Her material was fair but her delivery was slaying them. Even if the audience was mostly at least a little high, she was good, Wyatt thought. Even better than in the movies, though she sat a horse every bit as well as she did that stool.
“You know, when I started out in pictures, four or five years ago,” she said, “they called me the female William S. Hart. Picture ol’ Bill in a dress and lipstick, and you’ll see that wasn’t any compliment!”
This went on for a while and Wyatt noticed her, almost imperceptibly, spot him at the ringside table. A small real smile flickered in the midst of the big fake one, but she did not miss a beat of her comedy routine, nor did she embarrass him by introducing him from the audience.
Which she could easily have done.
Right now she was pointing to audience members, saying, “Hello, Corrie!…Hello, Jimmy.…Is that you, Charlie? Why, Charlie, I spotted an old flame of yours on the other side of the room.…Well, Diana! I thought Rafael was my hunk of manhood!…Say, Harry, where’s your wife? You do still love her?…I’m so glad to hear it.…”
Perched on the stool, she sang a couple of songs to piano accompaniment, needing no megaphone to be heard, delivering numbers with more gusto than skill, jazzy tunes like “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey” and “When My Baby Smiles at Me.”
Finally she stepped off the seat and the band came in as she sang a loud, brassy “Swanee,” doing a broad, funny imitation of Al Jolson, after which the boys went into “Pony Boy” again and she flounced offstage, waving her jeweled Stetson. When she returned to much applause, three girls came from either wing to “ride” onstage and join her and add words to the song, and at least one of the half dozen was off-pitch, not that it mattered.
They were beauties in white-and-black-spotted cowhide-pattern bra and panties and high heels, kicking lovely showgirl legs and doing little dances, sometimes with their perky backsides to the audience. One of the girls, a petite Kewpie-doll brunette, was half a step behind, but that didn’t seem to matter, either.
“Po-ny Boy, Po-ny Boy,” they sang, “won’t you be my To-ny Boy? Don’t say no, Here we go, Off a-cross the plains.…”
It wasn’t exactly good, but it was fun, and certainly gave the old pecker something to work on, and Wyatt found himself clapping in rhythm with the rest of the audience and, finally, even singing along.
“Gid-dy up, gidy-up, gid-dy up, whoa! My Pony Boy!”
Then Texas Guinan strutted back onto the stage and gestured to the little chorus line, saying, “Let’s give the little girls a great big hand! What do you say? Come on now! Ladies, take a bow!”
One big hand after another was willingly delivered by the audience, as the revue went on for another good half hour, growing increasingly silly but making the audience a part of the show in a manner that was irresistible, particularly to those drinking heavily…which was just about everybody but Wyatt and Bat.
About midway, Texas went out among the crowd and passed out noisemakers, as if tonight were New Year’s Eve (Wyatt had a hunch every night was New Year’s Eve at Holliday’s). She sang a few more numbers, with the dancers backing her up (no harmony, unison seeming challenge enough), then circulated around, talking, talking to customers, particularly ringside—though she had the sense to steer clear of Wyatt—and made cheerful fun of them.
Bald men ringside were practically guaranteed a kiss on the blushing noggin, with a Tex lipstick print left behind, and when they weren’t bald, they got their hair ruffled. When a self-professed dairy farmer from Des Moines handed out fifty-dollar bills to each of the six chorines, Texas cheered him with, “Well, what do you say, folks? Give the big butter-and-egg man some love and affection!”
They did, mostly by working those noisemakers.
Wyatt found it interesting, even impressive, that Texas maintained control even as the show appeared to be careening into chaos, in particular an invitation for audience talent to perform that resulted in a birdcall specialist, an Eddie Cantor imitation (“Margie,” to balance out her Jolson) and a song from an amateur composer who was no competition to Irving Berlin.
After the “Pony Boy” finale reprise, the chorines came out to wild applause and sang as an encore a song about cherries that Wyatt wasn’t familiar with, though the audience clearly was, chiming in the chorus—“Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!” Then one of the girls produced a basket of cherries and went out into the crowd and fed them to damned near every male in the audience. Wyatt included.
