The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday

by David Corbett

  I was gambling in the Flats outside Fort Griffin when a colored soldier, finding himself at the wrong end of a large pot, rose to his feet, accused me of various sins, some involving the mistreatment of mothers and barnyard animals, then reached for his weapon.

  I proved not just luckier at cards but quicker at locating my pistol.

  I did not know at the time that the cavalryman was absent without authority, nor did I realize his wound was fatal.

  What I did know was that the fort’s commanding officer was a protégé of a colonel named Pratt, one of those insufferably preachy Yanks of the do-gooder ilk, flaunting his Negro cavalry regiment and Tonkawa scouts like he was Moses and they were his dutiful Hebrews.

  Accordingly, I had little faith the wheels of justice would roll my way. And so I decided it would be best to head out of town as efficiently as possible—with my winnings, naturally.

  I packed my belongings and headed for Denver, having heard it was a wide-open town, taking a wildly circuitous route via train with the hope of throwing off any pursuers.

  I took up my new name and made myself as inconspicuous as possible. Or tried to. As I said, this region attracts a particularly thick and volatile breed of creature.

  For example, a man named Bud Ryan.

  He fashions himself a gambler, but whatever skills he might possess seem to vanish whenever he sits across the table from me. The dullard could hardly hand up his money more readily if he simply let me grab him by the ankles, suspend him upside down, and shake until the coins come tumbling from his pockets.

  Naturally, this has led to some rancor between us.

  Nothing galls rough, stupid men so much as encountering a man of even modest intellect who, with seemingly little effort or concern, drags them to the woodshed—and leaves with their money.

  I cannot prove any of what I am about to suggest, but I consider it possible, even likely, given the temperaments of the men in question.

  Ryan has a few influential friends here, men wealthier if not wiser than he is. As I mentioned, I tend to keep to myself. This makes me an easy target for rumormongers.

  I suspect Ryan, putting his finger to the wind and plucking from it whatever gossip served his purpose, especially anything sordid wafting from Texas, convinced some of his well-heeled acquaintances that I am a cold-blooded killer and should be held to account.

  Inspired by this nonsense, I believe these men, on Ryan’s behalf or at least at his behest, employed the Pinkerton agency to follow up.

  Again, as I noted, I have no proof whatsoever this is true. Just an instinct. But I sense in Ryan’s recent taunts, which increasingly refer to some reckoning he believes is coming my way, that the acrimony between us will shortly come to a head.

  Meaning, perhaps, I may be leaving Denver sooner than originally planned—which allows me, at last, to turn away from the dreary business I have been describing and instead address other matters brought up in your letter.

  Regarding family: I have reached out to Aunt Annaleeza in Kansas and have made preliminary plans to join her and her family for Christmas. I thought you would be heartened to know that.

  Unfortunately, those are possibly the only cheery words I can offer on the subject of family.

  Specifically, regarding my father and the issue of forgiveness—I am sure the good Major has prospered, as his nature always inclined him to frugality, industry, and hard-headed pragmatism.

  But memory afflicts me with too many recollections of stern indifference and icy distance to make the prospect of his actual presence before me seem anything but a horrible mistake.

  Not that he was cruel, per se. For the most part, I simply remained invisible to him, except as a target for reprimand.

  Worse, Mother shared in my invisibility, especially once her sickness grew irreversible. I almost wondered if my incapacity to be seen by that man became a kind of contagion, passed on to her, for he could not avoid her sickbed enough during those hard last months.

  You know the truth of what I’m saying, for you too witnessed my father’s utter absence, which cannot be justified with the usual prattle of how the women were perfectly competent bedside, whereas he needed to make sure the family got sheltered and fed.

  How quickly we learned the lie to that, for his vanishings could not be explained by the manly business of money alone. A mere three months after Mother’s passing, and the Martin woman appears, barely seven years older than I. Father had been sneaking to her odious father’s property just down the road to court the girl outside the eye of town and family.

