The Killing Machine by Ed Gorman

me to go with her ’cause Curly gets mad every time he sees me. So she wants you to go with her.”
    Suddenly, with gunshot clarity, a woman began sobbing in the outer office.
    â€œThat fuckin’ Curly,” Marshal Wickham said, standing up. “I guess you’ll have to excuse me, Ford.”
    We shook hands briefly. I went out the back door. I never know what to do around weeping women.
    Â 
    The hotel clerk remembered me from earlier in the day.
    â€œMr. Fairbain and Mr. Brinkley came in about an hour ago. But you might like to wet your whistle first. In fact, I think you may find Mr. Brinkley in there now.”
    Helpful fellow. Managed to hook me up with the two men I wanted to see and shill for the hotel’s saloon at the same time.
    â€œI’ve never met him,” I said. “You happen to remember what he’s wearing?”
    The clerk leaned forward, glanced around and then tapped his cheek. “Small birthmark on his right cheek. You’ll see it right away.”
    The saloon strove hard for dignity. The two men behind the bar had slicked-down hair, fancy mustaches, and starched white shirts with snappy red arm garters. The clientele looked to be free of ruffians: mostly businessmen, local and passing through. The serving woman was older and therefore not the kind to get pinched. And the bug-eyed man on the high stool in the corner used his fiddle to soothe rather than excite. In other words, the place looked boring as hell.
    Only one man bore a birthmark on his cheek. He looked New England rather than Western. One of those stern, thin-lipped men who disapproved of just about everything that passed in front of him.
    â€œMr. Brinkley?”
    He sat by himself, tucked into a corner beneath a small painting of an elegant ballet dancer with a pretty, wan face.
    He just stared at me. No hello.
    â€œThe name’s Noah Ford, Mr. Brinkley.”
    â€œI was afraid of that.” His celluloid collar looked sharp enough to be a weapon.
    I smiled. “They warned you about me.”
    No offer to sit down.
    â€œI didn’t care for your brother. You won’t get any sympathy here.”
    â€œI don’t want any sympathy, Mr. Brinkley. I just want to know where you were the night he was murdered.”
    Uninvited, I sat down.
    â€œI’m not in the habit of murdering people, if that’s what you mean.” He still showed signs of youthful acne, though he had to be fifty. There was a dead quality to the gray eyes that could scare the hell out of kids on a Halloween night.
    â€œThat doesn’t answer my question.”
    â€œI don’t intend to answer your question. It’s ridiculous.”
    The serving woman came. I ordered coffee.
    â€œI’d prefer it if you’d drink that somewhere else.”
    â€œWell, I’d prefer it if you’d tell me where you were the night my brother was murdered.”
    â€œThere weren’t many people who liked him.”
    â€œI’ll bet there aren’t a whole lot of people who like you, either, Mr. Brinkley. I don’t know why, but I kind of have that feeling.”
    The dead, gray eyes were on me full force now. Not anger; disapproval. “I might as well tell you, we had an argument that afternoon. He went back on his word and I didn’t like it.”
    â€œHis word about what?”
    Skeletal fingers wrapped around his schooner. “He told me that if I gave him a thousand dollars—a bribe—he’d let me know what the other bids were in advance.”
    â€œI thought they were sealed bids. How could he know in advance?”
    He smiled with tobacco-stained teeth. It wasn’t pretty. “You mustn’t have known your brother very well.”
    â€œWe had a difference of opinion about the war.” I couldn’t resist: “But then as a leading Copperhead, you must know all about that.”
    â€œThe South had a right to make its own