Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens (14 page)

“Now,” Littlepage said, “all you have to do is kill that man who shot the Swedish man. No one must stand in your way.”

They entered the saloon. A couple of the women were scrubbing the blood from the floor, and Cal was sprinkling sawdust from a bucket onto the remainder of the bloodstains. Scroggs was glad to see that the men were drinking again. They had returned to their tables and some stood or sat at the bar. There was conversation and the ring of the cash register. More people had streamed into the saloon, as word of the killing had spread.

“Nothing draws a crowd like violence and death,” Scroggs said to Littlepage.

“That is why I like Socorro,” Littlepage said. “The men can bring their guns in here and there is always the chance one of those pistols will go off and draw blood and life.”

“Not many shootings in here,” Scroggs said. “But we do have some pretty good fights.”

“Perhaps you should schedule a public hanging in here every now and then,” Littlepage joked.

“Not a bad idea, Hiram,” Scroggs said. “Let's drink to that, and the success of, what do you call that place where they smoke from those glass hookers?”

“Hookahs,” Littlepage corrected, “and most people call such places ‘opium dens.' They are private lairs where mice are turned into lions.”

“An opium den,” Scroggs mouthed as he led Wu Chen and Littlepage to his customary table, holding his hand up with three fingers extended when he caught Cal's eye.

Just as he and the other two men sat down, he saw the batwing doors swing open. Sheriff Degnan and Morgan Sombra strode in like a pair of gamecocks entering the ring to do battle.

Scroggs smiled and waited for Degnan and Sombra to come to his table.

He felt like a great lord, master of his domain, his castle, which would soon have a dungeon full of opium smoke and the heady aroma of money.

Paddy Degnan walked over to speak with Cal Meecham, Sombra at his heels.

“Where's Olaf's body?”

“Out in the back,” Cal answered.

“When Josh Parmenter comes in, have him pick up the Swede.”

“Where's Eddie?” Cal asked.

“He's with Parmenter.”

“How come?” Cal asked.

“He stayed to help with the corpse of Loomis,” the sheriff replied.

Sombra stood there, somber-faced, a slight tic playing with the muscles of his jawbone. His eyes were as dull as cloudy marbles covered in dust, and he had a thumb tucked behind his gun belt as if he was ready to spring into action at any moment.

Degnan was all coiled up inside, like a spring. A Mexican shopkeeper had knocked on his door and told him that a man had been shot over on Palo Verde Street. He and Sombra had ridden over there and found Loomis. He had questioned all the bystanders while Sombra went to fetch the undertaker. Nobody saw the shooting. Nobody knew who had killed Loomis. But he had his suspicions, and so did Morgan Sombra.

“Eddie said Slocum shot the Swede. That so?”

“I don't know what the man's name was. Tall, dressed in black. Very fast with a gun.” Cal swabbed the bar top with a grimy towel, stopped rubbing when he finished talking.

“That was Slocum,” Degnan said.

“You see Wilcox?” Cal asked.

“No. Why?”

“I sent him to fetch Parmenter.”

“Well, he's probably running around in the dark out there like a lost dog. He ain't got the brains of a toy whistle, that one.”

“Yeah,” Cal said and slapped the towel on another part of the bar.

Degnan and Sombra walked to the back table where Scroggs and Littlepage sat.

“You shouldn't have sent Loomis after Slocum,” he said as he sat down. Sombra sat next to him, as silent as stone.

“I sent him after the man who killed Olaf,” Scroggs said.

“Well, you got Loomis killed,” Degnan said.

“What?” Scroggs reared back in his seat.

“You heard me. Loomis is dead. Parmenter's got him in the Black Maria. On his way here to pick up Thorson's corpse.”

“Shit,” Scroggs said.

“Did you know Slocum's a wanted man? Got a price on his head?”

“Yeah. Morg told me. I told Olaf to put Slocum's lamp out and he walked into a bullet. Shit, I never saw nobody draw and shoot that fast.”

“Well, if you saw that, you should have just sat tight and not sent Loomis to his death.”

