CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We went back to downtown Childress.

Where were Agents Cranford and Bruce when we needed them?

We stopped for a bite at a Sonic Drive-In on the main drag through town.

Hank ordered for us while I made a phone call at the gas station pay phone next door.

“Bill! I’m glad you called! I didn’t know how to get hold of you.”

“What’s going on, Kathy?” I asked. She sounded pretty excited.

“I found something in the State Archives. A letter. It was in the restricted stuff, so you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Tell me,” I said.

“It was inside an envelope with the letterhead of the Dallas Sheriff’s Office and addressed to the Governor of Texas. I think it may be a hand-written note from that guy you told me to look up.”

“What guy?”

“The U.S. Marshal. Blackjack.”

“What’s the note say, Kathy?”

“Okay. Hold on.” She put the phone down. I listened to the surface of her library counter for a minute, then she was back. “Got it. Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s dated the eighth of September, 1926. It reads: ‘Roger, Feels like this playing both ends against the middle is going to wind me up dead. There’s a lot of money in this town, but getting close to the shine is work. These people are scum of God’s Earth, but they are sly. If I don’t hit pay dirt in a week, I’m out of this God-forsaken hell-hole. If you don’t see me in ten days after receiving this, then I’m dead. Send cavalry anyway. Best, BJ.’ That’s it. What’s it mean, Bill?”

“It means that the cavalry got there too late, Kathy.”

“Why do you need to know all this stuff, Bill? And why was this restricted? This stuff happened over seventy years ago.”

“Because, darlin’,” I said. “Those were real people and they had real families, and some of those families, the sons and daughters-and most certainly the grandsons and granddaughters-are still around up here.”

“Oh,” she said. “They could be affected by this after seventy years?”

“Is the South still affected by the Civil War? Is Germany still affected by the Nazis?”

“Uh. Yeah. I see your point,” she said. “By the way, where are you calling from?”

“Childress, Texas. Kathy, this is about money, whiskey, horses and kidnapping. If I recall correctly, Roger Bailey was the Dallas Sheriff. He used to sell the bicycles that Clyde Barrow stole over in West Dallas. Sold them out of his pawn shop. This was when Clyde was still a kid, just getting his start in crime. Bailey knew what he was doing.”

“Wow. Nice guy. Was everybody on the take back then, or not?”

“Not everybody, Kathy, but sometimes the lines blurred.”

“Okay,” she said. “I still don’t understand all the secrecy.”

She had a point. I didn’t either. “Well,” I replied. “What if somebody started going around saying your grandfather made his fortune from illegal whiskey, robbery and murder-for-hire?”

“Hah! I think maybe he did, Bill.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Still, you’re right. I wouldn’t like it.”

“Exactly. Also, I think there’s even more to it all than just hoodlumism.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Don’t know. I’ll tell you if I find out.”

“Uh,” she said. “On second thought don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

I looked up. Hank drew his hand across his throat and tapped on a non-existent watch.

“Gotta run, darlin’,” I told her. “I’ll see you later.”

“Um. Bill? Uh. I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Just spit it out.”

“Well, okay. I don’t want to go out with you.”

What? I thought. “I thought I was just buying you dinner. You know, friends?”

“Oh. Okay. Good. I’m glad you thought that. It makes it easier. I still can’t.”

“Alright,” I said. “Why?”

“‘Cause,” she said. “What you do is too dangerous. I don’t want any part of it.”

I paused two beats, let it sink in.

“Good,” I said. “I always knew you were a smart girl.”

We exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

“Well,” I said aloud to myself. “I’ll be damned.”

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