a California man doing in Hot Springs? I knew our little revolt here was making waves, but I didn’t think they’d travelled that far.’

‘A friend asked me to come. He died in the fire at Duke’s last week.’

He unclasped his hands and rested them on his thighs. ‘I know about that fire. My sympathies.’

I nodded to acknowledge him. ‘He was investigating the murders committed by Walter Glover. I’ve been looking into the case some and the way Cole Barrett gunned Glover down. The scenario as it was reported sounded curious to me.’

‘That’s interesting.’ He picked up a mug of coffee and took a sip. ‘Struck me the same way when it happened. Suspect offers his confession, then tries to shoot his way out of it. Not your usual chain of events.’

‘You have a theory on what might have really went down?’ I answered my own question. ‘I mean, you must have if you were fixing to put Barrett in front of a grand jury.’

‘A theory? I wouldn’t say anything as complete as that.
Concerns
is maybe a better way to put it. Cole Barrett has been running bag for Teddy Coughlin for years, so when I heard he’d killed a man, of course it got my attention, and even more so when I heard the particulars.’

Barrett as bagman for the mayor. I held onto my surprise, not wanting to look a naïf, the casual way he said it making it sound like no big secret. ‘Are you saying Coughlin had something to do with the shooting?’

‘We’re off the record here, right?’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘It is. Now, sorry to disappoint, but I’m still not going to answer that question in the affirmative. Don’t misunderstand, I would love to be able to hand you some evidence to show Teddy was involved somehow, but there isn’t any. Me and my men raked through it because when a dog bites a person, you don’t scold the dog, you look to the man holding his leash, you understand? But truth of it is, I didn’t expect to find much of anything because I just couldn’t figure out why Coughlin would have cause to bother himself about a sewer rat like Glover.’

‘Is Coughlin that dirty?’

‘Enough to have a man killed?’ He took his time drawing in a breath. ‘I’d go as far as to say nothing would surprise me.’

‘You’re thinking of something specific.’

He wrinkled his eyes and tilted his head, reluctant.

‘Off the record, I swear. If you know something . . .’

He swelled his chest taking a breath and held it. Then he talked. ‘Before Barrett, the Garland County Sheriff was a man name of Cooper. In nineteen forty-one he was shot dead in the street in the middle of the afternoon. No witnesses came forward, no one was charged or even arrested. He’d been in the job nine months.’ His eyes were fixed on mine, unblinking. ‘The rumour – the persistent rumour – is that Teddy had him killed because he refused to enforce his protection business for him and threatened to go talk to the state boys in Little Rock if Teddy didn’t let him alone.’

‘Was Coughlin ever investigated?’

He flicked his hand. ‘By who? Teddy got Barrett elected as his replacement and Garland Sheriff’s took charge of the investigation. Six weeks later Pearl Harbor happened and no one gave a damn about a dead lawman any more.’

I straightened on the desk. ‘Was it Barrett pulled the trigger?’

He shook his head. ‘He was at the courthouse escorting a suspect at the time. His alibi’s solid – maybe because Teddy wanted to ensure there was no suspicion on him. So far as I know, no one’s come up with a name for the shooter.’

My mind was racing, too many connections being made at once, jamming the switchboard. There was Teddy Coughlin’s name coming up again; I saw a jagged line from Robinson’s burnt-out room all the way to the mayor’s office, but couldn’t begin to guess the route that line took. If nothing else, it cemented my feeling that Robinson had gotten into something way over his head. ‘Then why did you pursue the grand jury angle if you had nothing on Barrett?’

He held up his hands, the lopsided grin back on his face. ‘Sometimes, you just have to march on into the cornfield to see what startles. Even if Teddy wasn’t involved, Barrett’s version of events didn’t hold water to me, and as it turned out, there must have been something to it, because the next thing I knew, Teddy was calling me to work out a deal to have Barrett step down.
Retire
, as he had it.’

‘And you let him.’ The words sounded sharp as they left my lips, and I cursed myself for risking putting the man’s back up.

In the event, Masters just shrugged. ‘I’m fighting a dozen electoral races here – having one break my way by getting the incumbent off the ballot paper was worth it. But indulge me and go back a step – what does this have to do with your friend?’

I opened my mouth to speak but instead took a breath, deciding which version of the truth to tell him. Masters had an easygoing manner about him that somehow engendered trust, but his eyes were as hard and sharp as razors. I could imagine men following him into a fire fight – just as easily as I could imagine him putting a bullet into an enemy soldier. It convinced me to play it straight. ‘I think he was murdered.’

He scratched his top lip with his thumbnail. ‘I’d like to know what makes you say that.’

