The following is the continuation of the April 21, 1949 entry in the Rocky Stone notebooks:
The sunset behind Los Diablos was hazy, flat, and devoid of its natural beauty, like the sky itself was bored. The buildings in the center of town blocked out any view of the actual sun. Gloria stared at the hulking silhouettes in wonder. It didn't occur to me that she had never seen such things in the wilds of New Mexico. “Impressed?” I asked her.
“No,” she said, slowly.
“Good girl.”
The Reverend Hosea followed in his car and I could see his face in my rear view. He was shaking his head as if he was disappointed that the city was still standing after he left it. I glanced at him a few more times and wondered if he was truly ready for what we were up against.
“So what do we do?” Gloria asked, reading my mind. “We can't just knock on the door and ask for Max Blank, can we?”
“Not exactly. Max is a funny sort. If you ask for something directly, you'll never get it. I could pull over and make a phone call and say 'Let's deal,' but he'll never go for it. The only way to get anything out of Max is to keep him off-balance. What do you say we take in a show—a little club I know not far away?”
She nodded. “And the Reverend?”
“He'll make for good conversation.”
The parking lot across from The Pink Slipper was already starting to fill up and on a night like this Max Blank was sure to make an appearance, if only to count the receipts. I found the nearest available spot and the Reverend slid in beside me. Even behind the glass of his windshield, I could see he was annoyed by the idea of entering a nightclub, even if it was to get his wife back. We waited for him to get out but he had his eyes closed. He was praying.
After a couple of minutes he burst out of the door like he had been shot out of a gun, but he wasn't waiting for us. He charged at the blue front door with the porthole in it and I could only assume the bouncers had gotten a good look at him. The last thing we needed was to go into this business half-cocked. I caught up to him a few yards from the entrance and yanked his arm. “Hold on,” I said. “We can't afford to be sloppy.”
The Reverend looked like a man who just came out of hypnosis. He blinked a few times and his eyes focused in on me. “I must go inside,” he said.
As soon as he said it, the reality of the situation hit me like the back end of a Packard. Nine Knuckles had a lead of several hours on us and he would have handed Marjorie over to Max the moment he got into town. A full ten seconds later he would have told him to put a bullet in her brain, and two seconds after that she would have been dead. Max wouldn't keep her around. Why would he? The woman who gained his trust, betrayed him, stole his money? In the eyes of the world, she didn't stand a chance.
The Reverend could only make a fool out of himself by going in to The Pink Slipper and I wasn't about to stand by and let him. “It was a mistake to bring you here. Marjorie, she...I don't think Max would hide her in such an obvious place.”
“Perhaps she isn't here,” he grinned. “No, this is no mistake. Come on.”
The Reverend practically jogged up to the door and the bouncer, the same bird Max had called Big Jerry, stared at him like he belonged in the zoo. He looked him straight in the clerical collar, snickered to himself, and said, “Some joke. In you go.”
We watched him disappear into the darkness. I looked at Big Jerry and he recognized me and suddenly I realized he wasn't going to let us in. The Reverend would have to fight this battle alone.
Can the Reverend find his wife all by himself? Tune in next week to The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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