Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“It was pneumonia.”

Her blurted statement brought him to a halt. He turned around.

She was off by five degrees of looking him directly in the eye. “Pearl came early. Her lungs probably weren’t finished developing, Dr. Perkins said. They were too weak to fight off the infection.”

He let his breath out slowly. “You asked me not to say anything. Just as well. I don’t have the words.”

She did look straight at him then, her expression stark with pain.

Then she bobbed her head, put the car in gear, and drove away.





Nineteen



Bernie stood at one of the four windows in his office. It was on the second floor of City Hall, affording him a bird’s-eye view of Main Street. From this advantageous point, he could monitor who was doing what, sometimes to his amusement, sometimes to his consternation.

Presently he was watching Thatcher Hutton make his way along the thoroughfare, going from utility pole to utility pole, nailing a notice to each one.

“What does it say?” Bernie asked and held out his hand.

Hennessy passed him one of the flyers. Bernie scanned it, then said to his bodyguard, “Thanks. That’s all for now.”

Hennessy left the office and closed the door.

“Does he ever speak?” Bernie’s associate asked.

“He doesn’t need to.”

“No, I guess the scowl does speak for itself. What about Mr. Hutton? What does his handbill say?”

Bernie turned away from the window and sat down at his mayoral desk. “It’s an advertisement for his services. Read for yourself.” He pushed the printed sheet across his desk toward the man sitting facing it. “This indicates to me that he’s sticking around.”

“He paid our charming landlady another week’s rent.”

“What do you make of it?”

Frowning in thought, Chester Landry needlessly straightened his perfectly tied bow tie. “I would suspect, as you do, that he’s a spy for the Anti-Saloon League in conjunction with a law enforcement agency. May they all roast in hell. Although, if they get their way, that’s where we’re destined.”

“Bill Amos swears up and down that Hutton appears to be exactly what he claims. A cowpoke without a herd. A straggler of a dying breed.”

“Well, the sheriff may be right.” Chester told Bernie about the arrival of Hutton’s trunk. “He dragged it up two flights of stairs, declining assistance from several who offered, myself included. The following morning, he came down for breakfast wearing common cowboy getup.” He dusted an imaginary speck of lint from the knee of his trousers, a lazy gesture Bernie privately regarded with scorn.

Chester Landry fancied himself a dandy. His hair was slicked down with enough pomade to pave the highway from here to El Paso. The side part looked like it had been carved into his scalp. He was always dressed to the nines, favoring patterned vests and brightly colored bow ties that Bernie wouldn’t have been caught dead in. The man also had a gold upper molar that glinted whenever he flashed his wolfish smile.

He was Bernie’s partner in business. He was also a pain in Bernie’s ass. Bernie couldn’t get moonshine out of the county and into the speakeasies in Fort Worth and Dallas without it going through Chester Landry’s manicured hands. Nor could he get bootlegged liquor smuggled into the county without Landry. He brokered the deals on both ends, and the percentage he demanded for each transaction was downright usurious.

But without him and his “powers of persuasion,” Bernie’s business wouldn’t run as smoothly. Or as covertly. Which brought him to a matter of importance. “Is that loudmouth still at the boardinghouse?”

“Randy Wells? Yes. As talkative and obnoxious as ever. His hobby is goading the teetotalers, and the most pious among them can’t resist the bait. It results in some lively give-and-take.”

“He hasn’t told you who he buys his whiskey from?”

“It remains his secret.”

“Dammit, Chester, I want to know who it is.”

“Well, the choices are limited to either one of the Johnsons or to someone in our organization.”

“Or it’s a lone wolf who’s selling cheaper and undercutting all of us.”

“In other words, someone not playing by the rules as set by you.”

“You’re damn right.”

Landry chuckled. “Should we try to unionize?”

“I’m thinking more of monopolizing.”

Chester raised his brows. “Hmm. An interesting prospect.”

“It would be good for everybody.”

“Especially you.”

“And you.”

Landry conceded that with another languid gesture and sly smile.

“Get me the identity of this Randy’s source.”

“I’m working on it.”

Chester’s smile remained in place, but his voice suddenly had a bite, and that didn’t sit well with Bernie. The bootlegger was a necessary evil, but Bernie never would allow him to get the upper hand. He feared that most of Landry’s posturing was just that: posturing. He wasn’t nearly as insouciant as he pretended to be.

“These things require finessing, Bernie,” he said, speaking smoothly again. “I can’t press Randy on it, or seem overeager, and he doesn’t want to reveal his source because he’s acting as his own middleman. I’m not his only customer. For every jar he sells, he jacks up the price and takes a cut for himself.”