Blackjack

60

It was a full moon out as I climbed the stairs to my room above the survey office. It was hot and the two windows to my small room were open, but there was little breeze.

I took off my clothes and lay back on the bed. I thought about the last few days and how it was all coming together. About the Denver contingent, as Valentine referred to them. I thought about Black and how adamant he was, how demanding he was about the fact he was not the killer.

How Juniper was upset that he did not have a chance to fully cross-examine LaCroix. Juniper pleaded with the judge, but his request was denied. I agreed with Juniper’s appeal, but it would be hard to fulfill his demand, given the fact that LaCroix’s jaw was broken and he was not able to even open his mouth to speak.

Juniper appealed with the judge, insisting, saying LaCroix could respond with written word, but the judge would hear no more, not after Black’s outburst, and Black was headed for the gallows.

I kept wondering about all of it, the trial, about the Denver men, about Roger and Ruth Ann Messenger and Boston Bill Black, about Daphne actually being engaged to Black in the past, and I thought about the painter, Lawrence LaCroix, and what he testified he saw that day.

I sat up, wondered if sleep was going to happen. At half midnight I got tired of lying there so I got up. I put on my trousers, poured a whiskey, then opened the door and stepped out on the balcony. From somewhere in the evening I heard some music from one of the saloons on 5th Street. Then I looked down at the bottom of the steps and saw a figure in the dark.

“Everett?” she said. “It’s me...”

“Daphne?”

“Yes. May I come up?”

“Sure.”

I thought for a moment how she found me, then I remembered we walked by and I pointed the place out to her the night we were out on our walk. When she got to the top of the steps she practically fell into my arms.

“Oh, Everett.”

“Come in.”

I closed the door behind her and she reached up and pulled my head down and kissed me.

She kissed me hard. Then she kissed me on my cheeks and neck as if she were starving. I was without my shirt and she kissed my chest over and over, then looked up to me.

“I was sorry not to take you in when you came,” she said.

“That’s all right,” I said.

“For the most part,” she said, “I have been consoling Mr. Pritchard.”

“I understand.”

“Oh my God, Everett,” she said.

“I know this is difficult,” I said.

“What is so alarming for us is to learn that he... he... actually did this,” she said. “That he in fact actually murdered that woman, that he is a murderer.”

“I know.”

“Is there anything we can do for him?” she said.

“Not that I can see,” I said. “No.”

She shook her head and turned away from me.

“It’s like... like this is just a bad dream,” she said. “But it is not, it’s just a living nightmare.”

She turned back to me.

“Do you have anything to drink?” she said. “Any alcohol, whiskey or something?”

“I do.”

“Please, thank you,” she said. “I have been nothing but a ball of nerves.”

I poured her some whiskey and she drank it down in one gulp. She held out her glass and I poured her another one.

“Easy,” I said.

She sipped the whiskey a little, then looked to my bed.

“May I sit, please?”

“Yes, of course.”

I removed my shirt from the bed and she sat. She looked down at the glass clutched in her hand, then she drank the whiskey as if she were trying to kill something inside.

I started to put on my shirt, but she reached out and stopped me.

“No,” she said. “Please...”

She removed the shirt from my grip, tossed it on the floor, and pulled me close to her. She kissed my stomach gently, from one side to the other. Then she looked up to me and undid the buttons on my trousers.