When the Pirate Prays. James B. Johnson
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me in, I’m lawn forcement.” He had a bottle of Yukon Jack liquor in his hand and his eyes were bloodshot and his breath foul, and he was unshaven. He staggered up to me. “Just exactly what the fuck’s goin’ on here?” He looked down at me suspiciously.
“You got a murder on your hands, officer,” I said mildly.
“I’m ‘Trooper,’ and how the fuck do you know it’s murder, Shorty?” His eyes focused on me then shifted to the body.
Now I greatly dislike anybody making fun of my inordinate lack of great height. I always like to think of myself as a younger Alan Ladd without the highwater pants; what with a similar height, my hair and a certain jut of jaw give that impression if you’re real creative in your mind’s eye.
“I saw it on a Magnum rerun,” I shot back at Trooper while wondering if Tapes could take him. Tapes was skinny enough to bathe in a shotgun barrel, but he was deceptively strong. Also, he was about a foot taller than me. Not to mention he usually got us out of the trouble my mouth got us into. “You can check him, he’s rapidly assuming room temperature,” I said quoting the guy on the radio.
Trooper’s face blanched and three guys who hadn’t shaved more than the trooper and wore hunting camouflage gear edged up behind him. They were obviously curious and rude, because they pushed an old lady out of their way.
Turning to Silas Smith, I said, “You’d better call the law.” I glanced at Trooper. “The real law.”
Trooper snarled. “I’m the governor’s fucking bodyguard, Shorty. I’ll make the decisions here.”
“You did a wonderful job,” I said, regretting the dig immediately.
Trooper started to reach for me then something changed on his face. “Didjou say he’s dead?”
“You could draw that conclusion.”
Trooper’s face fell, beef turning to bristly jowls, a tear actually eeking from his right eye. He sniffled. “Henry B. was my friend.” Trooper’s voice sounded strangled.
“Call the law,” I told Smith again.
“Oh, God, I’ll do it.” He trotted down the hall toward the front desk.
The geek’s teeth were chattering.
“What happened?” I asked.
He put four left fingers into his mouth and his eyes were still bulging, locked onto the body.
“Tell us,” I said.
“I…I don’t know. I was walking to breakfast and…there he was on the floor.”
Silas Smith returned.
He shook his head and his voice had regained some calm. “I can’t call out. Phones are out from the storm. We’re running on our own generator even.”
“My CB’s broken,” I said. “Any cell phones?”
Nobody responded.
“The cellular sites usually take the first hits on the mainland,” Smith said. “This is a bad reception area anyway.”
“Well, send somebody,” I said.
This handsome woman whose face was ashen shook her head. “The two sheriff’s deputies are on the mainland for shift change.” She hiccupped. I’d watched her last night. She’d been the center of a small party in the lounge. A “divorce party” Silas Smith had told me. The pregnant woman and the old lady were part of it, her friends, this intriguing woman, helping her celebrate her divorce. It had seemed to me more like a wake; however, she’d grabbed my attention with a bold look. The lady hiccupped again.
If she was March on a swimsuit calendar, you’d never get to April. She was wearing a pair of prairie shorts, made of Chamois leather, revealing an acre of tan legs. A loose blouse of the same material exposed a strip of slim and tan waist. Last night she’d worn a lip-licking yellow cross-back knit dress with a swirl-like skirt. She hiccupped again.
One of the camo-dressed guys said, “The bridge washed out a little while ago.”
As usual paying attention to what’s happening around me and especially intriguing women who show a lot of class, I knew that the star of the divorce party was named Mary Lynn and, with a couple of the others at the party, hadn’t gone home last night because they had too much to drink and didn’t want to drive in the building storm. So they got rooms at the Inn.
Looking around at the different people, I thought at least there was room at this Inn. Which gave me an associative thought and I eyed the pregnant woman. She was standing there staring, her breathing ragged. Well, Gonzáles wasn’t his old self. Not everybody gets to view a newly dead governor.
Trooper was just standing there; face scrunched up, eyes watery. Realization had paralyzed him.
The only person moving was the old lady. She was already on the first turn of the broad stairs heading upwards.
Well, at least somebody had something on the ball.
To Trooper, I said, “You’d best insure nobody disturbs the evidence for now.”
“What are we gonna do with him?” Trooper’s voice was a plaintive cry.
Edging through the crowd, I hit the stairs, my Nikes doing better than the old lady’s pumps.
We made it to the third floor at the same time.
Nothing.
An overturned table against the wall, a busted railing, and a puddle of water, most likely from Gonzáles standing there dripping. I thought again of a life snuffed and the gorge rose once more.
The old lady was eyeing me and moving around looking at things.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be up here messing around,” I said, words serving to repel the fluctuating nausea.
“Says who?” she asked with an eye cocked at me. “Did the governor leave you in charge before he died?”
I shook my head. “Just common sense.”
“You’re the one they call Shortcut, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I’m not.”
“You talk and dress like a cowboy. I didn’t think there were any cowboys left.”
“I used to be; I’m not any longer.”
“What are you now?”
“Unemployed,” I said and thought, and running from a woman.
“Why is it that you look like a gill-caught fish?”
“Beats me.” I shrugged and finally controlled my emotions. “I was shocked at the governor’s death, that’s all. I’d just been talking to him. He was a living, breathing person and now he’s a corpse.”
“Ghoulish, aren’t you?” Her other eye nailed me. “You were talking to him? You saw it happen?”
“No. We were coming down the corridor after letting him off at the front door.”
“You and that tall cowboy?”
“Yep. He’s not a cowboy any longer; though once you clamp a steer’s ear or dip a cow, I guess it stays with you. He’s a mothballer.”
The old lady shook her head. There was a beehive of gray hair neatly atop it. Her face was not wrinkled like you’d think. And she was a shade taller than me, not a hard thing to be.
“A mothballer? Surely you take advantage of an old lady.”
“No, it’s true. In Tucson, for the Air Farce. He decommissions aircraft and prepares them for what’s called the Boneyard.”
“Let