Wilde West (3 page)

Oscar smiled. He found it endlessly endearing, this tendency she had in any conversation to deflect it suddenly, and with an utter lack of self-consciousness, toward herself and her concerns. It was a trait with which he sympathized. “All successful men are married, Countess. Society inflicts marriage upon them as a punishment for their presumption.”

She returned the smile. “And what of yourself, dear Oscair?”

He laughed. “Ah, well. My own presumption, alas, continues to outpace my success.”

“Tabor's married, all right,” said O'Conner. “But while the wife's stuck back in Leadville, old Horace is here in Denver, playing house with Baby Doe.”

“And what, pray,” said Oscar, “is a Baby Doe?”

“Elizabeth McCourt Doe. Baby Doe. A real beauty, they say. A knockout. She came here from Virginia with a husband in tow, and dumped him when she decided she wanted a silver baron of her own. She latched on to Tabor a couple years ago.”

The Countess blinked quizzically. “A baron?”

O'Conner leered. “Not a real one, Countess. You outrank him.” His glance dipped again to her breasts.

“As you would,” said Oscar, “even if he were a prince, and genuine.”

O'Conner frowned slightly at Oscar and sipped at his whiskey. “Anyway,” he said, “if you're meeting Tabor tonight, you'll be meeting Baby Doe too. He doesn't let her out of his sight. He may be an old fool, but he's not stupid.”

“Now, now, Mr. O'Conner,” von Hesse said, running his hand lightly over his scalp. “Let us not judge others, lest we ourselves be judged.”

O'Conner shrugged. “Part of my job, General. The laborer is worthy of his hire.”

Von Hesse smiled. “I was never a general officer, Mr. O'Conner. And does not a reporter's job consist of determining the truth in a given situation, and presenting only that?”

O'Conner grinned again. “Depends what you mean by truth, doesn't it? Truth's a pretty slippery thing. Ask Pilate. Ask any politician.”

Von Hesse nodded thoughtfully. The man was seldom less than thoughtful. “You subscribe, then, to a sort of relativism. I believe, myself, in the existence of an objective truth. What about you, Mr. Wilde?”

Oscar inhaled on his cigarette. “I think that truth is greatly overrated,
mein Herr.
Lies are infinitely more entertaining. Anyone, after all, can tell the truth. But only an artist can create a beautiful lie.”

“I disagree,” said von Hesse. “Art, I think, must always at base be concerned with truth. Art, like religion, aspires to the Infinite.”

“Ah,” said Oscar, “but only Art stands a chance of actually arriving there.” And then, recognizing an exit line when he heard it, he stood up. He dropped his cigarette to the floor, stepped on it. “I'll fetch us something else to drink, shall I?”

The bar was still crowded; but, toward its center, his back to the room, stood a single individual who was bracketed on each side by an empty space. The man was slender and, like most men, shorter than Oscar, perhaps five feet, seven inches tall. He wore black trousers and a nicely tailored black frock coat, nipped in at the waist. He was hatless, unusual here in the West where males kept their heads covered from the moment they arose until the moment they went to bed, and conceivably beyond.

Oscar glanced in the mirror opposite and saw that the man, lost in thought, was staring down at his whiskey glass. His thick black hair was combed back in soft waves from a high, intelligent forehead. Thin eyebrows arched gracefully over large dark brown eyes. Below the narrow pointed nose and draped neatly over the sensitive, almost feminine lips was a carefully trimmed handlebar mustache. The man wore a slim black bow tie and a starched white shirt and a snugly fitting waistcoat ornately brocaded in gold silk. Oscar rather envied him the waistcoat.

The barman—barkeep, they called him here—approached, a tall slender man drying his hands at the hem of his once white apron. “What'll it be, sport?”

“Have you any tea?” Oscar asked him.

“
Tea
? This is a saloon, sport.”

“Whiskey, then. A bottle.”

The barman handed Oscar a clean glass and a full bottle of whiskey (Old Harmony, The Finest Bourbon Whiskey West Of The Pecos). As Oscar turned to leave, his elbow accidentally bumped into the shoulder of the man standing beside him.

“Terribly sorry,” Oscar said, and smiled pleasantly.

