Later, he worked out what must have happened. The giant, moving with a sudden easy violence, and much more swiftly than Oscar would have thought possible, snapped his booted foot forward and smashed it into the rung of Oscar’s chair.
At the time, however, all Oscar understood was that abruptly he was airborne and the room was spinning about him in a startling fashion. He crashed, chest down, into the sawdust.
He pushed himself quickly to his feet (speed—as he recalled from his previous encounters—being of the essence in these affairs). But when he wheeled around, bringing up his fists, he saw that someone else had entered the tableau.
Between Oscar and the other two, his back to Oscar, stood a third man dressed in a well-cut frock coat that seemed vaguely familiar. For some reason, the man had drawn the right side of the coat behind him, and this he held lightly with the fingers of his left hand, while his right hand hung down loosely alongside his hip and a large holstered pistol.
Oscar brushed sawdust from the velvet of his topcoat. Vexed by the interruption, and curious as to who had effected it, he stalked around the man, and heard him say to the giant, in an uncanny whisper, “Make your move, friend.”
All at once Oscar recognized the whisper, and the handlebar mustache and the elegant nose and the dark wavy hair. Today the man was dressed almost entirely in black—shirt, tie, boots—the black nicely set off by a waistcoat of brilliant scarlet silk.
The giant laughed loudly. “And just who’re you, little man?”
“The name is Holliday,” the gunfighter whispered. For an instant, that chill ghost of a smile flickered beneath the mustache. “Folks call me Doc.”
Slowly, as though a pale curtain were being drawn from his forehead down to his jaw, color left the big man’s face. His hands, slung down at his sides like lumps of meat, opened and closed.
No one spoke. Oscar, although not really certain what exactly was happening (not a gunfight, surely?), judged that discretion, just then, was the better part of ignorance. Into the silence, from overhead, came a low muffled patter; and distantly he realized that the rain had begun.
The big man took a step backward. “Hold on there,” he said. “I got no quarrel with you.”
Holliday’s chill smile flickered once more. “Wrong.”
The giant’s beady gray eyes darted back and forth as he looked around the room. For an escape. For assistance.
Neither was provided. Even his friend, the man with the eyes of a stoat, stepped to the side, moving out of the scene and into the audience.
The giant lifted his big hands and held them away from his body, showing Holliday that they were empty. “I ain’t no gunman, Doc.”
Holliday nodded. “I am.”
The giant glanced desperately around again.
“Maybe,” Holliday whispered, “if you apologized to Mr. Wilde here.” He jerked his head very slightly to the side.
Oscar understood that Holliday, without once turning, had known precisely where he was standing. Extraordinary.
“Sure, sure,” said the giant. His smile looked sickly. “Sorry, fella, sorry,” he said quickly to Oscar. “Didn’ mean no harm.” He looked back at Holliday, his small eyes opened wide.
Oscar discovered, with a start, that he was embarrassed for the man.
How on earth was it possible to feel sorry for a murderous oaf? Probably because, in an instant, he had revealed the simple terror that lay beneath his bulk, beneath his violence and anger. And sometimes, perhaps, even a monster should be permitted his mask.
“No harm done,” Oscar said. Looking down, away from those frightened eyes, he brushed sawdust from the sleeve of his coat.
“Fine,” whispered Holliday to the giant. Again, fractionally, his head nodded once. “Be seeing you.”
“Sure, yeah, sure. Come on, Darryl.” He grabbed the other man by his elbow. And without either of them looking back, the two men left the saloon, the giant’s head tucked low—clearly to avoid the ceiling beams; but perhaps also, or so Oscar imagined, in shame.
Before Oscar had an opportunity to speak to Holliday, grinning old Larson had scuttled up from the table, bony hand outstretched from his bulky sleeves. “Howdy, Doc, maybe you remember me, Carl Larson outta Arkansas, we had a drink once, well, not together, I reckon, but over in Leadville at Pap’s place—”
Holliday glanced down at the hand, ignored it, nodded, and whispered, “Mr. Larson.”
“—last year it was,” Larson continued, undaunted as he slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, “—round about July. I just wanted to tell you I purely did admire the way you handled old Biff there, he’s been lookin’ for trouble since he blowed into town—”
Holliday turned to Oscar, and Larson trailed off, “—and now I reckon he got it.”
