Robert B. Parker's Blackjack (24 page)

T
hirty minutes prior to the hanging, Virgil and I walked to the gallows, and when we rounded the corner it appeared the whole town was waiting to witness the hanging of Boston Bill Black.

“Good goddamn,” Virgil said. “Don’t these folks have something better to do than to watch a man die?”

“Guess not.”

We walked past the Gallows Door Cantina and Eloise looked up and offered a wave just like the one she gave me in my dream, but this was no dream, not this time, this time it was real and it was happening.

The Gallows Door Cantina was crowded with happy and upbeat beer drinkers. It was a celebration for people to gather for a hanging. Hangings had become as much a spectator event as horse racing and boxing.

When we got close, we could see the Denver contingent standing near the gallows.

“Looks like the Coloradoans got here good and early so they had a good spot,” I said.

“Does,” Virgil said shaking his head.

Sitting in a covered buggy on a rise just behind the gallows was Judge Callison. He was sitting back under the buggy’s shade, smoking a cigar.

Atop the gallows stood the executioner and the two main Appaloosa ministers, one from the Methodist church and the other from the Baptist church.

Virgil and I walked around the crowd and moved up the rise and stood near the judge.

He looked over to us and waited a moment before he said anything.

“You did all you could do, fellas,” he said. “You are both good lawmen.”

We looked to him but didn’t say anything. There was really nothing to say.

“What we do is never easy,” he said.

Again, we said nothing.

“I been at this for almost fifty years now . . .”

He puffed on his cigar for a moment, looking at the gallows.

“Tried my first murder case when I was just twenty-one. I defended a man I knew was innocent. I would have bet my life on it. He convinced me of it but not the jury. I lost the case and he was sentenced to hang. I was sure heartbroken, thought I had really let him and his family down. I damn near quit right then and there. When he walked to the gallows he looked to the parents of the fellow he was accused of murdering and said, ‘I would do it again if I had the chance’ . . . That was my first hanging . . .”

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Here he comes.”

The massive crowd turned to see him and everyone started to chatter.

Coming up the Street was Boston Bill Black. He wore shackles on
his hands and feet and was being escorted by Book on one side and Chastain on the other, and for extra precaution, every deputy that Appaloosa employed flanked them.

Black stood a full foot and a half taller than Chastain, Book, and the deputies. Looking at him like this reminded me of the story of Hercules as they approached. He was walking with his head up and was looking about, making sure everyone got a good look at him.

The chatter got louder as the crowd parted, making way for them, and when they got to the gallows steps the boisterous group began to jeer.

“Here we go,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

We watched as Black climbed the steps. When he got to the top, the ministers held up their hands to quiet the crowd. After a bit, the crowd simmered. The Baptist minister moved forward a bit.

“Anything you wish to impart,” he said. “Any last words?”

Black looked at the people, then looked to the executioner.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said.

The crowd erupted with excitement as the executioner moved forward and guided Black toward the gallows door. He positioned Black where he wanted and started to put a hood over Black’s head.

“No hood,” Black said. “I want to see the faces.”

The crowd erupted loudly and began shouting, “Hang him, hang him . . .”

The executioner tossed the hood to the side, then reached up, grabbed the noose, and placed it over Black’s head. He tightened it around Black’s neck, then walked over to the lever. He put his hand on the lever.

“Fuck,” I said.
“Look!”

Sliding recklessly around the corner came Valentine’s prison wagon being pulled by his sweat-soaked mules, Magellan and Columbus.

Valentine was on his feet with the reins in one hand and a bullwhip in the other. He was swinging the whip around and popping above the heads of his mules.

“Haw!”
Valentine shouted,
“HAW!”

“Hold up!”
Virgil called out loudly. “Hold up!”

The executioner took his hand off the lever, and within a moment Magellan and Columbus parted the crowd and Valentine pulled back on the reins, stopping the prison wagon directly in front of the gallows in a cloud of dust.

Virgil and I moved forward, and when the dust settled we saw sitting in the back of the prison wagon Lawrence LaCroix.

T
he remainder of July 3 was spent in the judge’s chambers with Lawrence LaCroix.

LaCroix was still hurting from the beating he received from Black. His arm was in a sling and his leg was in a splint. His eyes were dark from having a broken nose and busted jaw, and it was painful for him to speak, but he was talking fairly clearly out of the corner of his mouth.

