Ransom (4 page)

“Of course I'll be there.” Hahn dropped a pair of fresh shells into the open barrels of his gun but left the breech open.

The two of them stepped over to the next station and Dick motioned for Willis to take the first shot.

Hammerschmidt snapped the breech of his shotgun closed, put the gun to his shoulder, and yelled, “Pull” again. The gun spat and the clay bird flew on to shatter when it hit the ground.

Hahn was feeling in a mood to show off a little. He closed the action of his shotgun and held it at waist level, then called, “Give me a double this time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pull.”

His gun roared twice and powdered both birds.

* * *

Taylor scooped up another heaping spoonful of Maria Theresa Valdez Finnegan's chili, wiped the resulting sweat off his forehead, and grinned at the lady's husband. “Singe the hair right off a man's chest, that will,” he said.

“Too hot for you, John?”

“Hell no. You know better'n that. Can't get too hot for this ol' boy.” He picked up another heaping spoonful and
shoveled it into his mouth. Good heavens but Joe's wife did make fine chili.

“I have some habanero squeezings here if you'd like some. It's been known to make strong men weep and turn boys into men, but if you'd like some . . .”

“Maybe next time,” Taylor said with a laugh. He had tried Maria Theresa's habanero pepper juice once before. And only once. There would not be a second time. John Taylor was brave but he was not stupid.

“Another beer, John?”

“Reckon I wouldn't say no to such a thing as that.”

Finnegan took John's half-f mug, refilled it from the tap, and returned it without touching the change that lay on the bar. “Crackers?” He shoved the free lunch tray closer to Taylor.

“Sure.” John took a handful of the crisp soda crackers, crumbled them up, and dropped them into his chili. Lordy, but Maria Finnegan did know how to make a fine chili. If it weren't for her cooking, Taylor likely would have starved to death shortly after Jessie moved out.

“Something wrong, John?” Finnegan stopped what he was doing and stood looking at his friend.

“No.” Taylor shook his head. “No, of course not.”

“I thought . . . Never mind.” Finnegan went back to polishing the clean mugs.

The batwings opened with a creak of rusty springs. Everyone in the place—there were a baker's dozen patrons there at the moment plus Joe and, in the kitchen, Maria—turned to see who came in. Everyone other than Taylor made note of the arrival and went back to their own conversations. Taylor scowled.

“Don't think you can sneak out, John Taylor. I see you there. Don't think that I do not.”

“I ain't going no place, Drewry. What d'you want?”

Leonard Drewry marched across the sawdust to square off in front of John. He took a folded paper from inside his coat, cleared his throat, and handed the document to John. “This is official service of an action filed against you by Richard Acton Hahn. You are ordered to appear before the Honorable Curtis Cooper on the twenty-third day of June next.”

“What's it about, Leonard?”

Drewry's upper lip curled. “Read it yourself. If you can.”

John grunted. “All right, asshole. What day o' the week is that?”

“It is a Monday.”

“Fine. You delivered your paper an' got to feel like a real grown-up man. Now get the hell outta my sight. You're ruining my appetite.”

Drewry started to turn, but John stopped him. “Wait a minute, Leonard. There's something I'd like to ask you.”

The process server turned back to face Taylor.

“My question is, does your mother know you're such a shit, Leonard?”

Drewry bristled but he was a head shorter than Taylor. The man had legal authority and he was armed while Taylor was not. Even so he did not want to start something or he would find himself out in the middle of the street wallowing in the road apples there. Instead he turned and rather stiffly marched back out into the night.

* * *

Hahn unfastened the bottom two buttons on his waistcoat and sat in his favorite chair. Loozy ran to get his slippers— it was one of her regular chores and it seemed to please her that she was given responsibility in the household—
while Jessica fetched the footstool and the lamp stand. Dick picked up the mail he had collected from Thom's Valley's tiny post office after the afternoon coach unloaded. He laid the latest
Rocky Mountain News
in his lap to be perused after everything else was digested, then took out his penknife and meticulously slit each envelope open.

