FALLON WOKE UP about two hours later and asked for a drink of water. “A little whiskey to go with it, if you don’t mind. But don’t put the whiskey in the water.”
Gatling used the two coffee cups to give him what he wanted. “You must be feeling better. You’re making demands.”
Fallon knocked back the whiskey, then drank the water greedily. He did look a little better; some of his ruddy color had returned. Some blood had seeped through the bandage.
“I’ve been awake a little while,” Fallon said. “You were so deep in thought I didn’t want to disturb you. Having second thoughts about me? I have none about you because I know who you are. If you don’t believe my story, what do you think I might be?”
“A lot of things. You could be a sergeant who wants to be a chief. Without having to wait. I saw and heard Lieutenant Evans. A cat would make a better chief than that man.”
Fallon smiled. “How would I get to be Chief? In a hurry?”
“By getting rid of Kane. With Kane gone the union would likely fall apart. I doubt if his puppets, any of them, have the balls or brains to take over. So there you have Kane dead and the union in shambles. ‘Get rid of Kane,’ the big operators could be telling you, ‘and we’ll make you chief of police for life.’ Maybe that’s aiming too low. Maybe they’ve promised you the mayor’s job and all the sweet graft that goes with it.”
Gatling knew they were playing a game, but he went along with it. The truth had a way of showing up in the unlikeliest places. You talked and you listened. “What else might I have up my sleeve?” Fallon asked.
“You could be working for Kane. Maybe Kane wanted to get rid of Frankie and Nick and you saw a way to do it without dirtying your hands.”
“Talk about pipe dreams! Your brain is working overtime, but nothing sensible is coming out. What do you say we stop this waltz and talk hard facts. Do we work together or not?”
“I thought that was decided,” Gatling said. “You know who I am. Who else knows?”
Fallon said, “Nobody as far as I know. If the Chief knew he’d be jumping out of his skin. Nothing he hates more than trouble or the threat of trouble. He fears Kane as much as he fears the mine owners. Kane can kill him, have him killed. The bosses can kick him out any time they choose. He talks tough, but he’s afraid of his own shadow. Take it from me, he doesn’t know about you.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I just told you. Kane can’t know about you either or you’d be dead. Those two killers weren’t after you, remember? Which is not to say that Kane won’t find you out eventually. He’s got the money and the means to do it. Of course he’d have to have a reason to be so determined.”
“Can you think of a reason?”
“Off the bat, no. But a number of people have remarked that you don’t quite fill the bill as storekeeper. Even the Chief, dumb as he is, said you were a hard-looking joe to be running a store. Even a gun store. And the way you killed Zell didn’t help. People can’t put their finger on it, what you really are, but they do have their suspicions. Kane is more suspicious than most. Kane is an ape that can think.”
“He thought about you, it looks like,” Gatling said.
“He may not know about the Service,” Fallon said. “Kane kills on whim, I often think, though I could be wrong. I would think he depends on his feelings, what his gut tells him, when there’s no real proof. I did ask a lot of questions when I first got here. Lately I’ve been more careful who I ask them of.”
Lying on the cot, weak and bandaged, Fallon didn’t look like much of a threat to anybody. But Gatling knew Kane would try again. Kane, in his way, was very much like the big-business tycoons who bulled their way through all obstacles.
Gatling said, “We’ll have to kill Kane before he can kill you. Or me. I’ve been dragging my feet on this. It should have been done by now.”
“No need to get down on yourself,” Fallon said. “At least you have some kind of plan. I’ve been here a year and am no further along than when I started. You wouldn’t believe how many miners and crooks and whores I’ve bought drinks for, filling their bellies with booze, listening to their bullshit stories, all the time hoping to get something on Kane. I tried to work it like I did in New York. A word here, a word there, sort of like a jigsaw puzzle. One day, if you’re lucky, the puzzle is complete. That didn’t work here, anyway not for me.”
“You’ll never nail Kane going that route.”
“Don’t I know it. For a while I thought I could build a case on the murder of a miner named McDonnell. Poor fellow got on Kane’s bad side and disappeared, never to be seen again. I dug till I got to a crackbrained whore—booze and laudanum—who told me one of Kane’s boys, also a drunk and a doper, told her Kane had strangled McDonnell himself. Somehow or other Kane found out and the whore and Kane’s man were found dead together in bed, both stabbed many times. My guess is McCargo and Smith did it.”
“Could be,” Gatling said.
“Doesn’t matter a damn who killed them,” Fallon said. “Kane was behind it, but the law can’t lay a finger on him. I’m through with the law, all that legal claptrap.”
Gatling recalled the Bible yarn about the pagan Saul being converted to the Christian Paul after falling off his horse on the road to Damascus. Probably he got a bump on the head. Fallon had a bump on his head. “The law has nothing to do with this,” Gatling said.
