Parker 02 - The Guilty (27 page)

dressed. In the meantime Lois Lane would like it very much

if he looks both ways before he crosses the street."

"Surely will. Besides, you'd make a sexy-ass Lois. My

phone will be on if you need anything."

The Guilty

227

"Just remember not to open it with that claw of a hand."

"I won't."

"And Henry?" Amanda said. I turned to her, smiled, but

the smile quickly faded when I saw the look on her face. "Be

careful. I can't say it enough."

"I will," I said. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

I left on that sentiment. I nodded to the cops parked

outside. They gave half nods back but otherwise did not acknowledge me. As I walked, I saw one plainclothes follow

about ten yards behind me while the other followed in a squad

car. When I entered the subway, plainclothes followed,

staying at the other end of the car, pretending to read a copy

of one of those free newspapers that people toss onto the

tracks and end up clogging the drainage systems.

I got off at Bleecker Street, picking up and swallowing a

cup of lukewarm coffee and two more aspirin on the way. I

buzzed an L. Vance at the given address, an elegant brown

brick town house with a rusted front gate.

The buzzer granted my entrance, and I took a recently

painted elevator to the third floor. When the elevator door

opened, a man that
had
to be Largo Vance stood in the

doorway. He'd been waiting for me.

"Henry Parker," he said. "Largo Vance. Get inside.
Now.
"

Vance had a long gray beard, gray hair swept back in a lessthan-neat ponytail. His overalls were covered with dried paint.

What looked like a pound or two of cat hair had dried in the

paint. I could smell fresh--and some not so fresh--kitty litter

emanating from inside.

He ushered me inside, peeked around the hall (presumably

to make sure no black helicopters had followed) and closed

the door. A brown-and-gray striped cat snaked between my

228

Jason Pinter

legs, rubbed itself against my jeans. Soon he was joined by

another cat, and one more to complete the whole set.

"Don't mind them," Largo said. "That's Tabby, Yorba Linda

and Grace. Say hello, babies."

The cats did not say hello.

I followed Largo through a hallway to a small living room,

where nearly every square inch was covered in either cat

paraphernalia or large well-worn books, history and a few paperback novels whose spines had given out long ago. Largo

sat in an overstuffed La-Z-Boy and beckoned me to a leather

couch across from him.

I took a seat and minded the stench. Two more cats

appeared. I couldn't tell if they were the same ones, new

ones, or the first three had simply spawned in the last minute.

"So what brings you here about Billy Bonney?" Largo

said. A cat leapt onto his lap and Largo began to scratch its

chin absently.

"Not Billy Bonney," I said. "Brushy Bill Roberts."

"Same difference," Vance said. "Now go on."

"I, uh...have you heard about the recent murders? Athena

Paradis? Several others who were killed by a man using an

old Winchester rifle?"

Largo shook his head. "I don't read the newspaper." This

was going to be harder than I thought.

"Well, in the last week and a half, somebody has been--"

"I'm playing with you, kid. I may not know how to do the

Google but I don't live under a rock."

"So you know that Billy the Kid's Winchester rifle was

stolen from a museum in Fort Sumner."

Largo paused. "That, I did not know."

"But you know of Fort Sumner and the legacy of the Kid."

"I'm very well aware of the history of that town, and of

The Guilty

229

Mr. Bonney. I've visited many times. I haven't set foot in that

museum in years, though. But I do recall having a fine conversation with the proprietor--Rex is his name, I believe. Unfortunately the last time I visited was over ten years ago, and

I left under less than pleasant circumstances."

Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and jumped off his couch,

leaving several red claw marks on Largo's hand. He rubbed

it, then noticed the tape covering my hand.

"What happened to you there?"

I held up the hand for him to see. "The man I'm coming

to talk to you about, he came to see me yesterday."

"I take it he also left under less than pleasant circumstances."

"You could say that."

"So, Mr. Parker. It's been several years since a journalist

has taken any interest in what I've had to say. And even then

they didn't really take much interest in what I had to say."

"Wait," I said, "back up. What do you mean 'the last time'?"

"Back when I was trying to get something done about that

infernal and misplaced Bonney grave, and they dismissed

me like some...
loon.
It's not quite so easy to secure federal

funding when you threaten to reveal national history as

nothing more than bunk."

"I must have missed something," I said. "What exactly

happened?"

Largo sat back, as a pair of cats circled his legs. He steepled

his fingers and smiled. Despite the superficial idiosyncrasies

of this man, I could sense tremendous intelligence. He looked

like a man who still held himself with great honor and respect,

but had turned his back on the very institution he sought to

help.

"Ten years ago," Largo said, "I attempted to dig up the

230

Jason Pinter

grave of William H. Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid. For

years I fought to do this, and fought to have the story covered

in the press. I wanted to inform the public of the travesty and

secrets that had been kept hidden for over a century. But

when you threaten the very sanctity of a legend--a legend that

goes right to the heart of an entire culture--you're not going

to make many friends."

I looked around, wondered if Tabby and Yorba Linda had

replaced all those friends he'd lost.

"Who tried to stop you?"

"The name Bill Richardson ring a bell?"

"As in governor of New Mexico Bill Richardson?"

"As in presidential candidate Bill Richardson. You think

he'd have a snowball's chance in Albuquerque without the

support of his fellow Southerners? You think anyone below

the Mason-Dixon line would be happy to have one of their

biggest legends--not to mention juiciest cash cows--proven

bogus?"

"I don't imagine that would make a whole lot of people

down there happy. But why did you want to exhume the body

of Billy the Kid? What would that have proved?"

