skeletons (19 page)

“Balls!” I cried. “Big burning balls! You’re my age—I’m sorry for you—I’m giving you the benefit of every doubt–but goddammit Shelley if I have to pee on your family tree I will! You think your grandfather was shot, huh? The hell he was! He suicided!”

That got his face out of his hands.

“It’s a fact, man! One year after the Villista trial he poisoned himself!”

A vein pulsed in his forehead. “He was shot. They took a bullet out of–”

“He was shot, yes—but he was already dead. By his own hand. By injection. They shot him to make it look like robbery.”

“Who did?”

I hated myself, but I was at that instant so close to getting the KEY, to opening the DOOR, I had no alternative. “Look,” I said. “You tell me why he took poison one year after that trial and I’ll tell you who shot him.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I wish to God I could, but I can’t.

“You can but you won’t!” I was mad enough to take him by his intransigence and choke the truth out of him. “You know why, don’t you? It’s all coming clear to you, isn’t it? And all you have to do is tell me. I’m leaving town tomorrow—this is my last chance and maybe yours, ever. For the last time, Shelley, why did your grandfather —he’s right there, under you—why did he take his own life? Why did an MD use a needle on himself?”

Face in hands again. Shaking his head. “Go away,” he groaned. “Go away. Leave the dead in peace. And the living. This is my home. My wife’s. My kids’. What have we done to you that you should destroy us? Don’t you know the meaning of mercy?”

I turned my back on him. Tit for tat. And walked toward my car. The SIU man started his. At the far end of the cemetery, the sheriff’s deputy ducked into the tamarisks.

I stopped, turned, shouted in sheer frustration at Shelley, seated on his ancestral slab. “Don’t you know the meaning of justice?”

It was a cheap, shitheel shot.

One down: Dr. Jack Shelley II.

Two to go: Donald Turnbow, Judge Charles S. Vaught, Jr.

I could scratch the doc as a source. But not as a potential source of danger. I had warned him not to contact Pingo again, as he had before—not unless he wanted my demise on his conscience. Which was no exaggeration. Even though I still knew practically zilch, I had learned too much. Much more, surely, than had Crossworth or Sansom. That La Casa de la Justicia was fako. That one of the original jurymen had suicided a year after the second trial and his corpse had been shot by the sheriff and the newly elected judge to make the suicide look like homicide. That the son of another juryman had tried, only five years ago, to bushwhack the present sheriff. And that while these events might seem unrelated to anyone of sound mind, knowledge of them was sufficient to buy me a one-way ticket to the GREAT BOOKFAIR in the GREAT BEYOND. And soon. I was due to rendezvous with Tyler in El Paso at noon tomorrow. I had twenty-two hours to hit the jackpot in Harding. Or be hit.

I parked, entered the Merchants’ and Stockmen’s Bank. Indirect lighting, walnut furniture, carpeting loomed in the grays and blacks and rusts of Navajo rugs, Charlie Russell prints on the walls. Two male tellers, four or five women at desks, all wearing what passed for western garb hereabouts. I gave my name to the nearest female, asked to see the president, Mr. Turnbow, was asked to wait, waited.

Reflecting on Jack Shelley. A conspiracy between a young sawbones and a rich, powerful, multi-murderous sheriff? Preposterous. And a lawman elected term after term to smuggle illegal aliens across the border? Preposterous.

“Mr. Butters? Mr. Turnbow will see you now.”

I was ushered in, homburg in hand. No hand was offered me. And no seat.

“Mr. Turnbow.”

“Yes.”

“You know who I am.”

“I do.”

“And you know why I’m here, in Harding.”

“I do.”

On the wall behind him was a set of polished long-horns.

“The death of Max Sansom, principally.”

“That is a police matter.”

“Yes, sir. I’m also interested in two old trials. Very interested.”

In the course of my fun and games in New Mexico I had run into a whole damned range of reactions to me. Judge Vaught had been evasive. Helene Vaught, his wife, Tyler’s mother, had met me with an appealing lunacy. Pingo Chavez offered the charm of a tarantula. Dr. Jack Shelley’s early welcome had turned, this afternoon, into bristle, into an invitation to go away. Millie Mills? A story hour and liquid refreshment, followed by real fear and real affection for me. This was HATRED.

“The trial of Buell Wood in 1910,” I continued. “And the one of the four Villistas in 1916.”

