The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion (20 page)

When they had left, the general prised himself out of his chair and waddled to his spare soldier's quarters on the side of the square opposite the mayor's residence. With difficulty he pulled himself up the stout ladder to the stuffy attic, where twenty or thirty pigeons in wooden cages cooed and plucked lice from their feathers. He dipped a pen in the ink pot on a little writing table, scribbled on a sheet he tore off a tiny block, removed a fat bird from one of the cages—Benito, his favorite—and clipped the rolled sheet securely to one of its thin legs. It had made the trip to the El Paso office of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency twice as many times as any of the others and knew the way even in the dark.

Matagordo tugged on the rope that lifted the hatch away from the square opening in the roof, tied it off, kissed Benito on the head, and released him with an underhand scoop to help him in his flight. The bird took to the air, flapping furiously.

A shot crashed. Benito dropped straight to the ground and lay as still as if staked to the spot. The general stared, openmouthed,
at the little carcass, then slid his gaze to the man seated on horseback in the square with the Winchester still raised to his shoulder. Mysterious Bob levered in another round and kneed his sorrel in a half circle to throw down on Matagordo.

“Do not mistake professional curiosity for desperation, Mr. Ruskin,” announced Mme. Mort-Davies, stirring her chilled cucumber soup, a specialty of the Parker House dining room. “As a matter of fact, we've done quite well representing ourselves. However, one always wishes to know whether someone else might improve upon the status quo.”

Rittenhouse touched his linen napkin to his lips. He was enjoying himself thoroughly, both with the company and with the superb fare at the hotel and gambling hall so convenient to his office, and whose prices he could not afford out of his day-to-day expenses. The old man would grumble, but he understood better than anyone that confidences came more quickly over good wine served in crystal than over a cup of rotgut with silverfish floating on top. Rittenhouse had lost no time in changing the venue after the initial introductions.

“No one would argue the regularity of your appearance on the middle of the bill,” he said, with just a touch of Yiddish throat in
his
r
's. “But you were right to come to me. You should be nearer the top.”

Major Davies stopped slurping his soup. “Not
at
the top?” He'd tucked his napkin under his guillotine collar and hung his silk hat and opera cloak on a hook on the pillar near their table. The hour was two o'clock, and ridiculously early for evening wear. His wife was attired more appropriately, but the ruffles in her shirtwaist accentuated her pigeon breast; even in jaded San Francisco, the couple attracted attention like a brass band that had turned down the wrong street.

Rittenhouse shook his head, smiling sadly. “I won't delude you with the impossible. That spot belongs to the empty-headed ingenue and her pompous beau: people who have outward beauty, but no character and, let us be frank, undetectable talent. Much has changed since the war. Theatergoers want their nosegays to look at and sniff.”

“The war.” The Madame's nod was grim. “Politicians speak of the loss of men, and poets write of it, but who will stand up and announce the death of culture?”

“It is not dead so long as such as the Davieses continue to perform.”

“You've seen us? I say, waiter, this soup is cold.”

The waiter who'd appeared regarded the Major. “It's intended to be served that way, sir.”

“Then it's pudding, isn't it? Bring me chicken broth, and have the chef test it with his elbow.”

The waiter bowed and departed with his bowl, which was nearly empty.

“I had the good fortune to admire you twice in St. Louis last fall,” Rittenhouse said. “Once in
The Diplomat Deposes
, and again
in
Twelfth Night
. I scarcely knew I was watching the same couple. You contain many parts.”

He pretended interest in his salad, but watched their expressions closely from under half-lowered lids. His oblique reference to the Prairie Rose did not seem to have placed them on their guard.

The Major belched into a pudgy fist. “That was a lark. Not real Shakespeare, of course; you need a full-scale production to do the Bard justice. But a respectable sampler, if Bowdler's your cup of tea. Personally I prefer my Elizabethans full-bodied and bawdy.”

“And your soup warm,” said the Madame, not without amusement. Rittenhouse suspected she was fond of her husband. He would make no progress pitting them against each other.

