Chapter 10 – Touché

One more lovely evening with the two Irish gentlewomen that ended far too soon. What did it say about the Maverick brothers that we would rather spend the night with the ladies than playing poker? Maybe it had just been too long since any kind of romance had filled our lives.

In any case, we bid farewell to Ally and Nora and set about our task of spreading the word that there was a new 'crime lord' in town. By the time the sun came up people were telling the tale to us, and my 'reputation' preceded me. So it was really no surprise when we were eating breakfast and visitors appeared.

First up was the current sheriff, John Fordham. This was not the same man that had been the local law when I was shot here by the cowboy that wouldn't leave me alone; the one Doc Holliday killed to save my life. John Fordham was forty years old, at the very most, and quite soft-spoken for a lawman. I knew who he was only because our waitress told us as she was pouring more coffee for us. "Coffee, sheriff?" I asked as he approached, already having a cup poured for him.

"Mr. Maverick?" he asked, and Bret and I both grinned.

"That would be us," Bret answered.

"Bart Maverick?"

"Me," I shot back. "What can I do for you, sheriff?"

"I understand you've come from Dodge City."

"Not directly, but I was there for a while."

Fordham sat down and picked up the cup. "Working for Orin Johnson?"

"For a while."

"Until he was killed?"

I smiled. "That's right."

"By you, Mr. Maverick?"

I shook my head. "No, sir. By Rob Hinkel."

"And Mr. Hinkel?" the sheriff continued.

"Dead."

"Killed by you?"

"In self-defense," Bret answered him this time.

"And just why did you leave Dodge City, Mr. Maverick?"

"Too many bad memories, Sheriff Fordham?"

Bret stepped in again, like a good second-in-command would. "Why all the questions, sheriff? Is there somethin' you wanna know that you haven't asked?"

"What are you doing here in Tucson?"

I finished my coffee and set the cup down before I answered the sheriff's question. "Visiting, so far. Thought I might open a business here. You do allow new businesses here, don't you, sheriff?"

"Legitimate businesses, Mr. Maverick." Fordham was walking a fine line between law and lawlessness, just like I was trying to make him think I was.

"Why, sheriff, what other kind would there be?"

Fordham stood up and looked down at both of us. "No other kind, Mr. Maverick. It's taken a while to get this town cleaned up, and we'd like it to stay that way. See to it that it does. Good day, gentlemen."

Once he was gone, Bret turned to me. "You bad, bad man. Whatever are you planning for poor, innocent Tucson?"

I didn't have a chance to answer before we had our second visitor. Or rather, visitors. Nate Turner and Ed Dumbrowski walked into the dining room and didn't stand on ceremony; they walked right over to our table and sat down. As was their usual habit, according to my brother, Nate did most of the talking.

"Maverick, we thought you was dead."

Bret laughed a little. "Do I look dead to you, Nate?"

"Nope. You look real alive. This the man that saved your hide?"

Big brother nodded. "And took over Orin Johnson's operation. My brother Bart. This is Nate Turner and Big Ed Dumbrowski, who used to work for Orin before they ran away."

"Got sent to Texas to handle a problem." Big Ed finally spoke.

"An didn't bother to come back to Dodge?" Bret asked

Nate shrugged. "Orin was dead by the time we got done. What was the sense?"

"You could've worked for me," I told them.

"Got a new boss."

"So we've heard," Bret informed them.

"Mr. Everton wants to know why you're here."

"I'll tell you the same thing I just told the sheriff. I'm interested in settin' up a business here." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigar, and Brother Bret played the part and lit it for me.

"Mr. Everton ain't gonna like that," Nate declared.

"Too bad," and I punctuated my words with a cloud of smoke.

"Wants to see you."

"Good. Tell him we're up in Suite 316, anytime he wants to come by."

"Wants to see you now."

Nate's hands had disappeared under the table, and the sound of the hammer on his gun was loud in the stillness of the dining room. "Put that thing away," Bret told him. "Before I have to shoot you myself." It was all too clear that Bret's gun was already out and pointed at Nate, and ready to carry out his threat.

Nate Turner looked at my brother questioningly. "What happened to you? You was a pain in Orin's side, now yer workin' for yer brother?"

Bret shrugged. "I guess almost gettin' killed does somethin' to ya. Put the gun away, Nate."