Bat sucked on a stem and commented, “I’m a mite surprised these girls have any cherries left to give away.…”
After Texas flounced off in a flash of pearls and jewelry, and the girls trotted off to the wings waving and blowing kisses, Wyatt turned to Bat and said, “If they’d tried that at the Bird Cage back at Tombstone, what would have happened?”
Bat chuckled. “An impromptu dramatization of ‘Rape of the Sabine Women,’ maybe?”
“At least,” Wyatt agreed.
“Times change.”
“They do. But people don’t.”
Texas Guinan, however, did change—her clothes, anyway, trading in her spangly gown for a tasteful rose-colored dress with cream lace collar and only a single string of pearls to suggest her former persona. She slipped from the wings to the ringside table, and though some audience members spotted her, they were not rude or drunk enough to bother her, since she was clearly joining friends for a chat.
Tex seated herself next to Wyatt—he and Bat were using half of the four chairs provided with a table barely big enough for two—and clasped his right hand with both of hers. She squeezed. The warmth gave him a tingle.
“It’s been a while,” she said.
“Good five years,” Wyatt said.
“Nice to see you, too, Tex,” Bat said.
“Why should I talk to you?” she said to Bat without looking at him. “You almost never mention me in your column.”
“Tex, I mostly write about the fights.”
“Shoulda seen the one we had in here last night.” Her eyes, big and brown, remained on Wyatt. “I shoulda known you’d show, one of these days. Even if Manhattan isn’t exactly your territory.”
“Well, Tex…”
She waved a hand with a pearl ring on a finger. “I didn’t mean you’d come looking for me.” Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You musta heard about Johnny. You musta wanted to find out if this young apple really did fall off your old doctor pal’s tree.”
Bat smiled as he lighted up a Lucky.
“Tex,” Wyatt said, withdrawing his hand but patting hers, “you have a real way with a crowd.”
Her eyebrows went up and her eyes widened. “Yeah, well my days on the silver screen are pretty much over. Times and tastes have shifted, and I don’t seem to be getting any younger…so, what the hell, I shifted, too.…You know, Johnny himself found me.”
“Didn’t know you were lost.”
Her laugh was even lower and throatier than her speaking voice. “Well, I was taking in this new restaurant…” She flicked a glance at Bat. “The Gold Room. You know it, don’t you, W.B.?”
Bat nodded. “I was there that night, Tex. Remember?”
“Vaguely.…Anyway, it was opening night and Sig Romberg got up out of the audience to play the piano, and I was about two sheets to the wind, and got up and got to singing, and then I started dragging celebrities up outa their seats…to sing a tune or two? Gold Room was supposed to close at one a.m. but we were still going strong at five-thirty.”
Bat said to Wyatt, “Johnny was in the audience, impressed by what he saw, and the rest is history, or soon will be.”
With a gesture toward the stage, Tex said, “I’ve been up to this nonsense for over a month now. And the word has spread… kinda like the prickly heat.”
Wyatt laughed a little; she seemed to want him to.
Her eyes narrowed. “And how’s Sadie?”
“Good. Fine. Wonderful.”
Texas smiled, upper lip c
urling, and turned to Bat. “Whenever he says three words, when one’s sufficient? Gives me pause.”
With a little too much edge, Wyatt said, “Things are fine.”
Texas seemed mildly hurt, but she still managed another smile. “I’m not lookin’ to cause trouble, Marshal. I always say, a man who will cheat on his wife will cheat at cards. And you never cheat, right, Wyatt? At cards?”
Wyatt had been known to rig a game for a fool, so he knew damned well she was needling him. But Texas knew damned well their fling out in Hollywood had been during one of those occasional times when he and Sadie had been on the outs. During such rocky patches, he had been known to seek solace.
Calling it “cheating” was ungracious.
Seeing him bristle, she patted his hand. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, you goddamned rascal.…If Johnny was coming down tonight, he’d have done it by now. Why don’t you let me take you upstairs to meet the boss?”
“Why don’t you?” Wyatt said.
And the three went upstairs.
