Build My Gallows High (11 page)

At three o’clock the following afternoon the Kid filled the Ford roadster with gas, locked the station and drove east through town, then south where the highway turned. Slats was watching from his cabin window and when the Ford was out of sight he came out on the porch, to lounge there. Thunderheads were rising behind the hills and the wind was pushing them out over the valley. The air was heavy with the threat of rain.

Presently a black and white Mercury pulled out from behind the state highway patrol office and headed leisurely in the same direction the Kid had taken. Slats went back into the cabin, made a highball and returned to the rocker on the porch. Yes, sir, he had the dummy figured out this time. He’d be back after he ditched the cops.

Two other men watched the Kid’s car until it was out of sight. One was the sheriff, Tom Douglas, and the other was Jim Caldwell. They sat by the two-way radio in the highway patrol office and through the big window they saw the Kid’s car go by and a few minutes later saw the Mercury take after it.

‘I hope they took their fishing rods along,’ Jim said, as the black and white car went on through the town and turned south. ‘Because all they’re gonna catch is fish.’

Douglas brooded over his pipe. ’Maybe not, Jim.’

‘What’s Red want to see the Kid for?’

Douglas shrugged. ‘We don’t want to miss no bets.’

‘Red ain’t nobody’s fool,’ Jim admitted grudgingly. ‘You had the law on your tail, would you let a guy working for you come up to visit?’

‘You don’t think Red came back here then?’

Caldwell shook his head. ‘Oh, he’ll come back. Sure. And when he does I’ll know about it.’

The sheriff raised his thick eyebrows enquiringly. ‘You will?’ ‘Yeah.’

‘How?’

Jim’s lips didn’t answer but his mind did. How? A girl’s eyes would tell him. That’s what he was waiting for. A look. A shining softness that wasn’t there now. The thought made anger flame inside him. One of these days he’d see that look and then he would follow her and that would be the end of Red Bailey. Oh, he’d play it smart. He wouldn’t be in on the finish. Let Tom or one of the state coppers handle that end because he wanted Ann. She wouldn’t know. He’d wait a day or so after it happened and then he’d drop around and not say much and let things ride along. Go hunting with her maybe. Take her out and show her his new place and pretty soon she’d forget that ugly bastard.

Douglas was watching him. He read the answer to his question in Jim’s eyes so he let the matter drop. Jim got up, buttoned his coat and put on his Stetson.

‘Stick around,’ Douglas suggested.

‘Waste of time,’ said Jim. ’Anyway I got to go up to Twin Lakes. Some guy shot a couple of doe.’

‘Whyn’t you ask Ann to go?’ the sheriff asked kindly. He liked Ann and he liked Jim and he wanted to see them get together.

Jim started to tell him to mind his own business, saw kindness in the other’s expression and went off without speaking. Douglas watched him cross the highway to where the station wagon was parked by the Sierra Bar, thinking, Jim’s probably tight. The Kid isn’t the one we should be watching.

He settled back, filled his pipe and waited, seeing cloud shadows sweep across the far meadows, hearing the distant growl of thunder and getting no satisfaction from the imminence of a storm—to him usually soul-stirring.

A door behind him opened and the captain came through to fiddle with the radio dials and announce that it sure looked like rain. Douglas puffed at his pipe and agreed that it did.

‘My boys are all set,’ the captain said.

‘Mine too.’

‘Where’s Jim?’

‘Went up to Twin Lakes.’

‘He don’t want to be in on the kill?’

‘Says there won’t be any kill today,’ Douglas replied.’I think maybe he’s right.’

The radio interrupted them. A droning voice filled the little room.

‘Calling KYBZ,’ the voice said. ‘Come in KYBZ.’ The captain flipped a switch with eager fingers.’KYBZ,’ he said. ‘KYBZ.’

‘This is Kelly,’ the droning voice from the speaker said. ‘The Kid’s car turned off at Bryce Creek. Shall we follow?’

‘Wait there,’ the captain said.

The radio was silent. Douglas knocked the dottle from his pipe and stood up. ‘We’ll come in from the back above the falls. You follow the creek up.’

The captain nodded and disappeared through the door into the squad room. As the sheriff walked toward his office the captain’s car pulled out along the highway. A moment later another car flanked by two motorcycle cops followed.

Four deputies were waiting on the porch of Douglas’ office. He motioned to a waiting sedan. They piled in and he got in front with the driver.

‘Want the siren?’ the driver asked.

Douglas gave him a disgusted look and settled back against the cushion. Rain drops splashed against the windshield. Then the sun came out again as the wind tore the clouds to bits and drove them east.

