Chapter 13

"Hep ya there, young fella?" Fuzzy asked.

I reached into my pocket first this time. I already knew that there were some coins there; I had felt them as I pushed through the doors. But I was deathly afraid that Wizen had done something stupid, like giving me an Eisenhower silver dollar. To my relief, the coin I pulled out was era-appropriate. I tossed it onto the bar. The saloonkeeper put a bottle of whiskey onto the table.

"Join me, Deputy?" I asked.

He didn't mind if he did. None of this "on duty" nonsense for Fuzzy Q. Jones.

"So what brings you to town, stranger?" Fuzzy asked, downing his first glass.

I was about to explain when we were interrupted by a voice booming across the room.

"So you're what passes for the law in these parts?"

We looked over to see two men standing in the doorway. They were obviously up to no good. It wasn't their black hats, not in a Lash LaRue movie. Lash always wore black. No, it was the evil sneers on their faces. That, and the way they drew their guns as they approached in that bow-legged swagger that suggested they'd spent too much time on horseback.

Fuzzy started to visibly tremble, not a sign that inspired confidence in a deputy. It was perfectly appropriate for the character of Fuzzy though. The man was the quintessential comic Western sidekick.

"You got the badge, friend," one of the men said. "That makes you the law."

"What are you smilin' at?" the other asked me.

"Boys."

I acknowledged them with a tip of my hat. It was only a matter of time now. Fuzzy looked down, apparently startled to find a badge on the vest he was wearing over his checked shirt. He looked back at his accusers with eyes like saucers.

"Boys, somethin' ain't right here," Fuzzy said, swaying slightly against the counter. He grabbed drunkenly for the bottle of whiskey. "I was just — I was just havin' a — hic — drink here with my pal and —"

And the whip came in right on cue. I didn't see it, of course, but I heard the crack. We were all transfixed by the sight of the gun flying out of the hand of the guy nearest me and across the bar. All of us except Fuzzy, who grabbed the bottle in his fist by the neck and broke it over the head of the other one.

"Problem, gentlemen?" Lash LaRue asked as he let the doors swing closed behind him.

He had drawn his gun as well, and had it trained on me and the disarmed man he apparently assumed was my companion. The other fellow had dropped like a stone.

I looked at Fuzzy with eyes that asked for assistance. He grinned at me and turned to Lash.

"Nothin' too difficult, Lash. This here's my new friend, er,..."

"Rick. Rick Handley."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Handley. You new in town?"

"That's right," Fuzzy said, holding up the neck of the broken bottle. "I treated to the first bottle here, but we were unable to finish."

"Guess that make's it your turn, Mr. Handley," Lash said. "Set us up here, Sam."

So much for the other coin. But buying drinks for Fuzzy and Lash, it turned out, was enough to establish myself as one of the good guys. And under prompting from Lash, the saloonkeeper finally fessed up that I had also paid enough to entitle me to room and board.

My training began that afternoon. In many ways, the whip was harder to master than the sword. At least I had never cut my own cheek with the sword. When we finally quit for the day, I had improved considerably. By the end of Sunday evening's training, I was even better. It would be awhile before I would approach Lash's requirement that I be able to knock a tin can off a fence. But I was the terror of broad sides of barns across the West.

Shawn and I both attended Monday morning's press briefing. Pete Simpson announced that despite the diligent efforts of the Governor's staff and his family, no record could be found to substantiate the Governor's clear recollection of reimbursing Amalgamated Coal Company for his travel on the company's plane in each of the last five years. He passed out an accounting of the amounts that the Governor was nevertheless sure he had paid. And he announced that in order to avoid any further distractions from the important work of state governance, the Governor had dispatched a cashier's check to Amalgamated. When they located proof of the earlier reimbursements, Amalgamated would refund the amount of the cashier's check minus the cost of the most recent trip.

The line about distractions was straight out of the press spokesman handbook, but Pete was clearly pleased with his delivery. He was also surprised that I raised my hand.

"So according to this accounting, the amount paid for the current year was about equal to the amount for the year before, and the year before that?"

"Yes, of course," he answered, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Depending on his pro rated share of the airplane's costs, of course. Is there a problem?"

I tried to keep the smile off of my face.

"Without intending any disrespect, Pete, he went on the last four trips by himself, right?"

"Yes."

"And this year he went with you?"

He started to nod and then realized where I had led him.

"Who's paying for the costs of your trip?"