“I was just explaining myself.” There was some resentment in Fallon’s voice.
“Save it,” Gatling said. Any kind of soul-searching bored the shit out of him.
Fallon nodded stiffly. “So I will. This plan of yours ...”
Gatling told him about the mine, the rest of it. “There’s a chance it could work,” Fallon said after Gatling finished. “If he’s as wrapped up in that mine as you think he is. You’re counting on pride of ownership, as you put it.”
“Kane told me about the mine when I was out at his house. He sounded very proud of it. It’s like owning the mine puts him on the same level as the regular mine operators.”
“That could be.” Fallon sounded doubtful.
“You don’t think it’s worth a try. I think it is. But if you have something better in mind, let’s hear it.”
“I have nothing worth talking about. Your plan is all right, better than that on such short notice, but suppose it fails. Kane will just dig in deeper than he is.”
“How much deeper can he dig?” Gatling didn’t mind Fallon’s questions. The plan had more than a few holes in it.
“You’re right,” Fallon said. “Right now he’s got more protection than the Denver Mint. We’ll try it your way. But we both know there’s a lot has to be worked out. Kane’s got a small army of gunmen behind that wire. They can’t all show up at the mine after you bury it. If they do, you won’t be able to gun them down like you did the Rainbow County Posse.”
“You figured that was me?”
“After I thought about it. That must have took some doing. How did you do it? A machine gun? Something the Maxim Company makes?”
“I’ll show you.” Gatling took the light gun carrying case from under a stack of boxes. He opened the case and held the light gun at arm’s length. “It used to be lot heavier. I had it modified. The original model had a tripod, with a gunner’s seat mounted on the back support. The seat put the gunner too high off the ground, made him a target even with a slotted shield.”
He handed the light gun to Fallon, who said, “Good Lord! But isn’t it a beauty!” He grasped the pistol grip and the forward grip and turned sideways. “Would that be the best way to fire it?”
“It’s one way,” Gatling said. “A good way is to stand straight and hold the pistol grip close to your belly. You can fire it at a walk, even a dead run. Normally it takes a three-hundred-round belt, but two belts can be linked together to save time. Two belts is the limit. That’s all the feed box will hold.”
“Well, for God’s sake, that ought to be enough ammunition for any man. Rat-tat-tat-rat-tat-tat! Is that how it sounds?”
“Faster than that,” Gatling said. “It fires so fast the sound runs together. It’s different from the old mechanical machine guns. Nothing like the Gatling, a good enough gun for its time, but out-of-date now. The Gatling is too heavy, too hard to move.”
“Gatling?” Fallon repeated the name. “Any relation?”
“No. I’m one of the Zuni Gatlings. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
Still admiring the light gun, Fallon said, “How do you keep the barrel from overheating?”
“You fire it in short bursts,” Gatling said. “It isn’t water-cooled so the bursts have to be short. The barrel is thick and can absorb a certain amount of overheating, but not too much. What you have there is a modified Police Model that comes with a wooden carrying case with a handle.”
“And you cut it down so it can be carried in that.” Fallon meant the leather carrying case. “Do you know what you’ve got here, man? A gang with a dozen of these could take over New York or Chicago in no time. Who could stand against them? How do you get it to work?”
“A single shot makes it fully automatic.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Fallon said. “But doesn’t it ever jam on you? To me that would seem to be the main drawback. What can go wrong will go wrong, as the saying goes.”
“It can jam, but it’s never jammed on me. Keep it clean, keep it oiled, use it right, that’s what I do. That weapon has saved my life more than once. If they make a better weapon I’ll use it. So far they haven’t done that.” Gatling took back the light gun and cased it.
“You don’t have another one you’re not using?” Fallon watched as Gatling hid the light gun.
“’Fraid not. I’ll send you one just like it for Christmas.”
“If we’re still alive next Christmas.”
“Look at it this way,” Gatling said. “If you’re dead by then, you won’t need it.”
“That’s a comforting thought,” Fallon said, looking at his watch. “Good Lord! It can’t be twelve-thirty already.”
Gatling yawned. “I thought it was later than that. You may not need your sleep, but I need mine. We’ll talk in the morning, all right?”
Fallon dropped his feet on the floor. “It’s time I was getting home. No need to get the buckboard. I can manage. It’s not that far.”
Pulling off his boots, Gatling said, “You better spend the night here. You’ll be safer here than there, this time of night. Stretch out and try to get some sleep. That’s what I’m going to do.”
Shouting started in the street and Gatling went to see what it was. A drunk staggered past the store, shouting in different voices.
Back with Fallon, Gatling said, “Just a drunk.”
Fallon said, “Tell the truth, I don’t look forward to sleeping—trying to sleep—in that rickety old house. Floorboards creak, windows rattle. You could break into it with a spoon. If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay here tonight and sleep on the floor.”
