Build My Gallows High (8 page)

‘No.’ Lou turned his smoldering, angry gaze on Joe but he spoke gently. ’I wish to hell you had waited to kill her.’ Joe shrugged. ‘So I didn’t.’

‘So we’re screwed,’ said Lou mildly, reaching for the phone, he told the girl to put in a call for Guy Parker, put the instrument back on its cradle and began cleaning his nails with the broken blade of the paper knife. The thin guy yawned, glanced at the sky.

’Sun will be up pretty soon,’ the thin guy said. ‘Maybe we ought to go out to Jones Beach for a swim.’

‘Maybe we ought,’ agreed Lou. ‘But we aren’t going to. There are a few minor items to attend to.’ Through narrowed lids he smiled at Joe. ’Like finding Eels’ body and getting Red before he decides to be patriotic.’

He rose, stood beside the thin guy and stared moodily down at the river. His silence was more menacing than his speech had been. The sun was thinking about coming up, tinting the sky while it dawdled beyond the rim of sea.

The phone bell recalled Lou. Across a continent a tall, gray man sat at his desk, the receiver cradled against his shoulder so he could play with a deck of cards. He listened without comment, as Lou Baylord told him what was up. The gray man’s pleasant expression didn’t change throughout the onesided conversation. When Lou was done, Guy Parker said, ‘Tell Joe to come on home. I’m going to need him.’

‘You can have him,’ Lou said. He put the phone down, yawned and stretched. The two men watched him with hard, blank faces.

The sun looked in on them for a moment then slid away.

‘You better go too, Slats,’ said Lou. ‘Joe needs a nursemaid.’

‘The name is Christopher,’ the thin guy said.

The hulking Negro doorman watched the Model A Ford roadster rattling along the graveled drive. When it stopped he made no move to open the door. The sole occupant was a wizened youth in jeans and a blue shirt who sat behind the wheel staring up at the white facade of the El Arbol Rancho as though trying to make up his mind about something. Daylight still clung to the hills and, save for the doorman, the place seemed deserted.

Slowly the doorman moved down the steps but his ugly scowl had no effect on the driver of the battered car. ‘What you want?’ the doorman asked.

The Kid turned his attention from the pillared porch and gave it slowly and blankly to the doorman.

‘Get that junk heap out of here,’ the doorman ordered. Understanding came into the Kid’s pale blue eyes as he watched the doorman’s thick lips move. He took a folded paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to the Negro, who squinted down at it, then lost his threatening look. He slid in beside the Kid and pointed up ahead to the empty parking lot under the poplar trees. The smile he gave the Kid was gently sympathetic.

The Kid smiled back, put the car in gear and drove on around the bend. He parked it against a tree. Both men got out. The Negro led the way around to the back, through a door into a long dark hallway and along the hall to a narrow stairway. He motioned to the Kid to wait at the foot of the stairs, went up and along another hall to a door and rapped gently. Guy Parker’s voice told him to come in and he obeyed. Now humble as he closed the door behind him he went slowly across the big, comfortably furnished sitting room to the windowed alcove where Parker was eating what was to him breakfast.

‘Mister Parker, sir, they’s a dummy wants to see you,’ the doorman said.

‘A what?’ Parker was reading a magazine as he ate and he didn’t look up.

‘A dummy’

Parker filled his mouth with ham, then slowly gave his frowning attention to the doorman. He said, ’Make sense, you black bastard.’

‘A deef and dumb boy,’ the doorman said. ‘A dummy’

‘How do you know he wants to see me if he can’t talk?’

The doorman held out the piece of paper on which were scrawled nine words. Still annoyed at being interrupted, Parker took it. Suddenly he jumped up, almost upsetting the table.

‘Send him up,’ Parker snapped.’Then wake Joe and tell him to get the hell in here.’

‘Yassuh, boss,’ the Negro said, nodding and smiling as he backed toward the door. Outside he dropped the cloak of humility, threw a crooked, sneering smile at the closed door and went down to where the Kid waited. He put a gentle hand on the Kid’s shoulder and motioned to the stairway.

‘First door you come to,’ he said. Then remembering the Kid’s affliction he shepherded him up, mumbling to himself. He rapped again, opened the door for the Kid and, inside, pulled the door shut. He went in search of Joe Stefanos.

