Suited for Luck

by Daniel Schinhofen

  Dillon went white, “Skippy, there’s no need for this.”

  “Shut it, you fucking traitor!” Skippy snarled. “I’ll deal with you after this son of a bitch!”

  Doc turned around slowly, “Me?”

  Skippy looked hopped up on drugs; his hands were shaking slightly, his pupils were dilated, and his breath was coming fast and short. “Yes, you, motherfucker. Cost me my job! They wouldn’t take me at the Springs, either, after all I did for them.”

  Doc’s breath was uneven as he tried to defuse the situation, “Skippy, put the gun down. We can work this out.”

  “No, you don’t tell me what to do!”

  Doc took a deep breath and focused on missed me. Stepping to the side inch by inch, he tried to get Dillon out of the line of fire. “This doesn’t have to go badly. You’re not feeling well. Just put down the gun.”

  “First you, then the traitor behind you, then the bitch, and finally, Lia,” Skippy wheezed as he aimed the shotgun at Doc.

  “Calm—” Doc tried to say, but was interrupted as the boom of both barrels going off filled the room. Doc’s breath caught; he felt the wind of the buckshot going past him… and through him. An unearthly chill pierced him when the pellets of buckshot passed through his body, leaving him unharmed.

  Hand dipping into his vest pocket, Doc pulled the derringer. Skippy stared at him in shock, not believing he missed from less than ten feet away. Dillon pulled the shotgun from behind the bar.

  “Drop—” Dillon began.

  The bang of the first round going off cut Dillon off. Doc wasn’t taking the chance, and quickly cocked and fired the second chamber. Skippy fell to the floor while Dillon stared in shock. Eyes fixed on Skippy, Doc swallowed the bile in his throat.

  Crying, Skippy hunched into a ball and stared at Doc, his words broken, “You… shot me…”

  “You fired first,” Doc said slowly.

  “It wasn’t…” Skippy trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he went still.

  “What happened?” Lia demanded as she burst out of the door behind the bar.

  “Skippy’s dead.”

  Doc dropped the small gun on the table he was next to and held up his hands to show they were empty. “He was threatening to kill me.”

  Lia had glared at Doc, but after hearing his explanation, frowned. She looked first to the far wall, which had clear damage from a shotgun, then to Skippy on the ground before turning back to Doc. “He missed at that range?”

  “Thankfully,” Doc said, his voice shaking. “Luck is still with me, it looks like.”

  Eyes narrowing, she nodded, “It seems so.” She exhaled and tightened the robe she was wearing. “Dillon, go get Sheriff Grange. Tell him that we had a killing in the saloon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dillon said, rushing for the gap on the far left side of the bar.

  “Have a seat, Doc. Grange will be here soon.”

  Doc dropped into a chair without replying, his body starting to shake.

  Lia watched him for a moment before taking a bottle off the top shelf. She walked it over to him, along with two shot glasses. Removing the cork, she poured and put one in front of him. “Drink. You’re in shock.”

  Doc blinked at the glass before taking it and downing it in one go. A sweet warmth filled his throat and slid down into his chest. He let out a shaky exhale and placed the glass on the table.

  “First time?” Lia asked softly.

  “Killing a man? Yes.”

  “It’ll either never get easier or it’ll become second nature,” Lia told him and slammed back her own drink.

  “I don’t think I want the second option.”

  “Many don’t, but it’s not a conscious choice. You want a second one?”

  Looking up from the floor, he met her jade-colored eyes. “What is it?”

  “Special. It’s not on the menu.”

  “I feel calmer, so please.”

  Smiling gently, she poured them each another shot before corking the bottle. “I do hope this doesn’t become a habit.”

  Doc felt his lips tug at the corners. “Neither do I… unless you meant me surviving.” He took the glass, keeping his eyes on her face as he downed the shot.

  Lia laughed softly, “Few ever see me like this, and fewer live long enough to appreciate it.”

  “I hope I’m one of those rare few,” Doc chuckled as the warmth spread through his body. This time, it relaxed him, dulling the horror of killing a man.

  Dillon came bursting back into the saloon, gasping, “Sheriff’s on his way.”

  “I’ll go get changed,” Lia said, striding away. Her long, toned, tanned legs flashed into view briefly when her robe failed to keep them covered. “Put my private stock away, Dillon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dillon panted as he staggered to the table.

  Doc looked at the bottle. The writing on it wasn’t the angular letters he had seen on the signs in town. Instead, it was a flowing and elegant script. “‘Moondew?’”

  “Is that what it says?” Dillon asked, picking up the bottle after he caught his breath. “It’s written in Elvish, so I was never sure.”

  “‘Moondew 513, bottled by Umena. Praise be to Mother for her generosity.’”

