Chapter 5

I WAS STANDING IN FRONT OF THE CLODVILLE State Bank at ten o'clock when the door opened.

The crowd swept me in, but I was on the edge of it. Abner Devlon was just coming out of his private office as I walked by the area up front with desks scattered across it for the "flunky help" as Dad used to call them.

Devlon saw me and waved and beckoned to me to come over to the counter. He waddled over. He wasn't much taller than I, but he was at least three times bigger around his middle. He was bald with a horseshoe of iron gray hair clamped around the back of his head. Quizzical eyes stared at you from behind thick lenses. He had a big nose and puffy lips and, like Dad, always had a cigar stuck in his mouth.

"Well, Molly," Devlon said, shoving out his fat hand, "I'm glad you've come home."

I nodded and said nothing.

"So what can we do for you?"

"I want to know where Dad stood financially. I also want to get his safety deposit box to see if he had his insurance policies there and also to see what other papers he had that I should know about."

"Of course. Come right on in."

He lumbered over to a gate and pulled it back. I went on through and followed him across the flunky area and through a doorway to his private office. He shut the door and went over and sat down in an old swivel chair that creaked and groaned as he wheeled around to face a big roll top desk. He reached toward a pigeonhole.

"I figured you'd be coming home. So I have a record of his account here."

He pulled a sheet of paper and flattened it with his hand. "All checks that have come in since his death we are holding. We didn't bounce them. Neither did we debit his account. At the time of his death, as far as we can figure, he had a balance here of about four thousand dollars. I'll give you the exact figure. It's thirty-nine hundred something. But so far we're holding nearly nine hundred dollars in checks your Dad wrote and which have come in since he was shot. So they'll have to be taken off that. So, all in all, I'd say you have about three thousand dollars there to play with."

I nodded. "What about his deposits? Did he have a personal account and one for The Melon Patch?"

"No. Just one account. As for deposits..." He scanned the sheet. "Well, here's a deposit for nearly fifteen hundred. Here's another one for about eight hundred. And another one for twelve hundred. I'd say he was doing all right with the bar. In fact, I loaned him five-thousand dollars a year ago."

"You did? What for?"

"I dunno. He just said he wanted it. So I gave it to him."

"And took a mortgage on the building?"

"No. Why should I? His signature was good enough for me."

"What about that note?"

"He came striding in here about two or three months ago with a big wad of bills and paid it off."

"Yet all the while that note was outstanding he kept making his usual size deposits?"

Devlon nodded.

"Did he make any payments on the note?"

"No. He just came in and laid down the five-thousand plus interest."

"I wonder where he got that kind of money. Not out of the bar, if he was making his usual deposits."

"Maybe he cashed in his life insurance or borrowed against it."

That rocked me. "Of all the damn fool stunts, if he did."

"Yeah. You'd better check his safety deposit box."

He shoved back and stood up. "Do you want me to go down with you or shall I send Helen down with you?"

"Helen'll do just fine," I said, rising. "But that three thousand there is frozen, isn't it?"

"Yes. The feds will be freezing it until they figure out any inheritance tax due. So will the State."

"So that means I have nothing to run the bar on?"

"It isn't as bad as all that. I'll loan you up to ten thousand dollars on your signature. That's the only way you can do it now. You can't mortgage that building until the estate is settled. But you're a Gilligan, so I know you're as good as your word."

I nodded. "Perhaps I'd better take you up on it. If I don't need it I won't touch it. I'll use only what I have to use."

"That's smart business. It could be a year or two before this account is freed."

"Yeah, and I want to remodel that bar."

"Remodel? Why?"

"Because I do. Everyone does things differently."

"I'm not loaning you that ten thousand as the owner and operator of that bar," Devlon said.

"You mean you won't loan it to me if I carry on?"

"No. But I didn't think you'd try to carry on and fight the mob."

"That's just what I'm going to do. Did you see this morning's Blade?"

"Yes. You've got some powerful backing there. You should get your license okay."

"That's what I think. I'm going to try for it. I'm going over to see Joe Tabor now and find out if I have a legal right to carry on for a while."