This was just what Gatling expected Fallon to say.
“Like hell you will! You’ll sleep on the cot. The floor won’t bother me one bit. All my life I’ve been sleeping on floors, rocks, hard ground, and wet ground. That make you feel better?”
“No.”
“Look, Fallon, I can’t be bothered arguing with you. Get some sleep so I can do the same. It’ll be snug as a bug in here after I stack the stove. The early hours can get chilly. No more talk. Good night.”
A mumble came from Fallon, then he began to snore.
There were shadows after Gatling turned the lamp down to a glimmer. Using an old rolled-up ore sack as a pillow, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. The double-voiced drunk passed the store a second time. This time he was singing, not talking, in different voices. The singing faded and Gatling fell asleep.
Just after four something woke Gatling from a sound sleep. He put the watch back in his pocket, wondering what had disturbed him. Except for the tinkle of a faraway player piano, there wasn’t a sound; then he heard a faint tapping at the street door. It sounded like someone tapping the steel door with a coin or a key, something metallic.
He got up without waking Fallon and went to see who was out there. Holding the 10-gauge in one hand, he inched back the window shade and looked out. At first he couldn’t see anything; then a huge figure stepped back from the door. The figure moved again and he saw Jem, Kane’s prizefighter-butler. It looked like he was by himself. There was nothing to explain what he was doing, why he was there. It could be a trick. Somehow, Gatling didn’t think it was. It had been raining earlier, but the huge Englishman wasn’t wearing a coat or hat.
Jem moved back to the door and the tapping started again. Gatling slid back the bolt and kicked the door open. A smaller man would have been knocked off the sidewalk. Jem just staggered. Gatling pointed the 10-gauge at his chest and told him to get his hands up. Fallon was awake and calling from the back room.
“Put them behind your neck,” Gatling ordered. “Do it quick, lace the fingers. That’s it. Now what the hell do you want?”
Jem said, “I’m looking for Mr. Fallon. I went to his house, but he wasn’t there. Coming back I met a policeman and he said the last time he saw Mr. Fallon was here. I’ve got to talk to Mr. Fallon.”
“Get in here.” Gatling backed away from the door. “Close the door and bolt it. Now stay still and keep your hands where they are.”
Fallon came out holding the lamp; he looked astonished by the Englishman’s huge frame, the muscle-banded shoulders, the jutting iron jaw. “Who is this?” he asked Gatling. “You know this man?”
“His name is Jem. He works for Kane.”
“I’m Kane’s English butler,” Jem said, repeating Kane’s sneering words. “We never met, Mr. Fallon, but I know who you are. Kane says you may be the only honest policeman in Butte.”
Fallon glanced at Gatling. “I hardly expected to get a reference from that quarter.”
“Jem wants to talk to you,” Gatling said.
“What about?”
Jem said, “I have a lot to tell you, Mr. Fallon. I need your help. Is it all right to put down my hands?”
Gatling told him to put his hands down. “Search him,” he said to Fallon.
With the 10-gauge a few inches from his face, Jem didn’t move a muscle while Fallon looked for a weapon. Far taller than both of them, Jem would lose his head if he tried to grab Fallon.
Fallon was thorough; he even looked in the Englishman’s socks for a knife. He straightened up. “Not a thing on him. You want me to turn down the light?”
“Best you do.” Gatling sat on the counter, Jem and Fallon in chairs. Jem’s chair creaked under his enormous weight.
“Tell me what you want,” Fallon said to the Englishman. “But first answer me this. Why is it I’ve never seen you before? You’re new here?”
“I’ve been working for Kane five years. In five years I’ve been in town twice, the day I got here and now, tonight. I had to dope the dogs, crawl under the wire to get here. If you don’t help me I’m sunk. Kane will kill me for sure. Will you help me, Mr. Fallon?”
“Wait! Wait!” Fallon held up his hands. “Slow down. Take it easy. You’re putting the cart before the horse. How did you come to work for Kane, and if you didn’t like it, why didn’t you just quit?”
“Because I’m wanted for murder, Mr. Fallon. Kane’s been holding that over my head for five years. How could I quit?”
Fallon looked tired. Gatling went to get him a short drink of whiskey. He gave none to Jem.
“Go on,” Fallon said. His voice was stronger after he drank the whiskey. “Where was this murder committed?”
“Back in New York City, five years ago. Kane keeps on telling me the police will never let it drop, the murder charge. The man I killed was important, very important, Kane says.”
“Five years ago.” Fallon turned to Gatling. “I was in New York then, but I don’t recall any such case. The killing of an important man I would’ve heard about it. A murder like that would’ve been on the front page. An important man gets killed, the newspapers go wild. Listen to me, Jem. Maybe you just thought you killed this man, whoever he was.”
