The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 8

I spent the first night watching the Charlanes' house. Turns out they have employees there at night too. Different bunch, and all house staff, but not any more inclined to let strangers in. One brushoff was enough to convince me to try something else. I decided I'd spend the daytime hours I wasn't sleeping watching the Charlanes, to see if I could catch one of them in the open for a friendly conversation. The rest of the nights that week I spent following Maggie and her boys. At least this way I felt I was accomplishing something, even if I was just sitting in my car in a different place. Each night they'd visit a different one of the homes in the new development. Only ones that were finished and occupied. Five cars would drive up, but only Maggie and the fellas in her car would go in the front door. Sometimes the other cars would sit until they came out, anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. Once, one of the cars drove around to the rear of the house, stayed there for ten minutes, then came back around to the front. Maggie and her boys exited through the front door, and they all left together.

All through this, I tried to hang back. Follow at a distance, park on the furthest hill I could see anything from. Even so, they aren't dopes, and by the last night, I noticed only 4 cars in the procession at first. After I pulled out to follow, a set of headlights pulled in behind me. I went north at the first chance and headed for the next town over, made it look like I wanted to try a diner there. Had some coffee, some mincemeat pie, stopped at a general store to buy some Scotch, went back home. Anything to look like a city boy bored out in the country.

The Charlanes were continuing to keep a wall between me and them. Either a real one, or their servants. Either way, I wasn't getting near them, and they didn't answer their own phones. Now Maggie or her boys had their suspicions up about me again. I decided to take a day off from snooping. Slept in, stayed out of the heat. Night came eventually. The sun refuses to go down, that punchdrunk palooka without enough sense to fall. But it does, finally. Tonight, I head east. There's a club east of town I'd heard about. It sounded a little rowdy for my tastes, but something I'd read about it's owner made me want to visit. I might get something more than overpriced drinks out of this trip.

The Bird's Nest looked like a barn. Which made sense because it used to be one. The sign out front was a simple wooden one, not much of an attention-getter. Guess they rely on word of mouth. The inside was cleaner than you'd expect. I wasn't too surprised. The man running it was fastidious, and a big believer in looking classy, even for a hick barn. The bar was neat, orderly, and packed, with hooch and thirsty customers. The card tables were the same, and who should I see at one but Maggie herself. There were three other players besides her at the table. The one in the checkered shirt chewing on a piece of straw seemed to be doing all right, and so did the one in the slightly battered smoking jacket. Maggie's pile of chips was about even with theirs, but the third guy, still wearing his fedora and smoking a big cigar, he was winning big. About then, Maggie turned and looked me right in the eye.

"Taking a break from nighttime drives?"

I strolled closer to the table. "It's my one night a month to be sociable."

She hmmed, then responded, "And here I thought it was my presence that drew you here." There was a joshing tone to her voice that almost covered the steel I'd heard that night at the Gutierrez farm. Still, it was a friendly voice, inviting me to sit down, maybe spill my guts

"My horoscope only said it was a good night to meet old acquaintances. Maybe buy them a drink. Seems to me I owe you one for your help that night."

She shook her head slightly. "Hardly necessary, and I never drink while I play."

Mr. Fedora - who was the only one seated to her left - chose that moment to butt in loudly, "Well then let's get playin'. I ain't finished winnin' all your money yet, missy."

Maggie smiled at me and the other two for an instant before turning back to face him. Her voice took on a dumbfounded tone. "I'm sorry, mister. I didn't mean to hold everythin' up with my gabbing. I'll just go ahead and bet everything, all right?"

The other two fellas folded immediately, but the loudmouth didn't catch on. Better entertainment for the rest of us. He pushed all his chips in, even though he could have just matched her. Some guys just have to go down in flames, though for this one, I might like for gasoline to be involved. The look on his face when she threw down a straight flush, then swept all her chips in would have to do.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Magge said, with a sweet voice lacking in sincerity, "I know you needed my money so very badly, what with the big hurry you were in, but I seem to have cleaned you out. Such poor luck."

She turned back to the other two. "Gentlemen, shall we continue without him?" The two exchanged nervous glances, then look at her massive pile of chips. Maggie noticed, split the pile, and pushed the halves towards each. "Here, now things are on equal footing, and we should be able to play for some time." It was a gracious tone, and they took her up on it. I took the hint. She was busy. I moved on.

Off in one corner of the club I found a cockfighting ring. Not what I was expecting, certainly not what you'd find on the coast, but the hicks in the sticks have their own interests. The sports fans were really into it. Money was flying, spectators were cheering and jeering the birds. The winners were tossed popcorn, the losers were pelted with it. Lots of strutting and chest puffing. And then there were the birds. Still, it was all good-natured, nobody going for guns or knives. I kept walking.

Further back, there were two staircases next to each other. One went up, the other down, but I didn't like how there was a drunk leaning on the support beam nearby. I walked past looking left and right, like I'm just checking out what's available. Then I spun and walked back to the front, to the bar. Ordered a gin. I'm more a whiskey man, but I thought I'd stick to something with less kick. Good call. If the gin was any indication, the whiskey would have put me on the floor. I sipped slow and careful while I watched the room.

Maggie was still playing cards with the other two. Fedora was making some noise about getting cheated nearby, until he tripped. The fall must have knocked him cold, because some helpful customers carried him out. That's how it went. No obvious security, but there were a few guys, dressed like most everyone else, standing in a way that said security was their job. Wherever things were active, they were nearby, but never involved, always on the edge, watching. One of them noticed me watching. I raised my glass, a friendly gesture to a fellow reveler. He raised a glass too. His smile wasn't as friendly, but it was a nice try. Probably only water in the glass, which wouldn't make me feel much like smiling, either. The exception was that lush near the stairs. Maybe he was soused - with the kick the gin had, I could believe it - but he wasn't staggering, or slumped on the floor. He stayed on the post like he was glued to it.

With a distraction, I figured I could get to the stairs, but up or down? Wouldn't be able to pull the trick twice. The drunk had piqued my curiosity, and he was mostly blocking the basement. I started towards the cockfighting ring, and eased my way into the crowd. The next bout was in full swing. There was one guy standing very close, almost falling in, a full drink in his hand. I bumped his arm as I passed, and he soaked one of the birds. Whoever trained them knew their stuff. The wet bird got distracted, maybe blinded, and the other went on the attack instantly. I felt bad for the losing bird, even as I slipped back to the edge of the crowd. Fortunately, someone stopped the fight so they could bawl George out for ruining the match. He claimed innocence, that someone bumped him, but I guess I picked a good patsy. Everyone believed he was clumsy enough to spill, or crooked enough to do it to win a bet. George objected to be called clumsy, shouting turned to shoving, then punching.

The drunk didn't budge, even as the fight escalated. I chanced it he really was a rummy, and walked past him down the stairs. I reached the bottom shortly. Cleaning supplies along one wall. Extra tables and chairs. At the far end was a solid door that felt colder even than the air in this cellar. Probably storage for booze. Still, I started to pull it open, just to take a peek to make sure. And that's when the lights went out.