"I'm not sure of it, but I think you have. You ought te have, anyway. Why should a bar have to shut down completely until a new license is issued, even to someone else? But, of course, until you get your license, you'll just be a caretaker in there."

"Then you wouldn't spend any money in there until you get a license?"

"No. Why should you?"

"But with the backing I have, I know I'll get it. And I need to make some changes right away. So are you telling me that I can't use any of that ten thousand to remodel?"

"No. You can use it as you please. I'm not telling you what to do."

I nodded. "Okay. Wait until I check Dad's safety deposit box. Then I'll be back to talk about the ten thousand."

"Okay. I'll see you in a little while."

Devlon led me out to the front and called Helen. I remembered her from years back. She was about my height and build and had red hair and freckles and a pug nose. She had been an old maid until just before I left for Chicago. Then she and buck-toothed Jimmy Wagner, whose wife had died two years before, got married.

Helen led me toward the back of the bank. It certainly hadn't joined the twentieth century, and it wouldn't as long as Devlon was alive, or as long as the Devlon family controlled the bank. It still had the wire cages for each teller, as if they were squirrels. The walls and the high ceiling were grimy with at least fifty years of dirt. Even the high windows up near the roof were streaked and dirty and let in damn little light.

At the rear, Helen led me down the stairs to the basement and down a short hall. I hadn't been down there for years, so I had forgotten.

Helen turned to me. "I suppose you don't have a key, do you?"

I shook my head.

"That can be arranged. I have a master."

She walked over to a box and pulled a key ring from her pocket. "Your father was in here day before yesterday. He spsnt quite a bit of time down here. He was over in that far corner there, and had his back to the room. So I couldn't see what he was doing. But he was writing something."

I nodded and watched her unlock the door and swing it back.

"There you are. You can take the drawer over there in the corner where your father was, if you want to. Or you can go over along the other wall."

I went to the right and over to a table along that wall and then down it to the end. I had a certain amount of privacy there, if I kept my back to the room.

There was a big thick pack of bulky envelopes, secured by two heavy rubber bands. I stared at the top envelope. Across the face of it, in Dad's handwriting, was the one word: Molly.

I lifted up the two rubber bands and slipped the top envelope out. It was sealed. I tore it open and began reading.

Dear Molly, Remember how we used to read whodunits when you were home? The hero would find a letter to read and it would always start-"By the time you find this letter, I'll be dead."

Well, this isn't a whodunit. This is real life. I won't tell you that by the time you read this I'll probably be dead, because I know damn well I will be. I just got a phone call. At midnight tonight I have to sell The Melon Patch, or else.

If he'd come in like a businessman and had made me a business proposition, I'd probably have sold out. There's no reason now for me to stay in business. It's about time I retired. But, no, he came slinking in with his hat pulled down and couldn't look me in the eyes. He didn't ask me if I wanted to sell. He told me I had to sell. And I told him like hell I had to sell. And one thing led to another. Finally I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and started running and half-dragged him to the front door and then my arm shot straight out and he kept right on going and slammed into Del Bradshaw's convertible and pitched headlong into it, with his feet in the air, and kicking like a speared grasshopper.

Of course, the bar was loaded and the street outside was jammed. Jed was having a big sale next door and people were buzzing in and out all day. What I'm trying to say is that for me to humiliate that guy like I did in front of so many people must have made him mad. Because he finally got himself picked up and he growled to me, "You'll hear from us."

Well, I did. About an hour ago. It was some rough guy who told me he'd be in at midnight and for me to have my coat and hat on, and for me to have all the necessary papers with me because we were going out for a while and I was going to sign the building and the business over to him and they'd pay me a fair price for it.

I blew up. I told him to go to hell. I didn't even ask him how much he was willing to pay for it.

So I suppose I'll have company tonight. But I've got Old Betsy under the bar and I still know how to put her through her paces, so I'm not too worried. But in another way I am, because if anything should happen, it'll all fall on you. And you want no part of Clodville or the bar.

About a month ago I wrote you another letter and stuck it in this box somewhere. You'll probably find it. So you'll get along okay, even if I'm gone.

Dad

I lit a cigarette and stared at the familiar handwriting. Dad was a damn fool. He knew he didn't have any chance. Was it possible that he saw an honorable way out of this vale of tears and took it? Since I was gone, and he was all alone, was it possible that he didn't want to live any more? But, of course, no one could call it suicide.

