Out of the Past (6 page)

“Is his wife beautiful?”

“Very.”

“Then why cheat?”

“Are you sure you're a man?” she asked. “Not some mythical creature? Men cheat, it doesn't matter how wonderful they have it at home. They cheat. It's in them. They're men.”

“Okay,” he said, “I get it. Men cheat.”

“She didn't set out to actually sleep with him, but . . . entice him a little, you know?”

“She didn't actually . . .”

“What?”

“You know . . . fall for him?”

“Hell, no,” she said. “It was all business for her. You were the only man for her, Clint.”

“Okay, don't—”

“I'm sorry if you don't like hearing it, but it's true,” she said. “She would've quit for you, settled down . . .”

“We would have been miserable.”

“Probably,” Sandy said, “but she would've done it. All you had to do was ask.”

“I couldn't.”

“She knew that,” Sandy said, “and understood.”

“And you and Katy?” Clint asked. “Do you understand? ”

“No,” she said. “We both think you're a bastard for letting her go . . . but we still love you.”

“So if I hadn't let her go, and I had asked her to settle down, she'd probably still be alive.”

“Well, if you're gonna think that way you're really gonna tear yourself up inside.”

“Tell me about . . . when she got pregnant.”

“It was hard on her,” Sandy said. “She knew it was yours. She hadn't been with anyone else. We wanted her to tell you, but she wouldn't. She said that would be trapping you.”

“And the last time we all saw each other, Sandy had already been born?” Clint asked.

“Oh, hell, she was what? Five or six at that time? Annie made us promise not to tell you anything. It was hard, but we kept our promise.” She laughed. “That little girl was a firecracker when she was young. You would've loved her.”

“It would have been nice to have had the chance . . .”

“So what about this?” she asked.

“What about what?”

“Katy and I are working on finding out exactly how Annie was killed.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Right on the street, out there,” Sandy said. “Shot in the back from ambush.”

“Goddamnit!” Cowards made him livid. He'd lost his best friend Wild Bill Hickok to a coward's bullet.

“Two bullets in the back and she still lasted long enough to ask for us, and for Sandy, and to tell her daughter about her father. It was if she just refused to die until she did that.”

“That stubbornness.”

“Yeah.”

Both their mugs were empty.

“You want another one?” he asked.

“One more and then I have to get back.”

Clint called Roscoe over and told him to bring two more beers.

“I'll pay for these,” he added.

“Whatever you say.”

Roscoe brought them and took Clint's money.

“So tell me about the Camerons.”

“The old man controls a lot of what goes on in Kansas City, a fair amount of what happens in Missouri, and some of what happens in Washington, D.C.”

“That much power?”

“That much.”

“What about the son?”

“Billy Boy is the apple of Daddy's eye,” Sandy said. “Wants him to follow in Daddy's footsteps.”

“And how does Billy Boy feel about that?”

“According to Annie, Billy wasn't happy about his father pulling his strings. He wanted to dance to his own tune.”

“So he was rebellious?”

“A little, but he was too afraid of his father to try very hard.”

“Where does he go?” Clint asked. “What does he do?”

“He goes where his father tells him to go, and does what he tells him to do.”

“And where did he go when he was trying to break the strings?”

“He used to take Annie to this saloon across town,” Sandy said. “That was where he went when he wanted to drink, to get away from Daddy.”

“Give me the name,” Clint said.

“Clint, I told you that Katy and I—”

“Has it occurred to you that if they knew about Annie they'd know about you and Katy, too?”

She hesitated, then said, “It has occurred to us, yes.”

“I think you and Katy should go someplace, and take Sandy with you. Leave this to me.”

“Clint—”

“I'm sure Annie did all she could,” he said. “Maybe there are some things only a man can do.”

“I hate to admit it,” she said, “but maybe there is.”

Clint insisted on walking Sandy back to the house. But before they could leave the saloon, a well-dressed man appeared, a smile on his lined face.

“Clint Adams, as I live and breathe.”

Clint turned and said, “Tommy, is that you? You're looking very prosperous.”

Tommy Turner patted his corpulent belly and said, “If by that you mean well-fed, then yes, I plead guilty. How the hell are you?”

The two men shook hands and Clint introduced Turner to Sandy.

“It's a pleasure, ma'am. Has Roscoe been takin' good care of the both of you?”

“Roscoe's been great, Tommy, thanks,” Clint said.

“He told me you weren't in town lookin' for a game,” Turner said. “Sure I couldn't persuade you?”

“I tell you what, Tommy. Hold that thought. I've got to walk Sandy home—”

“I can get home by myself just fine, Clint,” she said, cutting him off. She looked at Turner. “Sometimes he's just too much of a gentlemen.”

“Well, I must say the lady looks like she can take care of herself, Clint.”

“Ask Charlie Rosen, over there,” Roscoe chimed in from behind the bar. “He's still feelin' the effects.”

“Charlie Rosen is always feelin' the effects of somethin', ” Turner said. “I tell you what, Clint. I'll have Roscoe walk her home, and he'll carry his scattergun. How's that?”

“Look, I don't need—”

“It'd be my pleasure, ma'am,” Roscoe said. “And I could sure use the air.”

“Well . . . fine.”

Roscoe grabbed his shotgun from beneath the bar, came around and said, “Lead the way, ma'am.”

“Stop callin' me ma'am,” Sandy said. “My name is Sandy.” She looked at Clint. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Sandy.”

