The Gunsmith 387 (5 page)

When Clint came out of his hotel the next morning, he found Sheriff Vazquez waiting for him.

“Amigo,” Vazquez asked, “have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Excellent,” the lawman said, “we will have it together.”

“Why?”

Vazquez smiled broadly, spread his arms, and asked, “Why not? I am inviting you to eat with me.” He pointed to his chest. “My treat.”

“Well, if that's the case,” Clint said, “lead the way.”

“Come, amigo, I will take you to a special place.”

Clint stepped down from the boardwalk and followed the sheriff, who chattered amiably the entire way. Finally, they reached a small restaurant Clint had not yet been to, and didn't even know existed. It was on a small side street. As they entered, he saw that there were only five tables in the place.

“
Jefe
,” a small, older waiter exclaimed. He embraced Vazquez warmly.

“Alberto,” Vazquez said, “I have brought a friend to sample your food.”

“Wonderful! Any friend of yours is welcome.”

“Clint, this Alberto Del Rio, my friend,” Vazquez said. “Alberto, this is Clint Adams.”

“A pleasure to meet you, señor. Please, both of you, have a seat. I will bring coffee, no?”

“I say coffee, yes,” Clint said. “And strong.”

Alberto smiled and said, “The stronger the better,
es verdad?
”

“That's very true,” Clint said. “Gracias.”

The two men sat while Alberto rushed to his kitchen.

“Alberto prepares the best breakfast in town,” Vazquez said, “Mexican or American.”

“That's good to know,” Clint said. “I've been eating as Rosa's.”

“Ah, Rosa's is very good as well,” Vazquez said, “but, Dios, that woman in ugly.”

“That's what I've heard.”

Albert returned with a coffeepot and two cups, then said, “What will you have, my friend?”

“I will have my usual,” Vazquez said.

“A full Mexican breakfast,” Alberto said happily. “And you, señor?”

“Well, I usually prefer steak and eggs, but since I'm a visitor here, I'll also have a full Mexican breakfast.”

“Excellent! I will prepare it with great care.”

Alberto went back to the kitchen.

“While he's preparing breakfast with great care,” Clint said, “why don't you tell me what this breakfast invitation is all about.”

“I thought perhaps it would help to solidify our friendship.”

“Do we have a friendship?”

“Well, a budding friendship, then.”

“So you want to be my friend.”

“I would like to be your friend, yes,” Vazquez said. “And would like you to be mine.”

“And does this new friendship have anything to do with this big trouble you're expecting?”

“Perhaps,” Vazquez said. “Or perhaps I am just a friendly person, eh? Ask Alberto.”

“Ask me what?” Alberto asked. He appeared at the table carrying a basket of tortillas.

“Am I a friendly man, Alberto?”

“Oh, sí,
Jefe
, very friendly,” the smaller man said. He returned to the kitchen. There were no other customers in the small café.

“Why,” Clint asked, “do I get the feeling Alberto is afraid of you?”

“I prefer to think of it as respect,” Vazquez said.

Alberto brought out platters of huevos rancheros, chorizos, burritos, enchiladas, jalapeño corn cakes, and more coffee.

Over breakfast, Clint said, “All right, tell me about this trouble that's coming.”

“I do not know anything specific,” Vazquez said. “It has been my experience that when it is too quiet, something is coming.”

“That sounds more like a superstition than a feeling.”

“Whatever you would like to call it, it is coming,” Vazquez said.

“Are you getting your deputies ready?”

“I have talked to them, warned them to be ready.”

“Are they practicing with their guns?”

“I hope so.”

“You should be making sure they do, instead of spending time trying to recruit me.”

“Perhaps you could help me with them.”

Clint laughed, picked up a burrito.

“That would mean I let you recruit me.”

Vazquez shrugged, picked up a corn cake, and popped it into his mouth.

“You cannot blame me for trying,” he said. “I am only trying to keep my town safe by using all the resources at my disposal.”

“I'm not a resource, Sheriff,” Clint said.

“So you have said,” Vazquez said. “But I have the feeling if trouble starts, you will not stand by and watch.”

“I could just leave town.”

“You're not ready to leave.”

Clint picked up a tortilla, filled it with eggs and meat, and rolled it.

“Not when the food's this good.”

 * * * 

When the table was cleared and they were both stuffed, Alberto brought out some more coffee, and some tequila.

“Just to top it all off,” he said. He poured the coffee into their cups, and a shot of tequila for each of them.

“Gracias, Alberto.”

They both downed their tequila, then Clint sipped some coffee.

“Why do you go to see the gringo in the house on the beach?” Vazquez asked. “Señor Castle.”

“He's an old friend of mine.”

“So you came here to see him?”

