Wilde West by Walter Satterthwait

Author:Walter Satterthwait [Satterthwait, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780312059972
Publisher: St. Martin's
Published: 1991-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Grigsby stood looking down through the window at the street below him, a shallow brown river dimpled with raindrops, shivering beneath gusts of wind. The storm was easing up, the clouds were feathering away. A few people, most of them in flapping yellow slickers, dashed along the sleek black sidewalks.

Poor Dell.

Poor Dell was right.

Grigsby had known Dell Jameson for nearly fifteen years. He was a good man, hardworking, dependable, and a good father to his kids. And brave as a bull—three years ago he had gone barreling through a burning house to grab old Mrs. Cartwright and carry her out to the street. He had come staggering onto the sidewalk and set her down soft as silk on the ground, then taken a step or two back toward the house and keeled right over.

Jesus Christ. Dell Jameson.

How the hell was Grigsby supposed to handle this?

Hey, Dell, how’s Barbara, oh, and by the way, about what time last night you finish cornholing the lulu-belle from San Francisco?

Grigsby frowned.

Goddamm it, Dell. How could you do this to me?

He sighed.

Well, shit. Maybe it was time to pack it in. Let Sheldon and Greaves take over like they wanted to. Looked like they were about to do that anyway.

He frowned again.

Greaves. Who had gone whining to Greaves?

Wilde.

It had to be Wilde. Couldn’t have been von Hesse or Ruddick, because Greaves had known too soon. If it’d been O’Conner, he would’ve told Greaves about the shooting, and Greaves hadn’t mentioned that. Henry had no reason to talk to Greaves, not that Grigsby could see. It had to be Wilde or Vail, and Vail and Grigsby had struck a deal.

So. It had been Wilde.

Grigsby tried to work up some anger at the Englishman, and discovered that he couldn’t do it.

He really didn’t care anymore. About much of anything.

It was beginning to look like he’d never get to the bottom of this Molly Woods thing. The whole business was a mess. Greaves and Sheldon butting in. Nances coming out of the woodwork, everywhere you looked. (Including, Jesus, poor Dell Jameson.) Drunken reporters and crazy German officers. French countesses.

French countesses. Grigsby remembered the round breasts, the pouty mouth, and felt a familiar tingling tightness in his crotch.

Leave it be, Bob, that one’s too classy for the likes of you.

Right about now, Grigsby would’ve given his left arm for an uncomplicated shoot-out. Two drunken cowboys drawing down on each other for the simple satisfaction of blowing each other off the face of the earth.

Someone knocked on the office door.

Grigsby turned. “Yeah?”

The door opened and Carver poked in his head. “Doc Boynton is out here, Marshal.”

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