Fraternity of the Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  She turned quickly on her stool and said, “I am hungry, however. If you could have some food sent up. Lobster, perhaps?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Something will be up shortly.”

  She nodded and turned back to the mirror without a thank-you.

  Clint went to his own room, determined to have steak sent up to her.

  * * *

  He changed his clothes and then walked to Irving’s door. He knocked, but when it was opened, it was not the actor, but a bearded man who looked as if he had just come off the docks.

  “What the hell—” Clint started.

  “Don’t get excited, Clint,” the man said in Henry Irving’s voice. “It is me.”

  Clint narrowed his eyes and stared at the man. Eventually, he saw past the facial hair to the man behind the makeup.

  “That’s amazing,” he said.

  “It is what I do,” Irving said. “Come in, please.”

  Clint entered and closed the door. In the center of the room Irving’s trunk lay open. Inside were what seemed like dozens of wigs, all types of facial hair—mustaches, muttonchops, eyebrows—and what looked to be all kinds of skin blemishes, from rash to pimple to mole.

  “Just let me put on my hat and we can go,” Irving said. “I’m anxious to have a beer with you.”

  “Beer?” Clint asked. “Not brandy?”

  “No, sir,” the man said to Clint in an entirely different voice. Gone was the aristocratic Henry Irving, and in his place an American of indeterminate age and class. “I feel like havin’ me a cold beer.” Then he adjusted his stovepipe hat and added, “Let’s get goin’, partner.”

  Clint shook his head, opened the door for Irving, and then followed him down the hall.

  NINE

  Downstairs in the lobby, Clint told Irving to wait while he ordered Ellen Terry some food.

  “I told her I’d have it brought up to her room,” he added.

  “That was kind of you,” Irving said. “Did she ask for lobster?”

  “Yes.”

  “She always asks for lobster.”

  “Well, she’s getting steak.”

  Irving just laughed.

  Clint walked over to the dining room and talked to the maître d’.

  “Yes, sir, of course,” the man told him. “I will see to it immediately.”

  “Thanks.” He walked back to Irving, who was drawing stares in the lobby. He was wearing a wig that made his hair look like it was shoulder-length, and had affixed a huge mole to his cheek.

  “Let’s get that beer.”

  Irving followed Clint into the bar.

  * * *

  The Gotham may not have been one of New York’s top luxury hotels, but it did a lot of out-of-town business. The bar was about three-quarters filled with traveling businessmen. As Clint and Irving entered, they drew looks because Irving’s outfit was replete with a cape.

  They walked to the bar and Clint ordered two beers. He handed one to Irving.

  “What name goes with this look?” Clint asked. “Or should I just call you Henry?”

  “What would be a good American name?” Irving replied.

  “Jack,” Clint said.

  “Why would you choose that name?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “It just came to me.”

  “Yes, well,” Irving said, “I think I’ll modify it. Call me . . . Jacko.”

  “Jacko is not an American name,” Clint pointed out.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Irving said. “This was just a lark for tonight. This character will go back into my trunk when I return to my room.” Irving looked around. “Are these the usual types of people one finds in an American saloon?”

  “You’re probably interested in Western saloons, Henry,” Clint said. “You’ll see enough of them, I’m sure. What does your schedule look like?”

  “Not sure, really,” Irving said. “I know we’re performing here, Philadelphia, Washington, Boston—not in that order, of course. And then we’ll begin to work our way west.”

  “Boston?” Clint asked. “I’d think that would be your first stop, and then work your way south to Philadelphia and Washington.”

  “Yes, that sounds like it,” Irving said. “I will check the itinerary in my room.”

  They finished their beer as the conversations around them seemed to become louder and louder.

  “I think I am ready to return to my room,” Irving said. “I’m quite hungry.”

  “So am I,” Clint said. “Would you like to eat in the dining room, or up in your room?”

  “This makeup is very effective on stage,” Irving said, “but it is not conducive to eating. I believe I will dine in my room, as Ellen is.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “I’ll eat in the dining room, and have something sent up. Lobster?”

  “No,” Irving said with a laugh, “a steak is just fine.”

  TEN

  Clint repeated the process with the maître d’, ordered a steak dinner to be delivered to Henry Irving’s room, and then asked the man to seat him. It was supper time but he was able to choose his own table. He grabbed one in the back, and could survey the entire room from there.

  He ordered coffee while he waited for his steak, and studied the other people in the room. Most of them were probably guests at the hotel. The Gotham did not get a lot of local business.

  In addition to the entire room, Clint was able to see part of the lobby from his table, and the front door. He was almost finished with his steak when he thought he saw Henry Irving walk by, heading out. He hurriedly paid his bill, and rushed out to catch sight of him.

  Irving was walking down the street briskly. Clint had seen his profile, knew he was not in makeup, but he was wearing a cape and top hat, and carrying a walking stick.

  Clint decided not to try to catch up with the man, but rather to follow him and see what he was up to.