“An admirably shaded performance nonetheless,” he said. “The reviewers overlooked the nuances.”

“Frogs, the lot of them! Had we done Molière, they'd have hailed us as Lafayette. I nearly called one of them out. Lizzie restrained me.”

“For his sake, Evie, not yours.” She touched his wrist. “If you admired us, why did you not speak with us there?”

“I felt I'd missed my opportunity. Actors are inclined to be contented just after they've joined a troupe. The time to approach you would have been after you left the company you were with and before you signed with another. In any case, I was with a large agency then, and was in town to persuade a Swedish soprano to let us represent her. She declined, straining my relationship with my superiors. It was after that I decided to open my own agency here in California. You cannot imagine how pleased I was to see you of all people enter my office.”

The Madame said, “The bartender at the Adelphi gave Evelyn your card. He said you were looking for a married act.”

“I began my search with you in mind. Not you, precisely; I'd hardly hoped that opportunity would come my way again. I thought I might perhaps find a pair of potential Davieses—in the bud, as it were—and bring them along. Have you left that company you were with? What was the name?” He sensed a stiffening in her attitude, if not that of the Major, who was watching the waiter setting his broth before him, and backed off. “Well, the name doesn't matter, if you're free of all ties. Waiter, if the chef hasn't started on my crepes, I believe I'll ask for a bowl of that broth instead. It looks quite hearty.”

“It is,” said the Major, using the corner of his napkin to mop off his moustaches.

“Very good, sir.” The waiter collected his salad and the Madame's cucumber soup and left.

“The Prairie Rose Repertory Company,” furnished the Madame. “We expect to rejoin them this fall. They have no ties upon us. We are free to leave whenever we wish, although of course we'd not leave them shorthanded once we're in rehearsal. What are you proposing?”

Rittenhouse rearranged his silver just so. He was walking on hen's eggs now.

“My agency is new, as I said, but my experience is not. At the moment, I'm a trainer with many contacts, but no stable. You have a history with this Prairie Rose, and if I'm any judge of human nature, it appears to be a happy one. I'd betray my principles if I tried to steal you out from under them and leave bad feelings all around. If you would grant me permission to speak to the head of the company—”

“Out of the question.” The Major blew on his broth; steam rolled off it in a visible manifestation of chef's pique. “You could
not speak for us on a contingency basis. Only an agent of record could undertake such a conversation.”

The detective sipped water from his goblet. He hadn't expected integrity, particularly on the part of this elderly voluptuary, his face flushed on 1845 Bordeaux. He abandoned the flank for a frontal assault.

“Certainly not. I was hoping for an understanding before I made so bold. Jim Nixon, the proprietor of Nixon's Amphitheater in Chicago, is a personal friend, and he's in a bind. He requires a Ferdinand and Isabella for a grand pageant about the discovery of America this fall and his leads have separated. He'll pay one hundred dollars apiece per performance, six nights a week with a matinee on Saturday, and he'll guarantee seven months out of his own pocket. The only condition is that no legal complications are involved. It seems he had problems with Ned Buntline over
Scouts of the Plains
—an old felony warrant—and he wants assurance his profits won't go toward some lawyer, and possibly a fine, in case of litigation. In order to provide that assurance, I'll need to meet with the head of your company and obtain his signature on a release. It would be convenient if your intended reunion took place here, but if it's to be somewhere else, I must have time to adjust my schedule to include travel.”

Again he watched them closely, this time without pretending disinterest; but they were actors, and he found their expressions unenlightening. They
were
actors, however, and therefore theatrical creatures. He decided to risk overplaying his hand.

“It's the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“One lifetime, perhaps,” said the Major. “Artists have so many.”

“Shut up, Evie.”

The Major shrugged and returned to his broth. Rittenhouse was alert. Without straining visibly, the woman seated across from
him seemed to have grown taller, until she was peering down at him from a great height. She was a bigger talent than he'd realized.