Largo wet his upper lip with his tongue, slicked it back and

forth, bristling the gray hairs. He looked at me as if debating

whether to speak. "How much do you know about William H.

Bonney? And by that I mean the methods in which he died."

"I know he was shot in the back by Pat Garrett, and that

Garrett was a former riding mate of Bonney's. He was not a

member of the Regulators."

"No, Garrett was not a Regulator," Largo said. "Garrett

was a saloon keeper and small-time cattle rustler. To call him

a former 'mate' of Bonney's is patently false, another story

cooked up to give the legend bigger tits."

The Guilty

231

"I also know Garrett became a minor celebrity after

killing the Kid, and published a book about the chase and

capture," I said.

At this moment Largo let out a deep belly laugh. The cats

circling his legs scattered. "A minor celebrity, you say? Certainly nowhere
near
as much of a celebrity as this Athena

Paradis, or David Loverne. Actually Patrick Garrett was one

of this country's very first victims of celebrity overexposure,

as both his tawdry book and sketchy methods in which he dispatched Mr. Bonney left him disgraced and broke."

"What do you mean, sketchy?" I asked.

"By sketchy, I mean that only a fool would believe that

Patrick Floyd Garrett killed William H. Bonney on July 14,

1881. The real Billy the Kid lived for many years after his

alleged death in Fort Sumner."

"Brushy Bill Roberts," I said.

Largo nodded. "The town of Fort Sumner would shrivel up

and die without the legend of Billy the Kid to wet its whistle.

As would most of the Southwest, considering how much of its

prosperity is built upon the house of cards that is the legend of

its outlaws. Billy the Kid is perhaps the single most important

card in that house. Pull it out, and the entire edifice crumbles."

"And you tried to pull it out."

"Yes, and you can imagine the good folks of New Mexico

did not take kindly to having their stock in trade jeopardized.

Yes, I did try. And rightfully so. But those god
damn
yellow

bureaucrats in Washington and down South stopped me.

Cowards are more afraid of the truth than they are of facing

the fact that they've been lying for over a hundred and twentyfive years."

"You want to dig up the body of Billy the Kid," I said, "and

do what with it?"

232

Jason Pinter

"Take a sample of the DNA contained in the so-called grave

of Billy the Kid and compare it to DNA obtained from his birth

mother, Catherine Antrim, who is buried in Silver City."

"And if you're able to prove that the DNA from that grave

site doesn't match Catherine Antrim..."

"Then we'll know for sure that Billy the Kid was never

buried in Fort Sumner, and Brushy Bill wasn't the charlatan

folks would like to have you believe."

"So why didn't you go through with it?" I asked.

"Oh Lord, where to begin," Largo said, kicking away a cat

who'd begun scratching at the couch. "First off, Billy

Bonney's alleged grave site has been robbed so many times

that nobody knows for sure just who's buried under that tombstone. Plus the man who bought Catherine Antrim's cemetery

plot in Silver City claims he moved the headstone years ago

and isn't a hundred-percent sure just where Antrim's body is

actually buried. He said he'd die and come back as Christ

himself before we marched in there and accidentally dug up

somebody's poor dead grandmother.

"It didn't matter, though," Vance continued. "The fact is if

the government wanted to conduct the tests, they would have

bent over backward to do so. When it comes to proving a live

man's guilt or innocence, there's no limit to what our government will do. But when it comes to proving the life and death

of one of the biggest legends in human history, and in the

process possibly destroying one of the most enduring American

myths of all time, well, they'd rather discredit an honest old

man, call him a loon, get his tenure revoked and make him live

out his days miles from where he might crack their wall of lies.

"The truth is Pat Garrett
did not
kill Billy the Kid. William

H. Bonney died under the assumed name of Oliver P. Roberts,

in Hamilton, Texas."

The Guilty

233

"What makes you so sure?"

"Let me give you an example of the idiocy--or just plain

ignorance--of those wishing to protect the legacy. As I was

trying to have the bodies exhumed, both the mayor of Fort

Sumner and the governor of Texas claimed that Brushy Bill

and William H. Bonney could not be one and the same person,

for the following reason. When Ollie Roberts died, it was a

well-known fact that he was right-handed. The most famous

photo of Billy the Kid depicts him holding his beloved Winchester 1873 model in his right hand, with his single action

Colt revolver in a holster by his left hip. By this photo you

would deduce that Bonney was, in fact, left-handed."

"So they claimed that Bonney was left-handed but Brushy

Bill was right-handed."

"That was their claim." Largo stood up and pulled a book

off his shelf. He flipped to a page on which there were two

photographs. Both depicted the famous photo of Billy the

Kid, standing slightly awkwardly, holding his Winchester

rifle, a mischievous grin on his face.

"If you look at this picture, the Colt is by his left hip."

"Okay," I said.

"But what the blue bloods in their marble castles failed to

realize is that this photograph is actually a ferrotype. In other

words, a mirror image of the actual subject."

"So in real life, Billy the Kid had the Colt by his right hip.

Meaning he
was
right-handed."

"Just like our friend Brushy Bill."

"Would you be willing to go on record?" I asked.

Largo seemed taken aback. Another cat jumped onto his

lap. He was too distracted to scratch it, so it simply nuzzled

against his chest and closed its eyes.

"On record? You mean like in the newspaper? Would I be

234

Jason Pinter

willing? Boy, I've been waiting for years for somebody to

ask me that."

"Is that a yes?"

"Let me put it this way. If I'm not on the record enough,

I'm coming down to that paper of yours and shoving a cat up