Wilde West

by Walter Satterthwait

  At the front desk, the clerk had handed him a packet of telegrams.

  One of these in particular, Grigsby thought, just might hold the answer to all the questions he’d been asking lately.

  At the moment, his pain in retreat, his hopes advancing, he felt strong and fit and convinced that he could go without drinking for the rest of his life. If he wanted to.

  And maybe he would. Maybe he’d do exactly that. Clean himself out, stay off the booze. Maybe even stop smoking. Why the hell not?

  Mathilde was laughing. “Gander. Blowout. I once believed that I knew the English language.”

  “Seems to me you know it just fine.”

  With her glass, she indicated the rest of the room. “Are you familiar with all these people?”

  He nodded. “Some of ’em.”

  He and she were standing near the entrance to the ballroom, beside a long trestle table supporting platters of food and iced silver buckets of champage. Grigsby glanced around, at the men plump and stiff in their penguin suits, the women plump and stiff in their billowing gowns.

  They might look dumb—they did look dumb—but these were the movers and shakers of central Colorado, the mine owners, the cattlemen, the railroad men, the bankers. These were the solid citizens who had brought industry and civilization to the frontier. Naturally, along the way, they had raped the land, killed off the Indians and the buffalo, fouled the rivers with poisons and sewage; but they reckoned that this was a fair price to pay for progress. And, since they were the ones setting the price, the deal had gone through.

  “Would you like some champagne?” Mathilde asked him. She smiled. “I warn you, it is like no champagne I have ever drunk before.”

  Grigsby smiled. “Don’t mind if I do.” A little champagne never hurt anybody. Stuff was like soda pop, not like real liquor at all.

  “Allow me,” she said, and smiled.

  As she moved around the table, Grigsby looked once more toward the crowd. He didn’t like these people. Never had. They had grown rich, most of them, through swindle and fraud and outright theft; and yet they were the first to bitch and bellyache about law and order. Their law, their order. Once they had their pile together, they didn’t want anyone else messing with it.

  Grigsby felt the bitterness within himself, recognized it, and smiled ruefully.

  Yep. No question. He was getting too old for this shit. Time to find himself a new line of work. Maybe start giving lectures. Famous Outlaws I Have Known.

  “Monsieur,” said Mathilde, smiling as she handed him a glass of champagne.

  “Much obliged.” He raised his glass.

  She smiled and raised her own.

  Grigsby sipped at the champagne. He frowned. Watery and kind of rotten-eggy. Shame they didn’t have any good bourbon whiskey on hand.

  He spotted Wilde and Ruddick winding toward him through the thickets of crowd, Wilde nodding grandly right and left, like the king of Siam waltzing along a street packed with adoring riffraff. Well, if he could get these yahoos to fork out twenty bucks to hear a lecture and drink sheepdip, more power to him.

  Grigsby turned to Mathilde. “Can I come by and see you tonight?”

  She smiled. “I shall be in my room by midnight. Room 204 at the Woods Hotel.”

  Grigsby already knew her room number; he had asked at the front desk. “I’ll be there.”

  He turned to face Wilde.

  “Marshal Grigsby,” Wilde said. “Your arrival is fortuitous. Young Ruddick here has just told me something that may possibly be important.”

  Grigsby nodded to the lulu-belle. “Wilbur.”

  Ruddick smiled a bitter-persimmon smile.

  Jesus, Dell, why did it have to be this one?

  “You’re familiar with Doctor John Holliday?” Wilde asked him. “The gunman?”

  Grigsby nodded.

  “Well, young Ruddick—” Wilde stopped, glanced around, leaned toward Grigsby and lowered his voice. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private.”

  “Fine by me.” He tossed back the rest of his champagne, then turned to Mathilde and nodded. “Ma’am.” Turned to the lulu-belle. “Stick around, Wilbur. Might wanta talk to you later.”

  The gravel drive outside the Hardee mansion was packed with carriages, their liveried horses sighing bored white puffs of vapor that feathered away in the moonlight. As Grigsby followed Wilde across the lawn, he wondered where all the drivers were hiding. Probably in the kitchen, along with the mansion’s servants. And probably drinking, all of them, better stuff than watery sheepdip champagne.