Turner might be uneducated, but he wasn't stupid. In just a minute his hands reappeared on top of the table. "Mr. Everton still wants to see you. Now."

"What if we don't wanna see him?" Bret asked.

Nate and Big Ed looked at each other. I don't think anyone had ever asked them that before. Bret turned to me. I had the feeling that we both believed we'd pushed this as far as we dared. "Where is he?"

Nate was quick to answer, relieved to be out of a mess he had no answer for. "Up the street, about three blocks."

Bret holstered his gun and paid the bill. "Brother Bart, are you ready?"

"I am, Brother Bret. Let's go." We stood and I grabbed my cane, and both of Everton's 'henchmen' looked surprised. "Even the boss gets shot once in a while," I told them.

The two men hurried out in front of us and led the way down the street. Big Ed kept turning around to make sure we were still following them. They were right, about three blocks away there was a small office with the words 'Everton Investments' painted on the window. Nothing ostentatious, just an average looking office. We went in and it was nothing fancy inside, either; none of the pretentious trappings that Orin Johnson had. There was an attractive young lady wearing glasses and a puzzled expression sitting at the front desk.

"Nate, is Mr. Everton expecting you?"

"Yes, ma'am, he is. You can tell him I got the Mavericks with me, too."

She nodded and got up from the desk. "Wait here, please."

She knocked on a door about five feet behind her and stuck her head in the office. I could hear her voice but not what she said; in addition a masculine voice answered hers. She came back out and nodded again at all of us. "You can go in," she told Nate and me, but pointed at Big Ed and Bret. "You wait out here."

"No," I told her. "Not goin' anywhere without my brother."

"Fine," was her only remark, and Bret walked in right behind me. Big Ed scurried in after Bret.

The office was fairly significant, but again it was furnished simply. A desk with two chairs in front of it and a bookcase that stretched across the entire back wall; it was filled with what looked like law books and ledgers. On the left corner of the desk sat a large gray cat, with long black whiskers and a black nose and tail, and the oddest looking blue cat eyes I'd ever seen. He watched everyone carefully, as if he was in charge of the room. Ed and Nate took up positions on the blank wall behind us, and never said a word.

The man behind the desk was younger than I'd expected; maybe the same age as Sheriff Fordham, forty at the most. He was sitting but appeared to be a tall man, as tall as Bret, with blonde hair that was rapidly turning gray. I wondered if he got the cat to match his hair color and almost laughed. He looked more like a gambler than an investments man, or even a 'crime lord.' He was dressed elegantly, with black pants and a matching vest; a black silk-looking coat hung across the back of his chair. He wore a black string tie, more like Bret's than mine, and the finishing touch – a bright red silk shirt. All-in-all, a quite impressive looking figure. He looked right at Bret and never gave me so much as a glance.

"Bart Maverick?" he asked my brother, who shook his head.

"I'm Bart Maverick," I spoke up. "This is my brother, Bret."

He looked mildly surprised. It was evident he'd expected Bart to be the older brother. "The Bart Maverick that ran Orin Johnson's operation in Dodge City?"

"One and the same," I told him. "My brother came to work for me after I'd already taken over the business there."

Turner spoke up from behind us. "He's the one that Hinkel killed."

"Certainly looks dead to me," Everton remarked snidely. "Are you?"

"Am I what?" Bret questioned, in the same snide tone of voice the man in front of us had used.

This time, the tone was a lot more civil. "The man that Rob Hinkel shot and killed who came back to life?"

I never realized how good Bret was at playing bad. "Yes," he answered in a flat tone of voice, without elaborating.

The red silk shirt turned back to me. "And you killed Hinkel?"

"I'm sorry, we haven't been formally introduced. You are?"

Everton gave a little laugh. "Touché. I'm Morgan Everton. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Maverick." He stood and my guess was correct, he was about Bret's height, maybe two inches taller than me. He reached across the desk and offered his hand to me. I looked at my brother and then I stood, also, and shook the hand of the man that was trying to get Eamon Garrity to kill – who? That's why we were here; to try and find out. We both sat back down. I caught the quick flash of disdain in my brother's eyes, but he shut it down quickly. Bret didn't like playing second fiddle to 'little brother.'

"And the answer to your question is yes," I told him. I had the distinct feeling this was not going to be easy.