There were three, two from his brother back in Illinois and one from Jessica's mother in Denver. He opened Jessica's mail but did not read it before passing it to her.

“Is there anything new from Danny?” Jessie asked when Dick set his mail aside and picked up the newspaper.

“No, not really,” Dick said from behind the wide-spread newspaper. “He's thinking of standing for office next term.”

“What office, dear?”

“State house. Could I trouble you for a drink, dear? Brandy, please. Neat.”

“State house?” Loozy put in. “Isn't that like the jail? Why would he want to go there?”

Hahn laughed. “No, sweetie. I mean the state house of representatives.”

“Would that make him famous?”

“No.”

“Important?”

“Just so-so.”

“Oh.” Loozy went back to her schoolwork, her interest diminished if it meant this “uncle” she had never seen would be neither famous nor important. After a few moments she looked up again. “How is some brandy neat and some . . . um, what would that be? Sloppy?”

“Neat means without water, dear,” Jessie put in.

“Oh.” The child made a face.

“Have you tasted Dick's brandy? Is that what that face was all about?”

Loozy pretended not to hear and Jessica did not pursue the question. But it was obvious that Loozy had tasted some sort of hard alcohol.

“Dear,” Hahn said.

Jessica looked up from her knitting.

“If things keep on the way they are going, I think we might be able to hire house help full-time. Someone to help you cook and do the heavy work. Would you like that?”

“Of course. Could we have Anselma come in full-time? She wouldn't need to sleep in.” Jessica did not state the obvious, that their house was really too small to have live-in help.

“Anyone you like,” Hahn said.

“When will we know?”

“If next quarter's numbers stay as high as I expect, we can go ahead, I think.” He raised his newspaper, then lowered it again. “I saw Leonard Drewry in town this afternoon. I think he served John.”

“Daddy?” Loozy said, sitting upright.

“A business friend of Papa's,” Jessica quickly said. She gave Dick a cautionary look that said this was something they should discuss at another time, when John's beloved daughter was not listening.

Jessie knew about the suit, of course. Dick would never have filed it without her knowledge. Jessica was not entirely sure she agreed with it, but she was aware.

Jessica laid her knitting aside, gathered her skirts, and stood. “Is anyone in this house interested in a cup of cocoa?” Loozy's “yes” and Dick's blended into a single sound.

 

Ervin Ederle

Big Man Ederle sat on the rickety chair, his perch made all the more precarious because of the presence of the chubby woman on his lap. Erv brushed the spill of jet-black hair back from her ear and nuzzled the side of her neck. That prompted a fit of giggles and squirming.

Erv laughed and shoved his hand down the front of her blouse.

“No, no. The childs. Not in front of the childs.”

If they were to do anything at all, it pretty much had to be in front of the children. The shack had only one room and it was none too large. There was no bed, just the table, two chairs, and an assortment of stools.

“Then get rid of them. I'm wanting some of what you got to give here.”

“Wait.” She stood and clapped her hands to get the children's attention—there were four of them at the table playing with the remnants of their suppers—then said, “Out. Out now. I will talk with Mr. Man in the, ah, alone, por favor.”

The children, who seemed to range in age from roughly three up to perhaps nine or ten, frowned but they did not disobey. They left what they were doing and trudged outside.

Their mother shooed them along, then unhooked the tattered blanket that served as a door and let it fall over the opening. She went to a corner and produced a rolled pallet of woven cactus fiber. Bending, she spread
that on the floor, then unceremoniously stripped off her blouse and dropped her skirt to the dirt floor. She was not wearing any undergarments.

She was flabby and not especially attractive. But she was female and she was there.

Erv Ederle chuckled, then stood and began unfastening the buttons at his fly.

“Hurry please, Mr. Man.” She lay down on the pallet and arranged herself for his convenience.

“Hell, woman, I'm in no hurry. No hurry a'tall.” Erv grunted as he got down to floor level.

“I must go soon, Mr. Man. I have work tonight.” She reached for him.