  Wilde stopped beside an oak tree. “First,” he said, “I should tell you that I’ve met Doctor Holliday on several occasions, and found him an absolutely charming man.”

  Grigsby nodded. Charming wasn’t a word he’d use himself, and especially not for Doc Holliday, but never mind. “What’s Doc got to do with anything?”

  “If the situation weren’t such a serious one,” Wilde said, “I shouldn’t be bringing this to your attention.”

  Grigsby nodded.

  “I mean to say, I quite like the man.”

  “Uh-huh,” Grigsby said. “This story gonna start sometime soon?”

  Wilde sighed sadly. He nodded. “Yes. Quite right.” He inhaled deeply, exhaled a bit, like someone about to squeeze a rifle trigger, and he said, “Dr. Holliday told me, when I first met him, that he had attended one of my lectures in San Francisco. This evening, when young Ruddick saw him, he recognized him. According to Ruddick, the man was present both at the lecture in El Paso and the lecture in Leavenworth. He was also, as you may know, in Denver at the time of this most recent killing.”

  Grigsby frowned. Doc?

  Suddenly he remembered that Earl, the sheriff down in El Paso, had mentioned Doc. In the same letter he had mentioned the murder of Susie Morris, the hooker. In the same letter he had mentioned Wilde’s visit. Grigsby hadn’t paid much attention at the time, because Doc tended to wander. One week he might be in Tuscon, the next in Dodge City.

  But Doc killing hookers?

  He shook his head. “Nope,” he said to Wilde. “Don’t see it.”

  “Well, as I say, I like the man. But he was there. In San Francisco, El Paso, and Leavenworth. And in Denver. I spoke to him myself on the very night that poor woman was killed.”

  Grigsby shook his head again. “Don’t see it.”

  “Well, no matter what either of us sees, or doesn’t see, the fact remains that Ruddick is convinced that he saw the man. In both cities. In every city where a woman was killed, Dr. Holliday was present. Surely that makes him at least as suspect as anyone traveling with me.”

  Wilde was right. If Doc had been in all those cities when the hookers got cut, Grigsby owed it to himself to talk to the man.

  He said, “Ruddick saw him tonight?”

  Wilde nodded. “I was speaking with him on the patio. Not ten minutes ago.”

  “He still there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Grigsby nodded. “I’ll find him. Is O’Conner inside?”

  “O’Conner? Yes. I saw him a few minutes ago. Why?”

  Grigsby considered telling him. Decided not to. “Just got a few questions for him, is all.”

  “Ruddick said that you wanted to speak with me.”

  Grigsby had planned to let Wilde know that he was no longer a suspect—he felt he owed him that, for coming on so strong yesterday, for shoving his Colt up the Englishman’s nose. But now Grigsby was pissed off. By handing him this business about Doc, Wilde had thrown him off his stride. Just when he thought he might be getting to the bottom of things, Wilde (and his lulu-belle buddy, Ruddick) had tossed in some more things.

  “It’ll keep,” he said.

  O’Conner wasn’t in the ballroom and Doc wasn’t on the patio. Grigsby left the mansion and went looking for them both. Wouldn’t be too hard to find either one of them in a town the size of the Springs.

  Doc he found within half an hour at the Whirligig Casin
o, playing stud poker at a corner table. He was sitting as he always did—with his back to the wall, so he could cover the room, and with an empty chair to his right, so no one could crowd his gun hand.

  The game was five-card, and as Grigsby approached the table, Doc was getting his fourth ticket. The dealer and one other player, a cowboy, had folded their hands. Doc was playing head to head against a sawed-off little dude—plaid suit, shiny slicked-back black hair, probably a traveling salesman. The salesman held his cards up against his vest with the fingers of both hands, and he was showing a pair of nines and the queen of hearts. Doc’s cards were lying on the table, and he was showing a pair of eights and the ace of clubs.

  Doc looked up at Grigsby. “Bob,” he whispered.

  Grigsby nodded. “A word, Doc.”

  “Right with you,” said Doc.

  “Pair of nines has the bet,” said the dealer.

  The drummer looked down at his hole card, glanced at Doc’s cards, and he grinned. He pushed a blue chip forward, into the pot. “Pair of nines bets ten simoleons,” he said.

