The Hanging of Samuel Ash (33 page)

“It doesn't look like it,” she said. “I better hang up now. I'll talk to you soon.”

Hook sat in the darkness and thought about Bain Eagleman. The one guy he thought had both motive and opportunity had suddenly been ruled out.

That left Buck Steele. “One down. One to go,” he said to himself.

 

37

 

H
OOK LEFT HIS
room early and went out the back door to avoid Skink. He needed time to think, and he needed to be alone to do it. He took a long walk down the tracks as the morning sun broke. Mixer followed at his heels, departing now and again to sniff out the gopher holes that dotted the right-of-way.

Once back to town, he stopped in for breakfast at the café and ordered up a large helping of biscuits and gravy, sausage, hash browns, two eggs over easy, and, for his health, a large glass of orange juice. The morning waitress, a large woman who threw her legs out from the knees when she walked, carried the whole thing out stacked on her arm.

“Anything else, hon?” she asked, sitting the plates down.

“I might need resuscitation at some point,” he said.

“Mouth-to-mouth?” she asked, without cracking a smile.

“That ought bring me around,” he said.

“Uh huh,” she said. “With me sitting on your chest, you might wish you'd gone ahead and died.”

Hook finished his breakfast and checked his watch. The waitress took his money and dropped a handful of change into his hand.

“About that mouth-to-mouth thing,” he said.

“Oh, sure, hon,” she said, smiling. “But I've another six hours on shift. Think you could wait?”

“For you? However long it takes,” he said. “Listen, could you direct me to the pool hall?”

“Down about a block,” she said. “Across from the filling station. They don't start that poker game until this evening, though.”

“Thanks,” Hook said.

He found the door open to the pool hall and went in. A man had just stepped in from the alley with a trash can in tow. He had dark black hair that he swept back on his head and a carefully groomed mustache.

“Be with you in a moment,” he said.

Hook pulled up a stool and waited for him to put the lid back on the can.

“No one here yet,” he said, coming forward. “Games usually don't get rolling until later on.”

“Maybe some coffee?” Hook said.

“Longneck or Coke,” he said.

Hook slid up to the bar. “Coke.”

The man opened a bottle and set it on a napkin. “Pretzels, chips, pickled eggs?”

“I just had breakfast for five,” Hook said. “I may never have to eat again.”

“Until supper,” he said. “Know how that goes.”

Hook took a drink of his Coke. “My name's Hook Runyon. I'm the Santa Fe bull and wondered if I could ask you some questions?”

The owner took a box from under the counter and counted out dollar bills for the register.

“My dad worked for the Santa Fe,” he said. “We're Mexican, you know. He came from the old country to work rip track.”

“Takes a hell of a man to work rip track,” Hook said. “I've seen men beg to be shot rather than go out on another shift.”

He nodded. “He never went back to Mexico. Me, I wound up running this place, selling longnecks to rednecks and listening to bullshit until I'm ready to stick a gun in my mouth.”

“Thing is,” Hook said, “we had a boy from the orphanage killed on railroad property out in Carlsbad, New Mexico, and I'm trying to chase down leads.”

“Killed, you say?”

“That's right. Bruce Mason. You may have heard of him.”

The owner took a Coke out for himself, wiped off the top with his shirtsleeve, and opened it.

“That boy who held up the station over in Cherokee?”

“That's right.”

“Crazy kid,” he said. “Putting kids in an orphanage screws up their heads.”

“Buck Steele, the orphanage foreman, saw Mason and a girl by the name of Lucy Barker together just before they ran off. I thought you might know something about this Steele guy.”

He tipped up his Coke. “Buck Steele? Yeah,” he said, “I know him plenty, believe me. He comes in here every night for the poker game. They don't play for real money, if anybody's asking.

“He drinks three or four beers and goes home. Now and then he drinks more. When that happens, he turns mean, and you can just figure on a standoff, usually him against the smallest guy in the pool hall. Keeps him from getting his ass kicked more than three or four times a year that way.”

