Blackjack

65

“LaCroix?” Chastain said.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

Chastain shook his head and looked at me.

“Not seen him,” I said.

“Me, either,” Chastain said.

“Been over a week since Black put him in the hospital,” I said.

“Last time I laid eyes on him,” Chastain said, “was when he was carried out of the courtroom, flat on his back on a stretcher.”

“Could be long gone,” I said.

“I did talk with Doc Burris about him,” Chastain said. “Saw him at the café. He said LaCroix was pissing blood. But that was not long after he was there in the hospital. Even then the Doc said he thought he was going to be all right, would be moving on, just needed to recover, heal up and such, thought the pissing blood business would go away... why?”

“There is a chance he could still be here licking his wounds,” I said.

Chastain looked to me, then to Virgil.

“You think Black would go after LaCroix?” Chastain said.

“Might,” Virgil said.

Chastain nodded.

“Be dumb of him, though, don’t you think?” Chastain said. “To get out of jail and bother with him?”

“Maybe not,” Virgil said.

“He damn sure tried to kill him in the courtroom that day. Damn near beat that poor sumbitch within an inch of his life before we could pull him off.”

Virgil nodded.

“In court,” he said. “He did.”

Virgil looked at me.

Chastain looked back and forth between us and nodded a little.

“But now you don’t think so?” Chastain said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Black was damn sure mad enough to kill, no doubt about that. But now could be a different story.”

“Get to the crux,” I said.

“It’s his only chance,” Virgil said.

Chastain looked back and forth between Virgil and me again and shook his head.

“That guy, LaCroix. He seemed pretty straightforward convincing to me, Virgil,” Chastain said.

“He was calm,” I said.

“Until he was trying to crawdad backward to save his life,” Chastain said.

Virgil stood looking off down the street but didn’t say anything.

“LaCroix seemed solid to me,” Chastain said, “and though the judge was... I don’t know, kind of off goddamn kilter somewhat, I believe the jury and judge made the right decision.”

“There is that,” Virgil said.

“Let’s say he did lie about Black,” Chastain said. “Why? Why would he do that?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

Chastain looked at the ground and nodded some.

“Something personal,” he said.

“Or somebody put him up to it,” I said. “One of the two.”

“Or not,” Virgil said.

“But that is your hunch?” Chastain said.

“Could be something to it,” Virgil said.

“Who?” Chastain said. “Why?”

“Cops, maybe,” I said.

“Why, though?” Chastain said. “Roger is dead and gone. Damn sure too late to clear him.”

I shook my head.

“Or someone just wanted to see Black fucking hang,” Chastain said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Though Black thought he was the only one that was having his way with Ruth Ann, there has been plenty of reason not to buy into that theory.”

Virgil nodded some.

“Let’s say it is the cops, I mean, it could be, I reckon,” Chastain said, “but why do you think it’d be so goddamn important to hang Black, just to clear the Messenger name.”

We thought about that for a moment, and then Chastain said, “You’re thinking Black could be innocent? Aren’t you?”

“Well, for the purposes of what I’m hunching here, it has to do with what he thinks,” Virgil said.

“Could make sense I guess that he’d go after LaCroix to prove he lied about what he saw,” Chastain said.

“Like you say, though, not sure he would go to that kind of trouble,” I said.

“But he could,” Chastain said with a shrug.

“An escapee always has a chance to move on, go elsewhere,” Virgil said, “but in the back of his mind there is always the constant threat he’s going to get caught or shot.”

“Hospital?” Chastain said.

Virgil nodded.

“Proof will be in the pudding,” Virgil said.