I ripped off the heavy rubber bands around the pack and began flipping through the envelopes. I found his life insurance policy and business papers. And then, frantically, near the bottom of the pile, I began looking for another letter. Of course, as it usually happens, it was on the very bottom. like the other letter, it was in an envelope with Dad's handwriting in a hurried scrawl.

I ripped it open. Dear Molly, I'm not sending this letter to Chicago because it might influence your life, I don't want that to happen. I've never tried to stand in your way. Sure, I wanted you to stay in Clodville and be near me and together we'd run the bar, but I knew you couldn't do that until you were twenty-one. You didn't want to go to college, so what were you going to do for three years.

When you came up with this idea of going to Chicago and going on the police force, I didn't fight it because I figured that by the time you were twenty-one you'd be home again. But you didn't come home. I wasn't about to write you and ask you to.

You have chosen your life and the way you want to live it and I'm not about to interfere in any way. That's why I'm sticking this letter in this box instead of mailing it to you. Whenever I die it will be found and sent to you. With me out of the way, you can't say that I influenced your life or what you were to do. If this letter influences your life, that's too goddamn bad. But you can't blame me for what I did or for writing it. You can't say that I tried to influence you by mailing it to you.

You may not recall this incident, because you were in grade school, but do you remember Harry Blaisdell? He was in my outfit during War II. He drove through town and stopped off to see me once. He was from Oklahoma, and he told me he was on his way to see his sister in Kentucky. He had talked to the doctor there and that unless his sister had an operation within a week she wouldn't live. She had no money and he didn't have much-just about enough to get to Kentucky. He had another problem, too. He had cancer. They gave him three to six months to live, but he was determined to go to Kentucky and be able to provide an operation for his sister. He bumped me for a thousand dollars and showed me a deed for five-hundred acres of land he owned in Oklahoma. He admitted the land was worthless because of its location and being scrub land, but he said that surely, somehow, I could get a thousand dollars out of it sometime. But he wouldn't be alive long enough to do that, and, besides, he needed that thousand dollars right now.

Well, I talked it over with your mother and she said it was my decision. She said to ask' myself what I would do if it were my sister. So I kept asking myself that all the rest of the afternoon and that night until the bar closed. Then I started walking the streets and kept on asking myself that. By daylight I decided what I would do.

I walked back to the bar and climbed in my car and drove home. I had put Harry up out there for the night. I got him up and told him I would buy his land for a thousand dollars and he could do what he damned pleased with the money.

Then I broke open a fifth and we sat at the kitchen table killing the fifth and talking about the War and old times until your mother got up and broke up the party.

Well, you might remember all that, you might not. But I hung on to that land all those years. The taxes were less than fifty dollars a year. I kept thinking maybe Harry would come back through, but I never heard from him again. I never made any attempt to find out what had happened to him.

About a year ago, I got a letter from an oil company attorney out in Oklahoma. He said that the records showed I was the owner of record and held the land free and clear, and that I had bought it from the late Harry Blaisdell, who had died from cancer twenty years earlier. And then he got into the meat of the thing-he wanted to take an option on one hundred acres to explore for oil, but there was one catch to it. He said that everyone out there was more than happy to lease land to them for exploration because they got cash for the lease and even if no oil was found they could quit work for a year and loaf. So his company had decided on a new policy. If they leased the land from me they weren't going to pay me a dime unless oil came in. On top of that, they weren't going to lease the land unless I thought there was a chance of oil on it. Or, if I didn't know, that I was willing to put some of my own money into the venture. They wanted five thousand dollars from me.

Well, there I was walking the streets again that night. What was I to do? I didn't want the goddamn land or the royalties. I wanted it for you. I didn't know who to turn to. If I talked to Devlon at the bank or Tabor or anyone in town it would have been all over town within an hour.

Then I thought of Al Marshall, who was in my outfit, too. I'd bumped into him one time in St. Louis and found out that he was a lawyer there. So I went on home about daybreak and fixed some breakfast and sat around some more until 7:00. Then I got on the phone and found out his home address. He was just getting up. Of course he remembered me, so I set a date and went on down there the next day to talk to him.