The Bryce Creek road was oiled. It snaked through heavy timber up a narrow valley to cross Bryce Creek ten miles from the highway. The Kid didn’t get that far. A mile from the forks he pulled off the road and bumped along a cow trail into a pine thicket. He got out of the car and lay in a patch of bear clover watching the road. He didn’t have long to wait. Within half an hour two motorcycles came around the bend. Behind them came the two Mercurys and the Buick. The Kid gave them ten minutes’ start. Then he drove out to the road and high-tailed it for Bridgeport, warily watching the rear-view mirror. When he went through the town he made sure there were no cops following him.

Slats was on the porch and when the Kid’s car turned north he went slowly into the cabin, stopped long enough for a quick one, then entered the garage and slid under the wheel. Those cops were going to be plenty sore, letting themselves get sucked out of the play. That dummy was a smart little son of a bitch. Only he wasn’t quite smart enough. Slats grinned and put his car in gear.

It was a pipe to follow the dummy. He barreled along around fifty. Slats kept enough distance between the two cars so the dummy wouldn’t spot him. Slats was plenty careful because this time had to be it. Maybe he stayed closer than he should but he didn’t want to find himself chasing nothing. The thought of the cops tailing each other to hell-and-gone put a pleased grin on his thin, bony face. Well, maybe when he got through with Red they could have him. Unless Guy Parker wanted Red clean out of the picture.

Ahead, the Ford was slowing for a turn. The dummy stuck his hand out and swung the car across and along another highway leading west. Slats slowed down until the Ford was out of sight. Then noting the sign that said this was the Sonora Pass road, he followed, keeping his speed down to twenty-five, watching the road on either side. Across the river he spotted a dirty tent pitched in a little meadow. He put on the brake and looked all around for the dummy’s car. When he didn’t see it he drove on.

The road followed the river, climbing gradually upward. Through the pines you could see snow lying on the granite shoulders of the mountains. Slats pushed the throttle down and now he wasn’t smiling. Lost him, he thought, as the mile-posts drifted by and there was no sign of the Ford and no sign of a road leading off—only the unbroken forest and the river roaring down.

He almost missed it. He rounded a sharp turn and was past an opening in the trees when the flash of sun on metal told him where the dummy had hidden his car. He backed up and could see a black fender. He pulled off the highway and drove over rocks and brush and there it was and the dummy nowhere around. He couldn’t see the river but he could hear it roaring down a gorge.

Carefully he walked forward, rod in one hand, his other hand thrust into the fishing basket. A faint trail angled down for a way and where there were no pine needles he saw new footprints. He stopped suddenly for the trail reached the lip of the gorge. Down below was the river and standing on a rock was the dummy. He had a short casting rod in his right hand. Now and then he reeled in and cast, with the flash of metal as the spinner shot across into a deep pool.

Slats drew back, dropped on his hands and knees and crawled forward. He lay face down when he reached the gorge’s edge and scanned the winding river’s course—first west, then east. She was sure a rough son of a bitch up here. A guy had to watch his step or he’d find himself bumping around the rocks.

No sign of Red. No sign of anyone but the dummy. After a bit the Kid reeled in and clambered over the rocks to disappear with the river where the gorge turned sharply. Slats went after him.

The water boiled against the boulders, roaring down and down, hesitating in the big potholes to cut away another grain of granite. It spilled out over smooth, shining slabs, down into other potholes. Slats reached the bend, moving cautiously, hiding himself behind boulders, hiding himself in crevices. Carefully he pulled himself up a boulder and peered ahead to find that the river snaked suddenly around another bend. No dummy. He must have cut over the hill. Slats pulled himself to the top of the boulder.

He was used to heights and he was used to roaring streams but as he looked down at the turbulent, angry river trying desperately to rip its stone bed apart, he felt a sudden dizziness. At that moment the thought of finding Red Bailey seemed a little foolish. Here he was risking his neck and when he got Red all he’d have would be the satisfaction of seeing a guy die—and a couple of bucks. To hell with it! But there was Lou and there was Parker and there was Stefanos and maybe the river was easier to take. He steadied himself then started along the rock.

He saw it coming. He saw the bright bit of metal before it hit him. He saw wet line arching away. But he was not quick enough. The spinner’s hooks bit through his shirt into his chest and he felt the barbs sink in as the line went taut. He pitched forward and saw the river coming up to meet him.

