Chapter 5: Last Contract

It was a fine, bracing spring morning in Arizona, the air still crisp from overnight frost. Hissing, hooting and clanking, the short train came to a halt. The manager bustled out of his office in the weather-beaten wooden station building, calling a greeting to the footplate crew. The guard jumped down from his caboose, hauled out a crate and an assortment of parcels and sacks, then loaded a small pile of items left for him on the platform.

On this occasion no passengers boarded and the only one to alight was a man, five feet ten inches in height and slimly built. In this seedy township, he was turned out well enough to attract attention, if there had been anyone around interested enough to pay it. He wore a thigh-length black coat of top quality, matching pants, white shirt, narrow black tie, low-crowned black hat and lightweight black shoes, well polished – a smart dresser, if a little funereal in appearance.

It was, however, not so much the man’s garb as his face that was arresting. Though he came from the heart of the West, he had nothing of the tanned, weathered look exhibited by so many men who shared his background. His sharp, narrow features were set in the sallow parchment skin of a clean-shaven face. Not the appearance of a man who spent much time outdoors. It was a closed face, the thoughts and feelings that went on behind it veiled from inspection. He didn’t look like a man who would have much need of company, or much taste for it. The glittering black eyes flickered around, missing nothing.

For perhaps a minute, the newcomer stood on the platform, then he picked up his single item of luggage – a large carpet-bag – in his left hand, walked softly along the sun-bleached boards and down the ramp which led to the dusty yard. He set down the bag by the slumping fence of a disused cattle pen. As he bent, the long coat fell open, revealing a gun belt, the open-ended holster carrying a Colt revolver with a long barrel and walnut hand-grips. He straightened up and took a leather cigar case from an inside pocket, extracting and lighting a long black cheroot. Then he looked at the town.

It wasn’t much. Seventy or eighty buildings, he guessed, almost all of them wood frame. Just enough to form two intersecting streets, plus a few nondescript shacks, straggling out into the seemingly endless surrounding space. None of the structures looked any too solid and there was scant evidence of paintwork. That wasn’t important to the new arrival. He didn’t plan to be there long.

The train did some more gasping and snorting, then hauled itself off to another town, further east. The depot manager, apparently exhausted by his minimal burst of effort, dumped his ample backside onto the platform bench with the air of a man who had little to do until the evening train arrived, and was not too sorry about that.

Invigorating though the atmosphere was, it did nothing to encourage activity beyond the station. The town’s somnolence, barely and briefly lifted by the train’s arrival, descended again. The only movement around the drowsing depot was provided by a boy of about ten, who was performing handstands outside the waiting room abutting the manager’s office, his shoes slapping the plank wall like a slow-set metronome. The newcomer watched the display for a while, then called to the boy. “Hey, kid.”

The youngster aborted his latest short run-up and wheeled to face the voice. “Yes, mister?”

“You know Bob Michaelson?”

“Sure do. Everybody knows him. He runs the saloon.”

The stranger nodded. That would be Bob all right. It was the sort of thing he’d be doing. No cowpunching or mining for him. With a thin smile, the man fished a silver coin from his left-hand coat pocket, spinning it through the air, a couple of feet to the boy’s right. A grimy little hand flashed out, fastening onto the precious object.

“Go find him,” said the stranger. His tone was low and flat, cutting through the still air. “See he’s alone. Tell him Eddie Geller’s here. Say I’ll be paying my respects soon. Then come back and let me know you’ve done it. And be sure you don’t tell anybody else. You got that?”

“Okay,” said the boy. “I’ll be right back.”

The move was typical of Eddie Geller. A man should make use of the resources around him efficiently and economically. If you wanted a job done, get a boy to do it and pay him well. He wouldn’t think things over or ponder about the consequences. He would do exactly what was wanted of him.

Geller dismissed the impending business from his mind, quietly enjoying another inch of his cheroot while he waited. That was true to type too. A man did what he had to do, when he had to do it, then switched off and waited. No philosophy, no moralising. Good smokes and quality liquor, both in moderation, a wide spread of reading, especially about financial matters, and a little card-playing. Long periods when nothing happened, then a job would come up and a man had to bustle around for a while. When Geller worked, he was paid handsomely, but never spent much, preferring to tuck most of his earnings away, thinking of the future.

The boy came scampering back. “I done what you said, mister,” he gasped.

“Good. What did he say?”

“He said he understood an’ he’d been expecting somebody. Said he figured it would be you or Newt Bradley. Does that make sense?”

Geller nodded. “Yeah, it makes sense.” His lip curled slightly at the mention of Newt Bradley, a man he considered distinctly inferior to himself in the profession the two shared. “Okay son, you did well. Now keep your mouth shut tight and there could be five dollars more for you in a day or two.”

The boy was overwhelmed. “Mister,” he said, “for that much money I’ll stay dumb till I’m twenty-one.” He turned and expressed his joy by resuming his exercise with such vigour that the dozing depot manager leapt up, threatening to thrash him if he didn’t stop trying to demolish the building.

