No Second Wind (The Sheriff Chick Charleston Mysteries Book 3) Page 3

  A creek—Hill Creek officially—divides the town. The west side is the more respectable, or thinks it is. I walked east to the bridge. By contrast with the dimmed-out west, the sign above the Chicken Shack flamed on and off. The ice in the creek reflected changing shades of blue and red and yellow. Ahead the sign blazed over a place too small for it. BEER LIQUOR LIQUOR BEER ENTERTAINMENT.

  Even through my earflapped cap noise stunned my ears as I opened the door. It was juke-box music or what went for music. I had outgrown rock ’n’ roll, if ever I liked it. To me the singers sounded as if they had been raised by coyotes to the thump of Indian drums. The juke box hit its last licks just as I closed the door.

  I took off my cap and then my coat, to reveal my badge, and hung them on a hook.

  I advanced a few feet and stood while heads turned and sized me up. A half-dozen men, including Ike Doolittle, sat at the rough bar. Two women, looking sad and willing, were seated at a table, waiting, I supposed, for drinks to promote ideas. The men all wore head coverings, beaked caps mostly. The one nearest me was bristly and burly and had a chin that seemed to invite a fist. Just beyond him sat Ike and, two stools away, a muscled customer that I took to be Italian.

  The burly man barely opened his mouth. “Do you see what I see?”

  “Maybe I do,” the man beyond Doolittle said. “An officer. That’s what they call them here in the bush.”

  “Pig is the name.” The burly customer looked me over, maybe to see whether I was armed. I wasn’t. Charleston didn’t approve of gun-toting except in emergencies. The man went on, “Something we can do for you?”

  “I was looking for a quiet beer,” I answered.

  “Wrong place.”

  “What about whiskey then,” I was straining myself to make friends.

  The man turned farther on his stool. “What I mean to say is you’re not welcome here. Better get out.”

  “You’re the owner?”

  “I’m the enforcer. Bouncer to you.” His head turned briefly to the bartender. “Ain’t that so, Pudge?”

  The bartender’s gaze was a mere slit, which was all that the fat of his face allowed. “Sure, Tim. Sure, when you’re sober. Keep cool, man.”

  “Cool as a goddamn ice cube. That’s me. But pigs melt me down.”

  The bar was silent. The women waited.

  “No trouble now,” the bartender said. His words sounded weak. “No trouble, please.”

  “It’s no trouble at all.” The hard blue eyes looked into mine. “I said go. I said get out.”

  “When I’m ready,” I told him.

  “Now!” He swung off his stool and ran at me. He swung with his left. I dodged, caught his wrist and used his own momentum to fling him behind me. His head hit the door with a satisfying thump.

  From the side of my eye I saw the Italian type making for me, a beer bottle aloft in his hand. I saw him, and I saw Doolittle stick out his foot. The man tripped and fell on his face.

  I had heard of a monkey on a man’s back, meaning something else, but now I witnessed it. Doolittle jumped to the man’s shoulders and sat astride, his own beer bottle lifted. When the man tried to buck him off, Doolittle said, “Down Mussolini,” and hit him on the head. Mussolini went down.

  The saloon was silent. The other customers watched, with what feelings I couldn’t tell. The two women sat forward, eager, as if they hadn’t known such excitement since they entered the trade.

  The man I had thrown climbed to his feet. His hand went to his head. Tottering a little, he turned around and said to me, “A goddamn pro, huh?”

  “I’ve taken a few lessons.”

  “Next time I’ll know.” He took his seat at the bar.

  “Gimme a glass of ice water,” Doolittle said to the bartender. He took the glass and poured the water over the head of the man he had conked. The man twitched and snorted and finally got up. He made his way to a stool, the fight gone out of him. “Jesus Christ,” he complained to Doolittle, “you didn’t have to hit me so hard.” He took off his cap and rubbed his skull.

  “I couldn’t figure how much bone was there.”

  “I’ll tie you in a knot one of these days.”

  “Maybe so,” Doolittle said, unperturbed. “The answer lies in the future, or, to make it plain to you, time will tell.”