I gave him a précis of Robinson’s call to me, ending with his line about making a mistake. ‘That was a week before the fire. If nothing else, doesn’t the timing strike you as suspicious?’

He jutted out his bottom jaw and looked to the ceiling, considering it. Then he looked at me again. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your instincts, buddy, but do you think you might be adding two and two and getting five?’ He slipped off the table’s edge and stood facing me. His posture was rigid, shoulders square, still carried a military bearing.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘I had some men I trust look into that fire. Hell, I’ve got men looking under all sorts of rocks just now, and something like that we’d look at as a matter of course. The man who runs the joint is a lowlife by the name of Clay Tucker—’

‘I spoke with him.’

He nodded. ‘Assumed you might have. The day after the fire, we got a titbit saying Mr Tucker is behind on his payments to Teddy Coughlin’s people. A long way behind, at that.’

‘Coughlin again? Why does his name keep cropping up no matter what I’m asking about?’

He put his hands on his hips. ‘Because he’s a cancer that has a hold on every part of this town. If you haven’t got the picture yet, nothing gets done here without his say-so. He takes a cut of every dollar that gets spent in every casino and every bordello. He’s got cops in his pocket. Judges. He controls thousands of votes – anyone who works for the city, the casinos, their families, all of them.’ He was talking like a zealot now, stabbing his finger into his other palm to emphasise each point. ‘He decides who gets what office, and he has done for twenty years, and I’ve had my fill.’ He stared at me and swallowed, composing himself again. ‘I didn’t drag my carcass around every goddamn island in the Pacific, in the name of democracy, to come back to America and be told my vote didn’t count. That no one’s did. No way in hell.’

His conviction was evident, and the way he expressed it hinted at the power and violence I’d sensed in the man. Straight away, though, his face softened again and he clapped me on the shoulder, the soldier giving way to the politician. ‘Sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to me stump. The point I started out to make was that if you think Duke’s burning down was no accident, Clay Tucker being behind on what he owed is where I’d focus my enquiries.’

I put my hand in my pocket, the whole conspiracy I’d built starting to crumble around me. Robinson’s death not an accident after all, but nothing to do with him or the dead women. ‘But the fire started in my friend’s room. Why would . . .’ I trailed off and looked to one side, still working through the implications.

‘I’m told the fire department put the blame on your friend for being careless with a cigarette, is that right?’ I nodded, my eyes still on the wall, thinking. ‘Well, that makes for a pretty good cover story, doesn’t it? Teddy’s group are having to tread real carefully right now, because they know we’re watching every move they make, waiting for a misstep. That’s why I was surprised they’d be as bold as to do something like this now. No matter how well they covered their tracks, it’s not the kind of thing you want happening around election time. Got me to thinking that maybe Clay Tucker set the fire himself.’

I felt the blood pounding in my temples. ‘Tucker? Why?’

He held up his forefinger. ‘I’m speculating now, you understand, but it would sure solve a bunch of his problems, wouldn’t it? The insurance money lets him pay back what he owes and gets Teddy off his back. I don’t mean to trivialise what happened to your friend, but could be he just got caught in the middle.’

I gripped the table, telling myself it was just talk, but seeing Tucker’s face in my mind nonetheless. Seeing him lie to me. Bullshit me and make me for a fool. I remembered how tightly wound he was when I’d started poking around, and it suddenly took on a new perspective – the man worried I was about to expose him for being complicit in some way.

Masters put his hand on my shoulder again, leaving it there this time. ‘I can see that look in your eyes, buddy, and I’m gonna tell you to just take a breath here. Whatever Clay Tucker did or did not do – and I stress that last part – you charging off after him won’t make anything right.’

‘I’m a reporter, not a brawler. If I go after him, I’ll have a pen in my hand.’

‘Is that why you’re gripping the table like you’re about to fall off the edge of the world?’ He nodded to my knuckles, spotting white. ‘Listen to me: aside from the fact that if something were to happen to friend Tucker, I’d be obliged to bring a charge to your doorstep soon as I take office, there’s the small matter that he’s still assuredly under the protection of Teddy’s men. Either because he’s paid up, or more likely, because they won’t want any harm coming to him until he has. Don’t underestimate what these men are capable of, Mr Yates. Teddy’s in a tight squeeze, so he’s getting desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable.’

I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. ‘I don’t need your permission to go have a talk with Tucker.’

He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. ‘You’re lashing out at the wrong man. Whatever happened in Duke’s that night, if you stick your neck out, you might just find a blade against it. You’d be making a mistake to underestimate the thugs you’re dealing with here.’

I spoke with my teeth clenched. ‘What would your suggestion be?’