  Dillon frowned, “How do they plan to make money off it if they don’t have a proper label?”

  “They don’t,” Doc said slowly. “It’s not for sale, Lia said. I believe it’s… sacred to her.”

  Seeing the two glasses, Dillon’s eyes shifted to Doc. “How was it?” He asked the question like a kid wanting to know if the cookie was worth getting in trouble for.

  Doc paused, trying to find a way to frame a response. “As if my mind was cleared of everything troubling it. I don’t think it’s meant to get someone drunk.”

  “What a waste,” Dillon snorted as he picked up the glasses and walked for the bar.

  Doc smirked as he watched Dillon tip the glasses on his way, trying to get the couple of drops out of them. The doors banging open brought his gaze to Grange and two other men in the doorway.

  “Thought I told you to keep your nose clean,” Grange growled at Doc as he entered the saloon.

  “Is self-defense against the law?” Doc asked.

  “We’ll see about that,” Grange snorted.

  “It was self-defense, Sheriff. I saw the whole thing,” Dillon said from behind the bar. His tired tone was gone as he went on to explain what had happened.

  While Dillon told the story, the two men with Grange walked the room, looking at different details and writing notes in pocketbooks with charcoal pencils. When Dillon finished, Grange was kneeling next to Skippy, checking the dead man’s wounds.

  Grange got to his feet and looked at the shot pattern on the wall. “He stood here?”

  “Yeah,” Dillon nodded.

  “And you, Easterner?”

  “Doc,” Doc stated simply as he got to his feet and moved back to where he had been. “Here, give or take a few inches,” Doc lied slightly, having moved himself at least half a foot to the side.

  Grange frowned, “Damned lucky he missed you, which is odd. Skippy, for all his faults, was a good man with a scattergun.”

  “Luck smiled on me,” Doc replied.

  “You used this here?” Grange said, walking over to the table and picking up the derringer.

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t fire both at once. You fired twice.”

  “I wasn’t going to let him reload and try again,” Doc replied.

  “No man would have,” Lia said as she came out of the back.

  Doc glanced at her and gave her a nod as he took in her outfit. A jade dress covered her from neck to ankles and all the way down to her wrists. The shoes peeking out the bottom of her dress were scaled green leather heels that buttoned down the sides.

  “Lia,” Grange said, his tone conveying respect for her, “you believe this story?”

  “Yes. I arrived as Skippy was dying. If you had seen Doc in that moment, y
ou wouldn’t question it, either. I gave him something to help so he could clearly account for himself.”

  “And Dillon?” Grange asked.

  Dillon swallowed hard, “I, uh, got a drop or two out of the glasses they used.”

  Lia stared at Dillon with an unreadable look, making the man squirm, before she looked back to Grange. “So it seems.”

  “Boss, it smells like fear,” one of the men who had followed Grange said.

  Doc got a good look at the two men. They could have been twins, but they had decidedly inhuman features. Their faces were covered in what Doc had taken for beards, but it was actually fur. Their mouths were wide and their canines were sharp.

  “He has enough of it lingering on him for me to believe him,” the second said, motioning to Doc.

  “Well, seems my deputies believe you,” Grange grunted. “The undertaker will be by for the stiff.” Tossing the gun to Doc, Grange walked to the door, his men trailing him. “Seems you’re clear… for now.”

  “Thanks,” Doc grunted, catching the gun. He cracked it open and exchanged the old casings for two new rounds, then stuck it back in his vest. Pocketing the casings, he turned to Lia. “Thank you.”

  “Can’t have our new guest hauled off to jail,” Lia said simply before she turned away. “Dillon, tell Posy to clean the blood up once the body is gone. Once Westin gets in, come see me.”

  “Yes, Madam,” Dillon said, his expression falling.

  “We need to work out your hours,” Lia said.

  “Yes, Madam,” Dillon beamed.

  When she left, Doc chuckled, “Seems staying mostly calm in the face of danger worked in your favor.”

  Dillon’s smile faded, “I’d rather not have a shotgun pointing in my direction again.”

  “Life of a bartender,” Doc said. “Even if they don’t come for you, you’ll have more than a few close calls from other disputes.”

  Dillon sighed, “Yeah, I know. Skippy dealt with at least a half dozen shootings.”

  “Then you know what you’ll be in for,” Doc said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Think I’m going to take a walk. See you tomorrow.” Getting to his feet, Doc reclaimed his forgotten hat.

  “Have a good day,” Dillon said.

  Chapter Seven

  A hint of chill in the wind made Doc straighten his jacket once he stepped outside. Light gray clouds filled most of the sky, the golden sun hiding behind them. Looking up and down the street, Doc wondered where he should start. A red, white, and blue pole stood out and, rubbing his cheek, he decided it was a good idea to get cleaned up before going off to see the mayor.