  It struck me that there was some inner confidence in the little man, some inner resolution, some sure faith in himself that, reflecting outward, earned him, if not command, then a wary respect. Perhaps he had tangled with one of these hard-hats before.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the burly man, my notebook and pencil in hand.

  “Find out for yourself.”

  “It’s Tim Reagan,” Doolittle told me cheerfully.

  “And yours?” I asked the man who was still feeling the bump the beer bottle had made.

  “Regular League of Nations here,” Doolittle said. “Name of this friend is Tony Coletti.”

  “Why don’t you keep your mouth shut?” the bartender asked Doolittle.

  “Aw, you with the fat face, pipe down.”

  I had scribbled down the names of the two men, as given by Doolittle. Watching, he asked brightly, “Going to take them in?”

  I said, “Naw, naw. Just a friendly fracas. Bartender, set ’em up.”

  The men accepted their drinks, all but Reagan and Coletti. Passing me on the way out, Reagan said, “Next time. Always a next time.”

  “Sorry I had to bust you.”

  “In a pig’s ass. Yours.”

  I gulped a beer, and Doolittle tossed off a drink. I said to him, “Better come with me.”

  “Why so?”

  “Your friends here might be mad at you.”

  “Not right,” he answered. “Just stand up for yourself, and they let you alone. But I’ll come along, anyhow.”

  We went to the sheriff’s office, and I talked to him at length, trying to figure him out, wondering. I didn’t get very far.

  “Why did you get involved?” I asked at last. “Why did you take sides with me?”

  “Oh, hell,” he answered. “They figured to gang you, and me, I usually take the side of the law, or the underdog, anyhow.” He added, after consideration, “Big guys, big arrogant bastards, they bug me. I’m so small, see?”

  He left after a while, and I spent the rest of the night half-drowsing at my desk. It was just as well, I thought, that nothing was happening, and I was one whale of a success making friends.

  4

  Mother woke me up, saying Mr. Leonard Willsie wanted to talk to me. Mr. Willsie, a long-time associate of my father in the abstract business, had taken over the office on my father’s death. I threw on a robe, more against the chill than for modesty, and went to the phone.

  It was still dark, maybe 7:30 A.M. I said, “Good morning, Mr. Willsie,” not seeing anything particularly good about it.

  “Welcome home, Jason,” he told me. “I understand you are working in the sheriff’s office again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s why I called you. I don’t know Mr. Charleston too well. Someone has shattered my window.”

  “At the office? The big plate-glass window?”

  “Yes. With bricks. He left a note. Or they did.”

  “I’ll be right along.”

  Pausing an instant before I went into the bedroom to dress, I answered the question on Mother’s face. “Hooligans,” I said. “They broke Mr. Willsie’s window. All right. Our window, formerly ours. No. Breakfast later, please.”

  The office occupied all of a small building that stood at the head of Main Street, a little remote from other enterprises. Mr. Willsie was waiting for me in front of the wrecked window. There was a big hole in it, jagged with shards of glass. Mr. Willsie was a gray, good man with eyes strained by peering at figures and documents. Before ever I knew him he had suffered from polio and now got around with difficulty, helped by a leg brace and a cane.

  He shook hands, saying, “You can se
e the damage, Jason. Come inside, not that it’s much warmer there.”

  We entered, crunching glass, and stood beside a desk and rows of files. I asked, “Was anything stolen, Mr. Willsie?”

  He gestured with his free hand. “Not a thing. Nothing disturbed. The door was still locked, and I doubt that anyone would have tried to get in through that broken hole.”

  “You spoke of a note?”

  He took a piece of crumpled paper from the top of the desk and handed it to me. “It was wrapped around a brick that apparently was thrown in after the glass was broken.”

  On the coarse paper, written in block capitals, appeared the words LAY OFF OR TAKE THE CONSEQUENCES.

  I asked the natural question. “Have you reason to suspect anybody?”

  He nodded his head slowly. “I must suppose it was one of the strip miners.”

