“Of course, Deputy,” Henry said. “Two hundred should do you. If you will sign this receipt, please.”
“Uh-huh.” Longarm accepted a pen from Henry and signed the receipt while Henry unlocked a small cash box and produced a carefully counted sheaf of currency that he then exchanged for the receipt.
Normal procedure called for receipts to be turned in later to account for the use of cash disbursements, but this time, for the first time ever, Henry issued no reminder about that practice.
But then the whole idea here, as Henry would fully understand, was that Longarm wanted to avoid leaving any trail of paper that would indicate where he was and what he was up to.
Hey, he was on his way to Salt Lake City to collect a prisoner. Right? Of course he was.
“Say, I almost forgot something, Henry.”
“Yes?”
“You remember that young fella that comes in here every couple months to put a job application on file? The one that wants so awful bad to become a U.S. deputy marshal?”
“Sure. Lenny Harris.”
“That’s his name, b’damn. Funny how I couldn’t remember it.”
“You need him?” Henry asked.
“Kinda. I promised to have a drink with him at Tom’s Tomcat Saloon this weekend, and I gotta tell him I won’t be able to make it, that I have to go to Salt Lake instead.”
“He’s been working part-time as a night-shift patrolman for Ed Timmons over in Aurora. I expect you can find him there.”
“Thanks.” Longarm stepped aside and tucked his expense money away while Dutch took care of the paperwork for his piece-of-shit assignment. Then the two of them, Dutch and Longarm, invited Henry to join them for a drink.
“D’you wanta come with us, Rakestrom?” Longarm asked.
The young lawyer blushed a little, confirming—as if confirmation were necessary—that he’d been there for the purpose of eavesdropping. “No, certainly not. I, uh, that is to say, the interim U.S. attorney and I, all of us, appreciate your cooperative attitudes, difficult though this must be for you.”
“Yeah, sure,” Longarm said, turning his back on the asshole. “Get your hat an’ let’s go, Henry. I got a taste in my mouth that only some first-rate rye whiskey will wash out.”
Chapter 7
Leonard Harris was in the Aurora police station, a badge prominently displayed on his shirtfront and a revolver dangling from his belt that looked to be about half as big as he was, Lenny not being an overlarge specimen of human being. Longarm wasn’t sure without asking for a closer look—which he didn’t care enough to bother with— but he thought the gun was probably one of those ancient four-pound Walker Colts, originally a cap-and-ball design. This one had been converted to one of the .44 rimfire calibers. Longarm hadn’t seen one of those old crocks in years and years.
The part-time night patrolman jumped to his feet when he saw the approach of one of his idols. The youngster wanted desperately to become a U.S. deputy marshal himself, and thought the men who already held such exalted office to be head and shoulders above any other lawmen. As the late Billy Vail’s top deputy, Custis Long would be seen by Harris as the cream of the cream. There was a Frenchified expression for that, Longarm knew, but he couldn’t remember what it was. He nodded to Harris, who was redheaded, smooth-cheeked, and looked to be fourteen or thereabouts, even though Longarm knew the kid had to be at least twenty-one even to fill out a job application for the Marshals Service.
“Hello, Lenny,” Longarm said. The youngster beamed, obviously delighted that one of his heroes actually knew him by name. “You about to make your rounds, are you?”
“I’m not due to go out again for another half hour or so.”
Longarm glanced across the room toward where the night sergeant—a man named Edwards, he thought—was sitting with his feet propped up and a magazine open in his lap. “If you was to make your rounds now,” Longarm said, “I’d walk along with you.”
“Really? I’d like that, sir. I surely would,” Harris enthused.
“Come along then, kid.”
“Just let me get my hat. Tony, I’m going out now. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Mind you check the back of Jenkins’s store, boy,” Edwards said without looking up from his reading. “He claims some kids been sneaking in and stealing candy from him.”
“His own kid is more like it,” Lenny snorted.
“I know, but I told him we’d keep an eye on his place, so do it, okay?”
“Sure.” Lenny grinned and tugged his hat down tight over his ears. “This way, Marshal.”
“Longarm,” Longarm corrected. “My friends call me Longarm.”
Lenny acted as pleased as a pup with a new bone. He squared his shoulders and puffed his chest out and proudly led the way outside and around back of the city hall to begin the process of checking all the storefronts and alleys in the business district.
“Were you wanting a word with me in private, Mar … I mean, Longarm?” Harris asked when they were a couple blocks away from Edwards and the police station.
“Uh-huh. Got a proposition for you, son. A way you can help me out if you’re interested.”
“Help you? Honest?”