Parker was across the room almost before the door closed. He grabbed the Kid’s shirt front and scowled down at the thin, scarred face. His cool, deadly eyes hunted for some expression of fear in the pale blue eyes of the youth. Roughly he shook the Kid, as though with force to pass a miracle and make him vocal. ’Where is he?’ Parker said.

The pale eyes followed the movement of his lips. The Kid’s thin, strong hand brushed Parker’s fingers off. From his hip pocket he took an envelope and gave it to the gambler.

Parker ripped it open. Inside there were two sheets of cheap, ruled note paper covered with penciled words. When he read the first few lines he glanced at the Kid and his expression was one of angry helplessness. For Red had written:

‘That dirty red bastard!’ Parker said. He went to the leather armchair where a floor lamp burned, dropped into it and continued reading. The Kid stood watching and though his expression was blank his eyes danced with suppressed laughter.

Parker reread the letter. Rising, he moved toward the Kid, his fists clenched, his face taut with an anger that must be vented on someone. He pulled his fist back, lashed out at the Kid, who moved his head slightly and let the blow go by.

‘Goddamn you!’ Parker yelled and wrapped a long arm around the Kid’s neck. The Kid slid out of his grasp, ran over and picked up Red’s letter. His forefinger pointed to the last few lines and he stood there tapping the page with his finger and shaking his head. Parker understood. Parker said, ‘So you can read, you little son of a bitch.’ The Kid read his lips and nodded.

‘And you can hear too, you shamming bastard.’

The Kid indicated his lips. The Kid shook his head vigorously and pointed to Parker’s mouth.

‘Oh,’ Parker said. He formed words distinctly. ‘Where’s Red?’

The Kid shrugged.

Behind Parker the door opened. Joe Stefanos came in, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Joe saw the Kid and recognized him.

‘Red’s dummy’ Joe said, grinning. ‘You’ll play hell makin’ him talk.’ As he started past Parker the gambler slammed his fist against the side of Joe’s head and sent him sprawling. Joe lay on the thick carpet shaking his head and turned cold eyes on Parker. He said softly, ‘You shouldn’t do that, Guy.’

Parker stood over him and drew back one foot to kick him. The expression on Joe’s face made him think better of it. ‘Get up.’

Joe scrambled to his feet, rubbing soft fingers across his temple and wetting his lips.

‘Sorry.’ Parker’s anger was driven out of him by the murderous look in Joe’s eyes, ‘I had to hit someone.’

‘Sure,’ Joe said, giving his attention to the Kid.

‘Leave him alone,’ said Parker. He got the letter from the Kid and handed it to Joe, who read it without comment.

‘Ain’t that something!’ Parker made his voice pleasant. ‘He thinks he’s going to get away with it.’

Joe folded the letter neatly and smiled cruelly at Parker. ’Maybe he is.’

Parker considered that. He saw the Kid watching him and sensing the amusement behind the thin, scarred mask of a face, he made a threatening gesture. But the Kid refused to show fear.

‘Called Whit yet?’ Joe asked.

Parker shook his head.

‘Better get it over with.’ Joe evidenced satisfaction from the thought of how Sterling was going to take it.

‘Who’s handling this?’

‘You are, thank Christ,’ said Joe.

Parker turned his back to the Kid. ‘He can read lips, so watch out. I’m giving him a letter to take to Red. You tail him. We get our hands on the bastard and he won’t be so cocky. He isn’t far away, that’s certain.’

‘Me, I’d call Whit.’ Joe put a cigarette in his long holder, and lighted it.’He wants that junk bad. Maybe had enough to make a deal.’

‘You know what deal Red will make?’

Joe’s shrug indicated he didn’t care.

‘A patsy to hang some murders on.’

The Greek put one hand in his pocket. ‘It won’t be me.’

‘Don’t be too sure.’

‘I said it won’t be me.’ His voice was flat, deadly in its monotony.

‘Then get the lead out of your can,’ Parker said. ‘And don’t mess this up like you did the other.’ He went to the small, carved desk against the wall under a Picasso print, found paper and pen and started writing.