The man turned to him. His eyes weren't brown. They were black: as black as the outermost regions of the night sky, and at least as empty and as cold. Staring into that emptiness, Oscar all at once felt as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet. For a moment, it was as though a sudden seismic shock had splintered the reality he knew and given him a glimpse, unwonted and unwanted, into an awful Secret that yawned, fathomless, beneath it. The skin of his face went abruptly chill and he realized, with no small surprise, that he was frightened.

It was for only an instant, a few seconds, but they were the longest seconds he could remember living, because he knew—knew without knowing how he knew—that he had never come so close before to Death.

And then the eyes narrowed fractionally, a microscopic tightening at the delicate folds of skin that held them, and the man spoke. “You're the poet,” he said. His face was expressionless and his voice was low and soft, a whisper.

“Yes,” Oscar said, and his own voice was absurdly thin and reedy, the piping of a rodent. He cleared it. “Yes,” he said again. “The poet. Wilde. Oscar Wilde.” He shifted the empty glass into his left hand and held out his right. Americans loved shaking hands.

Those black empty eyes peered down at the hand for a moment that seemed like several years, and then at last the man reached forward and took it in his own. The fingers were long and slender, like those of a pianist or a surgeon, but they seemed fleshless, frigid, a clutter of bones. Even so, ridiculously, Oscar felt a relief so strong that he fancied it might actually be rising off him visibly, a white vapor streaming from his ears.

Had it been necessary, he would have clutched the other's hand all night long, but the man released him after only a brief brisk shake.

“John Holliday,” said the man in that soft uncanny whisper. “Saw you at Platt's Hall in San Francisco.” Nothing in his face or voice told Oscar what the man had thought of the lecture, or that he had given it any thought, or that in fact he ever thought at all.

“Ah,” said Oscar. “Did you? San Francisco, eh?” He was acutely aware that he was babbling, trying desperately to plug the vacant space between them with sound, any sound. This would never do. Fortunately he had something prepared. San Francisco: debutante. “I rather enjoyed San Francisco,” he said. “It has an impudent self-consciousness which reminds one of a debutante in her first gown.”

Holliday's expression, or lack of it, didn't change in the slightest. His empty eyes stared emptily into Oscar's. Oscar abruptly experienced that feeling which obtains at the top of a stairway when one takes, clunk, that extra step which remarkably is not there.

Another tack, then. He inhaled deeply, filling himself with as much bonhomie as he could muster. Then, holding up the bourbon bottle, cheerily he said, “Fancy a drink?”

Once again Holliday's expression remained unchanged. But he nodded his head—once only, and so slightly the movement might have been imaginary. “Obliged,” he whispered.

Oscar set the glass down on the bar top and uncorked the bottle. Carefully, he filled Holliday's glass and then his own. He put down the bottle and raised the glass ceremoniously. “To what shall we toast?” Oscar asked.

Holliday lifted his glass and for the first time his face showed some animation: Faintly, and for only an instant, the right corner of his mouth twitched upward, behind the handlebar mustache. It could have been a smile; it could have been a nervous tic. Oscar believed it to be a smile—unlikely that Holliday possessed any nervous tics. To be burdened with such, one must first be burdened with nerves.

Holliday said softly, “To dying in bed.”

Reflexively, Oscar began to say, “And to living in it, too.” Immediately he decided against this. “To dying in bed,” he repeated, and clinked his glass against Holliday's. The two men tossed back their whiskey.

Oscar had drunk bourbon before, although never with much pleasure; this particular brand was exceptionally repellent. It was harsh, oily, and probably toxic. What little actual taste it provided was doubtless a result of the membranes in his mouth dissolving. But he didn't flinch as the vile stuff seared its way down his throat. He smacked his lips appreciatively and announced, “Delightful.”

“It's donkey piss,” whispered Holliday.

“Ah,” said Oscar, caught once again off guard. “Yes. Donkey piss. But I like to think that there's room in this world even for donkey piss. I expect that donkeys like to think so, too.”

Holliday's black empty eyes turned to him, moving swiftly, mechanically, as though set on gimbals, and they looked into Oscar's. For a split second Oscar thought that reality might splinter again; but then Holliday's mouth twitched in another quick ghost of a smile and he said, “You in town for long?”

