The Swede’s sun-bronzed brow furrowed. “That not be true, Mrs. Luce. I be good worker. I get much done.”
“Yes, you do, I will admit,” Adolphina conceded, and bestowed a look on him that she never bestowed on her husband. “You are one of the few men I know who are worth a damn.”
Win sat up and stopped sucking. “Here, now. I don’t much like being insulted.”
“Then make something of yourself. You are one of the laziest creatures on God’s green earth, Winifred Curry, and we both know it. You stay up half the night, you sleep half the day. You do nothing but pour drinks and precious few of them these days. If it were up to you, if you had enough money socked away, you would close the saloon and spend your days doing absolutely nothing but drinking.”
Win chose not to debate her. Especially as everything she said was true.
A strained silence fell until the bell tinkled again. Chester came in and hurried to the counter.
Placido and Arturo entered but stayed well back near the door. They removed their sombreros. “You have sent for us, Senora Luce?” Placido asked.
“That I did,” Adolphina confirmed, and raked everyone with an imperious glance. “A godsend has been dropped in our laps, gentlemen. I am sure some of you are familiar with what other towns have done with dead outlaws and killers, and I propose we do the same.”
General puzzlement descended. Placido and Arturo and Minimi Giorgio and Dolph Anderson all looked at one another, plainly at a loss. Chester scratched his round chin and said, “I am afraid we do not follow you, my dear.”
“I do,” Winifred said. “My God, Adolphina, you can’t be serious?”
“Why not? I figure we can milk it for a week before the bodies start to stink up the town.” Adolphina grinned and enthusiastically rubbed her palms together. “Now, who here wants to make some money?”
Chapter 6
Ford County undersheriff Seamus Glickman was angry. He was angry at Edison Farnsworth and the Blight brothers for getting themselves shot and angry at Frank Lafferty for rushing to the sheriff’s office to report it. But his hottest anger was reserved for Jeeter Frost. It was Frost who did the killing, and Frost who was to blame for Sheriff Hinkle having no choice but to send someone to Coffin Varnish. Coffin Varnish, for God’s sake. And as luck would have it, all the deputies were busy.
If Seamus had his druthers, he would be town marshal instead of working for the county sheriff’s office. It was a matter of jurisdictions. The marshal had jurisdiction over everyone and everything within the town limits; he rarely had to leave town. The sheriff, on the other hand, was responsible for the entire county. Every crime committed in Ford County had to be investigated and the guilty brought to trial. Which meant those who worked in the sheriff’s office spent a lot of time traveling all over creation, or the part of creation that constituted the county.
Seamus would rather be in Dodge. He did not like to ride. He did not like horses. They were smelly and stubborn, and ever since one kicked him when he was eight and broke his leg, he had been secretly afraid of them. Not only that, but saddles chafed and hurt, and after a day in one his bottom was always so sore and stiff he could barely sit. Seamus did not like the country, either, mile after mile of wide-open space haunted by outlaws and renegades all too eager to make a ghost of a stray lawman.
Seamus much preferred town life, city life, cultured life. He enjoyed his creature comforts. He liked good food served in a comfortable restaurant. He liked to drink fine liquor in a plush saloon. He liked to spend his evenings at the theater and then visit one of the better brothels.
Dodge City had all those in abundance. The last time anyone counted, there were fourteen saloons, including his favorite, the Long Branch, with its billiard parlor and club room. There were half a dozen brothels, including Madame Blatsky’s, who imported only the prettiest and most refined whores. As for the theater, Seamus much preferred the Comique, in large part because he owned a part interest, a fact he kept to himself since the county’s more upstanding residents took a dim view of doings on Front Street and anyone who had anything to do with them.
All of which made Seamus wonder why he ever accepted the job as undersheriff. At the time it had seemed to have its merits. He was on good terms with George Hinkle, the sheriff. The job paid a hundred and forty dollars a month, plus a percentage of the taxes and fines he collected. Annually, that amounted to over twenty thousand dollars, nothing to sneeze at when the average yearly income was under a thousand.
But, God, he hated leaving Dodge! Usually Seamus avoided it by sending a deputy. But one of the deputies was returning a couple of deserters to the army, another was helping escort a federal prisoner to Kansas City, and the third went and shot his own foot while practicing with his six-shooter.
Buildings sprouted ahead and Seamus sat up straighter. He wanted to make a good impression. He took off his bowler and slapped it against his leg to shake off the dust. Before putting it back on, he took out his comb and ran it through his well-oiled black hair. He liked to slick it with Macassar oil, as much for the shine as the perfumed scent. He had a pompadour, but his hat invariably flattened it, and wide muttonchops. In his suits and polished boots, he presented a fine figure of a man, or so he often flattered himself.
As he drew closer, Seamus parted his jacket so the badge on his vest and the ivory-handled Merwin and Hulbert revolver on his left hip could be plainly seen. The pistol was another vanity. He was no kind of shot with it unless whatever he was shooting at was less than ten feet away, and even then he had to hold the revolver steady with both hands and take good aim. But then, he was not in the law business to shoot people. He was in the law business to make money. That he actually had, on occasion, to enforce the law was a nuisance he could do without.
Seamus had only ever been to Coffin Varnish once and that had been once too many. He recalled hearing that in the early days Coffin Varnish had been fit to rival Dodge as the queen of the plains, but Dodge had long since outstripped its rival in every respect. Fact is, he had forgotten Coffin Varnish even existed until Frank Lafferty came huffing and puffing into the sheriff’s office. Damn him.
Nothing had changed since Seamus’s last visit. The single street ran from south to north. On the right was the general store and some other buildings, four or five abandoned and in disrepair. On the left was the livery, an empty building, then the saloon, then more empty and boarded-over buildings, and finally a cottage. What in hell a cottage was doing there was anyone’s guess, but Seamus remembered it from his last visit.
It was near eleven o’clock when Seamus, after a two-hour ride, drew rein at the hitch rail in front of the saloon and gratefully climbed down. As he looped the reins, he noticed a man in a rocking chair in the shade of the overhang. The man’s gray hair sparked another memory. “Winifred Curry, as I recollect. You own this saloon.”
“You recollect rightly, Sheriff Glickman,” Win complimented him. “It has been a spell since you were here last.”
“Undersheriff,” Seamus corrected him. “Hinkle is the sheriff.”
“Is that the same as a deputy?” Win asked.
“Higher than a deputy but lower than the sheriff,” Seamus clarified, stretching.
“Then what do we call you? Is it Deputy Glickman or Undersheriff Glickman? Undersheriff is a mouthful.”
“I guess calling me Sheriff Glickman won’t hurt anyone’s feelings,” Seamus said. Certainly not George Hinkle’s, who at that time of day was usually sitting in the cushioned chair at his desk with his feet propped up, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. Seamus was angry at him, too.