Authors: Steven F Havill
Nightzone (31 page)
Despite Grand Jury appearances that resulted in Julie Warner's being indicted on charges of conspiracy and second-degree manslaughter that would eventually net her seven years as a guest of the state, despite notification of a lawsuit from the late Nathan Baum's
sister,
who hadn't seen or talked to her late brother in a dozen years but who wailed in misery as she pleaded her case to a hungry lawyer, despite a second breathtaking concert in Dos Pasos by the child prodigies, the anticipation that kept me on pins and needles mounted with each passing week.
I returned home from lunch in mid-April, and struggled the bulky mail out of the slot. And there it was. The upper left corner of the envelope sported the legendary prancing horse with the broken spear in its mouth. My pulse soared. To my credit, I didn't rip it open then and there. I went inside, laid the envelope on the table, made fresh coffee, filled a cup, and found my silver letter opener.
Seated in my library, old Colt relic on the table within reach, I took a deep breath and examined the envelope once more. Sure enough. The opener made smooth work, and I pulled out the unfolded letter. There lay all the details.
When it left the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut in 1889, my Colt .44-40 sported a seven and one half-inch barrel, blued with case-hardened frame and rubber grips.
It had been mailed as part of a shipment of two to Rosenblat and Son's Mercantile in Silver City. My pulse kicked up another notch or two. In 1889, Silver City was a tiny place, home to miners and thieves and all sorts of interesting folks. On top of that, Silver City was the right neighborhood. Colt could have told me the gun was shipped to Danville, Illinois, and I would have been sorely disappointed. But Silver City? Had Josiah Bennett wandered into Rosenblat's, seen the Colt and plunked down his $17.50 then and there?
The possibilities whirled as I read and reread the short letter half a dozen times. Nothing was hidden between the lines, and of course Colt didn't have a clue to whom Rosenblat and Son might have sold the revolver. My coffee gradually cooled as I pondered that. Had Rosenblat kept records? Even if the firm no longer existed, did the old record book still molder somewhere, waiting for me?
It was the sort of stuff of which good, high-quality insomnia is made.
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