“Work! What the hell kinda work do you figure to do at this hour? You ain't whoring, are you?” He seemed oblivious to the fact that she was selling herself to him in exchange for a smile and a handful of beads he had stolen from the mercantile that afternoon.

“Oh no, Mr. Man. I have to watch over the daughter of a rich man. He pays very good.” She laughed. “He thinks that makes us to like him, but this is not so. He is a good man in his way, though. He truly cares for the daughter and she is not even really his.”

“A rich man, you say?”

“Sí, Mr. Man.” She tugged at him, trying again to get him to hurry.

“Where's he live? What does he do t' make him rich? Does he keep his money in the house?”

Still naked but obviously unconcerned about it, Anselma shrugged, got up, and sat on one of her two chairs.

“I want t' know everything you can tell me about this rich man. Where does he live?”

Anselma sighed. She was going to be late. But she did
like those beads. And if the man liked her, there might well be more beads and other pretty things in her future.

“He has a house. . . . I show you. When I leave I go there, yes? You watch. Then will you know.”

“How does he make his money?” Erv prompted. He was beginning to become excited but in a way that had nothing to do with any woman.

Again she shrugged. “This is important?”

“Damn right it is. I want to know more about this man.”

“It is something to do with the money, I think. Not bank, but . . . When I go there I will walk past where he works. There is a sign. I will show you.”

Erv grinned and leaned forward, full of a growing excitement now.

Anselma sat answering Ederle's questions until it was time for her to dress and run lest she be late for her employment watching over young Louise Taylor.

* * *

“Listen,” Erv said, leaning over the counter. He glanced around furtively and lowered his voice. “I came into some money. Sold out my whole outfit, see, an' I been looking to invest it so's I won't just blow the poke. You see what I'm saying?”

The bank teller nodded and cleared his throat. “We have excellent savings opportunities here, friend. We pay three-quarters of a percent interest and—”

“No, no, no,” Erv interrupted. “What I'm thinking is a proper investment, see. An' what I been wondering is about that fella that has a sign over the dry goods store. Says he's an investment broker. I was thinking maybe you could tell me somethin' about him.”

“Mr. Hahn? Oh yes, we certainly know him. He is a very good man. Very honest. Why, he handles all of this bank's investment capital.” The teller was obviously not as interested as he had been, now that he knew the bank would not be getting the gentleman's money and therefore knew as well that he would not be getting a pat on the back from Mr. Bonner for bringing new business in. But he was agreeable. He always liked to help folks, that being simple Christian duty and he being a Christian.

Ederle looked puzzled. “What d'you mean he handles the bank's money? Doesn't the bank handle its own money?”

The teller laughed. But then so few lay people really understood banks and banking. “Banks don't just take in money and let it sit in vaults, you know. Money has to be put to work if you want it to grow. Banks make loans. To farmers for seed, to businesses for goods, to cattlemen for improved stock, to all manner of people for all manner of needs. The people who receive those loans return the money with interest. So a bank's capital is constantly moving in and out. It isn't allowed to just sit. And if there is a surplus of deposits, which we are proud to say we have, the excess is put to work elsewhere. That is what Mr. Hahn does for us. He takes our excess capital and invests it on our behalf.” He laughed. “Or I should say on behalf of the depositors who entrusted us with it to begin with.”

“I'll be damned,” Ederle exclaimed. “I never knew all that. So this Hahn fellow handles all of your . . . excess, did you call it?”

“That's right.” The teller smiled.

“Thank you.” Ederle turned. The teller called him back.

“If you contact Mr. Hahn about taking you on as a
client, would you mind mentioning that I recommended him to you? My name is Adams.” He pointed to a small plaque placed over his window. “Carl Adams. Mr. Hahn knows me.”

Erv smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I'll sure do that, Carl.”

Erv was feeling very good when he exited Thom's Valley's bank.

Just think. That little man handled all of the bank's money. What did Carl say? All of the “excess” money. My, oh my. Erv grinned to himself as he walked down the block to where he had left his horse.