“They were before my time.”

“I’m sure. But I find that the trial transcripts are missing from the records of the District Court. Even the newspaper accounts have been cut out of the
Harding Graphic.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes. I’ve been able to put some of the pieces together, though. Four citizens of this town served on both juries—a man named VanDellen, one named Word, a Dr. Jack Shelley, and your father, Coye Turnbow. He died in 1938-”

“How did you learn that?”

“From his marker in the cemetery.”

“I see.”

Donald Turnbow stood behind his desk, before his longhorns. An old man spare and tree-straight in a ranch suit and a bolo tie with a centerpiece of silver Hopi overlay. I might have had a friend at the Chase Manhattan, but at the Merchants’ and Stockmen’s I had an ENEMY.

“So what I’ve come to see you about, Mr. Turnbow, is this. Did your father, before his death, ever tell you any details of either or both of those trials?”

“He did not.”

“Never anything about what became of Buell Wood after the second trial? He disappeared, you know.”

“Never.”

“Or what happened to the Mexican defendants?”

“I’m sorry.”

I revolved my Cavanaugh in my hands, considering. Should I let him have a little collateral? Crossworth and Sansom? La Casa de la Justicia? They hadn’t worked with Shelley. I shuffled my Guccis till I had an inspiration. “Mr. Turnbow, you are the president of this bank.”

“I am.”

“As your father was before you.”

“That is correct.”

“He must have been a pillar of the community, as you must be. Men of influence. Have you ever held elective office?”

“I have been a county supervisor, on and off, for the last forty years.”

“Supervisor. In that office, did you supervise the operations of the County Sheriffs Department?”

WHAM.

He reddened, held the back of his chair with both hands. “Mr. Butters, I fail to see the point in this line of questioning. In fact, I object to being questioned by you at all. If you have bank business to transact, I will be glad to oblige you. If you do not, I ask you to leave.”

Old men can wear their years like armor. Impenetrable. I respected this one, even though he was stonewalling. He had class.

“Mr. Turnbow, if I’ve offended you, I apologize. Believe me, my motives are the best. But something—something terrific—tremendous—must have happened here sixty years ago, and I’m just trying to—”

“Mr. Butters.” He let go of the chair. “You are half my age, and I am unable to throw you out bodily. But if you don’t leave this bank now, I will—”

“Two men are recently dead as a result,” I rushed on. “Max Sansom, a couple of weeks ago, and—”

He stepped around his desk, around me, opened his door, spoke to someone. “John, Paul—will you come in a moment, please?”

Losing again. Losing. “And a writer named Philip Crossworth, four years ago. Both of them came to Harding as I have, and they—”

Enter Paul and John. Tellers I had noted earlier. Tellers of a type seldom employed by the Chase Manhattan. Thirtyish and wide-shouldered and slim-hipped in boots and jeans and shirts with snaps for buttons. Lacking only six-shooters. I despised them immediately.

“This gentleman has been asked to leave,” Donald Turnbow informed them. “He refuses. Will you please see him to the door?”

I backed away. “Now just a damned minute!” I yelped.

John and Paul positioned themselves at my sides. Each gripped an elbow. Indignantly I stiffened. They lifted me like a window dummy.

“This is insulting, Mr. Turnbow!” I bawled. “I resent it like hell! I don’t know what you’re covering up, but you can be goddamned sure—”

But I was through the door, elevated by both louts so that my loafers were six inches above the floor, being propelled through the lobby, my legs revolving with outrage as though I were pedaling a bicycle, staff and customers much amused. Then out the front door, lowered to the sidewalk. I stumbled several yards, donned my hat, brushed off my Huddlesfield jacket, adjusted my lilac-and-purple Paisley, turned. BLOODY BUT UNBOWED.

John and Paul had sentried themselves before the bank door, barring my re-entry.

I faced them. I thought of unbuttoning my coat, letting my right hand hover near my hip, near the Smith & Wesson, watching them go pale. I thought of saying draw, you sons of bitches, draw or I will gun you down in the street the way Buell Wood did sons of bitches like you. But that would blow the fact that I was armed and dangerous. So, instead, I settled my face into a sneer, settled for language rather than lead.

“Cowboys,” I sneered, “are living proof that the Indian fucked the buffalo.”