“Let me get this straight,” the judge said. “You are not British?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not . . .”

Callison shook his head and looked over to Virgil, Valentine, and me.

“Where are you from, Mr. LaCroix?”

“I was born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”

“Actually, let me ask you first before we get into more insanity, what is your real name?”

“Ben Salter.”

Callison nodded.

“Ben Salter?”

“Yes.”

“We can believe that?”

He nodded.

“We can assume you have no reason to lie about that?”

“No reason.”

Callison shook his head.

“And, according to Mr. Pell here,” Callison said with a glance to Valentine, “you have no idea who paid you to lie?”

“No,” he said.

Callison looked at him for a moment, then sat back in his chair.

“You are a worthless piece of shit,” the judge said. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

He looked at the judge and lowered his head.

“I have been a judge longer than well water, and in that time I have never come across anything as despicable and atrocious as you.”

Ben Salter’s chin was on his chest.

“I needed the money,” he said quietly.

“Come again?”

Ben looked up, making eye contact with Callison.

“I needed the money.”

The judge shook his head in disbelief.

“You testified in that room out there,” the judge said with a point toward the courtroom, “to send an innocent man to hang.”

Ben Salter looked to the three of us, then back to the judge.

“It was him or me,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I was over my head in debt,” he said.

“Go on.”

“Gambling debt, to some very unsavory men that were going to kill me. They’d killed others. I knew this, but I . . . had no choice.”

“Where was this?”

“Saint Louis.”

“You did not come here from Denver?”

“No, I did come in from Denver, I made the trip to Denver before I came here. I went to the police in Denver and told them I was an eyewitness, that was part of what I was supposed to do and then I came here, but I’m from Saint Louis.”

“Why did you not just leave Saint Louis and get away from these men instead of doing what you did?”

He shook his head and started to cry.

“I have a wife and kids.”

Callison shook his head.

“How was it this . . . anonymous . . . opportunity came about for you?” Callison said.

“I received an envelope with half the money that I owed,” he said.

“How much money?”

“Twelve hundred dollars.”

“Continue,” Callison said with a roll of his finger.

“In the envelope was a letter with instructions on how and when, if I performed convincingly, as I had performed in . . . in the play, I would receive the other half.”

“An additional twelve hundred?”

“Yes.”

“And what made you think that there would be the money waiting for you?”

“There was the promise of a five-hundred-dollar bonus.”

“And you believed this?”

“Yes, the fact there was twelve hundred was good enough for me.”

Callison looked to us and shook his head dramatically.

“For the life of another man?”

He nodded.

“I fucked up.”

“Oh, yes, you did,” Callison said.

Callison glared at him for a moment.

Callison turned in his chair and pointed to the painting.

“This is not yours, I presume?”

Ben looked at the painting and shook his head.

“And you are not a painter?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“So how was it you acquired the . . . this
Bloom Where You Are Planted
painting you showed here as evidence?”

“The note had instructions for me and what I was to do.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

“Arrive here,” he said. “Check into the hotel and I would find further instruction. If I performed convincingly, I would get the rest of the money and the bonus.”

“And what was the instruction?”

“There was the painting and a note detailing what I was to do with it.”

Callison shook his head again.

“What is your profession?”

“I’m an actor,” he said.

Callison’s eyes got big.

“My God,” he said. “A thespian?”

“Yes,” he said.

“In Saint Louis?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you receive this letter?”

“At the theater,” he said. “In Saint Louis. The Saint Louis Theater.”

“Explain,” Callison said.

“I was doing a play,” he said. “And after an evening performance I
went back to my dressing room and I found the letter, with the money.”

Callison turned and looked to us and shook his head slowly from side to side, then looked back to him.

“Where did you have this gambling debt?”

“All over town, really,” he said. “I would borrow money, and I just kept borrowing, and I thought I would get ahead, but I didn’t. For a while I was in very good favor, but then my debt got bad and I was kicked out of most places.”

“Did you gamble in the casino that was opened by Mr. Black?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you did not know Mr. Black?”

“No, I never met him. He was gone from Saint Louis before I ever went into the place.”

“You say you were in good favor? What do you mean by that?”