Well, to make a long story short, Al told me that it was my decision whether to go ahead or not, but that if I did I could set up a living trust for you. And if anything came out of it the money would go in the trust to be paid to you at any time. So I suggested it be paid to you after my death. Because it could always be changed at any time. If you got in a jam and needed it before I died, I could have changed the stipulations.

And then we got to talking some more and it wound up that I decided to toss the building and all of the bar fixtures into the trust, too. So Al drew up the paper and I went down again and signed them and we went over to East St. Louis and recorded them in Illinois. I had the building title and title to the bar fixtures put in the name of the trust.

Then I went home and called that lawyer in Oklahoma and asked him if his offer was still open. He said yes. So I said okay. I'm mailing you a cashier's check for five thousand dollars. (Never mind how I got hold of the five thousand. That doesn't matter.)

Well, I forgot all about it. About three months ago I got another letter from this lawyer. They put down two wells at the same time. One came in dry. The other was a gusher. He said he'd let me know after they had it in production what I could anticipate for royalties.

And then I got another letter. A few days later. From another oil company lawyer. He wanted to take option on two hundred adjoining acres. So I got on the phone to Al Marshall. He said to stall them. Not to make any move until the royalties on the first well were determined and to stall even further if I could, because other wells would be put down. In other words, the more producing wells I had coming in on that first hundred acres, the better a deal and the higher a price I could get from other oil outfits. The way the land was situated in those barren hills, no oil company could slant drill into any of my land. So I was sitting on either a million bucks or a million rocks. Only time would tell. But, of course, I wasn't sitting on it. Your trust fund was.

So that's where it stands today. Your trust fund has now received about fifty thousand dollars in royalties and more will be coming in another three months. Besides that, the oil company is putting down three more exploratory wells. If they come in they'll put down more. So it could multiply or it could peter out. Only time will tell.

You can seenow why I didn't mail this letter to you in Chicago. I didn't want to influence your life. If you were happy as a cop, then why not stay on as a cop? Because wealth can breed more unhappiness and trouble than poverty ever can. And after bucking the world as a Chicago cop for a few years, I hope you're dry behind the ears and won't go overboard when you find out you have a trust fund. If you're smart you'll let that trust fund build up and continue as a cop and splurge only by getting yourself a new car or something like that.

Well, when you read this, I won't be around to advise you. I hope I haven't jarred you too much just now. If I did, I hope you'll forgive me.

Dad

P.S. I forgot to tell you how to find out about your trust fund. Get in touch with Al Marshall in St. Louis. I've got his address and phone number down below. He's handling everything.

That tore it. I began bawling. I couldn't stop.

In a few minutes a hand clamped on my heaving shoulder. I looked around. It was Devlon. He stood there blinking at me through his thick glasses, and his face was concerned.

I shoved the last letter down the counter and nodded toward it. He went over to it and picked it up and began reading. You should have seen his face as he read it. By the time he finished his eyes were popping.

By then I had gotten hold of myself. I daubed at my eyes, knowing I'd better hit the washroom before I went out of the bank.

I shoved the whole mess back into the drawer and carried it back and put it in the box. I slammed the door and that locked it.

I went to the washroom and got myself presentable again. Then I went out and headed for Joe Tabor's office.

It was up over Bentley's Men's Store. The stairs were just as worn and dusty as I had remembered them. At the top and to the left was a screen door, and behind it, on ground glass, was the inscription: LAW OFFICE.

I opened the screen and grabbed the knob and turned it and shoved at the door. I had been up there with Dad about ten years earlier. The outer office was just as it had been then-a big barn of a room with grimy paper on the walls and ceiling and peeling over in the far corner above the oil heater. Along the front of the room was a row of old scarred straight chairs. A high counter ran wall to wall with a gate at one end, about ten feet back. Beyond that was an ancient typewriter desk and an old-fashioned stenographer's chair. The typewriter wasn't out, the desk was closed and no stenographer sat there.

On the desk sat young Joe Tabor. He was about Tom Potterfield's age. He and Tom and all the rest of that gang had joined us for hayrides and river parties years before.