Oscar nodded to the gunfighter. “Dr. Holliday.”
Holliday nodded back. “Poet.” His eyes were still as black and blank as the outer reaches of space.
“I suppose I should thank you for your intervention,” Oscar said, “but you know, I really do believe that I should have acquitted myself quite well.” He brushed a few more bits of sawdust from his coat front.
For a moment Holliday said nothing; he merely stared at Oscar with those bleak, empty eyes. Oscar thought, as his stomach sank floorward, that he had just made a dreadful mistake. And then Holliday’s smile flickered briefly. “Maybe so,” the man whispered.
“I’m rather good at boxing, you see,” Oscar explained.
Holliday nodded. “Good. Keep an eye opened for your big friend.”
“Ah? You think he’ll be back, then?” Oscar’s unwonted bloodlust was beginning to subside.
Holliday whispered, “I think he’ll be keeping an eye opened for you.”
Oscar shrugged. He and the tour would be gone from Denver by tomorrow. “Ah well. What will be, will be. Fancy a drink?”
Fractionally, Holliday shook his head. “Another time.”
“But you’ve only just arrived.”
“Another time,” Holliday said, and smiled that small frigid smile. He looked once around the room, as though making sure that there were no more giants to be dispatched, and then looked back at Oscar and nodded. “Be seeing you,” he whispered, and then, his slim back as straight and as supple beneath his coat as a matador’s, he turned and glided from the saloon.
RUDDICK DREW HIMSELF UP and made a face that reminded Grigsby of someone who had just chomped down on a green Rpersimmon. “Now just a minute, Mr. Marshal,” he said. “I came here of my own free will, you know. I’m only trying to do my duty. I certainly don’t expect to get snapped at.”
Oh Jesus, Grigsby thought. This is one solid gold daffodil we got here.
But having just punched out Greaves (and Brubaker, too, a real bonus) Grisby now discovered within himself a sudden expansive tolerance. And the boy, daffodil or not, was right. No point in hollering. More flies with honey.
He sucked in some air. “Yeah,” he said. “Been a rough day. Come on in. Take a seat.” He jerked his thumb at the office’s other chair, then shuffled around his desk and eased himself down into his own. The brief fight had left him exhausted and drained. Hanrahan was right—he was getting too old for that shit. His spirits might be a bit higher now, but his knuckles were throbbing and his hand felt like another fifteen minutes would see it the size of a boiled ham.
One thing, though—his hand probably didn’t hurt anywhere near as bad as Greaves’s jawbone.
Moving lightly, in a kind of leisurely skip, Ruddick floated across the room to the chair. He glanced down suspiciously, as though expecting to spot something nasty, and maybe poisonous, perched on the wood, then plucked a pink handkerchief from his jacket pocket and whisked it at the seat. The air was suddenly clotted with the smell of lilacs. He tucked away the handkerchief and sat down, his back straight but tilted a bit forward, his knees together, his hands folded primly in his lap.
Jesus, Grigsby thought. But, looking at Ruddick, he moved his mouth in a pl
easant, empty smile; he was being tolerant.
The boy was in his early twenties, his eyes gray, his skin clear except for a small scattering of pink pimples along each pale cheek. Good bones, strong nose, a firm jaw. Grigsby decided that if he scrubbed away that stinkum, got himself some steady outdoor work, and stopped flouncing around like a dizzy school-marm, he could probably pass himself off as a normal person. So how come he had to act like such a lulu-belle?
Well, it was a free country. And a big one. Room in it for lulu-belles, even.
“Right,” he said. “Appreciate you droppin’ by. I reckon you know about these hookers that got killed off.”
Ruddick’s face twisted in its persimmon pucker. “Mr. Vail told me all about it. I think it’s absolutely hideous. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Mr. Vail said that you believe it must be one of us, but really, Marshal, that’s just too incredible to consider.”
“Maybe,” Grigsby told the boy. “But I got to check out all the possibilities. You can see that, right?”
Ruddick shrugged. “Well. I suppose so.” He glanced around the office, frowning as though he didn’t much care for the green walls, the bare wood floors, the drab gray file cabinet.