  A loser, Grigsby thought. Even if he did have the other queen tucked away in the hole.

  Without looking at his hole card, Doc picked up two blue chips and tossed them in. “Up ten,” he whispered. He had used his left hand to throw the chips; his right hadn’t moved from the arm of his chair.

  The drummer glanced at his hole card, grinned again. He pushed two chips into the pot. “I’ll just see that,” he said. He pushed two more chips forward. “And I guess I’m gonna have to raise another twenty.”

  Doc picked up four chips and tossed them in. “Up twenty.”

  The little drummer grinned. “Question is, my friend, do you got the other ace under there or not?”

  “Question is,” whispered Doc, “are you going to see the twenty?” No irritation, no anger, nothing. Just a group of words strung out in a flat, indifferent line.

  The salesman chuckled. He pushed in two chips and said, “I see your twenty.”

  Grigsby knew then that the man didn’t have the queen. And he reckoned that if he knew that, Doc had to know it, too.

  The dealer dealt the cards. An ace of hearts for Doc, a nine of hearts for the drummer.

  “Three nines and two pair,” said the dealer. “Three nines bets.”

  The salesman chuckled. He pushed some chips forward. “Those three lovely nines bet thirty.”

  Doc picked up a stack of chips, moved them forward. “Up a hundred.”

  The salesman chuckled. But his face was shiny now with sweat. Grigsby counted the chips in front of him, saw that a hundred dollars would just about wipe him out. The salesman chuckled again. “It occurs to me that you’re bluffing, my friend.”

  Doc nodded. “I do that from time to time.”

  Quickly, abruptly, the drummer pushed in the chips. “I see you,” he snapped. “Whatta you got?”

  Using his left hand, Doc turned over his hole card. The ace of spades.

  “Damn!” said the drummer, and he hurled his cards to the table.

  Doc stood up. To the dealer he whispered, “Cash me in, Vance. Be back in a minute.”

  He turned to Grigsby. “Drink, Bob?”

  “Sure.”

  “The bar?”

  “A bottle and a table.”

  Doc nodded. Together they walked to the bar, where Doc picked up a bottle and two glasses from the barkeep, and then over to an empty table at the far side of the room. Doc took the wall seat, Grigsby sat to his left.

  Doc filled their glasses, lifted his. “To dying in bed,” he said.

  Grigsby raised his glass and smiled. “But not tonight, Doc, if it’s all the same to you.”

  They drank, emptying their glasses. It was good whiskey. Warm and smooth and tasting like a trip back home. Better stuff, for damn sure, than that champagne at the mansion.

  Doc filled their glasses again.

  “You cleaned him out pretty good there,” Grigsby said.

  Doc shrugged, just a small movement at his shoulders. “If you’re playing poker,” he whispered, “and you haven’t figured out who the chump is, you’d better start figuring it’s you.” It was a long speech for Doc. “What’s up, Bob?”

  Doc’s eyes, Grigsby thought, were like glass. Shiny black glass, so dark you couldn’t see into them. They didn’t tell you a damn thing more than Doc wanted you to know, and that was nothing.

  He said, “The poet fella, Oscar Wilde. You know him?”

  Doc nodded.

  “Some hookers been getting killed. Killed and cut up. Whoever’s doin’ it, he’s doin’ it in the same cities where Wilde is giving his talks. Same time, too. One in San Francisco, one in El Paso, one in Leavenworth, and one last night back in Denver. Molly Woods. You know her?”

  Doc shook his head. He sipped at his drink.

  “I heard tell, Doc, that you were in all those cities. The same time Wilde was.” Grigsby sipped at his drink.

  Doc moved his mouth, quickly, just a little bit, a twitch that could’ve been a smile. “Heard tell from where, Bob?”

  Grigsby shook his head. “Don’t matter. Were you there?”

  Doc sipped at his drink. “You asking me if I’m killing hookers?”

  “Not yet.”

  Doc shrugged. “I was there. All those places.”

  Grigsby nodded. “Kind of a coincidence.”

  Doc sipped at his drink. “Killing hookers.” His head made a small negative shake and he smiled his twitch of a smile. “Not my style.”