Last night in Harding. Last night in New Mexico. Which according to their license plates was “The Land of Enchantment.”

Last night at the Ramada Inn.

I found his card in my wallet and phoned Snackenberg in El Paso and got, to my delight, his spouse. “Mrs. Snackenberg?” I breathed raucously. “This is an obscene phone call.”

“Great,” she said. “I’ve never had one.”

“I’ve never made one. What am I supposed to say?”

“You’re supposed to tell me your name.”

“Okay. B. James Butters.”

“Jimmie! How nice. How are you? Have you recovered from your fractured skull and ribs and massive internal injuries?”

“I’m ambulatory. Has your library ordered the rest of my books?”

“We have. I saw to that.”

“How’s Ace?”

“Tolerable.”

“Your husband’s too tall for you, Annie. Have you thought of splitting? You’d love New York.”

“No I haven’t. No I wouldn’t.”

“Well think about it.”

“I assume you want to speak to Henry.”

“Hank? Yes, please.”

“Just a minute.”

“Think about it while we’re talking. You could tell him tonight, we could take off tomorrow.”

“Adulterer.”

He came on. “Jimmie? How’s it going?”

“It’s not. I’ve stuck to the trials. But everything deadends because nobody will talk. I have one possible left–Judge Vaught, Tyler’s father–I’ll–”

“A judge? And a sheriff?”

“I know. Unbelievable. But I’ll see him in the morning. I talked to him before, and got the old soft shoe, so I don’t expect anything. I plan to be back in El Paso by noon tomorrow.”

“I see.” I could hear him thinking. “Why did you go down to that shrine again? La Casa whatever it is.”

“How did you know? Oh, sure—your man in the sedan. Doesn’t he get bored, following me around?”

“No, they don’t. I have three men on you—eight-hour shifts around the clock. They tell me the Chavez Sheriff’s Department is just as interested in you as we are.”

“I’ll say. I’ve never been as popular. Well, I went down there and dug up another grave. It was still tough for me to believe somebody would go to so much effort to build a thing like that—four empty graves, perpetual light burning, so on. And it was empty again—the grave.”

“That’s where they hit you over the head and gave you a ride under a car.”

“That’s the place.”

“Where is it, exactly?”

“South of here eleven miles. Pingo gave me directions and invited me to have a look anytime. It’s on his ranch, right along the border. You take the road to Columbus and turn left under a sign that says “Los Esqueletos.” You take a sand road east and—”

“Jimmie. Will you say that again?”

“What?”

“What it says on the sign.”

“‘Los Esqueletos.”

“You’re sure.”

“Sure I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You didn’t ask me. What’s ‘Los Esqueletos’ mean, translated?”

“‘The Skeletons.’”

“So?”

“Listen.” He sounded as though he were having trouble with his temper. “Remember, I told you we broke up a large operation in LA last year, Las Huertas, The Blondes? Well, these rings all have names—Mexican is full of slang. Yesterday morning you and I were on the firing range here. Yesterday afternoon our Denver office called me. They’d picked up a skilled wet and pumped him dry. He’d crossed the line in New Mexico, that was all they could get—except one other thing. The name of the setup that got him out of Chihuahua to Denver was Los Esqueletos.”

“Imagine that.”

“If you’d told me about the sign, I’d have put two and two together and we’d be in business by now.”

“Oh. Sorry ‘bout that, Hank.”

“Henry. What’s down that sand road?”

“Pingo’s ranch house, probably.”

“Did you see anybody while you were there?”

“Just your guy, parked, watching me. I took no chances. I went in daylight this time—nobody sneaking up on me, no moving vans running me off the road.”

“No what?”

“Moving vans. When I went down there the first time, at night, this big bastard of a moving van suddenly showed, barreling right at me, no headlights, and I had to hit the cactus or be demolished. I saw the logo on his side —‘ViaVan. Interstate & Transcontinental.’”

“A moving van,” he said.

“A moving van,” I said. “At night,” he said.

“At night,” I said.

“No lights,” he said. “

No lights,” I said.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think it was important.” I swallowed. “Was it?”

The phone grew hot in my hand.

“Important? Goddammit, hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder since then what a moving van was doing running that close to the border at night without lights? When you’re supposed to be an intelligent, patriotic citizen cooperating with the Border Patrol to stop an operation smuggling illegal aliens into the United States? Hasn’t it? Goddammit?”