Hot Springs (60 page)

Another half hour passed. Mary sat, now hugging herself. Earl walked back and forth, smoking, like a man in a Saturday Evening Post cartoon. He kept glancing at his watch, kept looking at the door, kept trying to calm himself down. He was so desperately exhausted he could hardly think straight, but he was in that keyed up state where he couldn’t sleep either. He was just a raw mess.

At last the door opened, but it wasn’t a doctor. It was a janitor, a black man.

“Sir,” he said.

“Yes, what is it, Pop?” Earl asked.

“They’s coming. A mob. Seen it before. It happens onct a while. They done got to set things back die way they was and when they do that, some boy’s got to swing or bum.”

“Not this time, Pop. You can bet on it.”

He turned to Mary.

“I’ll take care of this.”

“Mr. Swagger, I—”

“Don’t you worry none. I faced Japs. These boys ain’t Japs. But just in case, I want you down on the floor. If some lead sails through, you don’t want to catch a cold from it.”

Earl walked out onto a porch.

He watched them come. The old man was right-There were about fifty of them, and from the groggy, angry progress, he could tell there had been much liquor consumed. The mob spilled this way and that, and shouts and curses came from it. He watched as supposedly decent people stepped aside, or stood back in horror, but he noted too that nobody stood up to these boys, nobody at all.

It was now four o’clock in the afternoon. He’d lost most sense of time and wasn’t sure how long he’d been here, how long they’d been drinking, how mad they were. The sim was low in the western sky, and flame-colored. The mountains were silhouettes. A wind blew, and the leaves on the trees all shimmered.

On the boys came. He saw shotguns, a few rifles, a few squirrel guns, hoes, shovels, picks. They’d grabbed everything they could fight with. They were killing mad.

The leader was a heavyset man in overalls with a battered fedora and the hardscrabbled face of a fellow life hadn’t treated kindly. His compatriots were equally rough, men who’d been purged of pity by bad breaks, brushes with the law, beatings from bigger men, and a sense of lost possibility. They looked like a ragtag Confederate infantry regiment moving out agin the bluebellies at some Pea Ridge or other. Earl had known them his whole life.

Earl watched them come, standing straight. His hat was low over his dark and baleful eyes. His gray suit was dusty and rumpled but not without some dignity to it. His tie was tight to his throat and trim. He calmly smoked a Chesterfield, cupping it in his big hands.

Finally they were there, and only his imperturbability stood between him and the doctors and his wife.

“You the feller brought that nigger here?”

“I brought a doctor here, boys. Didn’t stop to notice his color.”

“We don’t ‘low no niggers in this end of town. Bad business.”

“Today, that changes. I’m here to change it.”

In the crowd faces turned to faces and low, guttural exchanges passed electrically among them. Like an animal they seemed to coil and gather strength.

Finally, the leader took a step forward.

“Mister, we’ll string you up next to that coon in a whisker if that’s what you want. Now you stand aside while we take care of business, or by God this’ll be the day you die.”

“Boys, there’s been lots of days when I could die. If this is the one at last, then let’s get to it.”

He flicked aside the cigarette, and with a quick move peeled off his coat.

He had a .45 cocked and locked in the shoulder holster that Herman Kreutzer had been wearing, another .45 cocked and locked in the speed holster on his hip that Johnny Spanish had been wearing and a third stuffed into his belt backward to the left of his belt buckle. His shirt pocket was stuffed with three or four magazines.

“I can draw and kill seven of you in the first two seconds. In the next two seconds I’ll kill seven more. In the final two seconds, I’ll get the third seven. Now if some of you boys in the back get a shot into me, you’d best make it count, ‘cause if it only wounds me, I may get a reload or two in, and each time I reload that means seven more of you boys are going down. So I figure a sure twenty-one of you are dead, and probably more like twenty-eight or even thirty-five.”

He paused. He smiled. His hand fell close to the gun on his hip, and there wasn’t a lick of fear in him.

“Well, boys, what do you say? Are we going to do some man’s work today? You will be remembered, I guarantee you that. You will go into history, you can bet on it. Come on, Fat Boy, you’re up front. Is this the day you picked to get famous?”

The fat man swallowed.

“Ain’t so much fun when somebody else has the gun, is it, Fat Boy?”

