In the glow of the Tower, at the edge of the Fountain, a man and woman regarded each other from a few feet apart, looking each other up and down, appraising the toll of the years. He filled out a well-made suit and had the sort of babyface some men wear all their lives. His frame was muscular and imposing, but his cheeks were round and his eyes as bright as any child’s. The woman opposite him possessed a striking beauty, just a little gray starting to show in her jet-black hair. She wore a new dress, nothing flashy, but finely made of dark material. It was a sensible outfit for a successful woman whose sharp, intelligent eyes saw right through the reserved demeanor of her opposite. The crowd milled peaceably in the evening air, paying the two no mind.
“Robert,” the woman said after a long silence passed between them. “It’s a pleasure to see you well.”
“Etta.” The man nodded politely, his hat in his hands. “It’s been a long time.”
“You look good for a dead man.” She didn’t sound angry. She sounded weary. She had the tone of a tailor tired of touching up the hem over and over again on the same pair of pants. “I wish I could say the same for Harry.”
“I’m real sorry, Etta,” The hat shifted a little in Robert’s hands. Etta could see he was nervous. She didn’t blame him. This was very public - much more high-profile than either had been in some years - but she knew he would meet her if she asked it. The three of them – Robert, Harry, and Etta – had been quite a team. Not that long ago all three had tried like hell to give up their whole lives to be together. It didn’t work out.
Etta debated any number of answers, but in the end she breathed out, let herself visibly relax by a carefully calculated tick. “Bolivia’s pretty far from here, and a long time ago. And clichés won’t bring back the dead. But I appreciate the sentiment. You didn’t have to meet me. Thank you.”
Robert nervously turned his eyes this way and that as he nodded at her again. “What did you want to talk about, Etta? I’m not sure it’s wise for us to stand in the middle of the Expo like this.”
Etta wondered if Robert, too, saw the man standing off to the side who kept glancing this way? The man in question was young enough he would have been a kid the last time they met up in these parts. His notice of them bothered her, but she hadn’t said anything just yet. Etta learned a long time ago how easily the fear crept in. She knew to push it aside and get down to business.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Etta’s mouth shifted into a small grimace. “Letting you know I know you’re still around might be dangerous after all these years. But I don’t want anything. I just… I wanted to say hello. See how you’re doing. Let you know your secret’s safe with me because I’ve got plenty to lose still too. But mostly,” and here her features and her voice softened, and she smiled at him for the first time, with tears at the corners of her eyes, “I missed you, old friend. We both loved Harry, in our way. I want to share your air, as they say, for just a moment. And I suspect you feel the same, or you wouldn’t be here.”
The man’s round face slackened, and he smiled back. “It’s so good to see you, Etta.” He let out a gasp, sharp, sudden, hit with the full weight of emotion. “I wish we could go back there again. Just have one more day with you, Harry, and me. I wish that every morning and every night.”
Etta pressed her eyes closed. They were standing five feet apart, the noise of the fountain drowning out what they said any farther apart than that. They didn’t step any closer, but the space between them felt reduced somehow. For just a moment, it was as though their spirits clasped hands.
“Butch Cassidy?” The young man stepped up to stand with them beside the fountain. He addressed Robert as he spoke, then looked at Etta. “And Etta Place. I’m… I’m Joe Marsters. You remember. I tried to go to South America with you.”
Etta knew the man as soon as he said his name. Joe had been a kid running errands for them. When the time came to make their last big run for it, they hadn’t taken the kid with them. Etta said the boy would be too hard to explain. Butch had a long talk with the boy and told him to do something constructive with his life. And now here he was, nearly a decade and a half later, and he just happened to be standing fifty feet away when Etta and Butch met for what they both expected to be the last time.
“As I live and breathe,” Marsters said, his voice low. “They said you died in Bolivia. You and Sundance both. Are you here to start a new gang, Butch? Are we getting’ goin’ again?”
Robert Parker, alias Butch Cassidy, officially reported killed in a shootout with Bolivian police in that country in 1908, stared at Marsters. “I…” Robert stammered. “I’m afraid you’ve made some mistake, sir.” He turned to Etta and nodded, hat still in his hands. “M’am. It was a pleasure.”
“Yes,” Etta said. “It was. All of it. Well, almost all of it.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t regret trying, anyway.”
Robert said nothing. He met her gaze. His nostrils flared. He glared at Marsters for a second, then turned and walked away.
Marsters tried to follow, but Robert was already lost in the crowd.
Etta decided not to wait for Marsters to return and attempt to question her. Oh, she thought, Damn that boy for interrupting. Not that we would have had long to speak anyway, but damn him nonetheless. Damn him for intruding. Damn him for blundering into a moment meant for only we two and the memory of the one man we both loved.
Etta spun to go in the opposite direction only to discover a man with bland features in a garish green suit jacket with gold and silver trim on the lapels. He stood behind her, staring up at the Tower. She ran right into him, despite never having heard him approach. “My apologies, sir.” Etta was annoyed and hurried, and the encounter with Marsters had unsettled her. She took a step back and moved to go around, but the man spoke without taking his gaze from the Tower of Jewels.