The Kid watched the wild water shake Slats’ body, slam it against rocks, carry it down to leave it in a pothole. He stood on a ledge below the boulder on which Slats had stood, holding his casting rod in one hand while with the other he hung on to a sapling. The singing reel, which he had never heard and which he would never hear, was silent. He kept jerking the rod and the spinner came free. He reeled in his line and went slowly up the cliff, stopping only once to rest, not looking back because there was no need to.

Guy Parker didn’t see him when he opened the door. Dawn was beyond the windows, too busy getting rid of night to bother with the darkness cloaking Guy’s sitting room.

From the driveway below came the hum of departing motors, the whisper of tires on gravel, the unintelligible mutter of tired voices. Guy closed the door, flicked on the lights and was halfway across the room before he noticed Red sitting in the armchair. Red had a gun in one hand.

‘Pull up a chair,’ Red said, motioning with the long-barreled thirty-eight.

A momentary look of surprise showed in Guy’s face and the skin seemed to tighten across his bony cheeks. Then the tired, gray mask fell into place again. He said, ’Hello Red.’ He pulled a straight-backed chair over and straddled it, leaning on the back.

‘Good morning,’ Red said.

‘Little risky showing your puss around here, don’t you think?’

‘You worried about me?’

Red rose, went over to the door and locked it. He poured himself a drink from the Scotch bottle on the sideboard. ’Mix you one?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Your man fell in the West Walker yesterday.’ Red brought the drink back to the chair, sprawled back against the leather. ‘And don’t ask what man, because you know his name and I don’t.’

Guy yawned. ‘Jesus, I’m tired. Everybody and his brother showed up last night.’

‘I was wrong,’ Red said.

‘Yes?’

‘All these years I’ve been thinking you were smart. You’re not.’

‘I’m not the one the cops are after.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of cops. I was thinking of Whit Sterling. He’s a man who nurses a grudge, Guy. Take me. Ten years he nursed a grudge. Think he’d make an exception in your case?’

‘I’m not crossing him.’

‘That’s right.’ Red grinned. ‘So let’s go see him.’

‘Goddamn it, Red,’ Guy said. He managed to sound annoyed, put out about the whole business. ‘You got my note, didn’t you? He’s still in the back country’

‘And you sent one of your boys after him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Like hell. You sent one of your boys after me. He got careless and fell in the river.’

‘He was just —’

Red’s cruel grin cut Guy’s speech in two.

‘We haven’t much time,’ Red said. ‘The cops are much smarter than me or you. I know the hills but they know them too. They’ll catch up to me one of these days. Then I’ll have to talk fast and you’ll be in the soup with Whit and Whit’ll be in the soup with the Treasury Department. I don’t mind taking the rap for Jack Fisher but I won’t take the credit for Eels or Meta Carson.’

‘What good can Whit do you?’ Guy didn’t look at Red.

‘You’re not smart but you’re smart enough to figure that out.’

Guy studied the rug. Guy asked in a toneless voice: ‘You’re willing to take the Fisher rap?’

Red drained his glass before he spoke, ‘I’m not making deals. I don’t have to.’

Guy’s strong hands gripped the chair back and the wood cracked. ‘You killed him,’ he said fiercely ‘Goddamn it, you killed him.’

‘We were wrestling,’ Red said.

‘Then what are you worried about? You can claim self-defense. You can get off maybe with a manslaughter rap.’ No hiding of emotions now. The man was pleading with Red and Red knew it. Red was not impressed.

‘You don’t have to look close to see the frame,’ Red chided. it’s such a beautiful big one.’

‘Is that what’s worrying you?’

‘Don’t speak of it so lightly,’ Red replied. ‘You’re not in it, Guy.’

‘Can I get myself a drink?’

Red handed him his empty glass. ‘One for me. And don’t ring any bells.’

Parker came back with two highballs, gave Red one and started walking up and down, talking rapidly, trying to hide his emotion with quick bursts of words. They could work together. Together they were a match for Whit Sterling, for any son of a bitch in the world. Both of them would come out of it with a fistful of dough. Stefanos killed Eels and Meta Carson. They’d give Stefanos to the cops.

Red listened and Red did some figuring. The thing that had puzzled him didn’t puzzle him any more. When Guy finally stopped talking Red asked in a quiet voice, ‘Is she worth it, Guy?’

Guy didn’t ask whom he meant. Guy didn’t answer the question.

Red put his empty glass on the carpet by the chair. ‘You’re taking a hell of a risk for a dame. Whit. The Greek.’

‘We’ve got Whit where we want him. I’ll manage Joe.’

‘We?’

‘You then.’

