Moon said.
“You and him pals?”
“I’m about as close to him as a man can get.”
“Now is that a fact?”
“He don’t make a move without my say-so.”
Rogers, who knew the Columbine foreman, cast a doubtful look on the visitor. “Who’re you?”
“I am that Injun fella.”
This statement took a moment to register, then produced a dry cackle. “Well, don’t that just about cap the bottle.” The almost toothless man managed a low whistle. “You must be rich as a Rockyfeller to own a big spread like that.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
Moon’s mouth made a sad smile. “I’m what they call land-poor.”
The gatekeeper touched a lighted match to the tip of his Lucky Strike. “Me an’ your foreman—we’s old buddies from way back when ol’ dogs was jus’ puppies.”
“I didn’t know Pete Bushman had a friend in the world.”
“Pete is a sour old cracker, ain’t he?” The gatekeeper stuck out a hairy paw. “I’m Ned Rogers. Some folks call me Shorty.”
Moon shook the liver-spotted hand. “Glad to meet you.”
“If this soft spot I got here ever plays out, maybe you could hire me on. I ain’t young anymore, but I still got plenty a vinegar in my veins. And I knows cows.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Moon looked up the road. “I understand the senator lives here practically by himself.”
“Well, the old man does like his privacy—but he’s not all by hisself.” Rogers began to count on his fingers. “First, there’s Patch’s nephew, Allan Pearson. The senator took him in some years ago after the kid’s folks died. I guess it turned out to be a good thing for Patch to have some extra family in the house to keep him company, ’cause it wasn’t long after that when Miz Davidson took that bad fall down the stairs an’ broke her neck.”
Moon shut off the pickup ignition.
The gatekeeper turned down a second stubby finger. “Then there’s Henry Buford—he’s the straw boss around here. Henry, he kinda looks after the place, ’specially when the senator’s away in Washington. Which hasn’t been all that much since some mean sumbitch busted up Patch’s legs.” He counted a third finger. “And then there’s the senator’s assistant, Miz James. Nice lady.” Ned Rogers winked. “And a purty little thing.” He paused to call up the pleasant image.
“Must take a sizable staff to take care of the senator’s business.”
“Oh, there’s them staffers that’s in an out from Washington all the time. Sometimes they stay for a few days, but then they’re gone again. And there’s a few local folks who work on the BoxCar. But they don’t stay on the property—they show up in the mornin’ and leave before the sun sets. Like there used to be this woman who did the cookin’. What in the world was her name…” Ned Rogers closed his eyes to concentrate.
Moon waited.
“Oh, yeah. Now I remember—Miz Brewster.” He made a gummy grin at the visitor. “The ol’ gal ain’t Mexican—I think she’s shanty Irish. But she can whip up a stacked green enchilada that makes my mouth water just to think about it.” Rogers bowed his head in an expression of despair. “But she don’t work at the BoxCar no more. Now mosta the eats is brought in.”
This sounded odd. “Brought in—how?”
“Little panel truck. Had a sign on it.”
Moon knew of only one caterer in Granite Creek. Patch Davidson and his friends must be eating high on the hog. “How’s the senator managing—with his injury?”
“He’s doin’ pretty fair for a bunged-up ol’ cripple. Patch is in his ’lectric scooter ’bout all the time now. ’Cept when he’s in bed.”
“He hired a new driver yet?”
“No need to. Since Billy Smoke got kilt over in G-Creek, Henry Buford’s been doin’ all the drivin’. Henry, he’s a strong bugger—he heists the old man up from his scooter and into the car like Patch wasn’t nothin’ but a peck a beans.”
Moon
“You and him pals?”
“I’m about as close to him as a man can get.”
“Now is that a fact?”
“He don’t make a move without my say-so.”
Rogers, who knew the Columbine foreman, cast a doubtful look on the visitor. “Who’re you?”
“I am that Injun fella.”
This statement took a moment to register, then produced a dry cackle. “Well, don’t that just about cap the bottle.” The almost toothless man managed a low whistle. “You must be rich as a Rockyfeller to own a big spread like that.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
Moon’s mouth made a sad smile. “I’m what they call land-poor.”
The gatekeeper touched a lighted match to the tip of his Lucky Strike. “Me an’ your foreman—we’s old buddies from way back when ol’ dogs was jus’ puppies.”
“I didn’t know Pete Bushman had a friend in the world.”
“Pete is a sour old cracker, ain’t he?” The gatekeeper stuck out a hairy paw. “I’m Ned Rogers. Some folks call me Shorty.”
Moon shook the liver-spotted hand. “Glad to meet you.”
“If this soft spot I got here ever plays out, maybe you could hire me on. I ain’t young anymore, but I still got plenty a vinegar in my veins. And I knows cows.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Moon looked up the road. “I understand the senator lives here practically by himself.”
“Well, the old man does like his privacy—but he’s not all by hisself.” Rogers began to count on his fingers. “First, there’s Patch’s nephew, Allan Pearson. The senator took him in some years ago after the kid’s folks died. I guess it turned out to be a good thing for Patch to have some extra family in the house to keep him company, ’cause it wasn’t long after that when Miz Davidson took that bad fall down the stairs an’ broke her neck.”
Moon shut off the pickup ignition.
The gatekeeper turned down a second stubby finger. “Then there’s Henry Buford—he’s the straw boss around here. Henry, he kinda looks after the place, ’specially when the senator’s away in Washington. Which hasn’t been all that much since some mean sumbitch busted up Patch’s legs.” He counted a third finger. “And then there’s the senator’s assistant, Miz James. Nice lady.” Ned Rogers winked. “And a purty little thing.” He paused to call up the pleasant image.
“Must take a sizable staff to take care of the senator’s business.”
“Oh, there’s them staffers that’s in an out from Washington all the time. Sometimes they stay for a few days, but then they’re gone again. And there’s a few local folks who work on the BoxCar. But they don’t stay on the property—they show up in the mornin’ and leave before the sun sets. Like there used to be this woman who did the cookin’. What in the world was her name…” Ned Rogers closed his eyes to concentrate.
Moon waited.
“Oh, yeah. Now I remember—Miz Brewster.” He made a gummy grin at the visitor. “The ol’ gal ain’t Mexican—I think she’s shanty Irish. But she can whip up a stacked green enchilada that makes my mouth water just to think about it.” Rogers bowed his head in an expression of despair. “But she don’t work at the BoxCar no more. Now mosta the eats is brought in.”
This sounded odd. “Brought in—how?”
“Little panel truck. Had a sign on it.”
Moon knew of only one caterer in Granite Creek. Patch Davidson and his friends must be eating high on the hog. “How’s the senator managing—with his injury?”
“He’s doin’ pretty fair for a bunged-up ol’ cripple. Patch is in his ’lectric scooter ’bout all the time now. ’Cept when he’s in bed.”
“He hired a new driver yet?”
“No need to. Since Billy Smoke got kilt over in G-Creek, Henry Buford’s been doin’ all the drivin’. Henry, he’s a strong bugger—he heists the old man up from his scooter and into the car like Patch wasn’t nothin’ but a peck a beans.”
Moon
Similar Books