Jem held out his enormous hands. “I killed him, all right, with these. His neck broke like a dry stick. Sharp. Loud. My job was to bounce out troublemakers nice-like—Sally’s was a fancy place for big spenders—but I couldn’t be nice with this man when he pulled a pocket pistol and tried to shoot me in the face. He pulled the trigger, but missed. Not by much, though. I still have the powder burns.” Jem touched a patch of blackened skin high on his left cheek. “That’s when I broke his neck, when the gun went off. I thought I’d lost my eye. Five years—no real murder—and I’m still paying for it.”
“You say it happened in Sally’s? On Seventh Street, down from McSorley’s, is that right?”
Jem’s big head bobbed up and down. “That’s the place. Very fancy. They had to know you to let you in. Politicians came there all the time, and contractors doing business with the city, rich old men that liked to be whipped or pissed on, young sports from north of Twenty-third. It was New Year’s Eve I killed the man. Others were rowdy, but he was the worst. I had to put Alderman Magrath in a cab and sent him home after he gave a girl a black eye. After he left things quieted down a bit. Then that man made me kill him. That’s when Kane—”
“Kane was there?” Fallon sounded exasperated. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“I was getting to that.” There was anger as well as hurt in the Englishman’s eyes. “Don’t be thinking me dumb, because I’m not. Mostly I’m all right. I quit the ring before my brain got mushy.”
Fallon was fully awake now; the mention of Kane’s name put a hard glint in his eye. “You were smart to quit when you did. You look fine to me. You say Kane was there? You knew who he was?”
Encouraged by Fallon’s praise, Jem sat straighter in his chair. “He was pointed out to me as a real important man from out West. But I could see he had no class, not an ounce of class. Arrived on Christmas Eve and was still kicking up a storm a week later. Wild drunk all the time, smashing furniture, throwing bottles at mirrors. Even Sally was scared of him, and she’s a tough old bitch. Sally warned me hands off Kane no matter what he did. Kane threw his weight around like he owned the place, which I guess he did. Of the staff he gave me the worst time because I was English. One thing he yelled at me was he hated the English worse than smallpox. Well, you know, I did my best to keep out of his way. Then came the killing, one in the morning it happened, but I don’t know what happened to the body. The next morning, when Kane left for here, Montana, he took me with him. Said he was going to hide me out from the police. He hid me out good.”
Fallon said to Gatling, “There was a gambler, not a real big operator, found dead the morning of January first, that year. Gentleman Harry Lev. His body was found in a leaky barge off the end of East Houston Street. Either the body was meant to be found or they missed the river. His neck was broken. Nobody got excited about a dead gambler with no real connections. Case closed.”
“Did the man you killed dress like a dandy?” Fallon asked Jem. “Loud suits, rings on both hands? Kind of a walleye? Short and heavy? About forty?”
Jem nodded. “That’s the one. I remember the walleye, the other things you said. Doesn’t that prove I’m telling the truth?”
Looking pleased with himself, Fallon held out his hands to the glowing stove. “Never doubted you for a minute, Jem. Now the big question is what made you suddenly decide to go against Kane after taking his shit for five long years? Why now, all of a sudden?”
Jem set his iron jaw in a stubborn line. “Nothing sudden about it, Mr. Fallon. Five years it’s been eating on me, ever since that first day he made me wear the butler’s monkey suit.” Jem slapped the knees of his sodden black trousers. “This isn’t it, Mr. Fallon. These are my own clothes.”
“I can see that,” Fallon said.
“A week after I got here was when he made me put on the monkey suit. One of his union officers, Fitzsimmons, an Irishman like Kane, took my measure, with Kane looking on from behind the big desk and making jokes about my size. Big body, small cock, I remember him saying. Then the monkey suit came from the tailor and I had to wear it. When Kane saw me in it, he said it was too bad I didn’t have an organ grinder to go with the suit. Me. Jem Staples, that used to be the Birmingham Bruiser.”
The last part got Jem so mad that the cords stood out on his thick neck. Fighting for self-control, he snapped off one of the arms of his chair, then tried awkwardly to put it back in place. His anger began to fade; he looked ashamed of what he had done.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” he mumbled. “I got carried away, I’m sorry.”
Fallon reached out and took the broken piece of wood away from him. Then he got back to questions.
“But you stood his abuse for five years, Jem. What made you dope the dogs and crawl under the wire? You could have been shot. By the way, would you rather I called you Mr. Staples?”
Jem was startled by the question. “Mr. Staples? You don’t have to call me Mr. Staples. But I appreciate it. Call me Jem, Mr. Fallon. Kane never calls me anything but Birdbrain, Pigface, Lord Cesspool. There’s no name so mean he won’t call me by it.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Fallon said sharply.
Jem said, “Can I think about it a minute?”
Fallon said yes.