Hook lit a cigarette. “What kind of eyewitness do you think he makes? I mean, you think I can trust what he says?”

He leaned on the bar. “Buck Steele is a great witness, if you're out to defraud the insurance company.”

Hook finished his Coke and stood. “Thanks,” he said. “I think I get the picture. You say he comes in every night?”

“That's right, 'cept for his vacations. First thing he does is use my john. It's like he don't have one of his own.”

Hook said, “Vacations?”

“Yeah,” he said. “He takes about a week or so every year. Claims he goes out to one of those Nevada whorehouses and does the whole menu. Can't say I miss the son of a bitch around here, though.”

“Did he take a vacation this year?”

“Oh, hell yes. First part of June, I think it was, but then I can't remember my own telephone number half the time.”

*   *   *

Hook took a rare afternoon nap and awakened to find Mixer staring into his face.

“Dang it, Mixer,” he said, pushing him aside. “Don't you have any manners?”

Mixer went to the door and begged to go out. “Alright,” Hook said. “But you stay home.”

Hook checked his watch: six o'clock. He put on his shoes and went to the park bathroom to wash up. Once back at the room, he checked the clip in his P.38, put on his coat, and stepped out into the evening. He took a deep breath of fresh air.

Once in the alley across from the pool hall, he hunkered down. Music from the jukebox drifted into the evening, and he could smell hamburgers cooking from the café down the street. Too bad he didn't have time to eat. Maybe later.

He'd been there fifteen, twenty minutes, when he spotted Buck Steele's pickup truck pulling in. Steele got out and cleared his jaw. He wore a western hat and a blue denim shirt. Pulling his shoulders back, he disappeared through the door.

Hook struck out afoot for the orphanage. He'd considered calling Celia but thought better of it. If he screwed this up, she'd have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and she'd been too helpful for him to let that happen.

By the time he reached the drive, night had fallen, and the orphanage windows lit the darkness. The sounds of cattle rose up from the barn, and the smell of smoke from the incinerator hung in the air. As he approached, he could hear the children inside the orphanage and the clinking of supper dishes.

He made his way around to the barn, double-checking to make certain the gate had been secured and that no lights came from Steele's room. He stepped into the barn, the smells of cattle and hay thick in the stillness, and closed the door behind him. Though nearly black inside the barn, he remembered the direction and worked his way to the back.

When he reached Buck's room, he paused, listened, and stared into the blackness for any signs of life. Some might say he broke in, though entering a barn could hardly be criminal, not seriously criminal at least. In any case, he'd be just as dead in the event someone shot him.

When he opened Steele's door, light bled through a small window in the back of the room. A single bunk had been pushed against the wall, and clothes hung from a shower rod jimmied in between the window frame. A half-empty whiskey bottle sat on a packing crate next to the bed, and Steele's cattle whip leaned against the wall.

Hook searched the room, looking for anything that might give him a clue to Buck Steele. Sometimes what he didn't find gave him the best insight into a man. In this case, there were no books, no magazines, no newspapers, no signs of curiosity or interest in anything beyond a whiskey bottle and a cattle whip.

Hook scanned the room again, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness. What did a man like Steele have in common with Bain Eagleman? What accounted for Eagleman's willingness to hire an expensive lawyer to defend Buck's brawl with the sheriff? Why would Eagleman jeopardize his position in the community for this guy? It didn't click.

He'd decided to leave when his eye caught something white sticking out of the pocket of one of Buck Steele's jackets. He pulled out a letter and another piece of paper that had been shoved into the pocket. He started to read them when a light swept by the window from the driveway.

Putting the material into his pocket, he worked his way out of the room, eased the door shut, and hid in the shadows of the stanchions.

Within moments the barn door opened. A flashlight panned the area, and Buck Steele stepped in behind it. He opened the door to his room, belched, and clicked on the light. When he'd closed the door, Hook slipped out and headed down the drive. He'd gone only a few yards when something ran up beside him from out of the darkness. Chills raced down Hook's spine as he struggled to see what or who came at him.

