Wilde West (23 page)

Oscar nodded. “Tell me something,” he said. He was finding it extremely difficult to keep his voice even. “Why did you go to this Greaves in the first place?”

“I got to protect the tour, Oscar boy. With this guy Grigsby running around asking questions, it would of gotten out about the hookers. And that's the kind of publicity we don't need. I stalled him for a while, told him I'd cooperate, right? And then I got to thinking. How come Bill Greaves never came and talked to me about all this? Me and Bill got along real well. And who's this Grigsby guy anyway? So I went and had a little talk with old Bill.”

“I see,” Oscar said. He cleared his throat. “And what about the prostitutes?”

Vail looked puzzled. “What about 'em?”

“What are old Bill's feelings regarding the prostitutes?”

“Jeez, Oscar. What kinda feelings is he gonna have about a bunch of hookers got killed in some other city?”

“And the one who was killed here?”

“Okay, it's a tragedy and all, and, sure, naturally, he's gonna try to find out who did it. That's his job, right? But the thing is, Oscar boy, he knows it wasn't us. He knows we got no reason to go around killing hookers. He knows we don't need no bad publicity on the tour. And like I said, he's a guy you can do business with.” Grinning, Vail winked broadly. “Him and me, see, we came to an understanding.”

“An understanding?”

“Sure. He keeps quiet about the other hookers, keeps all that outta the newspapers, and he gets Grigsby off our backs.”

“And in return?”

Grigsby shrugged lightly. “We slip him a percentage of the receipts. Not much, don't worry. And even at twice the price, I'm telling you, it'd be worth it. And it's only until we're out of Colorado.”

Oscar nodded. “Mr. Vail,” he said, “are you familiar with the word
abominable
?”

Vail frowned again. “Sure, yeah. I know plenty of big words. And what's with this
Mr.
Vail?”

“I think that what you suggest is abominable. I think it is loathsome. I think it is despicable. I think that you, personally, are contemptible. No. I think, actually, that you are beneath contempt. So far beneath it as to make contempt seem like veneration. I should call you a swine, but compared to you a swine seems the pinnacle of grace and chivalry.”

Vail glanced uneasily toward Henry. “Hey, Oscar boy, not in front of the troops. I mean, we got a disagreement, we can—”

“Has it occurred to you, has it even once penetrated that quagmire you call a mind, that whoever is killing these women will continue to do so, indefinitely, until someone stops him? Has it occurred to you that if the killer is one of the people traveling with us, then we, you and I, are in some measure responsible for these deaths?”

“
Responsible
? Jeez, you got to be kidding!”

“On an even simpler level, much more your style, has it occurred to you during your shabby attempts to keep this from the newspapers, that O'Conner is a reporter? If we drop him from the tour, what's to prevent him from writing about all this?”

“Hey, O'Conner's a lush. I can handle him. Or Greaves can—”

“Can what? Chop off his head? What portion of the receipts will that cost us? And has it occurred to you, furthermore, that if one of these people
is
guilty, then the rest are innocent? And that you, in your glib indifference, will be casting them to the wolves?”

“Oscar boy, we got the tour to think about.”

“We are not going to drop anyone. Not O'Conner. Not von Hesse. Not anyone. No one is going to hit the road.”

“Now Oscar—”

“Except perhaps yourself. I mean that literally. If you open your mouth once more before I've finished speaking, I will pick you up, walk you over to the window, and push you through it. I assure you that I'm capable of doing this with great dispatch, and with even greater pleasure.”

Oscar paused. Vail, unfortunately, merely stood there blinking.

“Now,” said Oscar. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. This is what you're going to do. First, you will talk to the others and make sure that they've all spoken to Marshal Grigsby and given an account of their activities last night. To any who haven't, you will suggest that they do so. Grigsby may be a buffoon, but he's a determined buffoon, and he won't be satisfied until he's talked to all of us.”

Vail took a deep breath. Oscar glared at him. Vail said nothing and blinked a few times more.

“Second, you will go down to the desk clerk and arrange for Henry's things to be moved from this dreadful little crypt into an actual room. If the expense money is dwindling, then I recommend that you make up the difference by altering your own accommodations.”

Vail opened his mouth, Oscar glared, Vail shut his mouth and returned to blinking.

“Now. You mentioned that the prostitute had been killed near the river. Where, exactly?”

“How come you want—”

“
Where
?”

“Shantytown,” said Vail quickly. “That's all I know. That's what Greaves said. Come on now, Oscar boy, this ain't right. You threatening me like that. We been through a lot together.”

“And perhaps we shall continue to do so. We'll discuss it later.”

“Yeah, but Oscar …”

Oscar looked at him. “Yes?”

“About Grigsby. I told you, we don't have to worry about him no more.”

“I suspect it will take more than a chief of police to stop Marshal Grigsby. For the time being, we cooperate with him. Is that understood?”

“Yeah, sure, of course. Whatever you say. Naturally. I mean, there's no need to get yourself in a tizzy.”

“I am not in a tizzy. I have never been in a tizzy in my life.”

Quagmire of a mind.

Swamp, Oscar thought. Swamp would've been better. Has it even once penetrated that swamp you call a mind.

Still, all in all, it had gone off very well.

Poor Vail had been absolutely terrified. As well he should've been. He had revealed himself as possessing the mind of a ferret. He deserved defenestration.

Has it once penetrated that bog you call a mind.