“Let's go, barkeep,” she said. “See if you can keep up.”

“Let me get you another beer,” Turner said as Sandy and Roscoe went out the door. Turner obviously had a well-trained staff, because there was already another man behind the bar.

“That's okay, Tommy,” Clint said. “I was thinking we'd go to your office and have a talk.”

“This sounds serious. Follow me.”

Turner led Clint through the Red Garter, glad-handing as he went, fielding some questions from staff, until they finally reached a door in the back of the room. Turner used a key to open it and they stepped into a small but very well-appointed office.

“Back here I can offer you brandy or whiskey,” Turner said.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Then have a seat and tell me what's on your mind, Clint.”

They sat across from each other with Turner's mahogany desk between them.

“There's a family named Cameron in town,” Clint said.

“You mean there's a family named Cameron who owns the town,” Turner said.

“How can somebody own Kansas City?” Clint asked. “And why didn't I hear about this last time I was here?”

“Last time you were here you were involved in a three-day poker game,” Turner said. “You didn't notice anything else—except, maybe, Irene, my best girl.”

“Oh, yeah, Irene,” Clint said. “She still here?”

Turner shook his head.

“Left a short time after you did. To answer your other question, you have to have a big reputation, a lot of money and unlimited power. And it doesn't hurt to have a sheriff, a marshal, a judge and some U.S. senators in your pocket.”

Clint rubbed his jaw.

“I don't know that I've ever come up against somebody with that much power.”

“Probably not,” Turner said. “Some folks think he's more powerful than the president.”

Clint frowned.

“That's not a happy look,” Turner said. “What's your interest?”

“I think this family may have killed a friend of mine.”

“Who? And when?”

“Her name was Anne Archer, and it happened earlier this month.”

“Oh, that woman,” Turner said. “I read about that. Rumor has it she was seeing Bill Cameron.”

“What else do the rumors say?”

“Not much,” Turner said. “It was good for one day in the papers, and a couple of days of rumors, and then it faded. She wasn't really . . .”

“Anybody?” Clint asked. “Is that what you were about to say?”

“Look, I'm sorry your friend was killed,” Turner said. “If there's anything I can do . . .”

“What if I told you I'm going to find out who did it and make them pay?” Clint asked. “What if I said I don't care which member of the family it was? Would you want to help me then?”

“Look, Clint,” Turner said, squirming, “I've got to make a living in this city—and we are a city, we're not really a town anymore. And the Camerons are a big reason for that.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “I'm not going to ask you to help, just answer a few questions.”

Turner looked relieved.

“I'll do what I can.”

“Who's the law around here?”

“We've got Sheriff Hardesty,” Turner said. “He's firmly in Cameron's pocket.”

“And?”

“We've got a modern police force now, headed up by Chief of Police Dan Fortune.”

“And is Fortune in Cameron's pocket?”

“I don't think so,” Turner said. “But I'm sure a few key members of his department are.”

“Where's Fortune from?”

“San Francisco,” Turner said. “He was a policeman there, a lieutenant, I think. Interviewed for this job and got it. A lot of people are not happy with him, specifically the Camerons.”

“Because he doesn't fit in their pocket?”

“Doesn't, or won't.”

Clint stood up.

“He sounds like the man I want to see. Thanks, Tommy.”

“No hard feelings, huh, Clint?” Turner asked, also standing.

“No, Tommy,” Clint said, “but if I find out you went to the Camerons, there will be.”

“Hey,” Turner said, “why would I do that?”

“Power makes people do funny things,” Clint said, “especially the people who don't have it. I'll be seeing you, Tommy.”

It was too late to visit the chief of police, so Clint went across the street to his hotel and to his room to get some sleep. He was in his room five minutes when there was a knock on the door. Since he hadn't had time to take his gun off, he palmed it and went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Porter, suh.”

“I didn't ask for anything.”

“I got somethin' for ya anyway, suh. Please open the door.”

Clint cracked the door, saw the black porter standing in the hall, then opened it.

“Quick, let me in,” the man said, ducking in.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Clint asked.

“Yes, close the door,” the man said in perfect English. “Quickly.”

Clint closed the door, then turned to face the man.

“Look, I know you don't know me,” the man said. “Around here I go by the name Leon.”

“That's not your real name?”

“No,” Leon said, “but it will do.”

“Okay, Leon, why the act? Your English is obviously better than you used out in the hall . . . suh.”

“You don't need that gun.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Leon was wearing a waistcoat, tight trousers and shoes with a high black shine.

“This is what they make me wear here,” he said, “and there's no place to hide a gun.”

“Keep talking,” Clint said, maintaining hold of his gun.

“Mr. Adams, I know who you are, and you should know that not ten minutes after you checked in, the desk clerk—his name is Rawlins, by the way—sent me over to Mr. Cameron with a message.”

“What kind of message?”

“Just that you were here, checked into this hotel.”

“Why would that interest Mr. Cameron?”

“Everything interests Mr. Cameron.”

“We talking about Louis Cameron?”

“He's the only one who counts.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“I'm warning you, that's all.”

“You could've kept up your mush-mouthed act for that,” Clint said.

“I guess I just wanted you to know that's not who I am.”

“And if it's not, then why are you pretending that's who you are.”

“That's too complicated for now, and I've got to get back downstairs. I just thought you should know.”

“Well, I'm obliged, I guess, but I'd like to talk about it a little more.”

“I'll leave you a note, tell you where to meet me tomorrow. We can talk then.”