“And some of the others laughed and thought that was funny. Buddy didn’t think so. Not at all. And by then some of the boys were climbing onto the balcony. Buddy jumped out the window and grabbed hold of someone … Jeremy Baker, I think that was … and threw him off the balcony onto the crowd below. Everybody thought that was the funniest thing ever. Then Buddy threw someone else off. I don’t recall who that would have been. And that’s when it all started to go really bad.”
Longarm said nothing, waiting.
“Buddy ran to where Wallace Tatlinger was trying to get over the rail. He punched him in the face. Buddy punched Wallace, that is. And Wallace lost his grip on the rail and fell backward off the balcony. He hit a hitching rail on the street below. Hit right in the small of his back. It was just terrible luck, that’s all. He broke his back. Wallace never walked again, not a step. He died, oh, three or four years ago, I think it was. And in all that time he never walked another step nor felt a thing from his waist on down.
“And even that wasn’t the worst of it. Some of the boys got mad at Wallace getting hurt. No one knew then how badly he was hurt, but they got mad at Buddy and some started saying mean, awful things and threatening him, and all the while some of the others who weren’t so angry or serious were still calling out crude things about me and how big my tits were and how they’d be glad to come up and help Buddy satisfy me and still others were all this while trying to climb up onto the balcony, and Buddy was getting madder and the shivaree boys were getting louder and …” She ran out of breath. Or something. And had to stop for a few moments.
“More of them were on the balcony than Buddy could deal with. And he was scared. Afraid the men would hurt me. Afraid he had lost control. I don’t know what else. Whatever, he pulled a gun out. I didn’t even know he had a gun with him. He had it in a pocket. It was a little thing. It didn’t look like much. It had five shots in it. I know that for a fact, you see, because Buddy shot five of the shivaree bunch with that mean little gun. He’d been in the war and I guess killing didn’t mean much to him any more, and he stood there on that balcony and he shot five of his good friends. Just stood there and took aim and shot into them one by one by one. Five shots. Abel Warner was killed outright. Jack Hawkins was hit in the face. He screamed steady for four days before he finally died, and a mercy that was when it happened. Norm Colton was wounded but not badly. So were Pete Nare and Jason Morton.”
Longarm frowned. Of the five men who were shot that long ago night, two died at the time—well, as good as immediately, a couple days hardly mattered, this much later—and two of the remaining three were recent murder victims. As was Wil Meyers who Janie said might have been the first to suggest the shivaree crowd help her new groom with his marital responsibilities. “You think …?”
“Yes, I do. I most certainly do.”
“But what happened …?”
“Buddy was tried and convicted. He was a hero to the town and wouldn’t have been found guilty of anything less. But two boys were dead and another crippled for life and three others wounded. It was too much for the town to forgive. So Buddy was tried and found guilty. As it was, though, he was let off as lightly as the people could stomach. Anyone else would have been hanged. Buddy was sentenced to thirty years in prison. He was … earlier this year he was released on parole. Something about good behavior while he was in prison. I don’t know. It was in the newspapers. He was let go. That’s all I know for sure.”
“Have you heard from him, Janie?”
She shook her head. “Not for years. I was still young, you know. And my hero, the supposed love of my life, had gone and murdered two men and would be in prison for … well, when you’re that young, thirty years is the same as a lifetime.”
“You divorced him?”
“That wasn’t necessary. I mean, I would have. I’ve never been one to let myself get bogged down by convention or social expectation. But as it happens, it wasn’t necessary. He never bedded me, remember. The shivaree interrupted that. So it was easy to get the marriage annulled. Technically speaking, the wedding of the century never took place. Funny, huh?”
“Yeah,” Longarm said dryly. “Funny as shit.”
Janie shrugged. “Walker Sproul was the judge who presided over the annulment. He took one look at my tits and decided he would like to have what Buddy didn’t get to enjoy. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“And now?” Longarm asked.
“Now my first husband … well, sort of … is out of prison and is going around killing the people who ruined his life. I know that, honey. I know it just as sure as I know I love to screw. Buddy Matthews is the man who murdered Wil Meyers and Norm Colton and now Pete Nare. I promise you he is.”
Longarm reached the end of his cheroot and stubbed the butt out in the ashtray that lay on Janie Sproul’s ample chest. Her story about the shivaree was sad enough in its way. But her conclusions about the murders, well, he wasn’t so sure about that.
Still, it was something he would keep in mind. He would talk to some people, and …
Before he could plan any further his eyes went wide with surprise. And then fluttered near closed again once he realized what was going on. Janie had put out her smoke too and laid the ashtray aside.
Now she was down at Longarm’s crotch, her tarnished copper hair spread over his lower belly and lightly tickling his balls while her mouth, all warm and wet and eager, sucked and pulled at a cock that, while worn and thoroughly spent, seemed better able to recuperate than he would have suspected. In fact the blind snake was commencing to stand up and nose around once more under her encouragement. Well shit, he thought, if she was willing …
Chapter 18
Amos, in his guise as the dead postmaster’s kin, joined Longarm for a late lunch. Or an early supper. Whatever it was called, Janie Sproul had kept him out of the dining room for the duration of the normal dinner hour and then some. Amos bitched mightily about having been kept waiting for so long but quieted down when Longarm explained—well, partially; there were some things about his meeting with the widow Sproul that he did not pass along to the Ranger—about the information he’d received.
“You want to know what I think?” Amos asked around a mouthful of greasy but otherwise tasty pork chop.
“That’s why I told it to you, old pard.”
“I think the woman is sincere. I mean, you wouldn’t accept her story so readily if you didn’t think so, and I trust