Eddie Geller hefted his bag and walked slowly along the main, east-west street, then along the shorter intersecting one, his eyes darting jet chips, taking in every detail. His stroll took less than ten minutes, but that was enough, for this was an art form with him. He could have departed right away and drawn as accurate a map of the town as any local resident could have done, without a day-long study. Much of the time, most people see things without really registering them. Geller always did both. That was often useful and occasionally vital in his line of work.

At the western end of the main street, the last place on the right was a two-storey house, set back a little from the from the neighbouring street-side buildings by a garden, somewhat unkempt but bearing the marks of toil. Well, at least somebody had tried and the house looked smarter than most of the others. A sign in the front window offered a room for rent. Apart from the hotel – not a good option, as it would probably mean people around – there was no other place that looked promising. Geller settled for what he was looking at.

The house was owned by a widow, about sixty years of age, grey-haired, and with a weary, careworn look. She explained that she made ends meet by renting out the room, following the loss of her husband, who had been killed in an accident at the silver mine, which had been the basis of the town’s former prosperity. Now the heady days were over. Digging had stopped over a year ago and those who stayed on did the best they could. That tallied with Geller’s information about the place. It was surviving on inexorably depleting capital. Soon it would fold up and die.

Geller wasn’t interested in his prospective landlady’s travails, but listened politely. The woman, her eyes telling the story of defeat better than any words could, made only the most perfunctory enquiries of the welcome, respectable-looking guest. He told her that he was recovering from a lung complaint and that a spell of Arizona air had been recommended to him. It wasn’t a particularly convincing story, but didn’t need to be. The woman offered to supply breakfast along with the room and Geller paid her a week’s rent in advance, though he had no intention of staying so long. One day would probably do, but he reckoned that the extra payment would add substance to his story in a place where tongues might wag, and anyway, to do him justice, he was generous in some ways. He could afford to be.

Having dumped his bag and freshened up, Geller went to the livery stable, adjacent to the railroad depot. He bought a durable-looking horse – one way or another, he would dispose of it later – and arranged that it be kept ready for him. Being an amateur astronomer, he explained, he was fond of riding out at night, under the stars. A much-used but serviceable saddle completed the deal. Geller wasn’t concerned about the cost. Even if he didn’t bother to sell his acquisitions, the investment was trifling in the context of his financial affairs. Satisfied, he returned to his room. He didn’t unpack – there’d be no need for that. He took a bottle of rum from his bag, removed his coat and shoes and lay on the bed. Clasping his hands on the pillow behind his head, he reviewed his position.

For three years now, Eddie Geller had been promising himself retirement at forty. Well, he was now four months short of that, so this would be his last job. It was a fitting finale, for this was the first occasion on which the man who was to receive his attention was known to him. All the others had been simply cases. They were objects rather than people. Bob Michaelson was different, for the two had known one another years earlier. They’d drunk whiskey and played cards together, each knowing the other’s business, each respecting the other. But they had never been friends.

It was because of their earlier acquaintanceship that Geller had taken the unusual step of informing Michaelson of his arrival. That was a special touch to mark the fact that this was Geller’s final bow. He was tired of his way of making a living. He had started out on it almost by accident, shortly before his twenty-sixth birthday. At first there had been a kind of stage-fright before each performance. That was history. Time now to call it a day. Geller had no illusions about growing old in his trade. He reckoned he had already beaten the life-expectancy odds for that kind of work by several years. If he were to continue, he would take on one job too many.

Geller was undoubtedly the top man in his line of work, which explained his displeasure at being bracketed with Newt Bradley as a candidate for this job. In Geller’s opinion, Bradley was a crude operator. Not that Geller’s own methods were always the acme of finesse, but to place him alongside Bradley was insulting.

When Geller’s services were required, the process was usually a delicate one, for nobody in his business did any advertising. The principal would have to find someone who in turn might know someone, who might just be able to get word to the master workman. Naturally, no-one wanted to come right out and say he was a friend of a man like Eddie Geller. Nevertheless, the dark, sinister osmosis began, and after muted talks in smoky barrooms, someone would get word to him. In due course, Geller would act. He did not often take a case through direct negotiation with the originating party.

In his fourteen-year career, Geller had accepted twenty-three jobs. He had never failed. Twenty-three contracts, twenty-seven killings, two being doubles and one a triple. Well, twenty-eight disposals to be precise, as one employer had been foolish enough to argue about paying the balance of the fee, claiming that the job had not been done as agreed. He’d been despatched free of charge. Five times, Geller had refused to act. Twice, the proposed targets had been women. Though Geller disliked and distrusted females, he drew the line at killing them. Whether that was attributable to his peculiar brand of chivalry or because he considered such work beneath him, he never said, but simply refused the jobs. The other three cases he had declined because he didn’t consider the transgressions involved as sufficiently heinous to warrant assassination. Nobody could fairly say that Eddie Geller lacked ethics.

Once the contract had been made, there was no escape for the target, not even through his seeking protection from the law. If necessary, Geller would have gone through ten peace officers in line astern to complete his work. Professional pride dictated that. No, if a man had Eddie Geller after him, there was no sanctuary. Not that the quarry usually knew what was coming. Only three of them had known, but awareness hadn’t helped them.