“Mighty big gun for little old me.”
“Wanted to make sure you were not going to pull anything,” Lowery said. “Now that you have your eye back. I noticed… there was a lack of confidence.”
“All right, Patrolman,” Adams spoke up. “Put the gun away. It's obvious Mr Williams is not going to try anything.”
The patrolman holstered his gun and stepped quickly, even stiffly, back to his post by the window.
“OK, this is where I tell you what I know,” Scratch said with a chuckle.
Lowery and Adams glanced at each other and laughed.
“We don't care about what you know, Mr Williams,” Lowery said.
“I like this guy. He really thinks he can negotiate for his life,” Adams added.
“If you wanted me dead,” Scratch said. “You would already have killed me.”
Adams sighed. “We'll humor you.”
“You killed Gardner,” Scratch said.
Lowery shrugged. “Inconsequential.”
“You keep saying that, counselor. I bet you won't say it in front of a judge when you go on trial.”
Adams laughed. “None of this so-called evidence will go to trial, Mr Williams.”
“Even if you kill me,” Scratch said to Adams. “Others know. Might take years. Eventually, you'll stand trial. You also burned down Betty Klein's house. I saw you out and about with the crowd. Some old lady stopped you. You burned down the house because of the film. You and the governor were having a great time with Felix, weren't you?”
Neither man said anything. They exchanged glances. Lowery swallowed hard and looked down at his 100-dollar shoes.
“I understand now. Blackmail all over the place. Somebody hired Gardner to film you two. Somebody hired Felix to show up at the Primrose. I saw the hole in the wall when I touched that hatbox. Gardner tried to stop me. He was killed, I was hit on the head. I woke up next to Gardner's body in my car out in Coleman County. Jerzy said highway patrolmen were all over the Primrose for hours. He was told not to go in either room. This thing ballooned, got out of whack for both of you.” Scratch sniffed the air as he took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled as if he was drawing his last breath. “I'm sure the governor would hate for his youthful step in the wrong direction to go public.”
“What direction are you referring to, Mister Williams?” Adams asked with a smile. He was amused by the way the conversation had taken a turn or by the way Scratch had taken charge of the meeting.
“You and Homer, with Pita-Paul, kidnapped an aging movie star's baby. During the snatch, one of you shot and killed her husband. I'm not sure which one,” Scratch cleared his throat. “My guess is… it was you, Governor.”
“Oh.” Adams's grin widened. “How so?”
“You really don't give a shit about people,” Scratch said. “Homer cared just enough. Depending on what he could get out of it. You don't care how you get things. You just take, helping yourself to a man's last meal as you step over his body. You remind me of someone.”
“You are a very resourceful man, Scratch Williams,” Governor Adams said. “I think I should retain you.”
“What?” Lowery was not only shocked by the governor's comment, but alarmed. “Are you sure about this, Governor? I think your first decision…”
“Shut up, you fork-tongued cretin!” Adams screamed. “I call the goddamn shots. You hear?”
Lowery didn't say a word. He wanted to. He was fuming, his nostrils flaring as he breathed rapidly.
“What makes you think you can take me away from Spiff?”
“Mister Williams, I'm already taking everything away from him. Surely having you as my personal yardbird would just amuse me.”
The door flew open, knocking one patrolman to the floor. The other turned, drew his weapon. The barrel of a Smith and Wesson .45 appeared and fired once. The bullet sliced through the patrolman's gut like a knife through hot butter. He cried out, fell to his knees. Shep Howard peered through the cracked door. The patrolman who had fallen pulled his gun and fired at Shep. The bullet zipped by Shep's nose and took a huge chunk of the door frame with it.
Shep kicked the door open and stood a moment on the threshold and fired twice at the patrolman, both bullets lodged in his forehead, creating a chasm so big, a Coke bottle could fit inside the wound. Just for that fleeting second, everyone saw a gunfighter, not an aging lawman with bad knees. Bullets flew around the governor's office like mayflies around a pile of horse shit. Shep spun around and hid behind the door just as the bullets created a paint-by-numbers line drawing of a man in the moon. Scratch leaped from his chair. He fell to the floor and mashed his face to the carpet.
Mere minutes later, the gunplay ended. Five more patrolmen lay dead on the floor, drowning in their own blood. The other three more than likely killed by friendly fire than by Shep. Nothing happened for a few minutes. The only sounds in the room was sobbing coming from Lowery.
“Adams?” A voice called out. “You alive?”
Scratch recognized the voice. It was Oliver Spiff.
Governor Adams didn't answer.
The door riddled with bullet holes swung open. Shep stepped inside the office, gun aimed at anything that moved. George Spiff followed. When the coast was clear, Spiff stepped in front and surveyed the situation.
Shep helped Scratch to his feet. He looked behind the desk and saw Governor Adams dead. It seems a bullet had struck the governor in the chest.
“He's dead,” Shep said.
“Hmm,” Spiff thought about it. “That was not my intention.”
“How do we handle this?” Shep asked.
“Call Terry at the American News Agency,” Spiff said. “Say the governor has died of a heart attack.”
“Yes sir,” Shep said. He picked up the telephone and dialed. Spoke a few words, then hung up.
Lowery could still be heard blubbering, praying to a God he never worshipped. He was under the governor's desk curled up