  * * *

  The Gotham was a full ten blocks from the theater district, and Clint expected Irving to walk that way, but instead he walked over to Tenth Avenue first, and then uptown. They reached an area where girls were working the street, and as Clint watched, Irving stopped and spoke with several of them.

  Suddenly, as Clint watched, Irving and a girl stepped into an alley. Clint rushed to the mouth of the alley and looked in, but it was totally dark. He hesitated, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, then entered the alley. He reached the end—a blank wall—without finding Irving or the girl.

  He made his way back, stopping at several doors and windows he passed, but they were all locked up tight.

  He came back out to Tenth Avenue, unsure about what to do next. Irving’s welfare was his job, and he had allowed the man to disappear.

  He decided all that was left for him to do was go back to the hotel and wait to see when Henry Irving returned from his nocturnal walk.

  He began to retrace his steps to the Gotham.

  * * *

  He went into the bar when he got there, ordered a beer, and then got himself a table from where he could watch the lobby. Irving had to come back in the front door, and Clint wouldn’t miss him.

  It took a couple of hours, but Irving finally returned. He walked briskly in the front door and Clint moved quickly. Once again, however, he decided not to stop the man. Why let him know he had seen him? He was interested in what would happen the next morning when he asked Irving how he spent his night. Would he admit to taking a walk?

  Clint watched the man walk to the Gotham’s elevator. As the doors closed, Clint went to the stairs and took them two at a time. He arrived on the third floor before the elevator opened. He watched from cover while Irving walked down the hall, past Ellen Terry’s room, past Clint’s door, and then let himself into his own room.
<
br />   Hoping that the man was in for the night—he couldn’t very well sit in the lobby all night and keep watch—Clint unlocked his own door and went inside. Just for a moment he wondered if Ellen Terry was in her room, and then decided he needed to check.

  He left his room, walked to her door, and wondered if he would be waking her. He pressed his ear to the door, didn’t hear anything. Would a grown woman—an actress from Europe—be asleep at this time? Maybe, if she was tired out from the trip across the ocean.

  In the end he decided not to knock, and just assumed she was in there, asleep.

  He went back to his own door, stopped, and for a moment wondered if he should knock on Irving’s. He was sure to be awake after his walk.

  He decided to do it, under the pretense of finding out if Irving had gotten his food. He walked to the actor’s door and knocked. Irving answered immediately.

  “Mr. Adams! May I call you Clint?” he was free of any theatrical makeup, and was wearing a dressing gown that looked like silk. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you got your meal.”

  “I did,” Irving said. “It was a very good steak, and the bellman has already picked up the tray. Thank you.”

  “How have you been spending your evening?”

  “I’m reading,” Irving said. “Going over some of the pieces that Ellen and I will be doing in our show.”

  “Do you memorize all that stuff?”

  “Oh, yes,” Irving said. “I’m just refreshing my memory.”

  “I see,” Clint said. “Well, I’ll stop by in the morning. We can go to breakfast and discuss your itinerary.”

  “Excellent,” Irving said. “We will see you then.”

  Clint took a quick look around the room. No sign of the cape, top hat, or walking stick he had seen Irving with earlier.

  “Is that all, Clint?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “that’s all, Henry. Good night.”

  Clint went back to his room. His first day with his charges had been very interesting. He wondered what the rest of the time would be like.

  ELEVEN

  In the morning, Clint rose earlier, washed and dressed, then went down the hall to Irving’s room. He knocked, then knocked again. No answer.

  “Henry!”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Irving!” he pounded on the door. He was about to kick it in when suddenly it opened. Clint half expected to see a woman in the room, maybe even Ellen Terry, but it was just Henry Irving.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “I don’t sleep well, but when I do, I sleep deeply.”

  “Then I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “Nonsense,” Irving said. “Why don’t you go and rouse Ellen, and by the time you get back, I’ll be dressed.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “I hope she’s easier to rouse than you were.”

  “Don’t worry,” Irving said. “Ellen is a light sleeper.”

  “Okay, see you in a while.”

  Irving nodded and closed the door. Clint walked past his door to Ellen Terry’s and knocked.

  “Come!” she said.

  Clint opened the door slowly and stuck his head in.

  “Are you decent?” he asked.

  “I am,” she said, “and that apparently makes one of us.”

  He entered and closed the door. Ellen Terry must have been up for a while. She was dressed, wearing a long, high-necked dress, her hair piled high atop her head once again.

  “I came to take you to breakfast,” he said.

  “Just you and me?” she asked. “How presumptuous.”

  “No,” he said, “the three of us. Henry’s getting dressed.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ll discuss your itinerary.”

  “Yes, I suppose we should,” she said. “Very well.” She grabbed her purse. “Ready?”

  “Henry needs time to dress,” he said.

  “No,” she said, “he doesn’t. That’s one thing about the theater, Mr. Adams. It teaches you to get dressed very quickly.”