“Damn it, Mixer,” he said, whispering. “Can't you ever do what you're told?”

*   *   *

Back at his room, Hook turned on his lamp, poured himself a Beam, and took out the items he'd borrowed from Steele's coat pocket, an opened envelope that had been addressed to Lucy Barker, c/o The Spirit of Agape Orphanage, and a receipt for thirteen dollars made out to Bain Eagleman from Dr. Fred Betcher, Cherokee General Hospital.

Hook took the letter from the envelope:

Dear Lucy:

I have been thinking about you ever since I ran away from Agape. You probably have heard by now what happened at the gas station in Cherokee, and I know you must be ashamed of me. I can't explain why I did it, except to say that I had to get away from there before I went crazy. When I asked you to run away with me, and you said no, I figured there had to be someone else. I couldn't take that.

I joined the army under the name of Samuel Ash and saw some really crazy things. They gave me a Bronze Star, but I don't really know why. Most of the time I was just scared and homesick for you.

I've been working on the signal gang for the Santa Fe out of Clovis. The boss has me painting stuff and by myself most of the time because of the strikes.

Payday is only two days away, and I'll have enough money together to come back. Even though I've done some bad things, I've changed a lot since being in the war. Maybe now you'll see me as a grown man instead of just a dumb kid.

My boss is sending me to the potash spur out of Carlsbad to paint the wigwag signal this week. I'll see you soon because there is an important question I want to ask. Love, Bruce

Bain Eagleman had personally paid for her pregnancy test, so he damn sure knew she was pregnant. Hook poured himself another Beam. Steel or someone had somehow intercepted this letter from Bruce Mason, so he knew not only that Bruce intended on coming back but also where to find him. Maybe Bruce Mason's return to Agape was the last thing anyone wanted.

Hook opened the door and let Mixer out. He went back in and studied the letter. Eagleman had been conducting a board meeting the same day Bruce Mason had been hung. He couldn't have been the one who killed Mason, not personally anyway. On the other hand, Buck Steele, who claimed to have been in Nevada, could have been doing Eagleman's handiwork for him, and the fact that Eagleman knew a body had been shipped to Carmen could well account for Hook's string of bad luck as escort.

Mixer scratched at the door, and Hook got up to let him in. He sat down and picked up the letter again. And Steele had the medical receipt. Where did he get it? Perhaps the same place he got the letter.

He finished off his drink. Maybe Skink had it right. Maybe Steele had his reasons for riffling through Eagleman's trash. With this kind of evidence, he definitely had Eagleman by the short hair.

Hook folded the letter and put it in his pocket. At least now he knew what he needed, and he knew that Eagleman and Steele were ass-deep in the middle of it. But he couldn't make an arrest, not yet, because the big question still remained unanswered: where the hell was Lucy Barker?

 

38

 

H
OOK AWAKENED EARLY,
his head cranking at full throttle. He made coffee and watched the sun come up. He opened the front door for Skink, who had come in late yet again.

“How the hell you going to run a business if you can't open up on time, Skink?”

Skink rubbed at his eyes. “I didn't get much sleep, Hook.”

“You know what I told you about that,” Hook said, handing him his coffee.

“Naw, that's not it. Something woke me up, and I had trouble getting back to sleep. Then when I did, I dreamed Mr. Eagleman kicked me out of the orphanage, and I had no place to go. I just walked around looking for something to eat, but nobody would give me anything.”

“That's pretty rough, I mean, being abandoned on the streets of Carmen like that,” Hook said.

“And then I just starved, see, my body lying out there on the sidewalk. People came by and spit on me for messing up their town.”

“I gather being a railroad bull is no longer on your list of occupations?” Hook said.

“I been hoping for something a little more exciting, Hook, no offense. If I wanted to hang around Carmen and sleep in a shoe shop, then I might just as well be what I am.”

Hook sipped his coffee. “It's a point, I guess,” he said. “Being a yard dog can get downright tedious.”