Joe was reading that morning's Blade when I walked in. He glanced up from the paper and registered pleased surprise.

"Hi, Molly," he greeted. "I saw you marching down the street yesterday afternoon with two shotguns and the good villagers at your heels. I hear you had quite a blowout."

I nodded.

"And what's this I hear about you playing Annie Oakley last night?"

"I wasn't playing Annie Oakley," I told him. "I was trying to stay alive."

He lost his grin in a hurry. He nodded. "If you're smart, you'll head back for Chi."

"It's too late now. Lem told me this morning he was still checking it. But he felt fairly certain that one of the hoods I shot was the one who had killed Dad."

"That should make you feel some better."

"Funny, but it doesn't. All I want is to get this damn thing settled and know that the mob isn't going to shove me out."

"Then you're staying on?"

"Yes. At least until I get this mob roust settled. After that, I don't know what I'll do. Maybe go back to Chicago."

"I hear you're a cop."

"I was. I resigned yesterday. I didn't want to be under their authority when I came out here, because I'm going to do what I have to do."

"Well, Maggie's off today. But it doesn't matter. Things have been damned slow for the last two or three weeks. So now you walk in with some business-I hope. What can we do for you?"

"Well, I was planning to talk to your dad."

He stared at me for a moment. "Well, you're about two years late to do that."

"He's dead?"

Joe nodded. "Heart attack. Feel over right there in that comer. He was looking out the window and watching Grandma Snow trying to get across Grand Avenue on a busy afternoon. He was all ready to raise the window and yell at someone to help her when he keeled over."

"Looks like we're all a bunch of orphans," I muttered. "Tom's dad is gone, too."

"Yeah. S'funny. I was thinking about it the other day. Most all of us between thirty and forty have lost our fathers. Many of us have lost our mothers, too. I guess it's the price our dads paid to raise us and put us through college."

I nodded.

"So what can we do for you?" Joe asked again. "Want advice on settling the estate?"

I shook my head. "No, that isn't necessary. I didn't know it until a few minutes ago when I opened his safety deposit box. Dad had some land in Oklahoma. He hit oil on it a few months ago."

"What?"

I nodded. "But he didn't keep a dime for himself. He set up some kind of a trust fund for me."

"Living trust?"

"Yes, I think so. One of his war buddies in St. Louis is an attorney and he's handling it. Dad said he didn't want anyone in town to handle it because it'd be all over town."

Joe grinned. "That might have been true with Dad. But not me. Sorry he had to go out of town. But if it was one of his war buddies, that was okay. Know who it is?"

"Yes. A guy by the name of Al Marshall. Don't suppose you've ever heard of him."

"The hell I haven't. He's the guy who wrote the book. One of the top tax attorneys in the country. So if he's handling things for you, you have no sweat."

I nodded. "What I came up to inquire about was the money over there in the bank. Nearly four thousand dollars, and nearly nine hundred in checks has come in since Dad was killed and Devlon's holding them rather than bouncing them. So that leaves about three thousand. That's the entire estate except for Dad's personal effects. Are the feds and the State going to freeze all that for a year or two until the taxes are settled?"

"I don't see why they should. Providing there's no other assets."

"There's not. He transferred title to the building and the bar fixtures to the trust fund when he set it up a few months ago."

"And has he been paying rent to the trust fund?"

"I don't know," I said. "Is that required?"

"It's optional. He didn't have to unless he wanted to. Sometimes it's done."

"Well, do you want to take that much on? I don't want the three thousand for myself. But I want it freed so I can pay off that nine hundred and whatever other checks that might come in. And, besides, Charlie has to be paid and there will be current bills to be met. According to Dad's letter, I've got over fifty thousand in my trust fund, but I don't know how much of that I can touch."

"There's a thousand ways it could have been done," Joe told me. "It's a way to beat the inheritance tax. It could be that the whole shebang will be transferred over to you upon your dad's death. And then the trust would be dissolved or phased out. Or it could be that you'll get just interest and nothing else. Or you might get a cash allotment and then interest. You'll have to get hold of Al Marshall to find out what's what."

"But if I need money, Devlon told me he'd loan me ten thousand. So I have no sweat."