The Kid watched him and Joe watched the Kid. Darkness outside moved in swiftly and the crop of stars ripened. Night cooled the wind a little. Faintly the sound of the waking establishment drifted up through the open windows.

Parker thrust an envelope in the Kid’s hand and watched him tuck it in the hip pocket of his faded jeans.’Take that to him,’ he said.

The Kid nodded. The Kid looked over at Joe, pointed with his thumb and shook his head, then studied Parker’s face again.

‘We won’t try to follow you,’ Parker said.

The Kid smiled. His pale blue eyes were gleeful and Parker knew what the expression in them meant. Joe would play hell following the Kid to where Red Bailey was hiding. He motioned to the door, the Kid smiled at them both and went out and down the stairs.

Joe reached the door before Parker spoke.

‘No use. He’s wise,’ Parker said. ‘I got a better idea.’

In the back country a thunderstorm grumbled around the bald domes and across the barren, rocky wastes. But in the little meadow near where the Sonora Pass road forked from the main highway to follow the West Walker toward its source, moonlight spilled down. A dirty tent was pitched in the meadow near the river and a small fire burned in front of the tent. Red Bailey lay beside the fire, his head pillowed on his hands, looking at the sky and listening to the ominous voice of the far storm. For once in his life he found no peace in the sound of thunder in the hills. Another storm was brewing for him—he knew that. But what he didn’t know was that the storm had already broken.

Lloyd Eels’ body lay in the morgue in New York City and the medical examiner methodically worked over it. In an office not far away men read Mumsie McGonigle’s affidavit and men put bits and pieces of evidence together.

Before morning the hunt for Red Bailey would be on. Papers would tell the world about him. Wires would carry the story swiftly west and presently a car would scream up the American River to turn off at Strawberry. Men would get out of it and go up to another meadow and start hunting for the long-hidden grave of Jack Fisher.

The fire was dead but still Red did not sleep. The night had a bite to it. He pulled the canvas over him and lay listening for the sound of a car on the far road, hearing instead the chuckle of the river through the rocks and a lonely coyote on the mountain.

Another hour passed and now there was no moonlight. Red got up and went across the meadow to where a rutted dirt road found its way through the forest and along the road to the highway. He climbed the bank, hunched down behind a stunted pine and waited. He felt a thrust of fear. Perhaps he had been wrong dragging the Kid into this. A selfish thing to do. A cruel thing to do really. Like selling gold bricks in a school for the blind.

Yet the Kid had wanted to help, had insisted on helping. When Red slipped into the house back of the service station last night, the Kid had known, without being told, that Red was in a jam. Those nimble fingers of his had questioned him until Red told the story, glad of someone he could trust to tell it to. The Kid’s fingers had made letters and the letters had made words and the gist of it had been that the Kid would be the contact between Red and Parker.

‘They may beat the hell out of you,’ Red had said. A shrug had been the Kid’s reply.

A dummy, people called him. Red wished that all men including himself were as intelligent. The ears might not hear and the lips might not speak but eternal silence seemed to give the Kid a second sight.

Lights rounded a bend to the north, came closer. Red looked into the cut and saw a small car. He scrambled down the bank and was waiting where the dirt road joined the highway when the car stopped and the Kid got out. The Kid didn’t start for the meadow at once. He stood by the roadside making sure no one was following him. Presently he got back in the car, turned into the dirt road and parked it behind some brush.

In the tent Red lighted the gasoline lantern and read Parker’s short message. Sterling was in California and Parker would talk to him. It was up to Sterling whether or not Red could see him. He’d send a message down to the service station when Sterling made up his mind.

Red looked up from the letter. ‘They push you around?’

The Kid’s fingers told him what had happened. As the fingers talked the Kid’s eyes danced.

Red put one hand on the Kid’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Thanks, Kid.’

The Kid looked up at him and his fingers asked a question: Was Red sure he didn’t want Ann to know that he was here?

‘The less she knows the safer she is,’ Red replied. ‘Not a word now.’

The Kid nodded agreement and again his fingers spoke. He’d keep an eye on her. He’d see nothing happened to her

Red thanked him, put the lantern out and walked with him to the car. He hated to see the Kid drive away because now he was lonely and that was something he had never been before.