“Your Mr. Nixon will have to be satisfied with your assurances based upon ours,” she said. “We are not, as you made clear, headline performers. What you earned representing us the first month would not pay for the distance you'd have to travel to speak with the head of our company. It wouldn't be sound business.”

“That would depend upon the distance.”

She gazed at him with a considering eye. He felt like a small rodent trapped in the open by an owl, and thought he'd been seen through. She parted her lips; but it was her husband who spoke, confining himself for once to a single word.

“Wichita!” bellowed the conductor, crimson-faced with an accurate chart of the Kansas Pacific's route traced in purple on his nose. He carried his announcement to the next car, walking on shattered arches.

“They certainly named the place well.” April spoke through a scented handkerchief. “Macbeth's crones never brewed anything that smelled more foul.”

“Tut-tut, dear. The Major would have your tongue if he heard you mention the Scottish tragedy at the very start of the season. Think of the curse.” Johnny watched the parade of clapboard slow to a crawl as they slid into the station. Lanky boys dressed in flannel shirts and faded dungarees leaned against porch posts, rolling cigarettes, and a face painted like a ship's figurehead peered between lace curtains in an upstairs window. Over everything lay the stench of cattle, rich and brown and shot through with sweaty greenbacks.

“What curse could be worse than this? Look, the undertaker's
sign is shaped like a coffin. I shudder to think what's above the door of the bustle shop.”

He hopped up to haul down their bags, as light of heart as he was on his feet. At last, April was complaining of old familiar things, assaults on her comforts and proprieties, and not their domestic situation. Women went through the most frightening phases, only to revert to normal once they were past. He'd vexed himself over nothing less transient than a case of sniffles.

“Is there a church, I wonder?” She took one last sniff at the crumpled linen and returned it to her reticule.

“Most of the Christian denominations seem to be represented, judging by the steeples I saw. Has the Continent converted you?”

“Only to the extent that I require a minister to sanctify our union. Don't forget my train case, darling. You nearly left it behind in New York.”

He reached for it, feeling clammy cold at the center.

By the time they stepped down onto the platform, he'd recovered sufficiently to clasp the hand of Tim Saunders, who stepped up to introduce himself as the proprietor of the local variety theater. He was a spare fellow with a sly face and untenable black whiskers in an Eastern-style suit. Johnny thought instantly of the ward bosses who'd lined up outside Scipio Africanus McNear's office in Chicago with their hats off and their hands out. Saunders bowed deeply to April.

“I withheld your arrival from the newspapers, as you requested,” he told Johnny. “I hope they don't take it badly. They've run out of novel ways to announce the comings and goings of Texas herds.”

Johnny said, “We'll make it up to them at the reception. At the moment, the Prairie Rose is spread across five states. We shan't steal the thunder from our other players.”

“I think you'll find your accommodations at the Occidental Hotel quite comfortable. The rooms at the Texas House are larger, but they're undergoing renovation. Shanghai Pierce chased a stray through the front window last month and roped it in the pantry.”

“Johnny! It's worse than Tannery.”

“Patience, dear. I'm sure the good people of Wichita pass weeks at a time without a cow in the kitchen.”

“We're young, miss, and I don't argue some of our transients couldn't do with a good spanking. But we value our entertainers. The night we opened, Eddie Foy took eight curtain calls and scooped ninety dollars in double eagles and silver off the stage floor.”

“I'd prefer it if you'd hand us a bank draught,” she said. “I left my shovel in Kansas City when we changed trains.”

“Haw-haw! I heard you'd a hand for light comedy. The ninety was in the way of appreciation from the house, over and above Mr. Foy's percentage of the box office. You'll break his record, or I'm a horse thief. When do you expect the rest of your company?”

“Mr. Ragland is on his way,” said Johnny, “with the costumes and properties we stored in Denver at the end of last season. I expect to hear from Major and Madame Mort-Davies any day.”

Before leaving New York City, Johnny had placed the following notice in the classified sections of the
St. Louis Enquirer
, the
Denver Post
, and the
San Francisco Call
: