The Guilty - Jason Pinter [78]
I got off at Bleecker Street, picking up and swallowing a
cup of lukewarm coffee and two more aspirin on the way. I
buzzed an L. Vance at the given address, an elegant brown
brick town house with a rusted front gate.
The buzzer granted my entrance, and I took a recently
painted elevator to the third floor. When the elevator door
opened, a man that had to be Largo Vance stood in the
doorway. He'd been waiting for me.
"Henry Parker," he said. "Largo Vance. Get inside. Now. "
Vance had a long gray beard, gray hair swept back in a lessthan-neat ponytail. His overalls were covered with dried paint.
What looked like a pound or two of cat hair had dried in the
paint. I could smell fresh--and some not so fresh--kitty litter
emanating from inside.
He ushered me inside, peeked around the hall (presumably
to make sure no black helicopters had followed) and closed
the door. A brown-and-gray striped cat snaked between my
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legs, rubbed itself against my jeans. Soon he was joined by
another cat, and one more to complete the whole set.
"Don't mind them," Largo said. "That's Tabby, Yorba Linda
and Grace. Say hello, babies."
The cats did not say hello.
I followed Largo through a hallway to a small living room,
where nearly every square inch was covered in either cat
paraphernalia or large well-worn books, history and a few paperback novels whose spines had given out long ago. Largo
sat in an overstuffed La-Z-Boy and beckoned me to a leather
couch across from him.
I took a seat and minded the stench. Two more cats
appeared. I couldn't tell if they were the same ones, new
ones, or the first three had simply spawned in the last minute.
"So what brings you here about Billy Bonney?" Largo
said. A cat leapt onto his lap and Largo began to scratch its
chin absently.
"Not Billy Bonney," I said. "Brushy Bill Roberts."
"Same difference," Vance said. "Now go on."
"I, uh...have you heard about the recent murders? Athena
Paradis? Several others who were killed by a man using an
old Winchester rifle?"
Largo shook his head. "I don't read the newspaper." This
was going to be harder than I thought.
"Well, in the last week and a half, somebody has been--"
"I'm playing with you, kid. I may not know how to do the
Google but I don't live under a rock."
"So you know that Billy the Kid's Winchester rifle was
stolen from a museum in Fort Sumner."
Largo paused. "That, I did not know."
"But you know of Fort Sumner and the legacy of the Kid."
"I'm very well aware of the history of that town, and of
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Mr. Bonney. I've visited many times. I haven't set foot in that
museum in years, though. But I do recall having a fine conversation with the proprietor--Rex is his name, I believe. Unfortunately the last time I visited was over ten years ago, and
I left under less than pleasant circumstances."
Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and jumped off his couch,
leaving several red claw marks on Largo's hand. He rubbed
it, then noticed the tape covering my hand.
"What happened to you there?"
I held up the hand for him to see. "The man I'm coming
to talk to you about, he came to see me yesterday."
"I take it he also left under less than pleasant circumstances."
"You could say that."
"So, Mr. Parker. It's been several years since a journalist
has taken any interest in what I've had to say. And even then
they didn't really take much interest in what I had to say."
"Wait," I said, "back up. What do you mean 'the last time'?"
"Back when I was trying to get something done about that
infernal and misplaced Bonney grave, and they dismissed
me like some... loon. It's not quite so easy to secure federal
funding when you threaten to reveal national history as
nothing more than bunk."
"I must have missed something," I said. "What exactly
happened?"
Largo sat back, as a pair of cats circled his legs. He steepled
his fingers and smiled. Despite the superficial idiosyncrasies
of this man, I could sense tremendous intelligence. He looked
like a man who still held himself with great honor and