She wasn’t deceived by his reassurance. He was as worried as she.
“But listen,” he said, “if you talk to him before I do, tell him to get back to me or Sessions right away.”
“Yes, of course. I will.”
“And, just in case… I don’t want to alarm you or anything, judge, but if Otterman thinks there’s something between you and Crawford, you could be in danger, too.”
“I’ll take care.”
“Do.”
When she disconnected, Neal said, “Well? What did he say?”
She looked at him with reproach. “That he would feel a lot better if Crawford had more reliable backup.”
“You’re ruining my life!”
“Put the gun down, Smitty.”
“I want to kill you.”
“I want to kill you, too.” Crawford reached behind him and groped for the light switch, flipping it on. Smitty was hunkered down beneath the desk, aiming a pistol at Crawford’s midsection.
Calmly, Crawford thumbed back the hammer of Joe’s revolver. “If I kill you, I’ll be eradicating a moral abscess, and I’ve got law and order on my side. Somebody will probably erect a statue of me in the town square. If you kill me, you get the needle for taking out a law enforcement officer.
“That is if you even make it to death row,” he went on conversationally, “which I doubt you would. Texas Rangers don’t take kindly to fellow Rangers getting killed by anybody, but pimps and bootleggers really piss them off. Some of those boys wouldn’t think twice about intercepting you on your way to trial, squashing you under their boots as you tried to ‘escape,’ and scraping you off like so much dog shit. It would save the state the cost of a syringe.”
Smitty actually sobbed.
“For the last time, put the gun down.”
His grip on it hadn’t been all that firm or steady. When he let go of the pistol, it clattered to the floor. Crawford walked over and kicked it out of reach, then bent down and grabbed a handful of Smitty’s shirt. He hauled him from beneath the desk and onto his feet, then shoved him backward into a chair.
“Your life is nothing to brag about, Smitty. How am I ruining it?”
“Pour me a gin.”
“Not likely.”
“Please. I’m shaking here.”
He was. Like a leaf in a high wind. Even for Smitty, he looked a wreck. His comb-over was flipped the wrong direction, his clothes disheveled. However he’d passed the night, indications were that it had been long and tortuous.
Crawford took mercy, not because he felt sorry for him, but because he had no time to waste, and Smitty could backpedal, whine, and drag this out forever.
A Styrofoam cup on the desk contained an inch of coffee dregs. He emptied it onto the floor, then filled it with cheap gin from the bottle sitting on top of the file cabinet and handed it over. Smitty took a gulp. Before he could take another, Crawford reclaimed the cup.
“Please,” Smitty pleaded. “I need that.”
“I need answers. Why haven’t you called me back?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You don’t get another drink until you tell me something. Why were you hiding in here in the dark, with a loaded pistol, looking scared as a rabbit?”
Nothing.
“Were you hiding from me?”
“No.”
“From who then?”
“Isn’t that your phone ringing?”
“I’ll get it later. You were supposed to be giving me stuff on Otterman.”
“I forgot.”
“Forgot?”
“I’ve had other things to attend to. I don’t drop everything for you, you know. Oh, wait,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I do. I did! Just last night, I dropped everything to let you know that your daddy was—”
“Shooting video.”
“Huh? Video? That’s against club rules.”
“He shot video of a meeting between Chuck Otterman and a cop—now a deceased cop.” He noted that Smitty didn’t register surprise. “Huh. I see you knew that already.”
“So?” He wiggled in his seat, corrected the direction of his comb-over, and looked longingly at the cup of gin. “A cop getting whacked. Can’t remember where I heard about it. There goes your phone again. You’d better get it. Must be important.”
Crawford let it ring. “When I came to pick up Conrad last night, you failed to mention that Otterman had been in Tickled Pink all afternoon meeting with people, one of them the now dead police officer.”
Smitty squirmed in his chair.
“You’ve got five seconds, Smitty.”
“To do what?” he asked, his voice going shrill.
“To tell me what you know about Chuck Otterman.”
“I don’t know nothing!”
“Five.”
“I swear. I…I see him talking to all kinds of people. I told you that already.”
“Four.”
He blubbered, “He’ll kill me.”
“That’s why you were hiding under your desk? You’re on Otterman’s hit list?”
“No! I…I didn’t say that.”
“Why are you afraid of Otterman?”
“When I said he’d kill me, I was joking!”
“Three.”