“I came there to get away from the U.S. for a while,” Clint said. “That he was here was a happy coincidence.”

“And you were seen talking to the padre,” Vazquez said.

“I might join his flock.”

“You are a religious man?”

“Not so far in my life, but who knows?” Clint asked. “And I suppose you know about the waitress?”

“Ah, your friend, Carmen, from Rosa's,” Vazquez said. “Yes, I know about her.”

“So you know I have two friends and one acquaintance in town.”

“I am just doing my job,” Vazquez said.

“Well, I have to admit, you know more than I thought you did.”

“I know that Señor Avery Castle is more than he seems,” Vazquez said. “The fact that he is your friend supports that. I also know that Father Flynn is more than he appears to be.”

“Really? What do you think he is?”

“I do not know,” Vazquez said, “but I keep my eyes on him.”

“You've got to have a lot of eyes if you're watching me, Avery, and Father Flynn. And the town.”

“I do,” Vazquez said, “I have many, many eyes at my disposal.”

“Then why do you think you also need my help?” Clint asked him.

“Because, señor,” Vazquez said, “I have many eyes, but no guns.”

 * * * 

As they stood up to leave, Clint noticed that Vazquez did not pay for their food. When he started to put money down, Vazquez said, “Don't.”

“Why not?”

“Alberto and I have an arrangement,” he said. “To change it now would . . . confuse him.”

Clint gave in, and they left.

Outside, Clint said, “Thank you for breakfast.”

“We are better friends now, yes?” Vazquez asked.

“We're friendly,” Clint said, “but we're not quite there yet.”

Vazquez laughed.

“For now I will accept that, señor,” Vazquez said. “I must go to work. What about you?”

“Me?” Clint said. “I think maybe I'll go to the beach.”

As Clint walked up the beach to his friend's house, he saw Avery sitting on the deck with Lita. When they spotted him, they both waved.

As he mounted the stairs to the house, Avery laughed and said, “Back for more breakfast?”

“Oh, no,” Clint said, “today I'm very full. A full Mexican breakfast, compliments of Sheriff Vazquez.”

“The sheriff,” Avery said. “What did he want?”

“He's trying to recruit me.”

“For what?”

“To help him with some big trouble he's expecting.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“That he doesn't know,” Clint said. “He just says it's been too quiet for too long.”

“Clint, will you have coffee?” Lita asked.

“I will always have coffee,” Clint said to her, “especially yours.”

She smiled and went into the house.

“Sit,” Avery said, “tell me about your talk with the sheriff.”

“He was trying to make friends,” Clint said, taking a seat.

“To recruit you.”

“And trying to impress me with his ability to do his job.”

“How?”

“By telling me certain things about you, and Father Flynn,” Clint said.

Avery sat up straight, was about to speak when Lita came out with the fresh coffee.

“Uh-oh,” she said, “the men have stopped talking when the pregnant lady came out.” She put the coffee down on the table. “I will leave you to talk about your secrets.”

Avery waited until his wife was out of earshot.

“What did he have to say about me?” he asked.

“Just that you were more than what you seemed,” Clint answered.

“That's all?”

“That's it.”

“How would he know that?”

“He doesn't know anything,” Clint said, pouring himself some coffee, and some for Avery. “He has a feeling, and he puts lots of stock into his feelings.”

Avery relaxed visibly, picked up his coffee cup, and sat back.

“What else? What's this about Father Flynn?”

“He has the same feeling about him.”

Avery frowned.

“Flynn came to town a couple of years ago,” Avery said. “Several years after me.”

“Anything funny about him?”

“No,” Avery said. “He rode in wearing a collar, immediately took over the church, which had been abandoned up to that point.”

“What kind of contact have you had with him?” Clint asked.

“Not much. I don't go to church. I've run into him a time or two at the mercantile when I'm picking up supplies, but that's it.”

Clint sipped his coffee. He did not say a thing to Avery about “Father Flynn” and had not said anything to the priest about Avery.

“The sheriff hasn't said or done anything to spook you,” Clint said.

“No,” Avery said, “I have too much going here to get spooked. And I haven't done anything he can hurt me with. It's just that I've tried to keep a low profile. I don't know what he's basing his feeling on.”

“Well, I could cultivate this newfound friendship and try to find out.”

“Anything you learn would be appreciated, but don't put yourself out on my account.”

“No problem,” Clint said. “The sheriff is always anxious to talk with me.”

“Tell me,” Avery said, “if this big trouble he feels is coming does show up, what will you do?”

“I don't know,” Clint said, standing up. “Like I told him, I might not even be here. Tell Lita thanks for the coffee.”

“You'll come back some night for supper?” Avery asked.

“Definitely.”

“Anytime. Don't wait for an invitation. Lita cooks lots of food.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I'll be here.”

