Free The Lawmen by Robert Broomall Page B

need it where you’re going,” Clay told him.
    “And where’s that?” Vance asked.
    “The gallows, probably, once the Federal marshal in Tucson gets hold of you.”
    “I wouldn’t bet on that, Chandler. Then again, maybe that’s the kind of bet a loser like you would make. “
    Essex moved past Clay, down the narrow aisle that divided the rows of cells. “You killed Pompey,” he said, glaring at Vance.
    “Who?” Vance said. “You mean that swamper? Sure I killed him, what of it? It wasn’t much fun. He didn’t even kick.”
    Essex thrust his arms through the bars. “White motherf—”
    Clay grabbed Essex by the shoulders and pulled him back. “Cool off, boy. You’re here to enforce the law, not take it into your own hands. ”
    Essex was breathing hard. “You mean deliver him to a white man’s jury, where some fancy lawyer gets him off?”
    “If necessary,” Clay said.
    “Where’s the justice in that?”
    Before Clay could reply, there was a knock at the barred front door. “See who that is,” Clay told his deputy.
    Essex unbarred the door and opened it, revealing a half-dozen whores, dressed in cheap jewelry and feathers, reeking of perfume, giggling and carrying picnic hampers. The girls saw Essex and stopped, openmouthed. “Who are you?” one of them asked.
    “I’m the boogeyman,” Essex told her. “Who the hell you think?”
    “No, he’s not,” another girl said. “He’s a deputy. Look at that badge.”
    The rest of the girls chimed in. “A deputy?”
    “Well, would you believe that?”
    “But he’s a Negro.”
    Clay moved forward politely. “May I help you ladies?”
    “We come to see Vance,” a tipsy bleached blond replied.
    The other girls looked over Clay’s shoulder, into the cell. “Hi, Vancey,” they cried, waving.
    Vance smoothed back his long hair and flashed a smile. “Hi, girls.”
    “You look awful,” one said. “How are they treating you?”
    “Not real good. But I’ll be out tomorrow. I’ll see you all then.”
    “All of us?” another of the girls said coquettishly.
    “You know me,” Vance boasted.
     “We sure do,” a third girl said, and they all started giggling again and nudging each other’s shoulders.
    “What’s in the baskets?” Clay asked them.
    “Food for the prisoner,” the tipsy blond replied. “The poor thing looks like he’s starving. ”
    “Damn right I’m starving,” Vance cried. “This marshal won’t feed me.”
    “Let me see,” Clay said, holding out his hand. He inspected the hampers, pulling apart the cloth napkins with which they were lined. “Ham, chicken—looks good. What kind of pie is this?”
    “Cherry,” one of the girls said.
    “So that’s where you lost it,” another cracked, and they all laughed.
    Clay felt something beneath the chicken. He reached deeper and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. “Now, ladies. You know whiskey ain’t allowed inside the jail.”
    “Why not?” the one with the cherry pie complained. “Just the one bottle won’t hurt him.”
    “Sorry,” Clay said. He returned the Jim Beam to its purchaser, then arranged the open hampers on his desk.
    “Now what are you doing?” the blond asked.
    Clay affected surprise. “Why, I have to inspect the contents further. Who knows, you could be concealing a pistol or a bowie knife inside one of these hams. Hell, you could be hiding something under all that makeup on your face.” Grinning, he slid the cherry pie across the desk to Essex. “Cut me some of this pie, boy.”
    “Cut it yourself,” Essex replied.
    Clay looked at him. “Ain’t you forgetting who’s boss here?”
    “You can tell me what to do as far as the law goes, peckerwood, but I ain’t your body servant. You want that pie, cut it yourself. And don’t go calling me ‘boy’”
    From his cell Vance said, “Uppity, ain’t he, Marshal?”
    The girls shouldered past Clay and Essex to the cell, where they took turns kissing Vance passionately through the bars.