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Byrth didn’t reply immediately, as if he was considering whether he would.
“Penatekas,” Byrth finally said, powerfully squeezing Payne’s hand as he looked him right in the eyes. He added: “Sergeant Jim Byrth, Texas Rangers, Company A.” He nodded once, and The Hat moved with great drama. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Sergeant Matt Payne, Philadelphia Police Department, Homicide.”
“I know.”
“‘Penatekas’?” Payne repeated, stumbling over the pronunciation.
Byrth nodded again, and again The Hat accentuated the movement.
“One of the warrior bands of the fierce Comanches,” Byrth explained solemnly. “Back when Texas was the Mexican province of Tejas, early Rangers learned from them their various methods of how to tell everything about a person simply by knowing what to look for.”
Payne stared at him.
He’s pulling my chain.
Or is he?
That “Mexican province of Tejas” stuff I read about. And those Comanches were ruthless.
“Fascinating,” Payne said. “What sort of methods?”
“Well,” Byrth began, stone-faced, “they were nomads, and roaming the plains. When they hunted down a buffalo, they had a spiritual ceremony and prayed for its soul. They honored the great animal by letting no part of it go to waste. The flesh they cured for food. The skins became blankets and clothing and other protection. Even the cojones were used for special purposes. The cojones were dried and ground and consumed for the powers to observe. In particular, to observe people, and even more in particular, to observe enemies.”
“Co-what?”
“Co-hone-ees,” Byrth repeated, this time phonetically. “That’s actually the Spanish word. The Indians had their own, which varied from band to band.”
“And that’s how you knew it was me? With these co-hone-ees?”
Still stone-faced, Byrth stared Payne in the eyes. Payne felt that he was reading him. Then Byrth nodded once. The Hat mimicked the motion.
“Co-hone-ees is Spanish?” Payne said. “For what?”
“ ‘Testicles.’ ”
Byrth grinned.
“Actually, it translates closer to ‘balls.’ ”
Then Byrth wordlessly pulled out his cell phone and punched at its touch-screen.
“That, and then there’s this.”
He held it out to Payne, showing him a big bright glass screen that filled the whole face of the device.
There was a digitized photograph on the screen.
Payne grunted.
He immediately recognized it as one that four years before had run on the front page of The Philadelphia Bulletin. It showed a bloody-faced Officer Matthew M. Payne, pistol in hand, standing over a fatally wounded felon in an alleyway. And it had had the screaming headline: “Officer M.M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Marshal. And, I might add, lives online for all to see.”
Homicide Sergeant Matthew Payne’s eyes went between the phone and Byrth’s face. He shook his head.
Shit. He got me. And good.