Swamp
. Yes.

“Mistuh Oscar,” said Henry. “This 'pears to be the place, ahead here.”

Oscar looked. Ahead, on the right side of the narrow dirt roadway, a ragged crowd of ragged people was sluggishly milling about, slowly eddying before a tiny gray ramshackle building where three blue-clad policemen stood morose silent guard.

“Police not gonna let you in there, Mr. Oscar,” Henry said.

“No, of course not. What we want now is a public house.” He leaned forward and called to the driver, “Is there a saloon nearby?”

Over his shoulder, the driver grumbled in a sour voice, “And how would I be knowin'? This bein' me first time in this hellhole of a place?”

The Irish, Oscar thought. Ever amiable.

“Do you suppose you could find one?”

The man grumbled, shrugged.

Oscar sat back. If anyone could locate an establishment where whiskey was served, even in hell, it was an Irishman.

Oscar looked around.
Hellhole
was in fact an apt description.

He had been silent throughout the trip, fuming, still furious at Vail, looking up only now and then to notice vaguely that the streets were growing more narrow, the houses more slovenly and shoddy.

But this, this Shantytown, this was worse than anything in London, worse than Spitalfields or Whitechapel. There the buildings, squalid though they might be, were at least made of brick and stone; here they had been thrown together, hastily, with bits of tin and tarpaper and strips of mismatched timber clearly torn from packing crates. Some of the structures had been painted, quickly, slapdash; but all of them were coated with a dull coat of grime that seemed, despite the temporary character of the buildings themselves, ageless and ineradicable. Looming in the alleyways and empty lots between the buildings were piles of rubble and rubbish—empty liquor bottles, tin cans florid with rust.

The sky overhead, which in the rest of Denver had promised rain, here threatened apocalypse. A thick, shapeless, yellow-gray fug lay over everything, leaching away the light and stinking of sulfur.

The wind had begun to blow, moaning and whistling as it swept around the shanties, sending scraps of paper tumbling down the desolate roadway; but it left untouched the blanket of gray overhead.

How, in a country so rich in resource and promise, could a place like this exist? How could anyone permit it to exist?

The carriage pulled up alongside a low rambling wooden edifice which was as dreary and dingy as the rest, but which had apparently been constructed with some small hope of permanence. A thin yellow light quivered behind the two small windows in the clapboard front. Over the door, swaying in the wind, a weathered wooden sign identified it as the Devil Dog Saloon.

The driver turned, his wrinkled red face pinched with displeasure. “Two dollars,” he said.

Oscar took the money from the pocket of his topcoat and handed it to the man. “Would you mind waiting until we return?”

The man snorted. “Wait? Around here? Are ye daft? Close me eyes for a minute and some ruffian will be off with me wheels and me horse. Ye wanted Shanty town, where the poor bawd got herself killed, and here ye are, and that's an end to it. I'll be off now, and good day to ye.”

Oscar smiled. “You'll be a Galway man, by your voice.”

The driver narrowed his eyes. “Will I now? And just why, exactly, would you be thinkin' that?”

“I've connections there. To the O'Flaherties and the O'Flynns.”

“Course you do,” said the driver. “And me own bloody name is Prince bloody Albert. Pull the other one, why don't ye.”

The wind snapped at Oscar's hair. “The name is Wilde. OscarFingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. You've heard of my mother, perhaps. Jane Francesca Wilde. Speranza.”

Still dubious, the driver said, “The poet lady? Of Dublin?”

“The very one.”

“And how is it, then, that ye talk with a mouthful o' bloody English plums?”

“Ah well,” Oscar smiled. “The result of a youth misspent at Oxford University.”

The driver considered for a moment. Then he said, “Speranza's son? You'd not be lyin' to me?”

Oscar smiled. “May the good Lord strike me dead in my boots.”

The driver suddenly grinned. “Well, why din't ye say so?” He swiveled farther around on his seat and stuck out his hand. “O'Hara. Benjamin J. O'Hara. Of Galway and Denver.”

Oscar shook the hand and the driver leaned toward him, his face abruptly serious. “But now listen, young Mr. Wilde. This shebeen here, 'tis a nasty place, not fit for decent folk. There are hard men hereabouts, thieves and killers and the like. I've heard me some terrible stories.”

“It can't be helped, I'm afraid. I've some business to transact. But there's a fiver in it for you, Mr. O'Hara, if you'll wait the carriage for us.”

“Git away with your fiver. Take money, would I, just for standin' about? No, I'll be waitin' for ye, never fear. And if ye find yerself in some difficulty, you just give me a holler and I'll come runnin'.”

“I'm sure of it.” Oscar turned. “Henry, shall we go?”

Henry, his face as expressionless as always, looked from Oscar to the driver and then back to Oscar. “Yes suh, Mr. Oscar.”

PLEASE INFORM ME ANY RECENT DEATHS PROSTITUTES YOUR AREA

Short and sweet, thought Grigsby.

He looked up from the sheet of paper, sipped at the bourbon in his half-full water glass, and called out, “Carver?”

Through the closed door, he heard a sharp clunk from the anteroom as the legs of the deputy's tilted chair slammed to the wooden floor. The chair squeaked against the floor, chalk on blackboard, and a moment later the door opened and Carver Peckingham loped into Grigsby's narrow office, brushing lank brown hair from his eyes with thin eager fingers.