The Reluctant Pinkerton (13 page)

“Hey, how was your first day?” Larry asked.

“Look at your new clothes,” Stan said.

“It went okay,” Roper said.

“Let’s get a drink, huh?” Stand said.

“Sure,” Roper said. “Let’s go.”

“But not the Bullshead, right?” Larry asked, slapping Roper on the back.

“Yeah, that’s right, boys,” Roper said. “Not the Bullshead.”

*   *   *

The Fixx brothers took Roper to a saloon just outside Hell’s Half Acre called Sullivan’s. The difference a few feet made was amazing. The place was clean, with high ceilings, honest games, pretty girls, a good piano player, and cold beer.

They stood at the bar with their beers, and nobody jostled Roper’s arm, on purpose or otherwise.

“So how’d the first day go?” Larry asked.

“How you like bein’ Orton’s clerk?” Stan asked.

“The day went fine,” Roper said, “and it’s better than bein’ knee deep in cow manure all day. You boys stink.”

“That ain’t manure,” Stan said. “That’s how Larry smells all the time.”

“Fuck you,” Larry said good-naturedly.

“That why all the girls are stayin’ away from us?” Roper asked.

“Naw,” Larry said, “they’re stayin’ away ’cause they don’t wanna be seen with no stockyard clerk.”

“Don’t listen to him, Andy,” Stan said. “He wishes he could work inside, and not with all the cows.”

“I’m buyin’ you boys another round,” Roper said.

“Clerks,” Stan said. “God love ’em!”

Roper was impressed by the Fixx brothers.

They didn’t gamble because they knew they couldn’t afford it. Each brother bought one round of drinks after Roper bought the first round, and then they went back to buying their own. The brothers apparently played and drank within their means, which made them more intelligent than Roper had originally thought.

Roper adapted the same outlook for Andy Blake. He nursed his last beer and stayed away from the gaming tables. He remained at the bar and talked with the brothers, and eventually brought the subject around to the problems that had beset the stockyards of late.

“It’s almost as if we’re cursed,” Stan said. “Nothin’ is going right. Equipment is failing, cows are dyin’—”

“Dying of what?” Roper asked.

“They don’t know,” Larry said. “We ain’t on the inside, but we heard the vets are stumped.”

“And I heard somethin’ about somebody dyin’?” Roper said.

“Yeah, that new fella,” Larry said. “He fell into the pens and somehow got trampled to death.”

“The steers musta been scared ta death to do that,” Stan said.

“He get on anybody’s wrong side?” Roper asked.

“You mean did somebody kill ’im?” Larry asked.

“Maybe he was foolin’ around with somebody’s wife? Or girlfriend?”

“We didn’t get to know him,” Larry said. “He was quiet, kept to himself. But he didn’t seem like that kinda fella.”

Stan agreed. Roper wondered how the dead detective had expected to be able to do his job without getting to know the other workers.

“You know,” Roper said, turning his own attention to that problem, “I gotta meet some of the other guys, too. I don’t want them thinkin’ I’m stuck up because I got made clerk.”

“I got an idea,” Stan said. “I know a place where some of ’em drink.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, “we can go over there and introduce you to some of the other boys.”

“Good.” Roper said. “Let’s do it. Where is that place?”

“I think you heard of it,” Larry said with a smile. “The Bullshead.”

*   *   *

The Fixx brothers convinced Roper to go back to the Bullshead with them.

“We’re always gettin’ into fights in saloons,” Stan said. “That don’t mean we ain’t good customers and we can’t go back.”

Larry reinforced Stan’s statement, and Roper finally gave in. He didn’t want them questioning why he didn’t want to go back there. Plus, if most of the stockworkers were drinking there, that’s where he had to go to meet them.

They entered the Bullshead and the smell hit him immediately. He hadn’t noticed it last time. But coming there directly from Sullivan’s, he could smell the difference. Stale
beer, even staler sweat, and the cheap perfume the girls heaped on to combat the smells around them.

They went to the bar and ordered three beers from a bartender who was unfamiliar to Roper, which suited him. The Fixxes, however, knew him and introduced him to Roper as “Sandy.”

When they had their beers, they turned their backs to the bar and Stan said, “There. That’s a whole table of guys from work.”