  “Well, okay,” I said. “You know him better than I do.” He opened the door for her, and she swept past him without a word.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  * * *

  As Terry had predicted, Irving was fully dressed—and looking impeccable—when he opened his door again. Still no hat and stick, though.

  They went downstairs to the dining room and were seated immediately. It was early, and only several other tables were occupied.

  A waiter came by and gave them their menus.

  “Coffee, Miss Terry?” Clint asked.

  “Tea, Mr. Adams,” she said as if he had asked a stupid question.

  “Of course,” Clint said. “Tea for the lady. Henry?”

  “Also tea,” Irving told the waiter.

  “And I’ll have coffee.”

  “What would an American breakfast be?” Irving asked.

  The waiter looked at Clint, to see if he would be answering that question.

  “Bacon and eggs,” Clint said, “ham and eggs, flapjacks—”

  “And which do you eat?” the actor asked.

  “I usually order steak and eggs.”

  “Then that’s what I shall have,” Irving said, handing the waiter the menu. “Steak and eggs, please.”

  Once she had determined there was no blood sausage or bangers available, Ellen Terry ordered one egg and one slice of ham.

  “Yes, ma’am. How would you like the egg?”

  “Poached, of course.”

  She got her poached egg because they were in New York. Clint wondered how she’d react when they got farther west and eggs were available only one of two ways, and both prepared in a frying pan.

  The waiter went off to place their orders, then returned with a basket of warm biscuits, butter, and marmalade.

  “Ah,” Terry said, reaching for the preserves. “Something civilized.”

  Clint watched her slice a biscuit in half, cover both halves with marmalade, and then eat them with gusto. With that kind of appetite, he wondered why she had ordered only one egg and one slice of ham.

  TWELVE

  “You were correct, Clint,” Irving said.

  “About what?” He looked away from Terry, who was doctoring another biscuit, and looked at Irving.

  “Our itinerary.” Irving took a folded sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. “Boston is first, then we are to go south to Philadelphia, and Washington D.C.”

  “And then west?”

  “That’s right,” Irving said. “Saint Louis, Kansas City, Dallas . . . some other cities I don’t recognize . . . and then we finish in Tombstone.”

  “Tombstone?”

  “Yes,” Irving said, still reading, “at a place called the Birdcage.” Irving looked at him. “Do you know it?”

  “Very well,” Clint said, “but it’s not what it used to be.”

  “I wanted to play some historic locations in the West,” Irving said.

  “Well, I don’t know who prepared your schedule, but you got your wish with the Birdcage. Lillian Russell and Lily Langtry both played there. And Doc Holliday dealt faro there.”

  “Sounds quite exciting,” Irving said.

  “Sounds dusty,” Ellen Terry said.

  “My dear,” Irving said, “why ever did you agree to this tour?”

  She smiled across the table at him and said, “Why, to be with you, of course, my dear.” She popped a piece of biscuit into her mouth.

  “I’d like a copy of that schedule,” Clint said.

  “I will make you one,” Irving promised, and tucked the sheets of paper back into his jacket.

  The waiter came with thei
r respective breakfasts, and they ate.

  * * *

  When they were finished, Clint asked, “When and where are you performing first?”

  “The Lyceum, on Fourth Avenue,” Irving said.

  “Why that one?”

  “It’s completely lit by electricity,” Irving said. “The only such theater in the U.S.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “that sounds like the place to perform first.”

  “Also, it is the name of my theater in London,” Irving said. “It seems fitting.”

  “When shall we be looking at the theater, Henry?” Terry asked.

  “Well, if it’s all right with Mr. Adams,” Irving said, “I’d like to go over there right away. Our performance is to be at eight p.m. tonight.”

  “Hey, that’s fine with me,” Clint said.

  Ellen Terry looked at him and asked, “Will you be dressing like that?”

  Clint looked back at her, then said, “I think I can find a jacket.”

  “Will you have your gun on?” Henry Irving asked.

  “This is New York, Henry, not the West,” Clint said. “I’ll have a gun on me, but not my holster.”

  “Perhaps we will get to see this vaunted ability of yours with a gun?” Terry asked.

  “Miss Terry,” Clint said, “I sincerely hope not.”

  * * *

  They left the hotel and had the doorman get them a cab. Clint held the door open for Ellen Terry and assisted her in with a hand on her elbow. Henry Irving climbed in next, and then Clint.

  “The Lyceum Theater,” Clint told the driver. “Fourth Avenue.”

  “Yessir.”

  They rode in silence while Ellen Terry looked out the window at the passing streets, and the people. She had a look of disdain on her face the entire way. Apparently, New York was not living up to her standards.

  “Have you been here before?” Clint asked Henry Irving.

  “No,” Irving said, “this is our first time. I hope that the people of your country like what we have to offer.”

  Clint looked at Ellen Terry’s profile, which was beautiful.