"Well, if you'll take my advice," Joe said, "I'd run right over there and get the ten thousand and open an account in your name. I'd leave that trust fund alone until after the funeral and until you get settled and know what's what and what you want to do. Because it's a damn cinch the interest from the trust fund, if that's all you get, will be able to pay off the ten thousand dollar loan. So you have no worry. And with ten thousand in the bank for you to wheel and deal with, it'll make a big difference."

"Yeah, I'm going to need some working capital. I intend to remodel The Melon Patch."

"Why?"

"Devlon asked me that. Why does everybody? Because I want to. Because I want it different than it was. That's my choice."

Joe nodded. "Sure it is."

"Well, after I get that ten thousand," I said, "I'll be back to give you a retainer."

Joe grinned. "If you happen to have a spare dollar, give it to me. I'll give you a receipt for it. That makes it ethical and legal and that's the retainer. In fact, that's the whole damn bill."

"Aw, come off it," I protested. "You can't work for nothing."

"Oh, can't I? How much work do you think there'll be for me to get the feds and the State to leave that account alone and take settlement? Not over an hour. Maybe two. But your dad spent a helluva lot more time than that when my dad dropped dead. In fact, the feds and the State froze everything. Mother was still alive. She died a year ago after what we went through for the first year after Dad died. We didn't have a dime to go on. Just what I took in here at the office. And I had just moved into a new house with a high mortgage payment and I'd just bought a new car and was up to my ears. If it hadn't been for your dad I'd never have made it. He advanced me over five thousand dollars. Of course, he got it all back when the estate was freed. But if it hadn't been for your dad's help, I don't know what I would have done. Because Devlon and Dad had fought for years and Devlon wouldn't give Dad the time of day. So he wouldn't have given me much more than that. Of course, if I'd gone around town with my hat in my hand, I suppose I could have raised some money. But I didn't have to go to your dad. He came to me about an hour after Dad dropped dead and said, 'What can I do?' I told him nothing right then. He predicted what would happen.

I nodded. "So you're happily married?"

He shook his head. "My wife walked out about the time that Tom's did. Mother-in-law trouble, too, but I was luckier than Tom. I was in town. I slapped a court order on her and stopped her from stripping the house. I sold the house and furnishings for more than I had paid for them. So I came out all right on that. I represented myself on the divorce and that cost me nothing. And so far I've beat her down and she hasn't hijacked me for alimony or child support. Sure, I'm supporting my kids. I want to. But I don't intend to be sandbagged by Lila. I haven't been so far."

I turned toward the door. "Well, I've got a lot of running around to do."

"When's the funeral?" Joe asked.

"Tomorrow at three. Right there at the bar."

Joe burst out laughing and slapped his leg. "That's just the way Mike Gilligan would have wanted it."

"Yeah, I thought so too. But you should have seen Devlon's face."

"I'll bet. He's one of the Old Guard. That's one thing about old Mike. He never was. He fought the Old Guard and stood shoulder to shoulder with us Young Turks. We considered him to be one of our own, even if his hair was snow white."

Joe slid off the desk and stood up and stretched. "I shut down the office on Friday afternoon now. Business is that slack. Everyone knows where to reach me.

If something pops, they can call me, so how about having lunch with me?"

I hesitated. I looked down at my jeans.

"Aw, you look all right. Let's go out to The Rodeo."

"That a new place?"

"Yeah, I guess so. It's been out there south of town about two or three years. I guess that's after you left. You'll be properly dressed out there. It's western, with a corral fence and it looks like a western bunkhouse. Inside are saddles and tack and all the rest of the gear. It's quite a place."

That settled it. There was nothing further that had to be settled before Dad's funeral, so I thought what the hell? Why not go out with Joe for the afternoon? I knew that it wouldn't wind up at sundown. It would possibly go on all night. And probably on a bed. But that was better than sitting alone at the apartment and brooding.

Joe got his hat and herded me to the door. He locked it, and we clattered down the stairs and stood at the bottom on the sidewalk, watching the people drift past.

"My car's over behind Bailey's Tin Shop. Want to walk over there or shall I drive back here?"

I squeezed his arm and gave him my best grin. "What are you trying to do, put me in a wheel chair?"