Waiting
Chapter 1
He had his left hand on the bottle of scotch, but it wasn't there for him to drink just yet. It was for later, for after. In his right hand he held the revolver, not gripping it too tightly. He didn't want his hand to cramp up. He sat relaxed in the chair, the gun in his lap but ready, watching the door, listening for anything there might be to hear outside. The sun was sinking fast now. It was getting dark. He lit a lamp.
He didn't let his mind stray. He didn't let his concentration drift. He didn't think about how it had come to this, waiting for the man to come up to his office, either to complete the deal or to kill him. He didn't know which one it was going to be, but he was ready for either one.
For now, he waited.
XXXXXX
Four Days Earlier
Esther brought the letter in, saying, "This is from San Quentin and it looks kind of urgent."
Jarrod took it from her and read the envelope. "I wonder why San Quentin would want to contact me." Somebody else pardoned or being released who had been incarcerated mistakenly? Jarrod shivered inwardly at the thought. His luck with men like that hadn't been very good.
Esther waited while he opened the envelope and read it. His expression almost didn't give him away, but there was a surprised flinch in his eyes that came and went fast. He put the letter back into the envelope and put the envelope in the lap drawer of his desk.
"It's nothing for you to do anything with," Jarrod said.
"I'll just finish up that will I was working on," Esther said and went out, a little disturbed but just a little. Jarrod often had to keep things confidential even from her. It usually turned out to be something that she never heard anything more about.
But Jarrod stopped what he was doing, took the letter out and read it again. This time when he put it back in the envelope, he got up and put the envelope into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket hanging on the coat tree behind his desk. He stayed standing there for a moment, thinking, then put his jacket on and put his hat on.
"Esther," he said as he went out, "I'm leaving for the day. Once you finish with that will, just lock up and go on home. I'll see you tomorrow or leave you a note later."
"All right, Mr. Barkley," she said.
To his back, because he was already heading out the door.
He didn't have to think about what he was going to do. She worked at one of the saloons a few blocks over and lived in a room upstairs. She wasn't a prostitute, but she did entertain as a singer and serve patrons at the saloon. She had been doing that since her husband went to San Quentin ten years earlier.
So much had happened involving her ten years earlier, but nothing much had happened since then, until now. Jarrod wondered if she had been contacted too. He wondered if he was going to be the one who ended up telling her what San Quentin had told him. He wondered how she was going to feel about it.
He wondered how he felt about it. He wasn't sure. Everything that happened ten years earlier came back to him as he walked over to the saloon where she worked. Everything, including what he had never told anyone. Not his family, not a priest, not anyone. It involved a client, after all, and everything around it happened and was over so fast that it didn't seem wise or even necessary to tell anyone about it.
Or was it over at all? It sure didn't seem to be now.
The saloon where she worked was one of the more elegant bars in Stockton. None of the women who worked there plied a trade, out of there or on the side. They all sang and waited on customers, and even if any of the men who came in tried to get too friendly, A.K. Torrence, the big man who owned the place and tended the bar, would simply throw them out and ban them. His existence was enough to keep trouble from coming back on his women, either in the saloon or out in the world. It wasn't called A.K.'s Court for nothing. Jarrod remembered A.K.'s influence very well.
Jarrod could hear her sultry alto as he drew close to the saloon, and when he went in, he saw her standing beside the piano. The pianist, a man named Homer, was good at playing those Stephen Foster songs and old Civil War numbers the patrons liked to hear, and Sandra Shane was good at singing them. As uneasy as he felt, Jarrod couldn't help but smile when he saw her, when he heard her voice, when he noticed that she saw him come in. She didn't smile, but he didn't expect her to. Too much water had passed under the bridge years ago, and she was working, after all. Jarrod had kept tabs on her enough to know she was still here, but he hadn't spoken to her since the trial ten years ago. He wondered if she would come over to him when she was finished singing, or whether he would have to find some way to approach her, because they needed to talk now. Sandra needed to see the letter, in case she hadn't received one herself.
Jarrod took a seat at a small table just inside the door, took his hat off and laid it on the table. One of the other women came over and he ordered a scotch. He watched and listened and didn't even notice the waitress bring his drink or realize when it was in front of him. It wasn't that he was that mesmerized by the song. It was the singer.
In his mind's eye he saw a younger woman, dark-haired and smiling sadly all the time. Not that she had that much to smile about back then. Jarrod had met her when her life was the worst – at least he thought it had to be the worst. He hoped that things had been better for her since then. She was a lovely girl who had aged into a very beautiful and for a saloon girl, a very classy woman. Right now her smile was soft and engaging. The sadness in it had faded over the years. Jarrod was afraid he was going to put it back again.
Sandra finished her song and began another – "Beautiful Dreamer," always a favorite. The place was full of men who were talking and playing cards, but everything stopped and the voices fell silent when she sang that song. Men who had been drinking could turn into sentimental slobs very easily.
She finished, and a little to Jarrod's surprise, she came right over to his table. He stood up, bowed slightly, and said, "Hello, Sandra."
The smile she wore while she was singing had darkened a bit. "It's been a long time, Jarrod."
"I know," Jarrod said, trying to smile softly, gently. He didn't need to explain why it had been a long time, but he needed to say why he was here now and while he didn't want to appear troubled, he certainly didn't want to appear too happy either. It needed to be somewhere in between. "I got a letter today from San Quentin," he said, seriously. "I thought I'd better check and see if you got one."
Sandra's eyes darkened. "Not yet. What's happened?"
"Buster's being pardoned," Jarrod said.
Sandra sank into the other chair at the small table. Jarrod sat down again, too. It took her a moment, but she finally asked, "When?"
"He'll be released tomorrow," Jarrod said. He took the letter from his pocket and handed it to her.
She read it. Her hand dropped, but the letter did not fall out of it. Again, it took a moment but she finally asked, "What should we do?"
"There's not a lot we can do," Jarrod said. "I'll make sure the sheriff knows he's being released, but we can't even be sure he'll come back here."
Sandra handed the letter back to Jarrod. "Where else can he go?"
"Anywhere, I suppose," Jarrod said. "Have you heard much from him over the years?"
"No," Sandra said. "I wrote a few times at first, but he never answered. You know how bitter he was. He detested me for testifying against him, but you know I didn't have any choice. I didn't know what else to do."
"I remember," Jarrod said. "When you wrote to him, what did you say?"
Sandra looked into Jarrod's eyes. "Nothing except that I was sorry I had to testify. Nothing about what he saw."
Jarrod nodded. "Well, we'll just have to wait and see if he comes here, and what happens if he does. But I don't suggest we talk to him about what happened back then."
"I've never talked to anyone about that," Sandra said.
"Nor have I," Jarrod said.
"Not even to your family?"
"Not even to my family. I keep my client's confidences."
"I wasn't your client."
"Your husband was," Jarrod said.
