Wilde West (35 page)

As Hanrahan slipped through the curtains, Grigsby lowered himself into one of the two frayed armchairs that faced the sofa. He could hear, through the curtains, the sharp serrated hiss of their whispering.

Over the sofa hung a rectangle of needlepoint, framed in wood, set beneath glass. Grigsby could just make out the words:
GOD BLESS OUR HAPPY HOME
.

Grigsby sighed. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe he shouldn't have come here.

Ducking his head, Hanrahan emerged through the curtains carrying a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses. He set the glasses on the end table, filled them halfway with whiskey, then set down the bottle and picked up the glasses. He handed one to Grigsby. “Health, Bob.”

Grigsby raised his glass. “Health, Gerry.”

Hanrahan drank from the glass, sat down on the sofa and looked for a moment around the room. Grigsby sipped at his drink and waited; this was Hanrahan's home, happy or otherwise, and Grigsby would discuss no business here until Hanrahan was ready for it.

Hanrahan turned to Grigsby. “Have ye heard from Clara?” He shrugged, smiled apologetically again, and said, “I neglected to ask ye this morain'.”

“Got a letter a while ago. She's fine. The kids are fine.”

Hanrahan nodded. He looked around the room once more, turned again to Grigsby. “‘Member when we all of us went up to the Springs? You and Clara, and Mary? How long ago was that now, Bob?”

“Ten years,” said Grigsby. “Eleven.”

Hanrahan nodded. He sipped at his whiskey. “Good times,” he said.

Grigsby nodded. “Good times.”

“At least you had the kids,” Hanrahan said. “We shoulda had kids, me and Mary.” He sipped at his whiskey. “She blames herself. There wasn't anything in the world Mary wanted more than kids.”

Grigsby nodded. The air in the tiny parlor was growing heavier as it filled up with the smoke of losses and regrets. He took another sip of whiskey.

Hanrahan studied the threadbare oval rug in the center of the floor. He looked at Grigsby. “Doesn't take long for things to turn to shit, now does it?”

Grigsby shook his head. “Nope.” He smiled. “Happens overnight, seems like.”

Hanrahan nodded. “You think Clara's ever comin' back?”

“Nope.” He wanted a cigarette; Mary didn't allow them in her house; never had. He sipped some more whiskey.

“You could go off to San Francisco,” Hanrahan said.

“Get me a job as a sailor boy?”

“Police work.”

Grigsby smiled. “I'm fifty-two, Gerry. You reckon they hire many fifty-two-year-old patrolmen?”

“You're an experienced lawman, Bob. You could do better than patrolman.”

Grigsby shook his head. “Too late. I made my choices. I can live with 'em.”

Hanrahan nodded. He drank some whiskey. He sighed. “Ah well. What can I do for ye?”

“I talked to Doc Boynton. He said there were footprints in Molly's room.”

Again Hanrahan nodded. “There was. Gone now.”

“Gone?”

“Greaves had me clean 'em up.”

“Did he make a trace of the prints?” And then, in a kind of delayed echo, Grigsby heard what Hanrahan had actually said. “He made
you
clean 'em up?”

Hanrahan smiled faintly. “Told me I could order young Tolliver to help me.” He shrugged. “Better me than him. Kid woulda never got over it. I put her pieces in a couple of wicker baskets. Washed down the floor and the walls.”

“Aw Jesus.” Grigsby tried to picture it; his mind skittered away. “Jesus,” he said, and realized that this had been his fault. “Because you were talkin' to me. Because I was there.”

Hanrahan shrugged. “Someone had to do it. Might as well be me.”

“Jesus, Gerry,” Grigsby said. “I'm sorry.”

Hanrahan swallowed some whiskey. “What's done is done.”

A couple of wicker baskets
. “Aw
shit
, Gerry.”

“It's over, Bob. I wouldna done things no different anyhow.”

Grigsby took in a deep breath, let it slowly out. “Did he make traces of the prints?”

“No. They wasn't much good, Bob. None of them was a whole entire foot, and all of them was smeared. They wouldna been no help a-tall.”

“Boynton says they were average size.”

Hanrahan nodded. “Average,” he said.

“When did Greaves … What time did you clean everything up?”

“'Bout an hour after you left.”

“How come so soon?”

“Greaves said he didn't want no panic.” He shrugged again. “I hate to say it, Bob, but could be he was right.”

Grigsby took a sip of whiskey. Whether Greaves had been right or wrong, the footprints were gone now. “Listen, Gerry. I'm takin' off tomorrow mornin' for the Springs. Anything happens to me, I'd appreciate it, you do me a favor.”

Hanrahan frowned. “What's gonna be happenin' to ye?”

Grigsby shrugged. “Long way to the Springs. Anything could happen.”

“Yer takin' the train?”

“Thought I'd take it down to Colorado Springs and hire me a horse from there. Nice piece of road along the way to Manitou. Haven't seen it for a while.”

Hanrahan smiled. “Cowboys and Indians and wide open prairies?”

Grigsby smiled back. “Somethin' like that.”

“What's the favor?”

“There's a key to my house on the porch, under the flower pot on the rail. Key fits the back door. I got a big dresser in the bedroom. You pull out the bottom drawer and there's some letters and stuff inside. Take 'em, and then you'll know everything I know about all this.”

“About all what?”

“It's all in the letters.”

“You wouldn't want to be givin' me a little hint, now would ye, Bob?”

“Letters'll tell you everything you need to know. If I'm not back by Monday night, you go ahead and get 'em.”

“And what do I do with them, exactly, once I got 'em?”

