The Dublin Detective (10 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Dublin Detective
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“How do you know?”
“Because I know him very well,” McBeth said. “I know how he thinks and I know what he'll do.”
“Well,” Clint said, “if that's the case, you ought to be able to predict what he'll do next.”
“The problem is, he knows I know him,” McBeth said. “That means whatever he does, it is guaranteed to be unpredictable.”
“Then it sounds like you knowing him isn't going to be very helpful in catching up to him.”
“I guess that'll be where you come in,” McBeth said. “You know what I've been hearin' about ever since we last saw each other?”
“What?”
“The Gunsmith,” he said. “I've been hearin' how the Gunsmith is a legend and can do anything.”
“Well,” Clint said, “don't believe everything you hear, McBeth.”
“You know,” McBeth said, “since we're going to be partners for a while, I think you should call me James. And I will call you Clint, if you don't mind.”
“I don't mind,” Clint said, “but—”
“You know,” McBeth said, “now that I've eaten I really think I should lie back down for a while. You mind givin' me a hand, Clint?”
“No, James,” Clint said, “I don't mind at all.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
As soon as McBeth's head hit the pillow, he fell asleep. Clint collected their plates and mugs and carried them out. The waitress met him halfway, said “
Gracias
,” and took everything from him.
Ben Weaver was sitting at a table, finishing his own meal.
“What's going on?” he asked. “Is your friend okay?”
“He will be,” Clint said. “He has a bullet in his back, down low on the left side. There's no doctor in town, so it can't be removed.”
“Can he ride?”
“He shouldn't,” Clint said, “but he will.”
“When?”
“I don't know,” Clint said. “Maybe days.”
“That's crazy.”
“I know,” Clint said, “but he's got good cause to be crazy.”
“So what do we do? Just hang around?”
“Why don't you walk around town, talk to some people,” Clint suggested.
“What am I lookin' for?”
“Anyone who might have talked to Dolan or somebody in his gang,” Clint said. “There's supposed to be one Mexican in the gang. Maybe somebody in town knows who he is.”
“We don't have any official standing in Mexico, Clint,” Weaver said, “Why would they talk to us?”
“We don't have any official standing anywhere, Ben,” Clint said. “And they'll talk to you if you make them talk to you.”
“Make them . . . oh.”
“Just don't kill anybody.”
Clint stood up.
“Where will you be?”
“Around,” Clint said. “The town's not so big that you won't be able to find me.”
“What about rooms for the night?”
“I'll ask,” Clint said, “but we may have to sleep in a barn or something.”
“Great.”
“Just go.”
Weaver got up.
“I'm on my way.”
 