“Did you know there are over 100,000 of the ‘Novagems’ up there?” He lowered his face to lock eyes with her. He wasn’t terribly tall, but he felt bigger. “Each has a small brass medallion on the back identifying it as coming from this event. When the Exposition is over, they’ll be sold for a dollar a piece as souvenirs.” The man’s dull eyes lit up, and his face opened in an ecstatic grin. “Now that is what I’m talking about. But who do I see before me? None other than Etta Place, former, ah, companion to the Sundance Kid. And I do believe that was Butch Cassidy with whom you spoke. How is he doing these days?”
Etta’s skin crawled, and she took another step back. “I’m afraid you have made some sort of error.” Her voice was hard and cold. “Now if you will excuse me…”
“Your glory days are over, Etta. Or is it Ethel? You called yourself that before South America. And no one knows who you really were - are - anyway. You told people you came from back East. You claimed you were a schoolteacher. You became a whore, a madam, a bank robber, and a crack shot with a rifle. History regards you as clearly the most educated and intelligent member of the Wild Bunch gang. You were smart enough to disappear in a way no one else quite did.” Mammon smiled at her as she stared back at him.
He gestured casually in the direction Robert and Marsters ran. “Butch there, poor simp, never learns to keep his head down. People will be spotting him here and there for decades: working a farm in Wyoming, driving a car in Las Vegas, doing this or that or another thing out in plain view because he can’t resist being recognized. Marsters will go on, at length, for the better part of the century, about seeing Butch Cassidy at this Exposition. But you? My dear, I’m afraid you are smart enough to fade from the record altogether. There are theories about what became of you - will become of you? Time travel makes conjugation awfully complicated.” Mammon tutted. “But I digress. At any rate, those theories are never proved because, in the end, you vanish. There is a you-shaped hole in the historical record. It’s an enviable result.” The horrible man smacked his ordinary lips. “Etta Place, you have spent your entire adult life applying your prodigious intellect and aptitudes to the ent
irely understandable and, I might even say, admirable pursuit of material wealth. I would like to hire you for a job. I suggest you say yes, madam, because this is otherwise probably your final opportunity for adventure. I offer you no less than your last great heist. I believe you already know you are going to agree, not because I bear any special foreknowledge of your future, but because you are sufficiently bored of the quiet life to have summoned Butch Cassidy, your dead lover’s best friend, out of retirement just to say hello.” Mammon broke out in a smug grin. “So. Miss Place. I would like you to help me steal the city of San Francisco. What do you say?”
Around them, the lights continued to dance.
THE END…for now
Acknowledgments
I don’t want to take a ton of your time, but I do want to thank some specific people:
-John Hartness and Falstaff Books for giving me the chance to spend some time with one of my favorite historical persons – and to write someone who was truly and really heroic. Norton was a century ahead of his time and then some, and we could all learn to live better lives by taking in just a little of the wisdom others chose to call his madness.
-Erin Penn, whose work as my editor has made me a better and more thoughtful writer. Her attention to detail, her frank and constructive feedback, her willingness to raise questions and challenge my mistakes, and her constant encouragement and support has made this possible. She is amazing!
-My friend and fraternity brother Austin, who has hosted me on many trips to San Francisco, and my friends Kelly Jo, Aleks, Melissa, and Laurie, by whose sides I’ve had countless adventures in the city my soul calls home.
San Francisco is the only place I’ve never lived but for which I’ve felt homesick. Every time I depart that city I leave a little of my heart there, and every time I return I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Everyone has their magical place, and for me it’s a tiny table outside Spike’s Coffees & Teas on an afternoon with plenty of sun. I finish a cup of coffee and decide what I should do next is buy a bottle of wine on my way up the hill to Dolores Park. I can smell car exhaust and the spices of Thai food and the sweetness of blooming flowers, and I want nothing more than to lose myself in a sea of strangers all having a moment apart in the same place all together.
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About the Author
Michael G. Williams writes wry horror, urban fantasy, and science fiction: stories of monsters, macabre humor, and subverted expectations. He is the author of three series for Falstaff Books: The Withrow Chronicles, including Perishables (2012 Laine Cunningham Award), Tooth & Nail, Deal with the Devil, Attempted Immortality, and Nobody Gets Out Alive; a new series in The Shadow Council Archives featuring one of San Francisco’s most beloved figures, SERVANT/SOVEREIGN; and the science fiction noir A Fall in Autumn. Michael strives to present the humor and humanity at the heart of horror and mystery with stories of outcasts and loners finding their people. He lives in Durham, NC, with his husband, two cats, two dogs, and more and better friends than he probably deserves.
Also by Michael G. Williams
The Withrow Chronicles
Perishables
Tooth & Nail
Deal with the Devil
Attempted Immortality
Nobody Gets Out Alive
Short Stories in the Withrow Universe
“Daddy Used to Drink Too Much” – Wrapped in Red: Thirteen Tales of Vampiric Horror
“His Shrine to Santa Muerte” – Wrapped in White: Thirteen Tales of Spectres, Ghosts, and Spirits
“Stories I Tell to Girls” – Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult
The Valerius Novels
A Fall in Autumn
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Copyright © 2019 by Michael G. Williams
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Through the Doors of Oblivion Page 11