I eased the door slightly, knowing that in pitch darkness I wouldn’t be much of a target.
“Dammit, Sheriff, open that door,” Judge Nippers said.
I did, and he slipped in. I closed it behind him and dropped the bar once again.
“What are you trying to do, save the county a nickel of lamp oil?”
“You just stand right there, and I’ll light up,” I said.
I felt my way back to my desk, found a lucifer, and thought to hold it far from me, just in case I was a target. I scratched it to life with my thumb. The flare was blinding. And there was Judge Nippers, looking the worse for wear, holding his flask of Kentucky, glaring at me.
“That punk Carter Bell perjured himself,” the judge said. “You got some paper and nib and ink?”
“I do,” I said.
“That’s good, because I’ve got some court orders to write,” he said.
THIRTY-ONE
I rustled up some paper and a nib pen and inkpot and blotter, and set them before the judge, who had settled his bulk in my swivel chair.
“Should have made it sooner,” he said, uncorking the ink and dipping his nib into the ink. “Trouble is, I soaked my gizzard more than usual, and catnapped. The rascal decamped, though I’d intended to collar him. He was swizzled, and I didn’t discourage it. He’s a blabbermouth, and after a dozen little sips, which I’ll charge the county for, he began to undo his perjury.”
He studied the naked paper, his pen poised and ready.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
“I’ll show you in a minute.”
“Print her out,” I said. “Then I’ll get them letters right.”
“No, I’m going to scribble, and then I’ll read it to you.”
“What you got going there, Your Honor?”
“Hush now, this taxes me. You can’t stay up all night and write a bulletproof court order now, can you?”
I figured I’d just have to wait. I slid a shutter open a little, and saw that the new day was quickening, and soon there’d be full light to shine upon the day’s slaughter. I sort of wished the light would never come, and this here day wouldn’t begin. But I didn’t have any skill at stopping clocks. And the seven-day clock on the case there was showing almost seven. It sure was quiet. Not a peep from back in the jail either.
Judge Nippers scribbled a little and then paused. “That soak you sent my way was entertaining. After we’d shared a few shots, I asked him what happened over there at the Last Chance, and at first he just smiled some and allowed it was just like his testimony in court. I eyed him and said, ‘Horsepucky.’ He laughed and said that was rich. Horsepucky was it, all right.”
“What was horsepucky?”
“The whole story. It took another dozen sips before the wretch began to spill any beans, but when they spilled, they scattered all over my floor.”
“There’s another story?” I asked.
He glared at me. “You sure are slow, Pickens. I don’t know what to do about you.”
He paused, pen poised over the paper. “I don’t quite know what to do yet. But I’ll do something,” he said. He reached for his flask and took a long, deep suck on her, and then hiccuped and belched real fine. That judge could belch his way right through an hour if he wanted.
“I sure had to pump the little turd to get it out, but I got it out,” he said.
“You mean Carter Bell?”
“He’s the only little turd in town, Pickens.”
I peered out the window, looking for signs of life, but it still was real quiet out there on Doomsday.
“After we soaked his brain a little, he told me how it happened. Crayfish had it in for the three crooks he employed, he being a bigger crook and now having smaller ones nibbling at his ankles. There were the Jonas boys, dumb as stumps but smart enough to slide out and turn the T-Bar brand into the Double Plus, by extending the T into a cross, and turning the bar into a cross. Now you’d think some crooks would be a little cautious about claiming a brand like a Double Cross, but these dopes thought it was clever. It didn’t fool Crayfish for an instant.
“Rocco, the remaining deceased, was another sort of cat. Crayfish had some appetites that would have made Paul Bunyon look like a midget, and Rocco was hired to keep him supplied. But Rocco came out of Hell’s Kitchen, and saw ways to make money. So Crayfish thought it was time to ventilate Rocco, along with the Jonas lads.
“Now here’s the fun of it. Crayfish amused himself with the idea of pinning the whole thing on King Bragg, son of his rival Admiral, who had a nasty habit of strutting down Wyoming Street with a custom-made revolver, looking for someone to kill. Well, my friend, it was easy to set up. Carter Bell had no notion he’d be a witness. He was simply told to wait in the Last Chance. That crappy bartender Sammy Upward was recruited to dose some red-eye he would serve the kid. After that, Plug Parsons wandered next door now and then looking for King Bragg to come in, as he usually did, and simply invited him over. It was easy. Bragg showed up, landed on his face, Crayfish pulled the kid’s Colt, executed the three on his list, and stuffed the gun back in the kid’s possession, where it remained until the kid awakened. That was the afternoon’s entertainment.”
“The boy’s innocent?”