‘Leave these matters alone, let me and my men handle it. We’ll get Teddy Coughlin – at the ballot box first, then in the courtroom, god willing.’

I made for the door. ‘I didn’t hear you say anything about Clay Tucker.’

‘We’ll get to them all, in time.’ His tone was calm and assured, like a teacher talking to a student. ‘Rash undertakings seldom turn out the way we expect. Think on that.’

I glanced back from the open doorway. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

I knew there was sense to Masters’ words about acting rashly; it was the same rap my editor in New York, Tom Walters, used to lay on me. I knew as much, and still I didn’t care.

I raced across Central towards Duke’s. The anger in my chest felt like a buzz saw was loose in there, and my fists gripped the steering wheel.

I tried to reel myself back in. I didn’t have any evidence against Clay Tucker, but that just made my temper worse – as though he’d lied to me and thought he could get away with it. All I had were my suspicions and the speculation of a man I’d just met – but something made Masters’ words carry weight with me; he spoke with a heartfelt anger that reminded me of Robinson.

I pulled up by Duke’s and jumped out, leaving the car at an angle to the kerb. The doors to the saloon were locked. I checked my watch, saw it was only eight-thirty. Too early for a bar to be open to the public, but not too early for Tucker to be there working on his cleanup. I looked around. The drugstore next door was open and I went inside and found the store clerk, asked him if he knew where Tucker was.

‘At a guess, he’s probably sleeping one off. He’s had one heck of a rough week.’

‘Do you happen to know where he lives?’

‘Sure, right upstairs from the bar. Until the fire.’

‘And now?’

The clerk opened his hands. ‘I haven’t a clue, sorry.’

‘Have you seen him this morning?’

‘No, sir. Haven’t seen him since Saturday.’

‘Not one time?’

He shook his head. ‘Doors haven’t been open once.’

I balled my hands and planted them on the counter. ‘And you’re sure you don’t know where he’s staying now? Think about it before you answer.’

The clerk took a step back. ‘No, sir, I don’t. What do you want him for, exactly?’

The tremor as he spoke made me pause. Another voice came into my head, that of Ella Borland, speaking to me the day before, asking me if this was a matter of revenge. I’d told her it wasn’t, that it was about justice, but now I wasn’t convinced. I took in the clerk’s face, his discomfort at having me bawl him out in his own store, and realised my temper was out of control. It jolted me, bringing to mind everything that weakness had cost me before. Justice wasn’t served by me laying my hands on Clay Tucker, and much less by running a two-bit intimidation number on this man. I took a breath and unclenched my fists. ‘I’d like to talk to him, is all. I’ll stop by again.’

I beelined it back to the street, feeling a smaller man than when I went in. I leaned on the hood of the car and tried to bring some order to my mind. Because it dawned on me then that Ella Borland had been right – at least in part. That a need for revenge was driving me as much as any desire for justice. That didn’t sit well; I had no right to lay claim to anger at Robinson’s death. It hadn’t escaped my attention that somewhere along the line I’d started referring to him as my friend – a useful shorthand at first, but now used almost by way of explanation. As a justification.
We weren’t friends –
those were my own thoughts when I’d arrived in Hot Springs, and now they served as a testament to my hypocrisy.

I closed my eyes. If I was going to pursue this, it had to be in the name of finding the truth of what happened to Robinson – not some reckless crusade for revenge, anger holding my reins. Nothing good was served by that.

I got back into the car and sat there, cooling off by trying to figure out my next move. My gut told me Clay Tucker wasn’t coming back. He’d been gone for three days, and if his debts were as bad as Masters made out, chances were he was in the wind. There was merit in what Masters said about the simplest explanation usually being the right one. But even knowing that, my thoughts kept tracking back to Barrett and Coughlin. I had a firm link between the two men now; Barrett running bag explained Coughlin’s motivation in intervening to protect him from a grand jury. And the rumours about Coughlin ordering the murder of the previous sheriff elevated him to a whole new level of criminal.

Favours owed and favours repaid. Had to make for a nervous situation between the two men now – both counting on the loyalty of the other, just as Masters’ campaign made the price of that loyalty skyrocket.

Jimmy Robinson had been wading around in the Glover case for weeks before he died; what if he’d turned up some evidence to incriminate Barrett? If so, and Coughlin or Barrett had got wise to the fact, it was the start of a motive for why they might want him dead. A panic move, but a necessary risk, even in the glare of Masters’ spotlight.