  As he walked down the street, Doc took the chance to get another look at the people of Deep Gorge. He had been able to get a good idea of what people wore last night, so he knew he had something close to what the average man would wear. The big difference is that mine is better than the average man, but not as good as the wealthy. That must be why they can spot me so easily.

  Crossing the road, Doc walked into the barber shop. A small chime announced him to the short broad man sharpening a straight razor. The crisp black pants, white shirt, suspenders, and bow tie screamed barber to Doc.

  “Morning, sir. Haircut, shave, bath?”

  Doc’s lips twitched, “You’re not my style, so I’ll pass on the bath.”

  The dwarven barber let out a long-suffering sigh.

  Doc chuckled and held up a hand, “No disrespect meant. Obviously you’ve heard similar in the past. I do require a shave.”

  “Just the shave?”

  “Yes.”

  “A quarter, sir.”

  Doc picked out a quarter and flipped it to the dwarf. “My handsome face is in your hands, though I have the feeling that if you’re the one holding the steel, I have no need to fear.”

  The large waxed mustache rose a half inch. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to make amends or digging the knife deeper.”

  “I pray to Luck that it’s not the second,” Doc said as he removed his hat.

  The dwarf’s mustache twitched again. “Have a seat. I’ll get things ready.”

  Doc moved over to the three seats along one wall. A smile touched his lips as he looked at the raised floor behind the chairs that would put the dwarf above his customers. Taking a seat, Doc removed his hat and set it in his lap. Doc was surprised that the chairs had a recline feature— he would not have thought this world had gotten to that point.

  “We start with the hot towel,” the dwarf said, bringing over a steaming towel.

  Doc held in the hiss of pain when the towel was placed against his face. The moment passed quickly, and he was left with the pleasant feeling of heated warmth instead. The dwarf walked up and down the raised platform behind Doc, getting the tools he needed.

  “Another customer,” a refined voice sniffed. “That will be problematic.”

  “Doctor Whittaker, he’s just getting a shave. It won’t take me long,” the barber said.

  “Feel free to take the good doctor first,” Doc said, his voice muffled. “I know that men who heal have busy lives.”

  “A gentleman and scholar,” Whittaker chuckled. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  “Very well,” the barber said. “Your usual, sir?”

  “No, sadly. I need a quick shave instead.”

  “Have a seat, please.”

  “Thank you for your generosity,” Whittaker said.

  “No need for thanks. It’s never a bad thing to be on the good side of the town doctor,” Doc said.

  “Very true. Did you need my services?”

  “No, I’m in perfect health, although one never knows when a sudden development might make them feel poorly.”

  “Especially out here on the edge,” Whittaker said.

  “Your towel, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Otto,” Whittaker said, his voice suddenly muffled.

  Doc wondered how to approach the subjects he wanted to touch on while his towel slowly cooled. He hadn’t found an answer before Otto exchanged his towel for a new one.

  “I’ll begin now, Doctor.”

  “Very good.”

  Just wait and see him at his place of business... it’ll be less awkward and how that conversation goes might be fully dependent on the mayor, as it is. Having finally decided to wait, Doc waited for the doctor to be done.

  “Doctor, I hate to bring it up, but you said you’d see my daughter last time you came by,” Otto said.

  “And I will, Otto,” Whittaker replied, his voice no longer muffled, “I just have others ahead of you. I can only do so much on any given day. Didn’t I give you that cream to use until I have time to see her?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

  Whittaker clicked his tongue, “The problem must be her dwarven heritage. Her body must see the salve as a poison. It technically is, as it’s designed to kill the infection. I’ll try to make room for her sooner, but it’ll still be a couple of days, at least.”

  Otto’s voice was tight with restrained emotions, “I see. Maybe Old Maid Henrick knows of a solution.”

  “That woman will get your daughter killed,” Whittaker replied, but he did not sound disturbed by that idea. “If you feel the need to gamble with a spinster who thinks plants are the answer to everything, that is your decision. If you do that, though, I won’t be held accountable if my attempt to heal her later fails.”

  The sound of knuckles popping made Doc shift uncertainly. “Very well.”

  Doc was glad his face was covered as he had a sudden and intense dislike for the doctor. Hands gripping the chair arms tightly, he breathed deep and slow, trying to calm himself while Otto worked on Whittaker.

  Minutes went by before Otto said, “You’re done, Doctor.”

  “Very good. Take the cost out of my coming bill. I’ll be back in three days to see your daughter.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Otto managed to say evenly.

  “Think nothing of it.
I do my best for those less fortunate than I. Sorry for the delay, sir. I do hope you have a good day.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Doc said stiffly. “May the world give you that which you richly deserve for your kindness.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Whittaker said as he went to the door, not really listening. The chime on the door announced his departure.