The Ways of Evil Men by Leighton Gage Page B

“There’s only one, and it was last month. Must be something else.”
    “How far are we from the Grand Hotel?”
    “Too far to walk.” The pilot started fishing in the leather bag he was carrying. “But somewhere in here … ah, here it is.” He brandished a business card. “Azevedo’s only cab driver.” He took out his mobile phone. “Now if their goddamned phone tower isn’t down again …”
    It wasn’t. The cab showed up five minutes later. Arnaldo,the bulkiest of the four, took the seat in front. The others crowded into the back.
    “Heard about the lynching?” were the first words the driver said after he’d greeted them.
    “What lynching?” Silva asked.
    “Where to?”
    “The Grand Hotel. What lynching?”
    “An Indian killed a white man. They stormed the jail, took him out, and strung him up.”
    “No kidding?” the pilot said. He sounded interested.
    “No kidding. It was one hell of a show.”
    “Show?” Arnaldo grumbled. “Where do you get off, calling a lynching a show?”
    The guy behind the wheel shot him a sour look. “You ever see one?”
    “No.”
    “Then the way I figure it, I’m the expert, not you. It was a show.”
    “When?” Silva said.
    The driver glanced in the rear view mirror. “Just a few hours ago,” he said. “You guys going to smoke, or should I turn on the air conditioning?”
    “Turn on the air conditioning,” Silva said. “Where were the police?”
    “The Delegado came out with a shotgun and waved it around a bit.”
    “But?”
    “Well, hell, everybody knew he’d never shoot anybody with it. He fired it in the air a couple of times. Then they took it away from him.”
    “Anybody else try to stop it?” Arnaldo asked.
    “The half-breed who owns the hotel came running up and tried to interfere. Ha! A lot of good that did him.”
    “And then?”
    “They hustled the Indian down the street to the square.”
    Silva again: “Why the square?”
    The driver was into it now, relishing the story he had to tell. He kept one hand on the wheel and started waving the other in the air.
    “It’s the only place in town that’s got tall trees. I don’t think the poor bastard knew what they had in mind even then. What would a savage know about hanging? They want to kill somebody, they use a knife, or an arrow, or a blowgun, right? A rope? That’s white man’s justice.”
    “Or injustice,” Maura said.
    “What? What did you say, Senhora?”
    “Never mind. Go on.”
    “He was screaming and shouting, but nobody could understand what he was saying. Then Father Castori—”
    “Who’s Father Castori?” Maura asked.
    “The parish priest. He gave him last rites, but was the savage grateful? Like hell he was! He just stood there, staring him down. Then he said something, and Castori got all red in the face. He shouted at the Indian, and the Indian shouted back, but it was all in Indian lingo, so nobody but the priest, the Indian, and the half-breed understood it. Then Castori switched back to English and started haranguing the crowd.”
    “To try to get them to stop?”
    “No way. He talked about ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,’ that kind of shit, but it was all the Word of God, and you don’t dick around with the Word of God, so folks quieted down and heard him out. It took him about five minutes to run out of steam. Meanwhile, they got the rope around the Indian’s neck, and threw the other end over a limb.”
    Silva was unable to keep the disgust out of his voice. “Did you recognize any of the people who were doing this?”
    The driver narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What are you? A cop or something?”
    “Yes, I’m a cop,” Silva said. “And so is he.” He pointed to Arnaldo. “Answer the question.”
    The driver, suddenly cautious, backpedaled. “I didn’t recognize anybody. They were wearing masks.”
    “Everybody?”
    “Not everybody. Just the ones who strung him up.”
    “And we’re supposed to believe that?”