The table he was indicating was the table of workers Roper had initially picked out during his earlier visits to the Bullshead. Meeting Larry and Stan Fixx had saved him from having to find a way to introduce himself to them. Now the brothers were taking care of that.

“Hey, boys!” Larry yelled.

The six men looked up at Larry and five of them grinned. Roper noticed one man roll his eyes and look away.

“Meet Andy Blake,” Stan said. “He’s new. Andy, that’s Benny Williams, Luke Taylor, Mark Brecker, Sam Ambler, and Lester Hayes. And that unpleasant-lookin’ fella, that’s Jerry Tucker.” Stan lowered his voice. “He don’t like us.”

“Nobody likes you, Stan, or your brother,” Jerry said. “They’re just bein’ nice to you.”

Jerry was in his mid-thirties, was dressed better than the others, and projected an attitude that said he was better. He was also the only one in the group who was wearing a gun. Roper had decided that Andy Blake wouldn’t be wearing a gun when he was at work, and since he had gone out right after work with the Fixx boys, he still didn’t have one on. He did, however, have a two-shot derringer tucked into one boot, and a knife in the other.

“Don’t listen to him,” Mark Brecker said. “Pull up some chairs. Whatta they got you doin’, new guy?”

“I’m workin’ in Orton’s office as a clerk,” Roper said.

“How’d you manage that?” Luke Taylor asked.

Roper shrugged and said, “It was the job he offered me,
and I really needed a job. I was prepared to work knee deep in shit, but—”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Benny Williams said. “If I could get out of the shit, I would.”

“You were born for the shit, Benny,” Jerry Tucker said, “like these boys.”

“Fuck you, Jerry,” Larry said.

“Watch how to talk to me, dummy,” Jerry said. “I’m the one wearin’ a gun, remember?”

“We’ll take that gun away from you and stuff it up yer ass,” Stan said.

“The other dummy speaks,” Jerry said. “The Dummy brothers.”

Larry made a move, but Stan put his hand on his brother’s arm.

“Shut the hell up, Jerry,” Lester Hayes said. “None of us know why you have to wear that gun anyway.”

“Because I’m good with it,” Jerry said.

“Ha,” Larry said. “You wanna see somebody good with a gun, you shoulda seen what Andy did here last night.”

“Larry,” Roper said, “I told you I got lucky.”

“If you’re so good with a gun, why ain’t you wearin’ one?” Jerry asked with a sneer.

“Now that I’ve got my job,” Roper said, “I don’t have any need for a gun.”

“But you needed it last night,” Mark said. “Why would you come back here without it?”

“We went to a saloon right from work,” Roper said. “I didn’t know we’d end up here.”

“If you’re good with a gun,” Jerry said, “you wear it.”

“I’m not here to prove anythin’ with a gun,” Roper said. “I’m tryin’ to make a livin’.”

“Ain’t we all?” Sam asked, speaking for the first time.

Most of the men were in their late thirties or early forties, but Sam. He looked to be fifty or so, but he had big beefy shoulders and arms and certainly looked like the kind of man who could push cows and steers around.

They all had another drink and managed to direct the conversation away from Jerry’s gun.

Jerry didn’t take part in much of the conversation, and Roper really couldn’t see why he was sitting with the group. For that reason he stuck out to the detective, which made him interesting when he was looking for a suspect.

He was going to have to check out Jerry Tucker.

Roper woke the next morning in a feather bed in Mrs. Varney’s Rooming House. The Fixx brothers had been right about one thing: This place was much better than the hotel he’d been in.

He wanted to stay in the feather bed longer, but Mrs. Varney had warned him that if he missed breakfast, he’d have to eat out.

When he came down the stairs, dressed for work, Mrs. Varney’s long wooden table was crowded with her boarders. There was, however, one spot left, and he claimed it.

“We got some new boarders this mornin’,” Mrs. Varney said, “but I ain’t got time to make introductions, so you boys better take care of it yourselves.”

“Hi,” the man on Roper’s left said, “I’m Bill Catlin.” He was in his forties, dressed like a businessman in a suit, although his jacket was hanging on the back of his chair.

“Andy Blake.”

The man to his right was eating, and didn’t bother to introduce himself.

The table was covered with plates of scrambled eggs, ham, potatoes, flapjacks, biscuits, and grits. Apparently,
none of the other boarders—new or old—were interested in getting acquainted, so they all pretty much ate in silence. Roper found it odd. In other boardinghouses he’d usually found there’d be some drummer anxious to hawk his wares to the captive audience. Not the case here.