  “I wouldn’ta thought so, Doc.” Grigsby sipped at the bourbon. “So how come the coincidence?”

  For a moment Doc was silent, staring at Grigsby with those glassy black unreadable eyes. Then he whispered, “How long have we known each other, Bob?”

  “Five years. Six.”

  It was true that for six years, off and on, Doc had drifted in and out of the territory, and Grigsby had known him well enough to say hello and shoot the breeze. He had even played cards with him once. (Once had been enough.) But truly know him? Did anyone truly know Doc Holliday?

  Doc said, “I ever give you any trouble?”

  Grigsby smiled. “Not yet.”

  Doc nodded. “Seems to me, Bob, that a man who doesn’t cause trouble has a right to go just about anywhere he wants to, without having to answer for it.”

  Grigsby nodded. “Seems to me, Doc, that when people start gettin’ themselves killed off, a marshal’s got a right to ask some questions.”

  Another twitch. “Conflicting philosophies, sounds like.”

  Grigsby nodded. “Maybe.”

  Doc sipped at his drink. “How far do you want to go with this, Bob?”

  “Far as I got to.”

  Again, Doc was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It’s the wives want to hear the lectures.”

  Grigsby frowned. “So?”

  “The husbands get dragged along. Afterwards, they’re looking for a game.”

  Grigsby smiled. “If they can afford a lecture, they can afford a game of stud.”

  Doc smiled his twitchy smile. “Some of them seem to think so.”

  Grigsby nodded. “You been followin’ the tour.”

  Doc nodded.

  “Business is good?” Grigsby asked him.

  Doc smiled again. “I get by.”

  Grigsby finished off the last of his bourbon. “I don’t s’pose you know anything about the folks travelin’ with Wilde.”

  Doc shook his head.

  Grigsby stood up. “Okay, Doc. ’Predate it.”

  “Be seeing you, Bob.”

  O’Conner opened the door and his face sank.

  “Howdy, Davey,” said Grigsby, grinning happily. “Good to see you again. You gonna invite me in?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not a one.”

  O’Conner stepped back and Grigsby shuffled into the room.

  “It is Davey, ain’t it?” Grigsby asked him. “I got that right? I mean, we neve
r did get properly innerduced.”

  “David,” said O’Conner. He crossed the room and sat down on a straight-backed wooden chair beside the small wooden table in the corner of the room. The table held a half-empty bottle of whiskey and an empty glass.

  Grigsby said, “The same David O’Conner who’s a hotshot reporter for the New York Sun? The one who’s gonna get the president of the United States to start sendin’ me telegrams?”

  O’Conner lifted the bottle, poured whiskey into the glass. “You have something to say to me, Marshal?”

  “Just so happens,” Grigsby said, “I did get a telegram about you today. Wasn’t from President Arthur, though.” He reached into his vest pocket, slipped out the telegram, unfolded it. “Was from a fella name of Jackson B. Martindale. Ever hearda him, Davey?”

  O’Conner drank from the glass. “You telegraphed him.”

  “I did. I did that little thing, Davey. I asked him for particulars about this hotshot reporter of his, David O’Conner. And you know what he wired back?”

  “You’re enjoying this,” O’Conner said. He seemed neither surprised nor alarmed. He seemed only resigned.

  “Some,” Grigsby admitted. “What he wired back, Davey, was this—OCONNER A LIAR AND A DRUNK. STOP. NO LONGER A REPORTER THIS OR ANY OTHER NEW YORK NEWSPAPER. STOP. INFORM HIM LEGAL ACTION IF HE CONTINUES MISREPRESENTATION. SIGNED, JACKSON B. MARTINDALE, EDITOR, NEW YORK SUN.” Grigsby looked over the telegram at O’Conner, and smiled. “Doesn’t sound like a very friendly fella, now does he?”

  “HAVE YOU TOLD WILDE yet?” O’Conner asked Grigsby with what looked like, and sounded like, casual curiosity. Grigsby knew it wasn’t.

  He sat down opposite the reporter. “I reckoned you and me oughta talk it over first.”

  O’Conner nodded. “Then I guess I owe you something.” He smiled. It was a small, sickly smile, bitter and inward looking. “Would a drink do?”