“Thanks.”
A waiter brought a bottle of Amaretto and Delilah busied herself making a round of drinks. Brodie reached for a cigarette, and Millicent produced her Dunhill and lit it.
“Remember the last time we saw each other?” Culhane asked.
“Sure,” Bannon said. “Up there in the ballroom. You had just retired from politics.”
“I think it’s time to talk about it,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you at the time because it would have hurt too many people, people I loved and who loved me.”
Bannon sat forward in his chair. He had been waiting five years for answers to questions he thought he’d never get. Millicent looked at Bannon from the corner of her eye.
“You don’t have to do this, Brodie,” Bannon said.
“Isabel died in 1942. Heart attack. Ben lasted another two years but he was lost without her. I think if it’s true that you can die of a broken heart, then that’s what Ben died of.”
“Maybe I should take a walk,” Millicent said.
“Nah,” Brodie said gruffly. “What the hell, he’ll tell you the story anyway. May as well get it firsthand.”
He stopped for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts together.
“Actually Del knows more about some of it than I do, but I’ll tell it my way and she can jump in if she gets the urge.”
Bannon didn’t say anything. He waited. And Culhane began to speak.
I never did tell you properly, but you played the Verna Hicks murder like the pro you are. Your instincts were right on target. Trouble was, you were stuck on one idea: that the Riker frame was a giant conspiracy between me, Eddie, Brett-the whole bunch of us. That’s only partly right. But it wasn’t about a frame-up, it was about loyalty and friendship that turned into murder and revenge. I didn’t level with you then. I couldn’t. Too many people to hurt. Too many secrets to reveal.
You were dead right about one thing.
It blew up that night at Grand View.
But the roots went way back to the poker game in 1900-the night Eli Gorman beat Del’s old man, who left the Hill forever. And deeded off the town of Eureka to Arnold Riker.
I was an outsider on the Hill. Eureka was hometown to me, much as I hated it. Had it not been for Eli Gorman, I probably would have ended up a hooligan for that son of a bitch Riker. When my mom died, Eli took me in and showed me a life beyond any dream I ever had. I was a scared, lonely kid. No family left. But Eli and Ben and Ma Gorman gave me that in spades.
Eli was a dreamer. A rich man with a vision. The joker in the deck was Riker but we’ll get to that.
Four of us kids were friends in the truest sense of the word. There was Ben, Isabel Hoffman, Delilah, and me. We went to school together, played together, and lived the sweet life together on the Hill.
That’s where I first learned what the word friendship meant.
I learned about loyalty in France, with men who gave up their lives fighting for five miles of mud. I think Brett said it best. Courage is being there, heroism is staying alive.
I learned about love from a friend whom I betrayed, and who knew it and never mentioned it. He’s still my best friend, although he’s long gone. And his wife, dear Isabel, taught me that first love is forever.
Eli had our lives planned out for us. Ben and Isabel would marry. Ben would take over the bank. I’d take Buck Tallman’s place when the time came, and clean up Eureka. Trouble was, I was in love with Isabel and she was in love with me. But she was engaged to Ben and she truly adored him, too. So one night, I packed my duds and left. Joined the Marines, traveled the world, and ended up in France in 1918. I truly thought I would spend the rest of my life as a leatherneck but the war put an end to that. You know how that can be. Fate can change your life in the time it takes a howitzer shell to go off.
Eli once told me everybody has to have a home to come back to. I guess that’s why I came back to Eureka when I got out of the hospital. It was the only home I had left. I had a godson and a family, and Delilah was here. And old Eli’s plan was waiting. I became Buck Tallman’s deputy. It was still a tough town because Riker still ran it. But that was about to change. Delilah ought to tell you about how that night started. Unfortunately, I was late for the party or history might have a different story to tell.
It’s still hard to talk about, Delilah said. It was the worst night, the worst memory of my life. I remember every detail.
Bucky was upstairs in my apartment. He always came by about six, for a cup of coffee and to listen to some opera records I had. It was a ritual. His deputy, Andy Sloan, was downstairs keeping an eye on things when the four of them came in.
I heard some swearing downstairs, walked to the head of the stairs and one of them, an out-of-towner, they all were, told me to come down and talk. I knew what they were, I could tell by looking at them. At that point, Bucky walked up beside me. The lead man sneered at Bucky, said something about him being Buffalo Bill, and Bucky walked down the steps and up to him. They were nose-to-nose. Bucky said, “You oughta brush your teeth sometimes, your breath smells like a dead cat’s.”
And just like that, the bastard pulled his pistol and shot Bucky in the stomach. And all hell broke loose.
Bucky grunted and staggered backward, pulled that Peacemaker and fanned three shots into him. Bangbangbang, just like that, so fast you could hardly tell them apart.
Five men were still standing and they all started shooting at once. It was unbelievable. Bullets shattered lamps and windows, and ripped into walls. I remember bits and pieces after that, like a collage: a vase of flowers bursting apart; the mobster standing against the wall to Andy’s right, turning toward him and taking Andy’s bullet in the face, falling on his knees and then doubling up, and falling forward with his head resting on the carpet; Bucky’s. 44 making twice as much noise as all the other guns; the thug near the inside bedroom door spinning around with tufts of gabardine flying off his chest and back; the bastard near the door firing a single shot at Andy, blowing open the back of his head, and knocking him backward over a large, stuffed easy chair.
It all happened in less than a minute. One of the hoodlums decided to run for it and Bucky shot him as he went out the door. Then Bucky fell against the staircase banister, started reloading his pistol, and the one who had shot Andy started to get up. He was crawling around on his knees looking for his gun. Then I heard a shot outside.
Culhane: When I came through the door, there was Bucky, gut shot, trying to reload his Peacemaker, his hands so bloody the bullets kept slipping through his fingers and falling on the floor. Andy Sloan was dead on the floor. Everybody was dead but Bucky, me, and the last of Riker’s men. He and Buck were both shot all to hell. They were across the room from each other, probably twenty, thirty feet apart.
Through the years, I’ve played what happened next over and over in my head like one of those slow-motion movies, and I wish I could stop it. I wish I could turn off the projector and stop time.
I was twenty feet to the left of Riker’s man.
He’s struggling to his feet. He’s raising his gun.
Buck slaps the cylinder shut on his. 44 and his arm is going up.
I go for a head shot, figuring I’m closest. But even shot up as he was, Bucky was faster than me. Probably by half a second. Bucky shoots and I shoot. His bullet hits the gunman first, a split second before mine. His head snaps backward, and my shot goes right past him and hits the door to the bedroom on the first floor.
Bucky looks up at Del and says, “Wouldn’t you know it. Killed in a whorehouse.”
And then a woman screamed. She was behind the door to the first-floor bedroom, which was more or less reserved for locals. I ran across the room and kicked open the door. There was a man lying on the Persian rug, shot in the throat. Blood was spouting out of the wound. The woman was covered with his blood and hysterical. Her bloody hands were crossed over her face. She was shaking all over. But I wasn’t looking at her.