As a theory it was a long way from watertight, and I knew it. I kept moving the pieces around in my mind, trying to figure out who was more compromised, who had the most to gain from silencing Robinson, but I just didn’t have enough to see the picture. Maybe there was no picture, Clay Tucker the target all along. Jimmy unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Businesses along the street started to stir, but Duke’s remained dark and still. I figured I had little chance of catching up with Tucker before Coughlin’s men, but then I had an idea for a long shot. I drove up to the Arlington and placed a call to Ella Borland’s number. A voice I didn’t recognise from the previous times said she hadn’t been in that day and to try the Southern Club. I thanked the man and hung up.

The Southern was right across the street from me. The frontage was less garish than that of the Ohio, but not by much; it sported the familiar striped awnings, a candy-cane green and white in this case, but the structure was more understated – a grey concrete facade with minimal flourishes.

I went inside and found myself in a deserted restaurant. The tables were laid and ready for service – the lights glinting off buffed silverware, the smell of parched white tablecloths – but all stood empty. I spotted a waiter in the far corner. I went over and asked for Ella Borland.

He nodded to the grand staircase at the back of the room. ‘She’s rehearsing.’

I climbed the stairs and garnered a nod from a heavy seated on a stool on the landing. Open double doors led into a large room that evidently served as the casino. There were three roulette wheels, a half-dozen dice tables, a chuck-a-luck cage and three rows of slot machines. Even at that hour on a Tuesday morning, one of the dice tables had a thin crowd around it, and the slots were seeing action, the continuous dinging of bells like a fire truck.

At the far end was a small stage. Ella Borland and two other women were on it, walking through the steps of some kind of dance routine. I moved closer and watched, waiting for a chance to talk to her.

The stage wasn’t lit and the women moved at half-speed, stopping to re-do a step every few seconds. It was apparent that Borland was no natural; her movements were stilted by comparison to the other two women, and she struggled to keep pace with them. Even so, she moved with a certain grace, and was mesmerising. She kept her eyes on the back of the room, and where the other two wore smiles that were too wide to be mistaken for real, Borland just seemed to shimmer, in a way that could buckle your knees.

She stopped abruptly when she caught sight of me, and the spell was broken. She looked uncomfortable at noting my presence; she said something to the others and then slipped off the stage and came over to where I was standing. ‘Mr Yates, what are you doing here?’

‘As it happens, I was looking for you.’

‘Why? We don’t have anything more to talk about. I’m certain I made it plain when we met that I don’t care to trawl through everything again.’

I held up my hand. ‘I’m not here about Jimmy. I need your help – I’m trying to track down Clay Tucker. He’s not been seen at Duke’s since Saturday. You happen to know where else I could try?’

‘Clay Tucker? I wouldn’t have the first idea. I have nothing to do with that man.’

‘I understand that, but I’m wondering if he had any family in the area, something along those lines.’

She glanced back at the stage, the other two dancers now in hushed conversation to one side of it, then looked back at me. ‘He talked about a brother, sometimes. Leland, I think. I remember him saying he lived out by Stokes Creek.’

I memorised the place name to look up after. ‘Do you have anything more specific?’

She shook her head. ‘I have to get on.’

‘I appreciate it.’

She started to walk to the stage, then stopped and turned back. ‘What do you want with Clay Tucker, Mr Yates?’

I stepped closer to her again. ‘I spoke to Samuel Masters earlier and he had some interesting things to say. The more people I talk to, the less it seems like that fire was an accident. I think Clay Tucker knows what really happened, and I’m going to make him tell me.’

She frowned. ‘Why, what did Mr Masters say to you?’

I put my hands in my pockets. ‘That Clay Tucker is behind on his debts to some serious people. I’d like to know if that had some bearing on what happened.’

Her hands were by her sides and she splayed them, but only for as long as it took her to realise she’d done it. ‘If you find him, you won’t mention my name, will you?’

I shook my head, wondering why she looked so worried. ‘No, of course not.’

She nodded and then turned and went back to the stage.

I watched her a moment longer, thinking she looked rattled. But it was fleeting, and in a moment she was moving fluidly again. The casino sounds came back to me and started to grate. I wheeled around and crossed the room heading for the stairway.

Halfway there, I stopped in my tracks. William Tindall was standing with one of the pit bosses, his eyes moving around the room, taking everything in. Before I could think, I’d ducked out of sight behind a bank of slot machines. I let a second pass before I peered over to watch. The pit man was trying to argue a point, but his words just seemed to bounce off Tindall. He persisted, each sentence rolling into the next, until something he said caused Tindall to look him straight in the eyes.

Right away the pit man fell silent. His mouth parted and his head tilted to one side, like he’d just missed the last lifeboat. Then he held one hand up and backed away. From what I could tell, Tindall hadn’t even spoken a word.

Keeping out of sight, I slipped along the row of slots towards the exit.