“I had a credit line, but then it was called and I was barred from going into most places, including Pritchard’s place.”

“And you did not go to the police, I take it?”

He stared at Callison.

“No.”

“You are in serious trouble,” Callison said. “You understand this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

J
uly Fourth was a day of celebration. Judge Callison sat in his office with Virgil, Bill Black, Juniper, and me, and reviewed Black’s history. He listened patiently and without expression to Juniper’s exceptional but long-winded oratory regarding Black’s wrongful incarceration, persecution, and sufferings.

When Juniper finished, Judge Callison stared at him for a long moment, then gazed out the window. Then he looked back behind his chair as if he heard something. After a few seconds he turned back to Black. He stared at Black for an enduring amount of time before he said anything.

“To say there is a litany of wrongdoing on your part, Mr. Black, would be a gross understatement.”

Black sat, stoically looking at the judge.

“What you have done,” Callison said, “what you have left in your wake cannot be reversed. Though I cannot hold you directly accountable for everything that has happened in your wake, I can, of course, not dismiss the direct disregard you have shown to the law and to the sanctity of the law and of this courtroom. So I find you guilty of
destroying city property and charge you with a fine in the amount of however much it will cost to replace the bars you pried from the windows of the jail and the bed frame you ripped out of the floor . . . fair enough?”

“It is, Your Honor,” Juniper said.

“I was not talking to you,” Callison said.

Black held his head upright, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”

That afternoon, I walked with Allie to the hospital to get Daphne.

“You’re smitten,” Allie said.

“You think?” I said.

“I do,” she said.

“I like her.”

“Like her,” Allie said with a grin, then elbowed me in the ribs. “You’re smitten.”

“Maybe a little.”

“I know she likes you.”

“What’s not to like,” I said.

“That’s true,” she said. “You’re a pretty fair catch.”

We were approaching the hotel, where the chief was sitting on the porch with Detective King.

“Good afternoon,” the chief said.

“It is,” I said.

“Word?” he said, then scrutinized Allie a little and offered a crooked smile.

I glanced to Allie.

“Oh . . . go ahead, Everett,” she said. “I want to get some clothes for Daphne, anyway. I know she’ll appreciate it.”

The chief watched as Allie walked up the steps past him and into the hotel, then leveled a harsh look at me.

“So the sonofabitch got off the hook?” the chief said.

“Obviously should have never been on the hook,” I said.

“It’s bullshit.”

“Not.”

“Oh, bullshit,” he said. “If he did not do it. Then who the hell did?”

“I could ask you the same question,” I said.

“And you think I would have an answer?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”

“He tricked you,” the chief said.

I looked off down the street, smiled a bit to myself, then looked back to him, but didn’t say anything.

“He can’t fool me,” the chief said.

“No?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t care what happened with the fella that lied about what he saw.”

“That seems apparent.”

“He won’t get away with this.”

“Judge commuted his sentence,” I said.

“So.”

“So?”

“It’s bullshit.”

“No,” I said with a smile, “it’s not.”

“It goddamn sure is,” he said, getting to his feet aggressively.

Detective King got quickly out of his chair and put his hand on the chief’s chest as a precaution to keep the chief from physically attacking me, which he was close to doing.

“Look,” I said, “I know you lost your son and daughter-in-law, and I’m sorry for your . . .”

“She was nothing but a goddamn tramp,” he said with red face. “A goddamn tramp.”

Allie came out the door with a suitcase in her hand, looking at me
like she had just seen a ghost. She glanced to the chief briefly and came down the steps in a hurry.

She hooked her arm in mine and said, “Come on, Everett.”

I moved off with Allie as she practically dragged me away from the chief and Detective King.

I looked to her as we crossed the street in a hurry and tears were running down her cheeks.

“What is it, Allie?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Allie pulled me around the corner and we walked a ways farther until we got to an alley. Then she pulled me into the alley.

“What is it, Allie?”

She let go of me and continued to walk in the alley, and when she was ten feet in front of me she turned on me and said, “She did it.”

“What?”

“She killed the woman in Denver.”

“What?”

“Daphne,” she said. “She did it, Everett.”

Allie dropped to her knees and opened the suitcase. Inside the case were tubes of oil paints, brushes, and a tintype photograph of Bloom’s Inn.