'You've been a great help, Mr. Vincent,' Carlo said, rising. 'I can see the people in this county are well represented.'
'Don't be in no hurry, Henderson. You ain't done learning for today. You and me, we got a place to go. You want to learn a thing or two? Then by God so you will. Get your hat and let's go.'
The police station was in the same City Hall building but without direct hallway access, for arcane architectural reasons. It was actually outside, so they walked around the corner through small-town America to its entrance. At least half a dozen people said, 'Howdy, Mr. Sam,' and tipped a hat, and Sam tipped his in return. The trees were in full leaf, so the sun wasn't so hot and a cool wind blew across them.
'Stop and look,' Sam said as they stood atop the stairs that led to the station. 'What do you see?'
'A small town. Pretty little place.'
'Where and how most people live, right?'
'Yes sir.'
'It's all stable and clean and everything's right in the world, isn't it?'
'Yes sir.'
'It's order. And that's what you and I, we work to defend, right?'
'Right.'
'We defend the good folks from the bad. From the monsters, right?'
'Yes sir.'
'We defend order. But what happens, Henderson, when you got yourself a situation where the good folk is the monster?'
Carlo said nothing.
'Then you got yourself a fine kettle of fish, that's what you got,' said Sam. 'And you and I, son, we got to clean it up. It's really the most important thing we do. You see what I'm driving at?'
'Yes sir.'
They walked in, past the duty sergeant's desk with a wave, back into the day room and the detective squad room?more waves?then past the lockup and the little alcove where there was a vending machine for Coca-Cola and another one for candy bars, down a dim corridor, until finally they reached a room marked EVIDENCE.
Sam had the key. Inside, he found a light, and Carlo saw what was merely a storeroom, boxes and boxes on shelves, the detritus of old crimes and forgotten betrayals. A few guns, shotguns mostly, rusting away to nothingness on the dark shelves. The shelves were labeled by year and Sam knew exactly where he was going.
They went further into the room, to the year marked 1940 on the shelving. Sam pointed to a box on a high board marked SWAGGER, BOBBY LEE. Carlo had to strain to his tiptoes to get it down, though it was light, being composed of little beyond documents and manila envelopes.
Immediately Carlo saw that the documents were mere photo duplicates of the one he'd already read. But the older man grabbed an envelope, opened it, looked at it, and then handed it over.
'Take a gander,' he said, 'and learn a thing or two.'
And Carlo beheld the horror.
Chapter 31
'Them two,' said Vince Morella, who managed the Southern.
'Yes, I see.'
'Shall I send some boys over?'
'No. Not at all. Send over a bottle of champagne. Very good stuff. The best, in fact.'
It was between sets in the grillroom at the Southern, beneath the cavernous horse book and casino upstairs. This week's act: Abbott and Costello.
'You sure, Owney?'
'Very.'
'Yes sir.'
Vince called his bartender over and whispered instructions. Shortly thereafter, at the bar where two men stood drinking club sodas, the barkeep approached with a bucket full of ice and a green bottle.
'Fellows,' he said, 'this is your lucky day.'
'We already ordered drinks,' said the older man.
'You didn't order no alcoholic drinks. So the owner wants everybody happy and he sent this over, his compliments. Enjoy.'
He worked some magic and with a pop the bottle was pried open, its cork caught in a white linen towel. He poured some frothy bubbly into two iced glasses.
'Bottoms up,' he said.
The younger of the men, with tight, ferocious eyes, picked up the glass and poured it back into the bucket.
'I drink what I like,' he said.
It was the cowboy and his older partner. Owney recognized them now clearly from the train station, where the cowboy had smashed Ben Siegel. They reeked of aggression as they sat at the bar, especially the cowboy. Strong of frame, erect, his bull neck tense, his dark, short hair bristly. Darkness visible: he had a look of darkness, dark eyes, dark features, a gunman's look.
A space had cleared away around him. Though elsewhere in the room, elegant men in dinner jackets ate dinner with their begowned wives and mistresses, here at the bar it was quiet and tense. The bartender swallowed, smiled pathetically and said, 'I don't think Mr. Maddox is going to like that.'
'I don't give a shit,' said the cowboy, 'what Mr. Maddox likes or what he don't like.'
The bartender slipped away, reported to Vince, who in turn reported to Owney.
'They's asking for it,' said Flem Grumley. 'We should give it to 'em.'
'Yes, yes, let's shoot up the most beautiful and expensive spot between St. Louis and New Orleans. And while we're at it, let's shoot up my roomful of brand-new Black Cherries, clanking away upstairs and paying the house back 34 percent and buying you and yours clothes, food, cars and your children's medicine. How clever.'
He fixed Flem with a glare; Flem melted in confusion.
'They want something, else they wouldn't be here, eh, old man? Let's see what it is.'
He inserted a Nat Sherman into his onyx cigarette holder, lit it off a silver Dunhill and stood.
'You boys stay here. I don't need any beef around.'
'Yes sir,' said Flem, speaking for the phalanx of Grumleys who surrounded Owney ever since the Mary Jane's shoot-out.
He walked over.
'Well, fellows,' he said, sitting down at the bar, but facing elegantly outward, 'isn't this a little brazen, even for you? I mean, my chaps could polish your apples in about seven seconds flat, eh what?'
Neither of his antagonists said a thing for a bit. But then the cowboy spoke.
'You try something fresh and tomorrow they'll bury ten more Grumleys. And you too, friend. And you won't care whether we made it out or not.'
As he spoke, he pivoted slightly to face Owney, and his coat fell open, revealing a.45 in a shoulder holster. The thickness of his belt suggested it supported another.45.
Owney looked him over. He had a little Mad Dog to him, with the glaring eyes and the total absence of fear, regret, doubt or hesitation. But he also had a command to him. He was used to people doing what he said.
'Who are you? Still playing mysterious? We'll find out soon enough. You won't remain anonymous much longer. Somebody'll talk. Somebody always does.'
'You'll be finished by that time. You can read our names in the fishwrap at the penitentiary in Tucker.'
'I won't serve time at Tucker. Or Sing Sing. Or anywhere. That's what lawyers are for, old man. They can get a chap out of anything. Now, really, what do you want? Are you measuring this place for a raid? Yes, do come, guns