SIX
The stairway onto the main floor emptied out from under another stairway into a fairly generous hallway. To the right was the cage of a small elevator (marked employees only) next to a recessed rear doorway similarly marked, from which came the clatter and clamor of a kitchen.
Texas and Bat led Wyatt left, past several closed doors at right labeled private and past the wide, velvet-roped-off staircase at left. Just beyond that, a double-doorless doorway opened onto a dining room about a third the space of the nightclub floor below.
The dining room was a simple affair, a dozen brown-and-white-checkered cloth-covered tables (though larger than the nightclub’s) in what had obviously been the dining room of the brownstone in its years as a residence. Tellingly, the walls bore a faded floral wallpaper that had nothing to do with the occasional framed Western-landscape prints, and the atmosphere was limited to waiters whose mustaches, slicked-back hair, aprons, white shirts with string ties and black trousers matched the uniform of the bartenders below.
Well-dressed patrons (strictly couples) filled only half of the tables, though the pleasing aroma of the steaks and stews and hamburger sandwiches floated invitingly into the hall. Someday, when Wyatt felt the need to eat again, this would be a possibility.
Bat, at Wyatt’s elbow, said, “Restaurant’s really just a courtesy to the club patrons. But decent grub.”
Wyatt eyed his friend. “If you’d like to inhale a T-bone or two, be my guest.”
Bat twitched a smile. “Let’s get you and Johnny together. That’s a meeting long overdue.”
“Is he expecting me?”
“No.” Bat pointed a finger. “Though…I expect Tex is announcing you about now.…”
Wyatt wheeled toward where Bat was indicating. At the middle of the three doors that interrupted the wall of woodwork and pale-blue brocade wallpaper with faded patches where pictures once hung (more ghosts of the residence), Texas was leaning in.
Momentarily a figure brushed past Tex so quickly that the formidable woman got damned near bowled over—not that she seemed to mind, her wide mouth turning up in a one-sided smile that threatened to drive her cheek into her ear.
The figure was male, hurriedly putting on and straightening a gray suitcoat over a pastel yellow shirt and snugging a darker yellow necktie that bore a jeweled stickpin, a diamond possibly. His trousers were black and perfectly creased, and the combination of gray coat and black trousers gave Wyatt his first jolt.
When the young man—not that young, early thirties, but young enough—planted himself before Wyatt and smiled shyly, in an almost childlike manner, and extended a hand…
…Wyatt felt as woozy as a cowpoke at the Long Branch who’d had much too good a time.
“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” the young man said, “but I have so looked forward to this moment.”
The boy (and Wyatt could only think of him that way) stood near Earp’s own six-foot-something. His hair was sandy, his eyes large and dark blue and as piercing as a blade. His cheekbones were as high and sharp as an Apache’s, his jaw line broad and strong. Clean-shaven, he even had that familiar paleness of flesh given to a father afflicted with tuberculosis; but his was the indoor pallor of the gambler, not the lunger.
And, my God, but his clothes were immaculate—finely tailored, worthy of Savile Row. Hell, maybe he’d gone over to London for these threads, and that crisp yellow shirt. Had the boy researched his father, or had that penchant for pastel been born into him?
Dr. John Holliday, Doctor of Dental Surgery, stood before him, as if Christ had come while Wyatt wasn’t looking and resurrected the reprobate’s sorry ass.
Only Doc had never looked this healthy. At this age, Doc had had but a few years to live, and would have weighed in at maybe one hundred and twenty pounds. This lad was a sturdy one seventy, and the weight and general air of good health was the only indication that this apparition was real, and the son, not the father.
That, and the lack of a handlebar mustache; Wyatt had never seen Doc sans ’stache.
Johnny Holliday’s hand lingered in the air and his smile had just begun to fade when Wyatt finally grasped the hand in a firm, warm shake.
“My apologies,” Wyatt said. “I thought I’d seen a ghost.”
This seemed to please Johnny, who grinned at Tex (at his side) and then Bat (at Wyatt’s).
“Mr. Masterson told me I was a ringer for my pop,” Johnny said. His voice was Doc’s, too, a mellow second tenor, but minus the Southern drawl. “And I’ve seen a few pictures of him, thanks to my mother. But this is the first time I’ve garnered this reaction.”