The fat man swallowed again, looked back to his mob and saw that it was leaking men from the rear. It seemed to be dissolving.

Suddenly he and four or five others were alone.

“Fat Boy, I am tired of standing here. You make your play or I just may shoot you so I can sit a spell.”

The others left and the Fat Boy was alone. A large stain spread across his crotch as his bladder yielded to stress. But he didn’t blink or swallow. He peered ahead intently at nothing.

Earl walked down to him.

He reached into his back pocket. The man stood stock-still, quivering.

Earl took out his wallet, opened it.

“I see your name is Willis Beaudine. Well, Willis, here’s something for you to remember. If anything ever happens to that good doctor in there, it’s you I’ll come visit in the night. And Willis Beaudine, don’t think you can run and hide. Many a man has thought that and they are now sucking bitter grass from the root end.”

He dropped the wallet down Willis’s overalls.

“Now scoot,Willis.”

Willis turned and in seconds disappeared. Odd a fat man could move so fast.

Earl picked up his coat, threw it over his shoulder and walked back into the hospital waiting room.

Dr. James was waiting, along with Mary.

“How’s my wife?” Earl demanded.

“Your wife is just fine, Mr. Swagger,” the doctor said. “She’s not bleeding anymore, and she’s going to recover very nicely.”

“And—”

“Yes,” he said, “congratulations. You have a son.”

EPILOGUE:

1947

He didn’t have any trouble finding Beverly Hills but Linden Drive proved difficult. Finally, he stopped on a street corner where a kid was selling Maps of the Stars.

“You’re almost there, sir. Three blocks up to Whittier Avenue, then left and Linden is the next one on the left.”

“Thanks, kid.” He handed the boy a quarter.

The house was big. A star’s house should be big. It had that Southern California Mexican palace look to it, with a crown of red tiles over white stucco, some kind of towerlike or churchlike assemblage in the front, immaculate gardens and lawns. He’d seen something like it in China, but the ones in China had all been smashed to rubble by Mao’s Pioneers or Chiang’s shock infantry.

He parked, checked his watch, saw that it was exacdy 7:00 and went up the flagstone walk toward the dark wood front door, a massive slab of carved oak. It was still, and the sim was oozing through the trees toward the Pacific on one comer of the sky. It was so quiet here, the plush quiet of a very rich neck of the woods, where voices were never raised, dinner was served at 8:00 and the only noise would be the solidity of the Cadillac limo doors being gently shut by buders or drivers.

He knocked, and a man answered.

Tm here to see Mr. Siegel,” he said. “I think he’s expecting me.”

“Yeah, come on in,” said the fellow, some sort of flashily dressed Hollywood type. “I have to pat you down. Just to be sure. You know.”

“No problem,” said Frenchy.

He turned, assumed the position, and felt the quick, frightened ran of hands across his body. It wasn’t well done. He could have brought in at least three pieces if he’d wanted to.

“I’m a director,” said the man. “I never thought I’d end up frisking guys. But if you’re Ben’s friend, you move in Ben’s world.”

“What would you do if I had an automatic?” asked Frenchy.

“I don’t know. Probably scream, then faint.”

Frenchy laughed.

“This way. I’ll tell him you’re here. He’s upstairs with Virginia’s brother and his fiancee.”

“No problem. I’ll wait. I’ve got plenty of time.”

The man led Frenchy to some kind of living room at the rear of the house, or maybe it was a den. Who could tell in a house so big and plush? It was full of rococo touches, like a statue of Cupid, on tiptoes with his little bow and arrow in bronze. Some English dowager looked as if she were Queen Mab in an oil painting over the mantel but the coffee table had a French country look to it. Then a huge picture window displayed a rose trellis across the backyard about twenty-five feet, festooned with bright explosions of blossoming fire, like gunshots frozen, somehow. It was June and the roses were out. He studied the trellis in some detail, looked at the lay of the yard, the height of the wall, the location of the gate and even the lock on the gate. All very interesting.

In time, the man himself came into the room. Frenchy had never seen him before. He was shorter than he’d imagined, with a movie star’s tan and white teeth, his blond-brown hair brilliantined back like George Brent’s, his muscular, broad-chested body creamily bulging against the beautifully tailored glen-plaid double-breasted suit he wore, with a tie perfecdy tied, perfecdy centered. His eyes were bright and sharp and everything about him radiated sheer animal heat.

