The Fourth Durango

Chapter 15

Fork and Vines entered Mayor B. D. Huckins’s house without knocking at 12:46 A.M. to find Jack Adair on the cream couch with a bottle of beer and the mayor in her chocolate-brown leather chair. She turned to say something as they came in but Sid Fork preempted her with: “Somebody shot Norm Trice dead about an hour ago and left us a message.”

Huckins nodded, as if at some mildly interesting news, and rose slowly, turning away from the three men. She walked over to one of her Monet prints and seemed to examine it carefully. Still staring at the print, she said, “How’s Virginia taking it?”

“Hard.”

“You get somebody to stay with her?”

“She didn’t want anybody.”

Huckins turned from the slice of “On the Seine at Bennecourt,” her face composed, eyes almost dry, voice steady. “I’ll call her. See if she’d like to stay here a few days.”

The mayor moved to the rear of the leather chair and leaned her thighs against its low back, as if she found the support reassuring. Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “What message?”

Vines took the five-by-seven-inch manila envelope from his hip pocket, crossed the room and handed it to Huckins. “It’s addressed to you,” he said, “but it concerns all four of us.”

“I see you opened it,” the mayor said, her tone making it clear she didn’t like anyone opening her mail. She removed the photographs and examined them quickly. When she began to go through them more slowly, Jack Adair asked, “Who’re Norm and Virginia?”

“Virginia’s the wife of Norm Trice,” she said, putting the photographs back in the envelope. “He owned the Blue Eagle Bar and some other property around town. He was also my earliest backer.” She looked at Adair. “Financial backer.”

Adair used a sympathetic headshake to demonstrate how fully he appreciated the mayor’s loss. She walked around the leather chair to hand him the envelope. “I’ll miss Norm,” she said.

“I can imagine,” said Adair as he removed the photographs and went through them slowly. When he finished he looked up at Vines. “You hid and I stuck out my tongue.”

“The chief thinks it’s a metaphor.”

Fork shook his head. “You said that, not me.”

Adair looked at B. D. Huckins, who had moved over to a window and was staring out at the night. “Where and when did they take this one of you and the chief?” he asked.

Without turning, she said, “Just after six in the evening two days ago in the parking lot behind City Hall.”

Adair looked at Fork for confirmation. The chief tugged at an earlobe, frowned and said, “By God, that’s right.”

B. D. Huckins turned from the window to look at Adair. “Sid and I were talking-maybe even arguing-about whether to have a drink. We didn’t. Have a drink, I mean.”

“You didn’t notice the photographer either,” Vines said.

The mayor shook her head. “Those pictures of you two. Where were they taken?”

“Downtown Lompoc,” Vines said. “Less than an hour after Jack got out of jail.”

She looked at Fork. “I’d like a drink, Sid. Some brandy.”

“Anybody else?” Fork asked. Vines said he’d like a beer and Adair said he’d finish what he had. After Fork left for the kitchen, the mayor sat back down in her favorite chair, tucked both feet up beneath her and smoothed the black skirt down over her knees.

No one said anything until Fork returned with two beers and the brandy. He served Huckins, handed Vines an open bottle and asked if he needed a glass. Vines said he didn’t.

After she tasted her brandy, B. D. Huckins asked the room at large, “What could be the point of killing Norm?”

“To make sure we understand the message,” Vines said.

“Which is what-in plain English?”

“That’s easy,” Fork said, taking the only other chair in the room, which was really more stool than chair. “They used those photos to tell us they know all about how you and I’re going to supply the judge and Vines here with a hideout. Then they killed poor old Norm to tell us they’re the worst kind of folks to fuck with.” He looked at Vines. “That about it?”

“Just about.”

In the silence that followed, Jack Adair leaned back on the couch’s cushions and examined the ceiling. Finally, he said, “I wonder how they discovered the connection between you and us so quickly.”

After another, briefer silence, B. D. Huckins said, “Somebody talked.”

“I told no one,” Adair said. “And Kelly spoke only to Soldier Sloan.”

“Then he talked to one person too many,” she said.

“Who’d you tell?” Vines asked her. “Other than your sister?”

“Nobody.”

Vines and Adair looked at Sid Fork, who said he hadn’t told anyone either.

Adair returned his gaze to the mayor. “And who would your sister tell?”

“Her husband,” Fork said before the mayor could say anything.

“I hope she did,” B. D. Huckins said, indifferent to the three bleak stares she drew. When she spoke again, it was to Jack Adair. She leaned forward a little and stared at him with cool gray eyes that-Adair later swore to Vines-“peeped right down into the basement of my soul where it’s all dark and dirty and crawling with bugs.”

“Understand this,” she said. “If I’m to negotiate with these people-whoever they are-I’ll need an intermediary. A go-between.”

“Makes sense,” Adair said.

“And a rich go-between’s far better than a poor one because a rich one won’t be nearly so tempted to cross us, if the occasion presents itself-which, in this case, it sure as hell will. And God knows Parvis is rich enough.”

“Parvis your brother-in-law?” Adair asked.

“Yes.”

“Thought you said his name was Mansur.”

“Parvis Mansur.”

“When do Kelly and I get to meet him?”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Are you talking about Saturday or Sunday?”

“Saturday. Today.”

“Today’d be fine,” said Jack Adair.