Wyatt sighed, smiled just a little. “I’ve had two good friends in my life, Mr. Holliday. This so-called reporter standing next to me, and your late father. Seeing the image of him, standing before me, well, it gives an old man pause.”
The boy beamed. “I’d be honored if you called me ‘Johnny,’ which my friends do.”
“The honor’s mine, Johnny. And my name’s Wyatt.”
“Yes, I, uh…am familiar with you and your name, sir. And I hope, at some point in the not-too-distant future, you might sit down with me, and tell me about my father.”
“He was the bravest man I ever knew,” Wyatt said. “Or perhaps the most reckless. That’s really the whole storehouse.”
Johnny, whose eyes shone, said, “We’ll see…Wyatt.”
“And,” Wyatt said, with a thumb at Bat, “don’t honor this journalist by calling him ‘Mister.’ His name is Bartholomew, if you’re wondering.”
“Reeeeally,” Johnny said, amused and surprised. “Here I thought it was ‘William’—”
“ ‘Bat’ is fine, son,” Bat said, his smile touched with irritation.
Tex took Johnny by the arm, affectionately. “I think this is about to become a clubhouse where no girls are allowed…and, anyway, I have to go upstairs and start getting ready for the next show.”
Johnny nodded and patted the hand on his arm. “How’s the house?”
“Packed.”
“Problems?”
“No. No sign of your…new friends.”
He nodded. “Louie’s supposed to keep them out, but those fellas have their ways.”
Wyatt and Bat exchanged glances, but said nothing.
With a little-girl wave, Tex hip-swayed back toward the elevator. The view was nice enough, but Wyatt thought she was trying a little too hard.
Johnny’s eyes went to Wyatt’s. He gestured toward the dining room. “Care for anything, gentlemen? We keep the kitchen open all night.”
“Bartholomew might want to eat a rump roast or maybe a kettle of stew. But I’m not inclined, thank you.”
Bat waved that off. “Son, I took him to Rector’s, top of the evening, then later to Jack Dunstan’s. He’s still in shock from seeing how people of means satisfy the need for sustenance.”
Wyatt jerked a thumb at his friend. “Does he talk to you like that, Johnny, a
ll the time? This writerly nonsense?”
Johnny held up his hands, as if in surrender to a stagecoach robber. “I abstain.”
Bat said to Wyatt, “You weren’t complaining when I wrote that piece on you.”
A magazine article on Wyatt’s lawman days, written by Bat and somewhat true, had indeed sparked the Hollywood interest of Bill Hart, Tom Mix and others. But Bat didn’t need to know that.
“After all of the lies the newshounds told about us,” Wyatt said to Bat, good-naturedly riding him, “the very thought that you could join the enemy camp—”
“Why don’t you join the twentieth century, Wyatt,” Bat said with snap in his words. “I traded in my sixgun for a typewriter… and words are weapons, too.”
“They surely are,” Wyatt admitted. “They’ve killed my reputation often enough.”
Johnny stepped forward and put one hand on Wyatt’s shoulder and the other on Bat’s. “Why don’t we repair to my office, have some brandy, and if you fellas want to wrestle, why, I’ll just referee.”
They laughed and followed him.
The office was the library of the former residence, a spacious chamber of dark wood and walls that were mostly bookshelves with volumes that included medical tomes as well as the complete leather-bound works of Shakespeare and Dickens, and well-read popular editions of Bret Harte, Jack London, Rex Beach and Mark Twain.
Several framed maps, old ones of Arizona and Texas and regional Western maps, took up much of the available wall space, as did an oil painting that Wyatt at first thought was of Johnny himself, but on closer examination proved to be of the boy’s father, a romanticized version of a widely published photograph.
Soon Wyatt was sitting in a most comfortable red leather chair across from his host, and Bat next to him in a yellow leather version (matching a three-cushioned couch against the right wall), both men having been provided generous snifters of brandy. The flavor of the dark liquid was matched by the pleasant warmth it brought to the belly.
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