“Whatever you want. Whatever you think is right.”

Hanrahan nodded. “How come yer tellin' me all this?”

“Greaves and I had kind of a set-to this afternoon.”

Hanrahan looked at him for a moment. “Ye didn't, by any chance, cause the man some physical damage?”

“Some.”

“What sort?”

Grigsby smiled. “Well, Gerry, it was kind of an accident.”

“An accident.”

“Yeah. I had my hand out and he walked smack into it.”

Hanrahan nodded. “And I suppose yer hand was all balled up into a fist at the time.”

Grigsby nodded. “Now you mention it.”

Hanrahan nodded. “And where was Mr. Brubaker durin' these proceedin's?”

“On the floor. Some kinda problem with his head, it looked like.”

Hanrahan suddenly laughed. He shook his head. “Jesus, Bob.”

“Anyway—”

“What about Sheldon?” Suddenly serious. “Greaves goes to Sheldon with that, and yer up shit creek entirely.”

“He already went to Sheldon. Reckon I'll find out tomorrow what happens. Maybe I'll get to be a sailor boy after all.”

“Jesus.” He looked at Grigsby. “You're thinkin' that Greaves might be layin' for ye? Lookin' to cause ye some physical damage of his own?”

Grigsby shook his head. “It's only that I'm gonna be away for a while, and if anything happened to me, nobody'd know about those letters.”

Hanrahan frowned. “You need some help?”

Grigsby shook his head. “I'll be fine, Gerry. Like I say, this is all just in case.”

Hanrahan sat in silence for a moment. Finally he said, “Tell me one thing, Bob. You figure it was worth it? Givin' Greaves a taste of knuckle?”

Grigsby thought about it for a moment. Finally he smiled. “Yeah, Gerry, I got to say it was.”

Hanrahan stared at him for another long moment, and then he grinned. “Greaves and Brubaker both.” He shook his head. “I'd give me right arm to see a thing like that.”

“You keep your right arm. Things work out, I'll see you on Monday.”

“And if things don't work out?”

Grisgby smiled. “Then maybe I won't.”

When he left Hanrahan's house, Grigsby was surprised to see that the real dusk, of vanishing sun and blending shadows, had come and gone. Night had fallen. He slipped his pocket watch from his vest, saw that the time was nearly a quarter to eight. He climbed on his horse and rode over to the telegraph office.

No telegrams addressed to him had arrived. He wasn't surprised; it was early yet. Mort had gone home, so he told Peters, the night operator, to hold any telegrams addressed to Grigsby that arrived tonight, and hand them over to Mort in the morning. He left Mort a note, asking him to forward his telegrams on to the Woods Hotel in Manitou Springs tomorrow, and to the Clarendon in Leadville on Sunday. Mort, Grigsby knew, would tell no one, not even Greaves; Mort believed that a telegraph operator took the same oath of silence as a doctor.

Afterward, Grigsby rode to Wilde's hotel.

Ned Winters, the desk clerk, told him that Wilde had left for the opera house. Except for Vail and the French woman, the others, too, were gone.

Grigsby nodded. “Okay, Ned. Give me the passkey.”

Winters hesitated. He was a round little man in a baggy checked suit who grew the left side of his hair long and troweled it up over his bright pink scalp and plastered it in place. “I don't know, Marshal.”

Grigsby smiled. “What is it you don't know, Ned?”

“If I should do that. Lonny—Mr. Laidlaw—he told me he don't want me ever to give out the passkey.”

Grigsby nodded. “And what did he tell ya about sleepin' on the job?”

Winters looked quickly around the lobby. “Like I told you this morning, Marshal, I musta just closed my eyes for only a minute.”

“You want to explain that to Lonny?”

Winters sighed. He opened a drawer in the desktop and pulled out a key, handed it to Grigsby. “What happens if one of them comes back?”

“Tell him the maid's in there cleaning. Buy him a drink and come up and get me. Bang on the door twice.”

“How will I know which room you're in?”

“Bang hard on any one of 'em. Walls up there ain't that thick.”

Winters nodded. He leaned confidentially toward Grigsby. “What's goin' on, Marshal?”

“How's that?”

Winters adjusted his bow tie. “Well, I mean, you wanted to know where they were all at last night. Woke me up to find out. I figure it must be something pretty important.”

Grigsby nodded. “Reckon there's not much slips past you, Ned.”

Winters smiled, pleased. “Well, you know how it is, Marshal. I been in the business a long time.”

Grigsby put his elbows on the counter and leaned toward the clerk. “I ever lie to you, Ned?

Winters shook his head. “No sir, Marshal. Not that I know of.”

Grigsby nodded. “Then I reckon there's no reason for me to start now.”

Winters stared at him.

Grigsby said, “I'll be back down in a little while.”

Upstairs, no one was wandering along the carpeted hallway. Grigsby unlocked the door to Wilde's room, stepped in, locked it shut behind him.

The room smelled, in the darkness, like roses.

Figured.

He lit a match, cupped it in his hand as he carried it over to the oil lamp, used it to set the lamp's wick aflame. He blew out the match, stuck it in his vest pocket. He adjusted the flame, then held the lamp up and looked around the room.

He stepped back and nearly dropped the lamp. Over in the corner, somehow sprawled along the room's two chairs, was a dead man.

No.

No, he realized, and blew air from his lungs. Not a dead man.

Only a long black topcoat spread atop the chairs, its long limp arms hanging loose.

Jesus, Grigsby thought. Spooked by an overcoat. He really
was
getting too old for this shit.