“Do you recognize the name Wally Johnson?”
“Of the infamous Johnsons?”
“More infamous than most. It was Wally who beat up that whore at Lefty’s. The one you were summoned to treat.”
“So?”
“His body was found this morning. He’d been assassinated. My sources in the sheriff’s department tell me it was ghastly. Carrion birds and such.”
Gabe just looked at him with dispassion.
After an ahem, Bernie said, “The reason I bring it up, this homicide will divert attention from your wife’s disappearance. Now that Bill Amos has a murder to solve, and seeing as how it involves a pack of jackals like the Johnsons, he’ll be focused on that. The missing person’s case will fade into thin air.”
Gabe plopped back onto the cushions. “What happens then?”
“You resume your practice. And you begin working for me.”
Gabe dug his middle finger and thumb into his eye sockets. He mumbled, “I don’t think I can.”
Around a soft laugh Bernie said, “You can. You will. Consider this a swift kick in the ass.”
Gabe lowered his hand from his eyes. “It’s too soon. I’m not over the shock of Mila ye
t.”
“Get over it. Patience isn’t my strong suit.”
“Look at me, Bernie. I can barely function, much less take on…additional responsibilities.”
Bernie tossed back the rest of his whiskey and, with a decisive thump, set the glass beside Gabe’s empty one on the end table. “This whining won’t do, Gabe.”
With desperation, he said, “I can’t just snap my fingers and have things return to any kind of normalcy. It’s going to take time.”
“Of course, you’re right.” Smiling, the mayor got up and walked over to the sofa. He set a heavy hand on Gabe’s shoulder and gave it a paternal squeeze. “You have two weeks.”
* * *
It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon before Bill made the return trip to town. It was a long drive, allowing him time to mentally review what he’d observed at the scene of the homicide and what he knew about the Johnson clan.
They were notorious for thumbing their noses at the laws against their industry. If a family member was caught plying his trade, he paid his fine—and, more often than not, a granny fee to empathetic officials. These payoffs were considered a cost of doing business. The additional expense was passed along to the consumer, and the offender and his kinfolk continued making moonshine with impunity.
But in the months since the Volstead Act went into effect, and the ensuing crackdown on offenders, culprits were getting prison time in addition to being fined.
However, the possibility of stiffer punishment hadn’t seemed to deter or unduly concern Wally Johnson. Crates of his product were stacked in plain sight outside his hovel, with no apparent attempt having been made to hide it from whomever had killed him. His rifle was still lying in the crook of his arm.
Evidently Wally’s young cousin Elray wasn’t from the most stalwart branch of the family tree. He blubbered unedited answers to all Bill’s questions, providing the names of Wally’s friends as well as his sworn enemies.
When asked if he had any idea who would have wanted to murder Wally so ruthlessly, Elray had dragged his sleeve across his snotty nose and replied, “Any of ’em. He wasn’t generally liked, ya know. But everybody was mad at him over that girl. It drew unwanted attention.”
“What girl?”
“Corrine, I think her name is. Out at Lefty’s.”
Bill was still mulling over Elray’s explanation as he approached the Quanah Parker Creek bridge, a town landmark and one of Mayor Croft’s crowning achievements, which he unabashedly advertised.
Fred Barker’s auto garage was just this side of the bridge. Guessing he would find Thatcher Hutton there, Bill pulled in. Fred and his assistant mechanic were changing a tire. Seeing Bill approach, Fred wiped his hands on a shop rag and met him halfway.
“What brings ya, sheriff? Hutton?”