“I figured Loomis was man enough and smart enough not to face that jasper down.”

“Well, he wasn't,” Degnan said. “People heard a lot of shots, but nobody saw a damned thing.”

“But you know it was Slocum who killed Ruben?”

“Who else? You sent Loomis to kill Slocum, like you sent Thorson to kill him. Now, both men are dead as doornails and Slocum's walking around free as a fucking bird.”

“Have a drink, Paddy,” Scroggs said.

“I just might.”

“Morg, you want to wet your whistle?” Scroggs asked. “You ain't goin' to find Slocum tonight. Unless you know where he's cribbed.”

“I don't know,” Sombra said.

“And I don't know neither,” Degnan said. “We'll both have a drink and then I got to get some shut-eye afore mornin'. I'll get that bastard Slocum.”

Degnan looked at Sombra.

“Or Morgan will. He's plumb primed to blow a hole in that sonofabitch.

“I don't believe I've met this gentleman,” Degnan said, glancing at Littlepage.

Scroggs introduced Littlepage to Degnan and Sombra.

“I seen this Chinese man here before,” Degnan said.

“Wu Chen,” Scroggs said.

“He don't say much, do he?” Degnan commented.

“I only speak when it is necessary,” Wu Chen said in his lilting Chinese accent.

“You sell opium to Willie here, I think,” Degnan said.

“When he wishes,” Wu Chen said.

Littlepage stood up.

“Willie, Wu Chen and I have much to do. I'll see you later.”

Wu Chen also got up. The two left the table and walked through the batwing doors.

“Littlepage,” Degnan said. “Any relation to Linda?”

“He's her uncle. And no love lost between them, I gather,” Scroggs said.

“Not much resemblance either. I don't see her nowhere.”

“She left with Slocum and that bastard Obadiah Swain,” Scroggs said.

A waiter stopped by with glasses and a full bottle of whiskey, set them on the table. He drifted away without speaking, and there was once again a wide berth around Scroggs's table.

“I guess I can check at Linda's house,” Degnan said. “I know where she lives. Maybe she took Slocum home with her.”

“I wouldn't know,” Scroggs said.

“I know where she lives, too,” Sombra said. “You want me to check?”

Degnan thought about it for a two-second moment.

“You know his horse, Morg. You can ride by her place and see if it's tied up there, I reckon.”

“I'll do that,” Sombra said. “Soon as I finish my drink.”

“You going to shoot him in bed?” Scroggs asked. “You might get two birds with one stone.”

“Makes no difference to me,” Sombra said. “If I have to shoot Slocum through a pretty woman, well, that's just the way the cards play out.”

“That would be murder,” Scroggs said, still teasing Sombra.

“Not in my book, it wouldn't,” Degnan said, and poured himself a drink.

Sombra lit a cigarette and drank his whiskey. He was in no hurry. If Slocum was at Linda Littlepage's, he would be there most of the night.

He didn't trust Linda any more than he trusted any woman. Especially any woman in Socorro.

Scroggs looked at Sombra. He knew how dangerous a man he was. If anyone could kill Slocum, he would pick Morgan.

Sombra, he thought, was pure killer, through and through. He had no conscience, no morals, no faith in anything but himself. And if he killed a pretty woman in bed with Slocum, he wouldn't even blink an eye.

Sombra would probably laugh. And gloat.

“Here's to the death of Slocum,” Scroggs said, raising his glass. He clinked it against those of Degnan and Sombra.

“Here's to Slocum,” Degnan said. “Soon may he die.”

The three men laughed and the smoke from Sombra's cigarette swirled over the table like some wraith, twisting in the light from the lamps like a gilded snake.

Linda and Slocum met Obie Swain for breakfast in the lobby of the rooming house. The twin doors to the small dining room were open, and the aromas of coffee and food were semaphores to the three, wafting messages to their nostrils and stirring the juices in their stomachs.

“Hungry?” Swain asked.

“Famished,” Linda said.

