Wilde West

by Walter Satterthwait

  The ribbons of flesh are everywhere: stuck to the walls, piled atop the mattress, dangling from the knobs of the dresser, arranged in careful coils along the floor, Four or five of them hang from the rim of the mirror like meat left to dry.

  The man who did that, who could do that, was crazy. Worse than crazy. He was evil in a way that Grigsby had never encountered before.

  Grigsby knew he should wait for a while. Sober up some. Get his balance back. He knew that he was too angry, too stricken by what he’d seen, to conduct an intelligent, rational investigation.

  But the crazy bastard who sliced up Molly Woods—he wasn’t rational either.

  Fuck it. Let’s go. Let’s do it.

  Grigsby pounded on the hotel room door. Bang bang bang.

  He waited. Nothing.

  He pounded again.

  The door finally opened and he saw, standing behind it, a lumpy young man wearing a black dressing gown over a pair of sissy-yellow pajamas. He was at least as tall as Grigsby—big enough, definitely, to handle Molly Woods—and his brown hair hung in disheveled tangles to his shoulders. His face was round and pasty, his eyes were puffy, and Grigsby immediately wanted to ram a fist into that thick, wide, sensual mouth.

  “You Wilde?” he said.

  THE MAN WHO STOOD outside the hotel room door was a tall and bulky cowboy, or at any rate a tall and bulky individual who chose, for some obscure reason of his own, to dress like a cowboy. He wore scuffed leather boots, denim pants, an ancient holster containing an enormous pistol, a stained brown leather vest, an open sheepskin jacket that had seen better days (many of them), and a hat that was—certainly at this hour—truly ludicrous. The white, conical, comical crown rose a good foot from the elaborately curled brim, like a snow-covered Kilimanjaro from the rolling hills of Africa.

  But if the hat was comical, the man’s face was not. The skin was lined and weathered and blotched, the narrow gray eyes were rimmed like wounds with red flesh, the mouth was set in a bitter and perhaps permanent scowl.

  “You Wilde?” the man said. He was, Oscar realized, nearly as tall as Oscar himself, and quite a bit wider. He smelled, very strongly, of whiskey.

  “Usually, yes,” Oscar told him. “But I really couldn’t swear to that just now.”

  “Grigsby,” the man said. “Federal marshal. I got some questions for you.”

  “Ah.” Federal Marshal? Another tiresome newspaper? “Would it be possible, do you think, to write them down and leave them? I’ve a really wretched headache this morning, you see. I’ll be delighted to get them back to you sometime later today.”

  “Right here,” said the man, the words clipped and cold. “Right now. Or else we go down to the federal lockup and you give me the answers there.”

  A federal lockup, whatever it might be, sounded not at all inviting. “Well, then,” said Oscar, “by all means, do come in.”

  He stepped back and Grigsby shouldered past him, stalked across the room to the window. Oscar shut the door and said to the broad sheepskinned back, “Would you mind terribly if I sat down? Gravity and I are not getting along this morning.”

  Grigsby jerked at the window shade and the thing zipped up with a loud snarl and a final brittle slap. Sunlight toppled between the curtains. Oscar blinked in the glare; a small poisonous pain began to flicker at his left temple.

  Peering out the window, Grigsby put his big hands in the pocket of his coat and said over his shoulder, “What’d you do with the knife?”

  Oscar was still standing; his astonishment at the man’s behavior had rendered him immobile. He said, “I beg your pardon?”

  Grigsby turned. His face was hard, his features set. “The knife. What’d you do with it?”

  Oscar frowned, puzzled. “Has someone misplaced a knife?”

  Grigsby stared silently. A muscle fluttered elaborately along his cheek. Oscar wondered, idly, how he accomplished this.

  He said, “You know, if you don’t mind, I really must sit down. Either that or fall down.” He waved his hand toward the room’s other chair. “Please. Feel free. Make yourself comfortable.” He shuffled to the chair, sat down, sighed expansively, crossed his legs knee over knee, arranged the folds of his dressing gown, and looked over to the second chair. It was empty. He looked back at Grigsby. The man hadn’t moved.