That was fine with Grigsby. He didn’t much care for any of it either.
“Thing of it is,” Grigsby said, “I got to eliminate the innocent before I can determine the guilty.” To himself, remembering the letter from the Scientific lawman of Leavenworth, Kansas, Grigsby smiled. “You follow me?”
“Yes, certainly,” Ruddick said, and crossed his legs, right knee over left.
“Right. So I reckon you can figure why I got to ask you where you were at last night.”
“Certainly,” said Ruddick. He looked down and, mouth thoughtfully pursed, eyebrows thoughtfully raised, admired the sheen of his black patent leather shoe.
Grigsby waited. Ruddick said nothing, and then after a moment he looked up and smiled politely, as though he too were waiting. Patiently, Grigsby said, “So where were you at last night?”
“Oh,” said Ruddick. “I was out.” He smiled brightly then, as pleased with himself as the winner of a spelling bee.
Grigsby grinned, showing Ruddick all of his teeth. “Ya know, Wilbur, I’m startin’ to get the feelin’ that you’re funnin’ with me.”
Ruddick’s left eyebrow arched up his forehead at this curious notion. “Funning?”
“Tell me somethin’,” Grigsby said seriously. “Haven’t I been all nice and considerate while I been askin’ you my questions?”
Ruddick shifted in his chair. “I suppose so,” he said, and looked down at his shoe again.
“I haven’t hollered at you but the one time, now have I?”
Ruddick sighed. “No.” He glanced around the office with a sulky frown, like a small boy dragged before the principal.
“Appears to me,” Grigsby said, “that you’re tryin’ to get some kind of a rise outta me. Now most times I like a bit of funnin’ as much as the next fella. But this here is a murder we’re talkin’ about, and I don’t have my normal parcel of patience. So I calculate that this’d probably go along better for the both of us if you put aside the funnin’ for a time and just answered the questions. You follow me?”
Ruddick shrugged. He nodded, then looked off, toward the window.
And then, as Grigsby was congratulating himself on his tact, he heard footsteps out in the anteroom. After a moment, Carver Peckingham appeared in the doorway, tall and anxious.
“Everything okay, Marshal?” he asked.
“Fine, Carver. Close the door now. We’ll talk later.”
Carver looked at Ruddick. Ruddick brushed his hand back over his black hair and smiled pleasantly. Carver nodded to him and backed out, shutting the door behind him.
“Right,” said Grigsby, and slipped the tobacco pouch from his vest pocket. “So where were you at last night?”
Ruddick frowned, sulky and resentful again. “Where would you like me to start, exactly?”
“Start with suppertime,” Grigsby said, and curled a sheet of cigarette paper with the tip of his left forefinger. “Where’d you eat at?”
“The Decker House. I had the trout in mushroom sauce.” He frowned. “It was awful.”
Tapping the brown flakes from the pouch, Grigsby nodded. “They never have worked out how to cook up a fish. What time you leave the Decker House?”
“Nine o’clock. Ten, possibly.”
Grigsby glanced up at him from over the half-finished cigarette.
“I really don’t know,” Ruddick said. “Honestly. I don’t own a watch. It was round ten, I suppose. But I really couldn’t swear to that.”
Grigsby nodded. He licked the paper, rolled it closed. “Where’d you go to afterwards?”
Ruddick shrugged. “Really, Marshal, I can’t remember.”
Grigsbye stuck the cigarette in his mouth, reached into his vest pocket for a match. “Saloons? A casino?”
Ruddick shrugged again. “A saloon or two, I suppose.”
Grigsby snapped his thumb against the match, held the flame to the cigarette, puffed. Eyes narrowed against the smoke, he said, “Gimme a f’r-instance.”
“The Palace. I think.”
Exhaling smoke, Grigsby smiled. “You only been in town for two days. Either you went to the Palace last night or you went the night before. Which one is it?”
Ruddick sighed again. “I suppose it must’ve been last night.”
Grigsby smiled, nodded: See how easy it is? “And what time are we talkin’?”
A shrug. “Eleven o’clock, I think.”
“How long you there?”
“An hour or so.”
“Talk to anybody?”
Ruddick’s eyelids fluttered. “Not really.”