Relaxing again, Oscar said, “For two days. And then off to Manitou Springs, and then a place called Leadville. And you?”

The thin shoulders shrugged lightly. Very lightly: merely a flicker of movement. “Don't know.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps we'll meet again.”

A faint nod.

A splendid idea, the whiskey: the man had grown positively garrulous.

“I hate to rush off,” Oscar said, “and I hope you'll forgive me, but I've some friends waiting. You know how friends are.”

Again the man's head moved slightly, but this time in a muted negative motion. “Nope,” he said.

Was the man having him on? Was there possibly a glimmer of amusement floating somewhere in the depths of those dark eyes?.

Impossible to tell.

“Well,” Oscar said, “it's been a great pleasure chatting with you like this, and I certainly hope we can do it again sometime in the very near future.” He held out his hand again and Holliday, expressionless, took it. “Goodbye, then,” Oscar told him.

“Be seeing you,” Holliday said.

Walking back to the table, exhaling elaborately, Oscar discovered that his silk shirt was damp with perspiration. Remarkable.

“Oscair,” said the Countess as he sat down again, “who was that gentleman at the bar? The one you were talking with?”

“Ah. Chap named Holliday. Interesting fellow.”

O'Conner's glance shot toward the bar and his eyebrows floated up his forehead. “Jesus,” he said.

“No,” said Oscar. He uncorked the whiskey bottle. “His first name was John, actually.”

The Countess laughed softly. Von Hesse appeared vaguely puzzled. Oscar poured himself another drink.

The reporter leaned toward Oscar and whispered urgently, “Jesus Christ, Wilde, do you know who that is?”

“I'm afraid not.” He smiled. “But evidently you do.”

“That's
Doc
Holliday, man.”

“A doctor?” He took a sip of the whiskey. Wretched. “He didn't mention a medical background.”

O'Conner shook his head, annoyed. “He used to be a dentist. But he's a gambler now, and a gunman. One of the worst. He's a killer, Wilde.” Having looked into those empty black eyes, Oscar had no difficulty believing this. “He's famous for it,” said O'Conner. “Last year in Tombstone, he and the Earp brothers gunned down the whole Clanton family. Killed every one of them. The gunfight at the O.K. Corral. It was in all the papers.”

“Somehow it escaped the
London Times.
”

“He's quite good-looking,” said the Countess. “Is he married?”

Oscar smiled at her, much entertained. “I wouldn't know, madame. We didn't broach the subject.” He turned back to O'Conner. “The
Earp
brothers? Rather an unfortunate name.”

“Jesus, Wyatt Earp's a legend. So is Holliday.”

“Legend or not, I found him utterly charming. I'm sure that if he killed this Clanton family, as you say, they must have been dreadful people.”

“Come, come, Mr. Wilde,” said von Hesse. “Surely no one deserves to be murdered.”

Oscar made his face go thoughtful. “It would depend, of course,” he said, “on his table manners.”

“Ah,” said von Hesse, nodding in understanding. “You make a joke.”

“So what'd he say?” asked O'Conner. “What'd the two of you talk about?”

“My goodness, O'Conner. It was a private conversation. I really don't think it would be fair to Mr. Holliday—to Dr. Holliday—to use it as a diversion for your readers.”

“Okay, okay. Off the record.”

“We discussed poetry.”

O'Conner frowned, dubious. “Poetry?”

“Yes. Doctor Holliday was of the opinion that Shelley was a poet superior to Keats. I suggested to him that this was absurd. Shelley had of course some talent as a versifier, and certainly he possessed enthusiasm, but he lacked finally the maturity which true poetry—”

“Wait a minute,” O'Conner said, eyes narrowed, head cocked to the side. “Hold on. You told Doc Holliday that what he said was absurd?”

“Well, I could hardly let him get away with that, could I? I mean, one has only to place their poems side by side to see—”

O'Conner was frowning. “How come I'm having a hard time believing all this?”

“Your innate skepticism, perhaps. You've only to ask Dr. Holliday.” Oscar smiled. “I'm sure he'll verify what I've said.”

O'Conner looked at him for a moment and then he grinned. “You're good, Wilde. I've gotta hand it to you. You're good. And whatever else happened, there's no denying that you had a drink with Doc Holliday.”