The food was excellent, and Mrs. Varney—all four-feet-ten of her—kept bustling in and out with even more food. The coffee was the best Roper had tasted in a while—well, since the day before in that café with Nancy. He still wondered why a place with coffee that good had been so deserted. Maybe the food didn’t match. He still intended to go back and try it.

At one point he leaned over to Catlin and asked, “Is it always this quiet at breakfast?”

“Wasn’t always,” Catlin said. “We had a salesman with us last week, kept tryin’ to sell us all new underwear at breakfast.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody broke into his room, gave him a few whacks, and tore up his undies,” Catlin said. “Since then nobody talks much.”

“Probably wise,” Roper said.

Catlin nodded and said, “I think so, too.”

Mrs. Varney’s three-story home was a virtual mansion, with the second and third floors turned into rooms for rent. The first floor had a sitting room and the large dining room they were eating in. The table was made of sturdy wood, about fifteen feet long, with a long bench on either side. Apparently, she wanted her boarders to eat and get out and not get comfortable. Roper’s ass was already complaining about the hard wooden bench.

As Mrs. Varney came in and out through a swinging door, Roper could see the large kitchen. There was one other person in there, but he only caught a glimpse, as Mrs. Varney was the only one who ever came out. Roper assumed there were other rooms on the first floor, in the rear of the house, where Mrs. Varney lived.

One by one, the boarders finished eating, got up, and left.
Most of them looked like men who worked in town. One or two of them wore a gun and trail clothes, appearing to be men who were just passing through.

Eventually, it came down to Roper, Catlin, and two others at the opposite end of the table.

“How long have you lived here?” Roper asked him.

“A few months,” Catlin said. “I’m tryin’ to get myself established in town before I get a place of my own.”

“What do you do?” Roper asked.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“And these others?”

“Various jobs,” Catlin said. “Several of the men work in the stockyards. Mr. Henry there, at the end, has a gun shop. He’s talkin’ to Mr. Avery, who works at the local apothecary. Others are just passin’ through. Mrs. Varney doesn’t discriminate. How about you?”

“Stockyards,” Roper said.

“Really? You don’t strike me as that kind of man.”

“What kind of man do I strike you as?”

“Educated,” Catlin said.

“Well,” Roper said, “I just got the job yesterday. I’m clerking in the office.”

“Ah,” Catlin said, “that’s more like it.”

“What kind of law do you practice?”

“Whatever I can get, really,” Catlin said. “Some estate work, an occasional criminal case. Came here from the East to get myself a more interesting life.”

“How’s it going so far?” Roper asked.

“Not much excitement, I have to admit,” Catlin said. “But I’m hopeful.”

“Seems I heard of some excitement here…what was it, last month? Fella died in the yards?”

“Yeah, but he just fell into a pen and got trampled,” Catlin said. “Nothing there for a lawyer to get involved in.”

“Unless he was killed.”

“Well,” Catlin said, slapping his napkin down on the table, “I didn’t hear anything like that. I’ve got to get to my office. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Sure.”

Catlin left, and a few minutes later, the other two men did as well.

Mrs. Varney came out of the kitchen and looked startled to see him there.

“Still eatin’, I see, Mr. Blake.”

“Last one down, last one done, I guess, ma’am,” he said. “The food was amazing.”

“I have a good cook,” she said, nodding.

“Well,” he said, dropping his napkin on the table and standing, “I guess I’d better get to work. Don’t want to be late on my second day.”

Mrs. Varney nodded and started to clean up. She carried two armfuls of plates to the door and opened it with her ample behind. Roper caught a better, longer look at the kitchen, and the cook—a younger woman, very pretty, wearing an apron. She had long brown hair, held back in a long ponytail, and just for a moment their eyes met before the door swung closed.

Roper’s first week at work was uneventful.

He was able to come up to speed fairly quickly on the way Orton did things, his filing system, his purchase orders, his personnel files. He even saw some ways he could have improved on everything, but he didn’t want to seem that smart. All he was interested in was blending in, not standing out.

One of the surprises of his job was meeting his boss’s wife, and that happened on the eighth day.

Orton had never even talked about his wife that week, and they had even eaten lunch together twice right there in the office.