Avery nodded and Clint went down the ladder, walked along the beach back to town.

 * * * 

The church was still in need of repair, even though Father Flynn had taken it over after it was abandoned, and had been working on it.

As Clint entered, he saw the gaunt priest up near the altar, using a rag to clean some candlesticks. The church had a high, arched ceiling, many stained glass windows, a chipped and damaged crucifix over the altar, as well as chipped icons around the sides. Even in a state of disrepair, it was a beautiful building.

He made his way down the center aisle.

“Welcome to the house of God,” Father Flynn said.

“Still got those good ears, I see.”

Father Flynn turned around to face Clint.

“Old habits die hard. What brings you to God?”

“Not so much God as you,” Clint said. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“The sacristy,” the priest said. “Come with me.”

Still carrying the cleaning cloth, Father Flynn led Clint away from the altar and into the small room behind it where he usually dressed for mass.

“A drink?” he asked, setting the cloth down.

“Sacramental wine?” Clint asked.

“Whiskey.”

“I'll have one, thanks.”

Father Flynn opened a cabinet, took out a bottle and two shot glasses. He filled the glasses, returned the bottle to the shelf, and closed the cabinet. He handed Clint a glass and stepped back.

“What's on your mind?”

“I had breakfast with the sheriff today.”

“Vazquez,” Father Flynn said, nodding.

“Have you had much contact with him?”

“No, for obvious reasons, I think.”

“Well, he's expressed an interest in you.”

“Has he? Me or Father Flynn?”

“Well, that part of the conversation was about Father Flynn,” Clint admitted.

“What did he say?”

“That he thought you were more than you seemed to be.”

“That's all?”

“That's it.”

“What's he base that on?”

“A feeling.”

“And what did you say?”

“That we were acquainted—he already knew we'd talked—but that I didn't know anything about you.”

“Thanks for that.” He drank his whiskey, put the glass down. Clint wondered if he'd go for the bottle again, but he didn't. He finished his own and also put the glass down.

“I just thought I'd come by and let you know.”

“I appreciate the information,” Father Flynn said. “It's not going to change my life any, but it's good to know.”

“The sheriff wants to be my friend,” Clint said, “so I may be able to hear something else.”

“If you do, and you're willing to pass it on, I'll be grateful to hear it. Come, I'll walk you out.”

Father Flynn walked Clint to the front door of the church, and outside.

“
Buenas noches, Padre
,” a woman said as she entered the church.

“Many of the locals are helping me clean the church up,” Father Flynn said.

Clint could see several men working on the grounds in front of the building, assumed there were more unseen on the sides and in the back.

“Looks like you've found a home here, Father.”

“It's starting to feel that way.”

“What about the Church?” Clint asked. “I mean, the officials, or whatever—”

“The diocese is aware that I'm here.”

Clint stared at the man. He'd assumed the collar was a dodge, but if the Catholic Diocese was aware of it, then “Father Flynn” must have actually been ordained.

“I admire the change in lifestyle,” Clint said.

“It was that or die,” Father Flynn said. “And I don't mean by the gun. I just had an epiphany that if I didn't change my life, I'd die and go to hell.”

Clint had never had any such epiphany, but he admired the man for acting on his.

“Again, if the sheriff lets anything else slip, I'll pass it on.”

Father Flynn shook hands with Clint and said, “Much obliged.”

Clint nodded and walked away from the church. When he turned to look, Father Flynn had gone back inside. He hoped that nothing would happen.

He walked back to town.

 * * * 

“Come,” Ernesto Paz said as someone knocked on his office door.

It opened and Sheriff Vazquez entered.

“Ah, Sheriff,” Paz said, “have a seat.”

Vazquez removed his sombrero and sat across from Paz.

“
Que pasa, amigo?
” Paz asked.

“I had breakfast with our new friend, Clint Adams.”

“What was that like?”

“Cordial.”

“Still doesn't agree to help?”

“Now he says he may not even be here.”

“Is he planning to leave town?”

“No, he just said by the time the trouble came, maybe he'd be gone.”

“Maybe the trouble won't come.”

“Oh, it's on its way,” Vazquez said. “My feelings are very rarely wrong.”

Paz had to admit to himself that, in the past, the lawman's feelings had proven to be correct.

“I suppose we will have to just wait and see.”

“I mentioned his friend Avery.”

“And?”

“He did not even blink.”

“He has not lived as long as he has by blinking,” Paz said.

“No. I also mentioned the priest.”

“Why?”

“They were seen together, and I have a feeling about the padre.”

“You are having too many feelings these days, amigo.”

“I would not argue that point,” Vazquez said. “I do not like these feelings, Ernesto.”

Paz took a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from his desk and said, “That makes two of us.”