Clint waited for the waitress to come to the table to clean it off.
“Café, por favor?”
he asked.
“Sí, senor.”
“
Fuerte y negro
,” he told her. He'd learned years ago how to say “
strong and black.
”
“Sí, senor.”
When she returned with a pot of coffee, he asked,
“Habla inglés?”
“Sí
.
”
“What's your name?”
“Angelina,” she said. “Angel.”
“Jacinta Hernandez, Angel,” Clint said. “Where can I find her?”
“End of the street.”
“End of the street?” he asked. “That's also the end of town, right?”
She smiled.
“Sí, senor.”
“Out the door, left or right?”
“Right.”
“Gracias.”
“Por nada.”
“One more thing.”
She turned and looked at him, frowning.
“Senor?”
“Any rooms available here?”
“
Sí, senor
,” she said. “Many empty rooms. Take your pick.”
“Thank you.”
Now it was her turn to ask a question.
“Senor?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you will be wanting . . . some company tonight?”
She was middle-aged, but her low-cut peasant blouse and colorful skirt showed off a solid, appealing body. She also had a heavy-featured but pretty face.
“Isn't the bartender your husband?”
“Sí, senor.”
“I don't think so, Angel,” he said. “Perhaps another time?”
“Como quiera,”
she said. “As you wish. And your
amigo?
”
“You'll have to ask him.”
She nodded, went back to the kitchen. Clint had two cups of coffee from the pot she'd brought, then stood up, walked out the door, and turned right.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Clint was prepared to knock on Jacinta's door, but when he got there he saw there wasn't one. The building was adobe, like all the others, but from its condition he had a feeling he was looking at the oldest building in town.
He was still standing in the doorless doorway when Jacinta appeared, leading a little girl behind her.
“Mr. Adams,” she said. “Is Mr. McBeth all right?”
“He's fine,” Clint said. “He sat up for quite a while, then ate well. He's asleep now.”
“Nina,” she said to the little girl, “run along home and tell Mama you are fine.”
“
Sí
, doctor.”
The little girl ran past Clint and out the door.
“She calls you doctor?”
“Most of the people around here do,” she said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?”
“Please,” he said, “start by calling me Clint.”
“Very well, Clint,” she said. “What can I do to help you?”
“A few weeks before McBeth got to town, four other men came to town,” he said. “One of them was an Irishman, like McBeth. Another was Mexican. I suspect the other two were
gringos
.”
“I remember them.”
“You do?”
“In a village this small?” she said. “How could anyone not notice new arrivals.”
“Did you happen to have to treat any of them for injuries?”
“No,” she said. “I never met them.”
“How long were they here?”
“Just overnight.”
“Long enough to hire someone to shoot McBeth,” Clint remarked. “Did they stay in back of the cantina?”
“They did,” she said. “I'm afraid those rooms are usually empty. Those four men, then Mr. McBeth, now you and your friend, these are the most visitors we've had here in months.”
“I see. So you never spoke to any of them?”
“I never had a reason to.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
He turned to leave, then stopped.
“One more questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“The bartender at the cantina, he also owns it?”
“Yes.”
“And does he mind his wife . . . servicing the guests?”
“No,” she said, “in fact, he insists on it. Why, are you interested?”
“She offered,” he said, “but I turned her down. I hope I didn't hurt her feelings.”
“I'm sure you didn't—but why did you turn her down? She's a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, she is,” he said, “but I've just never acquired the habit of paying for a woman.”
“Well . . . that's admirable.”
“Why do you sound surprised?”
“Well . . . for one thing . . . you're a man,” she said. “And for another, it's . . . well, you're . . . you do have a . . .”
“What? Reputation?” he asked.
“Even down here in Mexico we've heard of the Gunsmith,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said, “but did you ever hear that I was some kind of . . . whoremonger?”
“I didn't mean to offend—”
“No offense taken,” Clint said. “Just don't believe everything you hear.”
“Does that include what I hear from you?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I never lie.”
“That so?” she asked. “Like I said, you are a man.”
“You don't have a very good opinion of men, do you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “I don't.”
Recalling that she had been educated in the United States, he asked, “Is that American men, or does that mean all men?”
She thought a moment, then said, “No, my opinion pretty much runs to all men.”
“Where were you educated, Jacinta?”
“In the East.”
“As what?”
“A nurse.”
“Why did you decide to come here?”
“I came back here because this is where I was born. Los Ninos was always this small,” she said.
“Couldn't you have made more money working in the U.S.?” he asked. “Working for a doctor?”
“A male doctor,” she said. “Probably. But these people need me.”
“Maybe,” he said, turning to leave.
“What do you mean, maybe?” she demanded.
He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Maybe you need them to need you,” he said. “Maybe this is just a place for you to hide out.”
“What do you know?”
“Probably nothing,” he said, on his way out the doorway. “Probably nothing at all.”
TWENTY-NINE
Clint went back to the cantina and arranged with the bartender-owner to secure two of the empty rooms for himself and Ben Weaver. Then, since he was at the bar, he ordered coffee. If he was going to drink something warm, he preferred it to warm beer.
“Would
senor
be looking for some company tonight?” the bartender asked him.
Clint looked at the man grinning at him with a couple of gold teeth glinting in his mouth. He wondered if the man had bought the gold with money he made from pimping out his own wife.
“That's all right,” Clint said. “I think all I'll want to do tonight is sleep.”
“It does not have to be Angel,” he said. “If she is too fat or ugly for the
senor
, we can provide . . . other companionship.”
“No, no,” Clint said, “Angel would be fine, if I were looking for a woman, but I am not.”
“A boy, perhaps?”
“I'm not looking for anyone!” Clint said forcefully. “I'm just going to sleep tonight.”
“
Sí, senor
,” the man said with a shrug. “As you wish.”
He was finishing up his coffee when Ben Weaver walked back in.
“This
is
a small town,” Clint said. “In fact, it's a village. Where have you been?”
“Doin' what you told me to do,” Weaver said. “Talkin' to people.”
“You want some coffee?”
Weaver made a face.
“I'd rather have warm beer.” He signaled the bartender, who brought one over.
“Did you find out anything?” Clint asked.
“Well, everybody I talked to saw the Dolan Gang ride in and out, but nobody claims to have known any of 'em.”
“Not even the Mexican?”
“Nope.”
“They had to pass through here for a reason,” Clint said. “This is an easy place to bypass.”
“They were only here one day,” Weaver said.
Clint eyed the bartender, who was wiping the bar with a dirty rag at the other end.
“I wonder if they stayed here,” Clint said. “And I wonder if they wanted company for the night.”
“This town got a cathouse?” Weaver asked. He sounded so hopeful Clint took a look at him.
“I don't know,” Clint said, “but I think for a few pesos more you can get the owner's wife with your room.”
“His wife?”
“The waitress.”
“She's a little old, ain't she?”
“Maybe for you. Look, I've got an idea. Talk to the bartender about Dolan and his gang. See if any of them paid for some time with his wife. If they did, then we can talk to her.”
“Why don't you talk to him?”
“I did,” Clint said, “and I don't want to talk to him again.”
“Where are you gonna be?”
“Sitting outside.”
Clint pushed away from the bar.
“Hey, we got rooms?” Weaver asked.
“Yeah,” Clint said, “the two at the end of the hall. I think the owner's wife is making up the beds. You could ask him that, too. Come outside after you ask him.”
 
Clint found a rickety wooden chair and took it out with him, sat on the boardwalk in front of the cantina. The horses were still tied there. They were going to have to find a place to bed them down for the night.
He didn't want to spend any more time talking to the bartender, because every time he looked at the man's face he wanted to smash it in. He had no respect, no use, in fact, for a man who pimped out his own wife.
From his vantage point he could see practically the whole village of Los Ninos. At one end he noticed what looked like a small barn where they'd be able to rest the horses for the night. About the only building he couldn't see was the one Jacinta Rodriguez was set up in to do her doctoring—or her nursing.

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