A Knife in the Heart. William W. Johnstone
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heavyset man with white mustache and beard, well groomed, and bald on the top of his head, M. C. Jackson pushed himself from his seat, which took great effort, because Jackson was obese, to the extent that he had to request a chair without arms to sit to his morning feast.
Fallon handed his hat to the man in the fancy suit and let another younger man, also dressed for a wedding or funeral, lead him to Jackson’s table, even though that was far from necessary because Jackson was waving and booming, “Fallon. Over here. Have a seat. The bacon is worth dying for.”
After thanking his guide, and shaking Jackson’s clammy hand, Fallon settled into his seat, which had arms. Jackson had to ease himself down and quickly began sawing the thickest slices of bacon Fallon had ever seen while another young man in a suit appeared as if by magic at Fallon’s side.
“What would monsieur like for breakfast today?” the boy asked. Monsieur? The Inter-Ocean Hotel deserved its reputation . . . for being overpriced and pretentious.
“Coffee,” Fallon said. “Black.”
Jackson, with a fancy napkin rammed inside his paper collar and dangling like a turkey’s wattle to his waist, managed to swallow half a pig. “Fallon. Order what you want. The state prison funds will be paying for this.”
“Coffee’s fine,” Fallon said. “Christina made my breakfast this morning.”
“Very well,” Jackson said, but when the waiter started to leave, he raised his head. “But I’ll have two more fried eggs, son, and a big slice of toast with that huckleberry jam that tastes so divine.”
Eventually, the waiter returned with Fallon’s coffee, and that at least gave him something to do while the hog in front of him tackled the plates and bowls before him with great zeal. There was no break for conversation until the last morsel was finished—and before the servers returned with two more fried eggs and toast with huckleberry jam. As Jackson wiped his mouth with the napkin, Fallon set his cup on the table, a signal that he was ready to talk, too.
“Wonderful. We don’t get food like that in Laramie and at the prison.” He laughed.
“I trust your meetings are going well,” Fallon said.
“Indeed. Now, your charming secretary yesterday said you wanted to talk to me, so here I am, at your service.”
But the service had to wait because the eggs and toast arrived. It was a good thing, Fallon figured, that he didn’t have anything overly important on his calendar this day.
“I hear”—Jackson began mopping up the remnants of his eggs with a chunk of toast—“that there was some sordid gunplay on the streets of Cheyenne late yesterday morning.”
Fallon sipped more coffee, cold now. “I read something about it in the newspaper,” he said.
Jackson swallowed, found some water, washed it down, and wiped his mouth again. “I detest newspapers. The ink gets on my fingers.”
And you probably lick off the ink, Fallon thought. Hell, buster, you’d eat anything.
“Alas, my understanding is that those eight men won’t be serving any time in Laramie. Dead. All dead. Shot down like the dirty dogs they were.”
“There were only six,” Fallon said.
Jackson looked up.
“According to the newspaper,” Fallon said.
“Well.” The last morsel of food vanished. “Be that as it may, how can I help you, Marshal?”
Fallon pulled the paper from his inside coat pocket and found a place on the table not covered with dishes. Christina had written the name in her wonderful cursive this morning before Fallon left for his meeting with the warden.
“One of the inmates at the Big House Across the River,” Fallon said, using the nickname for the big stone building. “Carlos Pablo Diego the Fourth.”
Jackson read the name. “Horse thief.” His jowly face rose to meet Fallon’s stare. “Is he wanted for some federal crime as well as stealing horses?”
“Not that I know of,” Fallon said. “Just a routine investigation. I’m just looking for any information you have, trial details, the crime, what kind of prisoner he has been.”
Jackson watched a waiter carrying a tray of food to another table, ran a tongue over his lips, and turned back to Fallon. “Well, you do understand that I have only been at the Wyoming State Prison for three months.” He chuckled. “And we have a substantial number of convicts.” The laughter resumed. “Business is good for the state prison these days, Fallon, but, well, business is always good. Otherwise men like you and I would have no job at all.” Once he could control his chuckling, he said, “Let me just point out that I really do not know this Juan Chico character.”
“Carlos Pablo Diego the Fourth,” Fallon corrected.
“Yes. We do not have many bean-eaters in the Big House,” Jackson said.
“Then you could find out a bit about him with no problem.”
“You just seek the routine information. That is my understanding. Am I correct?”
“Yeah. Whatever files you might have on him. Maybe ask a guard what kind of prisoner he is.”
“Well, Fallon, since I am on an expense account, I can send a telegraph after my meetings at nine-thirty, ask my assistant to relay the information directly to you. Would that be satisfactory?”
“I thank you in advance.” Fallon stood, extended his hand, shook, and left the fat man to his bill.
The man at the front door was examining the bullet holes in Fallon’s hat.
* * *
Rachel Renee was bouncing on Helen’s knee when Fallon walked into the office after his dinner meeting—which, he thanked the Almighty, had not been with Warden M. C. Jackson.
“Papa!” his daughter exclaimed.
Fallon’s face brightened. “Hey there, Tiger. What brings you to the big city?”
“Ma wanted to see you,” the girl said. “Look at me. Doesn’t Miss Helen make a good pony?”
Fallon didn’t know quite how to answer that one, so he grinned and saw Helen pointing her chin to the office as her leg kept bouncing his daughter.
Christina sat behind Fallon’s desk.
“You were lucky,” she told him, and pushed herself up. “He was arrested in Laramie County. The trial was right here in Cheyenne. Three years ago.”
Three years. The boy had been right. Fallon moved around the desk and saw the papers on his desk. He picked up a piece of paper, the judge’s sentence, noting the date.
“You found all this out this morning?” Fallon asked.
She shrugged.
“Surely the American Detective Agency doesn’t have a file on Carlos Pablo Diego.”
“I doubt if the Pinkertons do, either, not for a onetime horse thief. I just sniffed around in the county courthouse. You said the boy said he’d been in prison three years, so that gave me a starting point.”
Fallon wet his lips, shook his head. “I don’t remember the trial.”
“Why would you?” Christina said. “A routine horse thief. Like you said, it’s not a federal crime, not your jurisdiction. As far as I can tell, even the Sun-Leader did not run any account of the trial. How was your meeting with the warden?”
“Sickening.” Fallon found another paper, looked over it at Christina and said, “One more breakfast with that hog, and I’m not sure I’d ever be able to eat again.”
She slid a piece of yellow paper toward Fallon. “This struck me as rather interesting.”
Fallon