“You weren’t rude, O’Malley. You were just a little full of yourself. And full of a lot of rotgut whiskey, I assume.”
“In my better days I drank only the best,” O’Malley the leprechaun said wistfully. “But alas too much of that for my editors. They didn’t understand that there is truth in the bottle.”
“You mentioned that last night. A couple of times in fact. Now what can I do for you?”
People streamed around them on the wide dusty street. The way a few of the passersby winked at each other when they saw O’Malley told Fargo a lot about how the town regarded him. The town drunk, the town clown. He didn’t want to feel sorry for the little bastard but he did.
“I believe I turned down your offer of cooperation.”
“You did.”
“Well, when I woke up this morning I thought I might think it over.”
“Why’s that?”
O’Malley tapped three pudgy fingers to his forehead. “As far as I can remember, when I pulled the sheets back on the bed in my dingy little hotel room there was a rattlesnake in it.”
“Drunks see all sorts of things, O’Malley. Dancing girls, pink elephants—”
“If you’d care to ask the night clerk at the Excelsior hotel he’ll bear out what I said. I have a distinct memory of him trapping the thing and carrying it outside. He seemed to be very dexterous with rattlesnakes. I recall being quite impressed.”
Fargo studied the pudgy face. For all his grandiosity O’Malley was an intelligent man who, despite his whiskey-soaked mind, still managed to function. The story he’d told was easily enough checked. There’d be no point in lying about it. “If it’s the killer he’ll try again.”
“And if it’s the killer, I’ll be waiting for him. I plan to sit up all night in my room. And I won’t just have my derringer either. I own a six-gun and I know how to use it.”
“Sounds like you want the killer to come at you again.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you? What could be a better story than a reporter who traps a killer and gets a confession out of him?”
A dapper man in a blue suit and white shirt and red cravat came up behind O’Malley. He wore a dark Vandyke beard and a sneer. “Let me apologize to you, Mr. Fargo. My name is Amos Parrish and I’m sorry that my reporter here is no doubt wasting your time—as he wastes everybody’s time in this town.”
O’Malley’s eyes showed embarrassment and shame as Parrish put a hand on the Irishman’s shoulder.
“We were having an interesting conversation as a matter of fact,” Fargo said.
“Oh, don’t stick up for him. Or God knows feel sorry for him. That’s his main weapon. He rooks you in and makes you become his protector. I only keep him on because every once in a while he comes up with something. But most of the time he just stumbles around town here and bores people to death with his so-called secrets. His latest secret seems to be the identity of the man who killed all three of those young men who were involved in the bank robbery. I think everybody else pretty much knows who that is but no, not O’Mal ley here. He knows better than everybody. He knows the ‘secret.’ Usually I don’t interrupt him this way but I’m well aware of your reputation, Mr. Fargo, and I’m delighted that you were honorable enough to stop on your journey and bring Byrnes’ body in. I’m just sorry you have to endure poor O’Malley here.” He finally removed his hand from the Irishman’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go get yourself your morning drinks, O’Malley, and stop bothering Mr. Fargo here?”
Fargo was surprised by how quickly O’Malley turned and hurried away. His face had been scarlet with humiliation. He was a beaten man and he walked slumped over, as if he might pitch forward.
“He didn’t have that coming.”
“Oh, my Lord, Mr. Fargo. You weren’t taken in by him, were you?”
Fargo could tell that the dapper Mr. Parrish had decided that the Trailsman might not be as impressive as he’d always heard. Skye Fargo being taken in by a drunken reporter who was on his last legs?
“I don’t know that I was taken in. But you didn’t need to treat him like a dog you wanted to get rid of.”
The man put a fine hand on the lapel of his suit coat as if he were addressing an audience. “On my own behalf let me say that I’m his last resort. Nobody else would hire him let alone pay him for the little actual work he gets done. And I don’t appreciate being called to task for how I deal with one of my employees, especially by somebody who apparently doesn’t understand the circumstances. Good day to you, sir.”
He stormed away. He’d be one hell of a man to work for. And once more Fargo felt a little sorry for O’Malley.
6
“Is Bob Thomas here?”
The mannish middle-aged woman in the flannel shirt raised her wide face to consider Fargo’s question. She didn’t appear to be taken with him at all. “Who’s asking?”
“Name’s Fargo.”
“Oh. Heard about you. Why’re you looking for Bob?”
“Need to ask him some questions.”
“About what?”
The one-room office of The River Shipping Company was contained in a long crude structure made of logs. There was no back wall as such. Instead there was a loading dock. That was now piled high with boxes and crates of various sizes. From down near the shore Fargo could hear the voices of men talking and laughing as they loaded cargo.
“That would be between Thomas and me, ma’am.”
“You know who I am?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“I’m his mother.”
“I see.”
“I hired him after Lenihan fired him. My boy never stole anything.”
“I need to talk to him directly, ma’am.”
“If you’re here about the night when he smashed the stage line window—well, that’s something he shouldn’t have done, even if Lenihan did fire him just because he was jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Sure. My boy Bob, all the ladies like him. Young, old, don’t matter. He told me she was makin’ eyes at him. And he didn’t start that fire, neither, in the back room after he was fired.”
“I didn’t hear about the fire.”
“Well, he didn’t do it.”
Sure he didn’t, Fargo thought. The little son of a bitch is a regular angel. “I need to talk to him.”
The Thomas woman pushed up from her desk and said, “He’s tired of people suspecting him of things.” Then she walked to the dock and bellowed, “Bobby, honey, come up here, please. Man wants to talk to you.”
She trundled back in, resumed her position behind her desk. “Cain probably sent you.”
“I’m helping him. But he didn’t send me.”
“You a Pinkerton?”
“No, ma’am. But Cain seems to think I am.” His humor was wasted on her.
For somebody who was loading cargo, Bob Thomas looked damned clean and shiny. He wore a fancy blue shirt, fancy blue trousers and fancy soft leather boots into which he’d tucked his fancy trousers. He had curly black hair, angry blue eyes and the kind of face some women like and all men want to damage as quickly as possible.
“Bobby’s the foreman. Every job they put him on in this town they make him work like some kind of Mex or something. But I’m using him the way he should be used.”
“Who the hell is this guy, Ma?”
“Now, Bobby, he just wants to ask you a few questions.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to answer a few questions.”
“Now, Bobby.”