  Grigsby said, “What time did you get back to the hotel this morning?”

  Oscar frowned again. “Is this in reference to the knife you mentioned?”

  “What time?”

  “Perhaps you could explain to me what this is all about. I mean, I’m perfectly willing to help in any way I can, of course.” Fellow was obviously drunk, probably deranged as well; humor him. “But I should tell you at the outset that I know nothing about knives. A gentleman never does. If one’s gone missing, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask someone else.” He reached into the pocket of his gown for his cigarette case and the box of matches, and Grigsby’s right hand leaped from the pocket of his jacket and darted toward the holster on his hip in a movement too swift and blurred to be broken down into individual components, and then abruptly the hand was holding his pistol and the pistol’s muzzle, only two feet away and as wide as a tunnel in the Alps, was pointing directly at Oscar’s forehead. Oscar heard a cold metallic snick as Grigsby thumbed back the hammer.

  Grigsby said, “You move real, real slow now. But whatever it is you got in that pocket, you fetch it out of there.”

  Oscar’s heart thumped in an irregular trot against his ribs. Carefully, slowly, he withdrew his hand, bringing along the cigarette case and the box of Vespas.

  Grigsby looked at them, said nothing. He still aimed the gun at Oscar.

  “Mr. Grigsby,” Oscar said. He was surprised—and rather pleased—at how perfectly normal his voice sounded.

  “That’s Marshal Grigsby.” Drunk or not, the man held the gun with a hand that was as steady as a rock.

  “Marshall Grigsby. Yes, of course. Marshall is your first name?”

  “Marshal is who I am. Federal lawman.”

  “Ah.” Oscar opened the cigarette case, took one out, then held the case toward Grigsby. His own hand was trembling, but the tremor was so faint that he doubted Grigsby could see it; he knew, without precisely knowing how, that this was important. “Fancy one? They’re quite good. Virginia and Latakia with just a hint of clove. Chap in Piccadilly makes them up for me.”

  Grigsby said nothing. The gun still hadn’t moved.

  Oscar closed the case, tapped the cigarette against its monogrammed silver top. “Marshal Grigsby, if you’ve resolved to use that weapon, then there’s probably very little I could say to dissuade you. You’re obviously a man of determination, and naturally I find that altogether commendable. In England, one sees so little determination these days. Except, of course, among the mothers of marriageable daughters.” He put the cigarette to his lips. “But I do think that before you plug me—do I have that right? plug me?—you ought, at the very least, give me some clue as to why.”

  “I know about the woman,” Grigsby said.

  Of course. Tabor had sent the man. Tabor had learned somehow about last night’s tryst with Elizabeth McCourt Doe and, no doubt vomitous with rage, he had dispatched this federal lawman lout to terrorize the adulterous poet. Or, as Vail had warned, to kill him.

  Only thing to do was follow the Countess’s advice and deny everything. Brazen it out. He plucked a match from the box, struck it, held the sputtering flame to the tip of the cigarette. He puffed. “And which woman might that be?” he asked. He inhaled deeply and then turned his head slightly sideways to exhale the cloud of smoke—just in case blowing smoke down the barrel of a gun was considered, in these parts, bad form.

  “Molly Woods,” Grigsby said.

  Oscar frowned. Molly Woods?

  “I know about the others, too,” said Grigsby. “In San Francisco. And El Paso. And Leaven worth. Guess you figured no one would ever tie it all together. Looks like you were wrong, scout.” />
  Oscar was baffled. He inhaled again on his cigarette and said, “Would it be at all possible to convince you that I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

  Grigsby shook his head. The barrel of the gun never wavered.

  “Well, then,” said Oscar, “suppose we do this—just as a sort of exercise, a way for the two of us to get to know each other better. Suppose you explain what it is you believe that these women and I have done, and then we continue from there. What do you say to that?”

  What Grigsby said to that was nothing. He did appear, however, to be considering the proposition. Or considering something: his eyes had narrowed still further, speculatively. Oscar took heart.