  “Why?”

  “I oppose strip mining, Jason. I do not want to see our land despoiled. I stated my reasons for opposition in a letter to the paper last week. Maybe you saw it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It was a reasoned and temperate statement and invited comment.” His hand went toward the broken window. “But not this!”

  The hand continued in a gesture of weary distress. “Decisions should be reached through calm reason, not senseless violence. What is happening to us, Jase? What will happen?”

  I was short of any answers and so said, “I’ll report to Mr. Charleston, and we’ll do our best. Meantime, can we help you? Get someone to board up the window? Order new glass?”

  He tried to smile. “Thank you, Jason. I’m still capable of using the telephone.”

  It was a sort of rebuke for tactless questions. I went on. “Of course, Mr. Willsie. I suppose you’ll take an enforced holiday today. It’s mighty cold in this room.”

  “One of the inner offices will be snug enough.”

  I left him leaning on his cane, his head bowed, and walked to the office. Charleston had just arrived. I told him what had happened and gave him the note, saying, “Naturally, Mr. Willsie thinks it was one of the strip miners.”

  “It could be the reverse. Someone who wanted to inflame sentiment against them.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “We may never find out who did it, Jase. Witnesses? Late at night in bitter weather? Noise heard from a building separated from others?” His head moved as if to shake a thought from it. It was plain the thought wouldn’t shake out, for he continued, “I’m afraid this is a portent. Things to come, Jase. Things to come.”

  “Anyhow,” I said, “now that I’m up I might as well stay for a while.”

  “If you choose to.”

  “I have to tell you about last night, but, first, maybe I have an idea.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. Spill it, Jase.”

  “About a deputy, I mean.”

  “Well?”

  “You’ll just laugh.”

  “Good. I like to laugh. Who is it?” He raised an eyebrow. “Out with it, boy.”

  “It’s Ike Doolittle.”

  “That’s a laugh all right,” he answered, not laughing. “The whole county will bust its seams.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You can’t be serious. That Gulley Jimson!”

  “Yes, sir. Call him what you want to.”

  Charleston spread his hands. “A strong wind, and where is he? Flying to Dakota, that’s where. Let a tough customer face him, and where would he be? Disabled or dead or on the run.”

  “I’ve seen him in action, Mr. Charleston.”

  “So?”

  I told him then, with no adornments but no slighting of facts, about the fracas at the Chicken Shack and, when he didn’t respond at once, ended lamely. “I guess I’m not such a good hand at making friends.”

  At last he spoke. “I imagine he has a record.”

  “Not according to him. I sounded him out.”

  “I hope you didn’t suggest a job here.” At the shake of my head, he added, “By the evidence we have, a boozer to boot.”

  “I think we’re wrong there. He says liquor’s no problem.”

  “They all do.”

  “All right,” I said. “It was just an idea.”

  Charleston put a match to one of his thin cigars and sat thinking. Then he said through the smoke, “Tad Frazier was one of your ideas, too. Glad I acted on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve been known to be wrong.” That good smile of his came to his face. “You’ve got me half persuaded. To talk to him, anyhow. Know where to find this giant killer?”

  “I can look.”

  “Make it late this afternoon, Jase. Go get some breakfast if you haven’t had any. Take a nap. Then bring him along, will you?”

  I went home and ate and, thinking I couldn’t get to sleep, snoozed along until dusk. I took time to shave, bathe, eat a bite and talk a while with Mother.

  I didn’t have to look long for Ike Doolittle. He was eating at the Commercial Cafe and had a couple of bites of a hamburger left. There was ketchup on his whiskers. I resisted a prejudice against people who drenched their food with that stuff.

  “The sheriff would like to talk to you,” I told him right off.

  He used a paper napkin, which came away looking like a used hospital dressing. “Oh, Lord, what have I done?”

  I smiled to reassure him, though he seemed not to need reassurance. “Nothing serious, as far as I know.”

  “What have I left undone?”

  “Paying the bill here. Give me your tab.”