The silence that followed was intense. Pete clearly had no idea how to answer that one. The press corps clearly had no idea of asking another question until that one was answered. Pete and I locked eyes. Then he blinked.

"My costs are more difficult to calculate, of course, because I returned early to deal with this whole non-issue of yours, Mr. Handley. You will be provided with that accounting by the end of the day."

He left immediately thereafter.

A reporter from Beckley leaned back in his chair and gave Shawn and me a smile.

"I don't believe I've ever seen him turn quite that color red. You know, young man, if you're going to ask him a question that causes his head to explode, you should probably take my place in the front row."

We shared a laugh and then Shawn and I went back to the Messenger and began pounding out the story. Shawn drove over to the statehouse in the late afternoon to pick up Pete's accounting so that we could include that as well. Then we sat down and finished.

It was a hard night of work. It was nine o'clock by the time we were done and both of us were exhausted. Shawn's test results still hadn't come back yet, so it's not like I had really missed anything. We had some cheesecake and coffee at a late-night deli down the street and then called it a night.

"So you and Shawn actually wrote a story together?" Alison asked the next day at lunch.

"Yeah," I said. "I think it turned out pretty well. Don't you?"

"Full page headline. What's not to like? Still, it was your story. Now you're sharing it with her."

I shrugged.

"We shared the last one," I pointed out.

"Just the credit," Allie said. "Not the writing."

Alison studied me for twenty uncomfortable seconds.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"What else are you sharing with her?"

"Nothing. I have no idea what you're —"

"Oh, bullshit, Rick. I saw the way you looked at her yesterday. Tell me you're not sleeping with her."

"I'm not sleeping with her."

"Thank God."

"Not yet."

"Rick! Come on. You know you can do so much —"

"Allie." I interrupted her. "Don't. Please. Just don't."

She didn't. She looked down and twirled her fork in her salad.

"Friends?" she asked.

"Friends," I agreed with a sigh.

"She's very pretty," Allie agreed. "And smart."

"And she hasn't always been the nicest person." I conceded that Alison had a point as well. "Give it a chance, okay?"

"For you?" Allie said. "You bet. Say what ever happened to the other part of the story?"

"The sex?" I asked. "Funny you should bring that up. My source called me last night after I got home. She asked the same thing. I told her that unless I got confirmation from somebody else or she let me use her name, there was no story."

"Yeah. Rachel would never let that into print. What does Shawn think?"

I studied my potato chips for a while and looked up at Allie.

"I, um, haven't shared that part with her yet."

Allie started giggling.

"It's different," I said.

"Sure." Allie was still giggling. "One's just sex. The other's journalism."

"And sex," I pointed out. "But I promised the woman I wouldn't give out her name. Can't go back on a promise in this business."

"Pussy or no."

"Allie!"

"What? She has one, right? Oh yeah. You don't know that yet, do you?"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Are you gonna eat that roll or not?"

The sex angle sputtered back to life the very next morning. I arrived at work as early as I always did and found an e-mail waiting for me. The return address was a Yahoo account that I didn't recognize. I skimmed it more than I actually read it. Then I printed it out, tore it off the printer, and raced over to the statehouse.

Shawn was happy to see me and quickly made room at her desk. We listened to Pete explain some exciting new regulatory clean water initiative that appeared to relieve the mining industry in particular of any responsibility to keep its tailing piles away from potable water. He quite happily explained in answer to questioning that the program represented a careful balance between the needs of industry and those of consumers. After taking a few more bored questions about it, he recognized me.

"Mr. Handley?"

"Mr. Simpson, I asked you a few weeks back if there were any women on the plane to Texas"

"Oh for Chrissakes," Pete barked. "Who are you, Johnny one-note?"

"Maybe," I said. "Can I actually ask the question?"

"Certainly," he agreed with sarcastic politeness. "Whatever you like."

"You avoided the question, sir. You told me there was a flight attendant. So I'll ask it again. Were there any women passengers?"

"No, there were not."

"No sex on the plane? No bondage? No, um, sado-masochism?"

Pete Simpson was glaring at me with triumphant malice. I was aware of grumbling behind me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Shawn whispered.

"Mr. Handley, this is an incredibly insulting line of questioning. The answer is no. I'll answer one more question, Mr. Handley."

I could feel the weight of my colleagues' doubts. I decided to skip the sex entirely and take one last shot.

"During the trip, after he learned about the Messenger's article, did the Governor at any time say, 'Who the fuck is Rick Handley?'"

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