  “And really, Marshal Grigsby, I don’t mind admitting that your revolver is an extremely impressive weapon. And I don’t doubt for a moment that it’s in excellent working order. But it looks rather a heavy piece of equipment. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you returned it to its saddle, or holster, or whatever you call it?” He smiled—winningly, he hoped. “I know that I would. And I assure you that even without it, you will have my undivided attention.”

  A moment passed. Then, faintly, slightly Grigsby nodded. He said, “You got some balls. Say that for you.”

  Oscar sensed that this—just now, anyway—was perhaps the highest compliment that Grigsby could have paid him. He inclined his head. “I’m very gratified that you should think so.”

  Grigsby stared at him for a moment more, and then suddenly swiveled the gun’s barrel toward the ceiling. He eased down the hammer, frowned once, as though debating whether this were actually a good idea, and then returned the gun to its holster.

  “There,” said Oscar, carefully preventing the enormous relief he felt from seeping—flooding—into his voice. “Isn’t that better? Now why don’t you sit down and tell me all about these women of yours? I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid I’ve given my valet the morning off. Besides, I’ve discovered there isn’t any in this hotel.”

  Grigsby didn’t sit. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jacket—which positioned his hand only inches from the butt of his pistol—and he asked, “What time you get back to the hotel this morning?”

  “Quite late, actually. Around six, I believe.”

  Grigsby nodded. “I talked to the clerk who worked the desk last night. Six, he says.”

  For a moment Oscar was tempted to inquire why, if Grigsby had already known the answer, he had bothered to ask the question. Then he realized that the man had wanted to learn whether Oscar would essay a lie. And realized, too, that Grigsby was also informing him that very possibly he already knew the answers to any other questions he might ask. “Yes,” Oscar said. “Six.”

  “He says you left at twelve-thirty. So where were you between twelve-thirty and six?”

  “Wandering about,” Oscar said smoothly. “I often wander about in the early hours.”

  “Where’d you wander to?”

  Lightly, Oscar shrugged. “I couldn’t begin to say. Here and there. Up streets and down them.” A bit of flattery, perhaps: “I was, I must say, extremely taken by the size and sophistication of your fine city.”

  “It’s not my city,” Grigsby said, curt and abrupt. “You talk to anyone? You see anyone?”

  “No one at all. I prefer solitude on my rambles. This is, of course, why I conduct them at night.”

  Grigsby said nothing.

  “But really, Marshal Grigsby, I thought you were going to tell me what all this is about. Women, you said.”

  Grigsby peered into Oscar’s eyes for a moment, as though his stare could somehow lance through them and snag the thoughts skimming beneath their surface. Then he said, “Hooker got killed last night.”

  “Did he,” Oscar said. “I can’t say that I know the gentleman.”

  Grigsby was watching him closely. “Not a he. A hooker. A whore. A prostitute.”

  Oscar nodded. One could never tell with American slang. “And she was killed, you say.” Surely the man would get to the point soon.

  “She was gutted. Whoever did it cut her up like a side of beef. Worse. He scraped the meat off her bones. He sliced it up into strips, like jerky, and threw it around the room. He scraped off her face. Her nose, her mouth, everything. He—”

  “Wait!” Oscar interrupted him, wincing in horror as he held up a shaking hand. “Stop!” He was ill. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Still watching him, gauging him, Grigsby said. “That was Molly Woods.”

  “Molly Woods? That was Molly Woods?” And then he realized: “And the knife. You think—Good Lord, you think that I did that?”

  Grigsby said nothing, merely stood there, watching.

  Oscar remembered: “And others, you said? There were more of them? Like that? In San Francisco?”

  “And El Paso,” Grigsby added evenly. And Leavenworth. All of them killed off when you were there, giving one of your talks.”

  “But that’s impossible. That can’t be.” He shook his head. Stunned, disbelieving. “No. No. A coincidence. A dreadful coincidence.”

  Grigsby shook his head. “All of them cut up the same way. All of them hookers. No coincidence.”

  “Someone is following the tour. Some madman.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “How should I know? How should anyone? A madman’s logic is impossible to fathom. Yes, that’s it, that must be. That explains it. A madman.”