‘And I’m a man who lets bygones be bygones.’

‘I had to do it.’ Guy stood over him, confused and beaten.’You know that, Red,’ Whit said.’

‘And now you ask Whit to jump through hoops?’

‘I had nothing on him then.’

‘You’ve nothing on him now,’ said Red. ‘You’ve nothing on anyone. You’re just a blowed-up sucker. An ex-copper with a yen.’

Guy found some courage then. Guy said, ‘I know one thing. Where Whit is. You can’t play it alone.’

‘I could try.’

‘You sure could. You could tell the truth—and who in hell would believe you?’

‘The Treasury boys.’

‘But not the cops,’ Guy said, ‘I know how cops feel about things.’

‘Do cops feel?’

‘You killed one man. Don’t forget that.’

Red stood up. ‘Maybe you’re right. Let’s go.’

‘A deal?’ Guy held out a hand.

Red took it, smiled, pocketed his gun and followed the other into the hall and along it to the narrow stairway that would let them out the back way. Behind them a door opened so quietly they did not hear it, so they didn’t see Mumsie’s serene face framed in the narrow opening.

From the summit you could see Tahoe far below—the whole blue waste of it sleeping in the sun. Hills walled it in, walled in the broad meadows to the south. Here and there like teardrops were other tiny lakes. As always, when he looked down on the big lake, he felt his spirits lift. You didn’t amount to anything and what happened to you didn’t matter. He glanced over at Guy, brooding over the wheel of the Cadillac and said, ‘Do you ever mourn for the wasted years?’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Guy said, turning his attention momentarily from the winding road.

‘If I’m hanged I’d like to be hanged from a sugar pine,’ Red said. ‘A good high one.’

’Let’s not talk about hanging.’ Expertly Guy sent the car down the long grade. ‘We miss a trick, we won’t hang anyway.’

‘How did you happen to get mixed up with Mumsie, Guy?’

‘Who said I was mixed up with her.’

‘I was going to show her Tahoe once,’ Red said, ignoring the question. ‘From the top of Echo Pass. Only she skipped out on me while I was digging a grave.’

‘Jesus, you’re cheerful this morning.’

‘It’s the altitude. So I had to look at it alone that time. It was just as well. I don’t think Mumsie cares much about lakes. Was the dough all gone when you ran into her?’

‘Quit worrying that bone.’

‘Was it?’

‘What do you care?’

‘There are blank pages in the book. I’d like to fill them in. Mumsie’s mixed up in my life too.’

‘You still want her?’ Guy asked sharply.

Red shook his head. ‘My interest is objective. I did a lot of wondering about her the past ten years. You get over Mumsie but you remain curious. An impersonal curiosity.’

‘You don’t get over her.’ Guy was suddenly intense. ’You’re a damned liar when you say you get over her.’

‘I did. She’s haunting me now but that’s your fault. So the least you can do is fill in the blanks.’

A Shell oil truck crawled down ahead of them. Guy waited for a straight stretch of road, swung around the truck and drove for a mile or so before he spoke. It was as though he brought up bits of the past to reassure himself, to convince himself that he could not lose her. ‘She was putting dimes on number fourteen at a wheel in the Sky Club in Reno,’ Guy said, ‘I was running the wheel. I let her win.’

‘And next night she came back?’

‘And the night after that. I kept letting her win. We got to going around together. One night she was playing and then she ducked out. Whit Sterling came over to the table and dropped a buck on the red and started asking questions about her. I did some figuring. So we moved down to Las Vegas.’

‘But you didn’t shake Whit.’

‘No. We didn’t shake him.’

‘One never does, apparently’ said Red.

‘I had some dough,’ Guy went on. ‘I was looking around for a spot and I found it. I opened my own joint. One night there was Whit walking in the door. We went upstairs and had a talk and he didn’t bother us any more.’

‘How much?’

‘How much what?’

‘Did it cost you?’

‘Who said it cost me anything?’

‘I’m a realist, Guy. Whit’s a realist. Hell, we’re all realists. Particularly Mumsie. So you gave him a piece of your joint and one day he dropped by and said there’s a red bastard running a service station down at Bridgeport. Mumsie knows all about him and maybe you can find out something that would be useful.’

‘Something like that,’ Guy agreed.

‘Did it take much persuasion? To make her talk?’

‘It’s a nice day’ Guy said.

‘Now, now. Feed my ego, will you? I’d like to think you used a rubber hose or a lighted cigarette.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘I’m cut to the quick,’ Red said. He yawned, settled back and gave his attention to the forest and to the glimpses of blue water through the trees.