  While I paid it, he wrestled his sheepskin coat on. The only words said as we walked to the office were mine. “Nothing to be alarmed about. It’s not a charge.”

  Charleston rose when we entered his office. “How are you, Mr. Doolittle?” he asked, his eyes busy. “Have off your coat and take a seat.”

  With Doolittle seated, he went on. “I wanted to thank you personally for helping Jase last night.”

  “He could have managed alone, but I didn’t want to miss the fun. A good time was had by all.”

  “With two exceptions.”

  “As the politician says, you can’t please everybody.”

  I wondered whether the remark was a sly dig, the sheriff’s office being elective. I couldn’t tell through the whiskers. Doolittle took out a red bandana and wiped the melting frost from them. “Anyhow, your thanks accepted with thanks, but do I have to beware of the Greeks bearing gifts?”

  Charleston said, “Nothing like that.” He looked at Doolittle so long, head to foot, that even Doolittle had to squirm slightly. “I didn’t have time to dress for inspection or tidy my whiskers,” Doolittle told him.

  “Sorry. They’re cold-weather protection?”

  “Not a disguise, that’s for sure, if that’s what you’re thinking. Come spring, off they go.”

  “Or sooner, part of them at least, if advisable?”

  “Like a judge, I would have to take the case under consideration. But why ask me, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  The switchboard broke in, and Charleston didn’t get to reply then. Mrs. Carson’s voice said, clear enough for me to hear, “A man’s here to report a shooting.”

  “Send him in.”

  The visitor entered. I thought of Christmas trees, those frosted over with phony white. Bristles of beard stood out on his face like sprayed needles.

  “A man’s hurt. Shot. Needs help.”

  The man was young and big, made bigger by his heavy clothing.

  “Shot where?”

  “In the foot. Clear through.”

  Charleston’s half-sigh meant exasperation. “I mean where is he?”

  “In his tent. All alone.”

  “Sit down, boy. Warm up. One thing at a time now. Who are you?”

  The man sat on the edge of a chair and ran his mittened hand over his face. “I’m a backpacker.”

  “Name?”

  “Peterson. Pete.”

  “
Backpacking in this weather?”

  “It wasn’t so bad the other side of the divide. But look, I came to find help!”

  “Where’s the tent the man’s in?”

  “The south fork of Rose River, quite a ways up, near the end of the road.”

  “How did he get shot?”

  “I forgot. A robber shot him and took off.”

  “That’s what he told you?”

  “Yes.” Peterson seemed a little easier now. “It was earlier this morning he got shot.”

  “When did you find him?”

  “It must have been about noon. I dropped my pack off and hiked in. Not a damn car on the road.”

  “Will we need an ambulance?”

  “I don’t think so. He was sitting up with his bloody foot stretched out when I left. I filled his water pail out of the creek and brought in some wood and put it close to the camp stove where he could reach it, and then I took off.”

  “No horses around?”

  “None that I saw.”

  “There’s a dude ranch not far away.”

  “I didn’t notice. I just kept hoofing.”

  Charleston turned to me. “Jase, you know that road. Pick up Old Doc Yak. I’ll alert him. If it seems best, stop at the dude ranch and tell Guy Jamison to be on the lookout. He can call his neighbors.” By “neighbors” he meant people who lived from five to ten miles away. “Only if it seems best. Use your own judgment.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Peterson put in.

  “No. Stay in town. You’ve had enough. Jase will pick up your pack.”

  I left the three of them there in the office. Doolittle looked as if he wanted to come along, but one deep thinker, meaning Old Doc Yak, would be enough company for me.

  I went out and scratched the ice from the windshield of the police car, unhooked the electric cord from the engine heater, and started the engine. I turned the blower on defrost but still had to keep wiping a peephole through the mist my breath made on the glass. I might as well be looking through binoculars, I thought as I drove.

  Doc Yak was waiting for me when I pulled up in front of his place. He came out when he saw the lights, his satchel in his hand.

  “Suffering Jesus and goddamn that Charleston,” he said as he got into the car. “Why in hell did I ever take up medicine?”