  “Sonovabitch is crazy. But following this tour of yours?” He shook his head. “Don’t see it.”

  “Have any of these killings taken place in towns where I haven’t lectured?”

  Grigsby frowned. “I’m lookin’ into that.”

  Oscar sensed a possible momentary advantage here. “Because if even one of them has, don’t you see, this would mean that the killer is someone unconnected to the tour.”

  “If,” Grigsby said.

  “But it must be. A madman. Someone completely unconnected. It’s the only possibility that makes sense.”

  “Nope,” said Grigsby. “Not the only one.”

  “Mr. Grigsby. Marshal Grigsby.” Oscar leaned earnestly forward. “You don’t know me. I understand that. But if you knew me even slightly, even in the most peripheral, insignificant way, you would realize that what you’re suggesting is utterly impossible. It’s absolutely preposterous. I literally would not harm a fly. I’ve been known to catch them in teacups—Sèvres teacups—and ferry them to the nearest window, so they can flutter off and merrily live out their little fly lives.”

  Grigsby nodded. “So you’re still sticking to this story that you were out walking last night.”

  “Yes, of course.” It was unthinkable, whatever the threat to himself, that he mention Elizabeth McCourt Doe.

  “From twelve-thirty till six.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d you ask the desk clerk how to find Lincoln and Washington?”

  “Pardon me?” Dear God, yes, why?

  “Lincoln Street and Washington Street. You asked the desk clerk where they were. How come?”

  “Ah. Yes. They were presidents, you see.”

  Grigsby frowned. “Presidents.”

  “American presidents. It’s a caprice of mine. A whim. Whenever I’m in a new city, I like to visit streets named after American presidents. I’m enormously keen on American history. Especially the presidents.”

  For the first time since entering the room, Grigsby smiled. It was a faint smile, and one that held less amusement than it did a weary, distant scorn. “You got some balls, all right.”

  Oscar produced an elaborate frown. “How do you mean?”

  “You really figure I’m gonna buy that.”

  “If by buy it, you mean believe it—then, yes, certainly.” Sincerity without indignation: don’t overplay the part.

  “What other streets you visit here in Denver that got the name of presidents?”

  “Ah, well, none as yet, I’m sorry to say. I’ve been terribly b
usy.”

  “Name me some presidents.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know your presidents. Name me some.”

  “Ah.” He inhaled on the cigarette, exhaled. “In chronological order?”

  Grigsby smiled the faint smile again. “Any ole way you want, scout.”

  “Well. Let me see. There was Adams. And Jefferson. Then Madison, of course. Monroe. Then another Adams.”

  Grigsby’s smile had faded.

  “One of my particular favorites,” Oscar said, exhaling cigarette smoke, “is Jackson. It’s the log cabin, I expect. Such a nice rustic touch. But on the other hand, I imagine that being born in a log cabin must be an extremely limiting experience. One is compelled, evidently, to become the president of the United States. Like Lincoln, for example. I think this quite unfair. What do you think, Marshal?”

  Grigsby frowned. “I think I been sandbagged.”

  “Sorry?”

  Grigsby nodded once. “You made your point. You know your presidents.”

  As Oscar noticed a droplet of perspiration prickling down his side, he sent up a silent blessing to whatever gods had provided him with that wretchedly written little pamphlet on American history he’d glanced at before leaving London. And a blessing, as well, to his own superbly retentive memory.

  Grigsby said, “You got people traveling with you on this tour.”

  “That’s right. Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Marshal Grigsby, I can assure you that none of them could be responsible for this … horrible thing.”

  Grigsby nodded. “S’pose you give me the names.”

  “But honestly—”

  “One way or the other,” Grigsby said, “I’m gonna find out who they are. Save us both some time.”

  Oscar inhaled on his cigarette. “Very well,” he said, exhaling. “But none of these people could have done this.”

  Grigsby nodded. “The names,” he said.

  Oscar sighed. “First of all, there’s Mr. Jack Vail. My business manager.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.