Vance had a long gray beard, gray hair swept back in a lessthan-neat ponytail. His overalls were covered with dried paint.
What looked like a pound or two of cat hair had dried in the paint. I could smell fresh-and some not so fresh- kitty litter emanating from inside.
He ushered me inside, peeked around the hall (presumably to make sure no black helicopters had followed) and closed the door. A brown-and-gray striped cat snaked between my legs, rubbed itself against my jeans. Soon he was joined by another cat, and one more to complete the whole set.
'Don't mind them,' Largo said. 'That's Tabby, Yorba Linda and Grace. Say hello, babies.'
The cats did not say hello.
I followed Largo through a hallway to a small living room, where nearly every square inch was covered in either cat paraphernalia or large well-worn books, history and a few paperback novels whose spines had given out long ago. Largo sat in an overstuffed La-Z-Boy and beckoned me to a leather couch across from him.
I took a seat and minded the stench. Two more cats appeared. I couldn't tell if they were the same ones, new ones, or the first three had simply spawned in the last minute.
'So what brings you here about Billy Bonney?' Largo said. A cat leapt onto his lap and Largo began to scratch its chin absently.
'Not Billy Bonney,' I said. 'Brushy Bill Roberts.'
'Same difference,' Vance said. 'Now go on.'
'I, uh…have you heard about the recent murders? Athena
Paradis? Several others who were killed by a man using an old Winchester rifle?'
Largo shook his head. 'I don't read the newspaper.' This was going to be harder than I thought.
'Well, in the last week and a half, somebody has been-'
'I'm playing with you, kid. I may not know how to do the
Google but I don't live under a rock.'
'So you know that Billy the Kid's Winchester rifle was stolen from a museum in Fort Sumner.'
Largo paused. 'That, I did not know.'
'But you know of Fort Sumner and the legacy of the Kid.'
'I'm very well aware of the history of that town, and of
Mr. Bonney. I've visited many times. I haven't set foot in that museum in years, though. But I do recall having a fine conversation with the proprietor-Rex is his name, I believe. Unfortunately the last time I visited was over ten years ago, and
I left under less than pleasant circumstances.'
Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and jumped off his couch, leaving several red claw marks on Largo's hand. He rubbed it, then noticed the tape covering my hand.
'What happened to you there?'
I held up the hand for him to see. 'The man I'm coming to talk to you about, he came to see me yesterday.'
'I take it he also left under less than pleasant circumstances.'
'You could say that.'
'So, Mr. Parker. It's been several years since a journalist has taken any interest in what I've had to say. And even then they didn't really take much interest in what I had to say.'
'Wait,' I said, 'back up. What do you mean 'the last time'?'
'Back when I was trying to get something done about that infernal and misplaced Bonney grave, and they dismissed me like some… loon. It's not quite so easy to secure federal funding when you threaten to reveal national history as nothing more than bunk.'
'I must have missed something,' I said. 'What exactly happened?'
Largo sat back, as a pair of cats circled his legs. He steepled his fingers and smiled. Despite the superficial idiosyncrasies of this man, I could sense tremendous intelligence. He looked like a man who still held himself with great honor and respect, but had turned his back on the very institution he sought to help.
'Ten years ago,' Largo said, 'I attempted to dig up the grave of William H. Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid. For years I fought to do this, and fought to have the story covered in the press. I wanted to inform the public of the travesty and secrets that had been kept hidden for over a century. But when you threaten the very sanctity of a legend-a legend that goes right to the heart of an entire culture-you're not going to make many friends.'
I looked around, wondered if Tabby and Yorba Linda had replaced all those friends he'd lost.
'Who tried to stop you?'
'The name Bill Richardson ring a bell?'
'As in governor of New Mexico Bill Richardson?'
'As in presidential candidate Bill Richardson. You think he'd have a snowball's chance in Albuquerque without the support of his fellow Southerners? You think anyone below the Mason-Dixon line would be happy to have one of their biggest legends-not to mention juiciest cash cows-proven bogus?'
'I don't imagine that would make a whole lot of people down there happy. But why did you want to exhume the body of Billy the Kid? What would that have proved?'
Largo wet his upper lip with his tongue, slicked it back and forth, bristling the gray hairs. He looked at me as if debating whether to speak. 'How much do you know about William H.
Bonney? And by that I mean the methods in which he died.'
'I know he was shot in the back by Pat Garrett, and that
Garrett was a former riding mate of Bonney's. He was not a member of the Regulators.'
'No, Garrett was not a Regulator,' Largo said. 'Garrett was a saloon keeper and small-time cattle rustler. To call him a former 'mate' of Bonney's is patently false, another story cooked up to give the legend bigger tits.'
'I also know Garrett became a minor celebrity after killing the Kid, and published a book about the chase and capture,' I said.
At this moment Largo let out a deep belly laugh. The cats circling his legs scattered. 'A minor celebrity, you say? Certainly nowhere near as much of a celebrity as this Athena
Paradis, or David Loverne. Actually Patrick Garrett was one of this country's very first victims of celebrity overexposure, as both his tawdry book and sketchy methods in which he dispatched Mr. Bonney left him disgraced and broke.'
'What do you mean, sketchy?' I asked.
'By sketchy, I mean that only a fool would believe that
Patrick Floyd Garrett killed William H. Bonney on July 14,
1881. The real Billy the Kid lived for many years after his alleged death in Fort Sumner.'
'Brushy Bill Roberts,' I said.
Largo nodded. 'The town of Fort Sumner would shrivel up and die without the legend of Billy the Kid to wet its whistle.
As would most of the Southwest, considering how much of its prosperity is built upon the house of cards that is the legend of its outlaws. Billy the Kid is perhaps the single most important card in that house. Pull it out, and the entire edifice crumbles.'
'And you tried to pull it out.'
'Yes, and you can imagine the good folks of New Mexico did not take kindly to having their stock in trade jeopardized.
Yes, I did try. And rightfully so. But those god damn yellow bureaucrats in Washington and down South stopped me.
Cowards are more afraid of the truth than they are of facing the fact that they've been lying for over a hundred and twentyfive years.'
'You want to dig up the body of Billy the Kid,' I said, 'and do what with it?'
'Take a sample of the DNA contained in the so-called grave of Billy the Kid and compare it to DNA obtained from his birth mother, Catherine Antrim, who is buried in Silver City.'
'And if you're able to prove that the DNA from that grave site doesn't match Catherine Antrim…'
'Then we'll know for sure that Billy the Kid was never buried in Fort Sumner, and Brushy Bill wasn't the charlatan folks would like to have you believe.'