“I could eat,” Slocum said.

“Well, let's set down to a table in there,” Swain said. “I could eat the south end of a northbound buffalo.”

They walked into the dining room, where a few early patrons sat at tables covered with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, forking food into their mouths, drinking water from glasses, and talking in low conversational tones so that the room buzzed with snatches of insect speech pitched too low to comprehend, but amiable and intimate as was appropriate at that early hour.

“My tummy's growling like a lion,” Linda whispered to Slocum as a waiter showed them to a table by a window that looked out onto the street.

“My lion could eat your lion right now,” he said. “Smells good.”

“Ummm,” she murmured.

“Is this table to your liking?” the white-aproned waiter asked as he pulled out a chair for Linda.

“Perfect,” Swain said, and Slocum let him take the lead.

“Put this on one bill,” Swain told the waiter, a stoopshouldered man in his forties with thin brown hair that held a sheen, white shirt and string tie, neatly pressed dark gabardine trousers, and polished shoes with new leather soles that creaked when he walked. “And give the bill to me.”

“Yes, sir. My name is Corly and here is a menu of this morning's fare.” He handed Swain a handwritten parchment-like sheet that bore a list of food items with prices in bold, cursive numbers placed at the end of the meal descriptions.

“Well, they got hen fruit and ham, cornmeal mush and flapjacks,” Swain said. “What's your pleasure?”

Linda scanned the menu. “Eggs and ham will do just fine,” she said.

“Biscuits?” Swain asked.

“Yes, with a little honey, if they have it.”

“I'm going to have me the same, with some of that redeye gravy and flapjacks,” Swain said.

“Sounds good to me,” Slocum said.

Corly returned and took their order. He set glasses on the table and filled them with water.

“I'm afraid I won't be able to stay long after breakfast, Obie.” Linda said. “I've much to do, and a cat and a dog to tend to. But thank you for breakfast.”

“Mighty sorry to hear that, Linda,” Swain said.

“I'll walk you home,” Slocum said.

“No, please don't. I don't live far and I love to walk in the morning. You stay, John. You have things to do. Right, Obie?”

“I've already saddled John's horse,” he said. “And mine. We have some miles to go, I'm afraid.”

“See?” she said to Slocum.

Slocum felt trapped. Obie seemed to be in charge of his life at the moment. He would rather have walked Linda home, sealed a friendship that was already past the budding stage and was about to blossom.

“I guess I'd better ride with Obie,” he said, and tried to avoid the lameness of the statement. But there was defeat in his tone. Linda patted his hand in understanding and he felt better after that. He melted inside under the bright warmth of her smile.

The breakfast arrived, and the two men ate and talked while they forked flapjacks, fried eggs, and ham chunks into their mouths. Linda listened to them, but did not offer any remarks. When she was finished, she arose from her chair.

“I must go,” she said.

She leaned down and kissed Slocum on the forehead.

“Good-bye, John,” she said. “I hope to see you again very soon. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

“I hate to see you go, Linda. I'm very fond of you.”

“Sorry,” she said.

The two men watched her walk through the dining room and out into the lobby. In moments, she was gone.

“I'm not going to say anything, John,” Swain said.

“Good. Neither am I.”

“I finished my business in town, John,” Swain said. “I got a dozen sticks of DuPont sixty/forty and enough fuses and blasting caps to get the job done.”

“You going to blast a new mine?”

“No, it's an old one. But I found something the other day and I want to go deeper into the mountain. Might find more of it.”

“What did you find?” Slocum asked.

Swain reached into his pocket and pulled out a dirty green stone, oblong in shape, with a few crevices in its unshined surface. He laid it on the table in front of Slocum. Slocum picked it up.

“That's turquoise,” Swain said. “There's more of it. A lot more, I think, but I have a small basket full of stones just like that.”

“What's it worth?”

“Plenty,” Swain said. “I might make more money from turquoise than I do from the silver I'm mining.”

Slocum put the stone back down and pushed it across the table.

Swain picked it up, put it back in his pocket.