The big stone house stood on a shoulder of the hill back of Emerald Bay. From the porch you could see most of the lake, the color changing from dark green to blue, then to a lighter shade of blue. Iron gates barred the graveled road leading from the highway. It took two blasts of the horn to bring a man down to open the gates. He gave Guy the once-over, his expression of cold disinterest not changing when he recognized the gambler. The gates swung open and the Cadillac climbed the twisting drive to come to a halt under the porte-cochere.

‘He lives well,’ Red said, getting out and appraising the two-story structure of flat fieldstone and redwood, ‘I remember something about the wages of sin.’

‘Since when was gambling a sin?’ asked Guy.

‘I was thinking of his allied enterprises.’

‘There’s no dough in whores any more,’ Guy said.

It wasn’t necessary to ring the bell. The side door opened when they reached it and a dignified old fellow with a bit of an accent said, ‘Good morning Mr. Parker.’ He ushered them into a long, redwood-paneled room that looked out on the lake through big windows. A small fire burned in the massive fireplace, though the morning was not cold. The good smell of the pine smoke sharpened the soft wind coming from the lake. Whit Sterling was digging into a Persian melon at a table near the windows. He said, without looking up, it’s been a long time. Red.’

Red dropped into the chair at the table facing him. ‘Ten years.’

‘Nine.’

‘I wasn’t counting that exchange of pleasantries in front of the Biltmore.’

‘I’d rather think of that time,’ Whit said, ‘I want to enjoy my breakfast. Have you eaten?’

Red shook his head, Whit pushed a button with his foot and the man who had met them at the door appeared and brought a chair for Guy. Whit kept on eating.

‘You’re getting fat,’ Red said. ‘It doesn’t become you.’

‘You come up here to tell me that?’

‘No. I hate to see a man let himself go. They’ll get you back in shape in Alcatraz.’

‘Always the jester,’ said Whit acidly.

‘But the cap is getting pretty shabby and the bells lose their merry tinkle. Being pushed around does that.’

‘When a man has a reputation for truth he should live up to it.’

‘One little lie shouldn’t count.’ Red smiled his thanks to the elderly man for the piece of melon he put in front of him. I told you I couldn’t find her. I offered you back the fee. How was I to know you couldn’t trust her when it came to money? That’s what burned you most, wasn’t it? The fifty-odd grand?’

‘That and a misplaced faith,’ said Sterling.

‘But why be so devious?’ Red asked. ‘You went at it in such a round-about way. Getting back at me, I mean.’

‘Mind letting me run my life in my own way?’

‘Yes,’ said Red. ‘Because you’re not running it any longer.’

The veins on Sterling’s short, thick neck stood out and he shot a murderous glance at Parker, ‘I should have known you’d slip up. You and Lou. You fumbling, inept bastards!’

‘Don’t pick on Guy,’ Red said. ’He did his best. Look at the cops who are suddenly fond of me. An artistic frame hand carved, Whit. It doesn’t become me. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Yeah, pick on Lou,’ Guy said. ’He’s the one let Red get his hands on that stuff.’

‘I traded him a couple of Bibles for it.’ Red took a last mouthful of melon and put his spoon carefully down on the plate. Coffee steamed in his cup and he poured cream in and watched the thick cream lace the black fluid with pale threads. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

Whit pushed himself up, puffing out his cheeks. Remembering the thin, dark, esthetic man who long ago had sent in search of Mumsie, Red thought, you can’t touch pitch forever and stay clean. You can’t muck around in sewers.

‘Sit down,’ Red suggested. ’You’ll get heartburn. And stop worrying about those records of your indiscretions. You can have them back.’

‘You Irish—’

‘Not Irish. Welsh. Remove the frame and you can have them.’

Whit settled back in his chair, staring without interest at the poached eggs and ham in front of him. He pushed the plate away.

‘I’m not going to be greedy,’ Red went on. ‘The cash settlement can be modest. The government would give me a third—I think that’s what you get for helping the taxpayers. Or maybe it’s a half. That racket of Eels’ was a good one.’

‘Go on.’ Whit pushed the words through his thick lips. ‘Needle me. Keep on needling me and, you son of a bitch, you’ll never get out of here.’

Guy warned Red with a glance but it went unheeded.

‘You can’t put pride in the bank,’ Red smiled gently. ‘You can’t run your fingers through it or count it. It’s hard to swallow—until you start thinking in millions. That sort of helps it to go down.’

‘Stop talking crap and speak your piece,’ Whit said.