Grigsby inhaled on the cigarette, exhaled. Silently, he stared at Ruddick.
Ruddick shifted in his chair, uncrossed his legs, then recrossed them, left knee over right. “I had a few drinks and I got a little bit tiddly.” He smiled now as he stared levelly at Grigsby. “That’s probably why I don’t remember much.”
Grigsby flicked his cigarette ash into the ashtray. “You sure you didn’t make yourself a friend?”
A frown, as though genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“A friend,” Grigsby said. He smiled sociably, man to man. “Look, son. I ain’t especially interested in your personal life.” As far as Grigsby was concerned, the less he knew about that, the better. “I don’t care whether you favor women, men, dogs, or rattlesnakes. I’m just tryin’ to clear up a killin’.”
Ruddick sat back and for a moment he stared at Grigsby. Finally he smiled a small bitter smile and he said, “Son? You’re going to be my father, is that it?”
“Come again?” said Grigsby.
“Look, Mr. Marshal, if I wanted a big, brave, manly father, I’d use my own. Why don’t we just admit that you’re not especially fond of me and I’m not especially fond of you, and just leave it at that.”
Grigsby frowned. “It don’t matter here who likes who. I need to find out where you were last night. Can’t you see that the best thing you could do for yourself is tell me?”
Ruddick smiled. “And what if I don’t? What happens then, Dad? Are you going to beat it out of me? That’s what fathers are supposed to do, isn’t it?”
“It’s an idea could grow on me,” Grigsby said.
This was a mistake; he knew it as soon as he said it—from his smile, the boy took Grigsby’s admission as a vindication, as a personal victory.
Grigsby said, “Okay. Let’s stop fuckin’ around. Who was it?”
Ruddick smiled again. “I guess that’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Grigsby sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked at Ruddick. He said, “Now you listen to me. I told you, we’re talkin’ here ’bout a murder. Some sonovabitch sliced up a hooker, and I’m tryin’ to find out if it was you. I don’t give a damn about anything else. I don’t give
a damn if you whacked off every goddamn cowpoke at the Palace. What I wanna know is, who you were with, and how long you were with ’im, and if you don’t goddamn tell me, and tell me now, I’m gonna sling your ass in the lockup.”
Ruddick was staring at him, lips compressed, face flushed.
“Lockup’ll be right up your alley,” Grigsby said. “Got a guy in there name of André. Trapper. Ripe as a dead skunk. ’Bout seven feet tall, mean old fucker with a dose of clap, picked it up from some Cheyenne dog soldier, and young fellas like you are his meat exactly.”
The threat of the lockup (a threat which was pretty much as empty as the lockup itself) hadn’t worked with O’Conner, but it worked like a charm with Ruddick. Looking directly at Grigsby, the boy said, “Dell Jameson.” He spit out the name as though it were a piece of tobacco caught on his tongue.
“Dell Jameson?” said Grigsby.
Ruddick smiled coldly, viciously. “You wanted to know who I was with. I was with Dell Jameson.”
Grigsby exploded. “He’s married, he’s got kids. He’s a goddamn fireman.”
Ruddick’s brief little laugh was brittle and shrill. “I met him at eleven o’clock,” he said. “You can ask at the saloon, at the, Palace. They’ll tell you. We left around twelve and went to my room at the hotel.” He smiled a hard, nasty smile. The poisonous little shit was enjoying himself. “Poor Dell was a bit nervous about being seen, so I let him in through the service entrance. It didn’t really matter, because the desk clerk was asleep. He stayed until two.” He smiled again. “It’s the truth. You can ask your friend Dell.”
Grigsby lifted his glass, took a swallow of bourbon. “You leave the room afterwards?”
“No.”
But he knew about the service entrance.
“Is that it?” said Ruddick. “Can I go now?”
“Yeah,” Grigsby said. He waved a hand. “Take off.”
As Ruddick, sauntering again, reached the door, Grigsby said, “One thing, Wilbur.”
Ruddick turned.
Grigsby said, “I’m gonna be watchin’ you. All of you. Like a hawk.” But Grigsby’s heart wasn’t really in the threat, and it didn’t sound, even to him, particularly threatening.
Wilde West Page 18