“I’m Ben Siegel,” he said. “And Mr. Lansky said I should see you but not to ask the name.”

“My name is a Top Secret,” said Frenchy.

“You with the feds?”

“Not the feds that you need to worry about. Another outfit. We work overseas. Handling things. Very hush-hush. I just got back from someplace I can’t even tell you about, or I’d have to kill you.”

Ben looked him up and down.

“You’re pretty young for that kind of thing, ain’t you, kid? Shouldn’t you still be sipping milk from a carton in the school cafeteria?”

“I’m smarter than I look and older than I seem.”

“Okay, so? What’s this all about? How’re you in with Meyer?”

“I don’t know Lansky. I know some people who know some people. Calls were made because favors were owed and I had something you might find useful. It happens also to be useful to me. That’s why I’m here.”

“Is this a touch?”

“It won’t cost a cent.”

“Okay. Sit down, Mr. Mystery Man.”

“Thanks.”

Siegel sat on a flower print sofa; Frenchy sat in a high wing chair, also flowery.

“So?”

“You want the name of a man in Arkansas. I happen to have some experience in Arkansas.”

“You don’t look like a country boy.”

“I’m not. But I spent some time there and I worked for a law enforcement unit and I met the man you want to know about. I know all about him.”

“How did you know I wanted to know about him?”

“You remember a guy named Johnny Spanish?”

“Yeah, whatever happened to Johnny?”

“Big mystery. But whatever happened to Johnny also happened to your old friend Owney Maddox.”

“I hear Owney’s in Paris,” said Siegel.

“Somehow, I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s in Mexico, Rio, Madrid or Manila, either.”

“I’ve heard that too.”

“Anyhow, Johnny Spanish told me of your interest in this individual.”

“The cowboy. He packed a punch, I’ll say.”

“So I hear.”

“Fuckin’ yentzer hit me so hard I can still feel it. I sometimes wake up dreamin’ about it. So what’s the bargain?”

“I know who he is. I know where he is.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

“A good night’s sleep.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Put it this way. This man and I were colleagues at one point. Then we had a policy disagreement and I was forced to make certain other arrangements. I don’t know if he knows about them. I don’t know what he knows. He could know everything, he could know nothing. It didn’t matter when I was overseas, but now it looks like I’m going to be in the States for a bit, while I go to a language school. I don’t want to worry about him showing up for a discussion.”

“I get it.”

“So our interests coincide. I give you him. You pay off your debt, and I don’t have to worry about him coming to collect his debt.”

Bugsy looked him up and down.

“You may be a guy who can handle himself but you really fear him, huh?”

“He is very good. The best. Better than me, and I’m very good and getting even better each time out. But I’ll never get to his level. He’s a natural. He’s also capable of throwing everything in his best interest away on some obscure notion of honor. In other words, the most dangerous man alive.”

“Maybe I ought to charge you.”

“No. You want him. I’ve heard the story a hundred times. It’s a famous story. It’ll probably end up in the Saturday Evening Post and then the pictures. You can’t afford in your line of work to let something like that slide. That’s why you’ve hired private eyes, bribed newspapermen, tried to infiltrate the Hot Springs police department.”

“Say, you are informed, ain’t you?” Bugsy was clearly impressed.

“I know some folks.”

“Okay, spill it. Just a second. Hey, Al, get down here!”

The Hollywood gofer appeared a moment later.

“Yes, Ben.”

“Write down what this guy says. Okay, go ahead, Mystery Man.”

Al got out pad and paper and began to take notes.

“His name is Earl Swagger,” Frenchy said. “He lives on Route 8, in Polk County, Arkansas, with his wife, just west of a little town called Board Camp, maybe fifteen miles east of the county seat, Blue Eye. The name is on the mailbox. It’s his father’s old place. He’s got it painted up real nice now, I hear. And he and his wife had a little boy about ten months ago, so they’re all very happy. He’s just been appointed a corporal in the Arkansas State Police. You failed to find him on your own because part of the deal that was made when they closed down the Garland County raid team after Johnny Spanish blew it away was to destroy all the records, so that nothing exists on paper.”