  That girl-woman became my “stepmother,” a term handed down since the dawn of time in legend and myth as a cognate for witch.

  No, if you want forgiveness for all that, turn to your Roman God, not me. I shall remain invisible, the better to render myself an easy object of sanctimony and scorn.

  Forgive me. I hate to end on such a bitter note, but such lately is my turn of mind.

  And no, you should not feel responsible for that, or suffer over the state of my life or my soul. Each night before sleep comes, I think of you, picture you in my mind, wish for your presence here. Please understand, I cannot return to Georgia. I have lost any sense of home there. Except in you.

  I will stop now. Nothing I write feels worth reading. But I owed you a response to your lovely letter. I re-read it often, and thank you for it.

  Your devoted,

  John Henry

  CHAPTER 19

  Fully dressed—including, at last, her blouse and undergarments—and tottering in her heels from a mere half hour of sleep, Lisa quietly gathered the documents she intended to file at the District Courthouse downtown, shouldered her purse and valise, gathered the keys to her rental car, and tiptoed toward the door.

  “Not even a simple ‘goodbye’?”

  Tuck rolled onto his side in the rumpled bed, squinting as he propped himself up on one elbow. Morning sunlight flared at the curtain edges.

  “I’ll brush my teeth quick,” he added, “if that’s the problem.”

  No, Lisa thought. That’s not the problem. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Too late.” He pulled back the sheet and sat up with a yawn, checking his watch. “Courthouse won’t open for another hour.”

  “Giving myself time to get lost. And find coffee.” She made herself smile. “Plus I want to be the first one through the door.”

  “Hard charger.” He rose and limped toward her, naked. “That’s my girl.”

  He leaned down and kissed the top of her head like a chaste uncle, then lifted her chin for a bristly peck on the cheek. Stepping back to meet her eyes, he let his gaze linger. What Lisa found there was strength, fondness, so much so she felt ashamed, and for an instant she imagined dropping all she was carrying, shrugging off her purse and briefcase, kicking off her shoes, dragging him back to bed. Wouldn’t it be perfect, she thought, if life allowed for such a thing?

  Suddenly he spun her toward the door, slapped her rump hard. Giddy-up. “Go show those weasels who they’re up against.”

  ***

  Wanting to check in with Rayella, make sure she hadn’t changed her mind about coming to court, Lisa raised her hand against the harsh morning light, the sun having crested the Santa Catalinas to the east, and pressed her ear to the door of the girl’s room.

  She caught a chattering murmur. “…westerly winds reaching thirty miles per—”

  A gentle knock, hopefully loud enough to counter the radio. “Rayella? It’s me.”

  A moment’s wait, a peek from the edge of the curtain. Then the deadbolt slid free, the door cracked open. A slight wave of soap-scented warmth—dressed in the complimentary robe, Rayella stood beyond the tightened chain, toweling her hair, fresh from the shower. Her skin glowed with a sensual bloom, not just from a good hot scrub.

  Right, Lisa thought. She said her boyfriend was coming. Was he already here? “I’m sorry, I just wanted to make double sure you didn’t want to come to court.”
>
  Rayella stopped chafing her head with the towel and peered through the door crack like Lisa, her lawyer, might want a tip. “No.”

  From the foothills nearby, a waking band of coyotes barked hungrily. In the parking lot, a pickup’s engine growled and sputtered then caught.

  “Okay then.” Lisa had to stop herself from saying, Have fun. “I’ll check in with you later.”

  ***

  Sprinklers hissed along the landscaped footpath, misting the poppy and pasque flower beds. In the lobby, morning sunlight flared through the window blinds, striating the rough-hewn wood and vibrant Mexican tile. Maybe, she thought, the day would have its grace notes.

  Then she spotted the four strange men gathered at the desk—muscled like fighters but dressed casually, jeans and cargo pants and sports shirts, except for the footwear: boots, military-grade from the look of them, desert tan.

  “Yessir,” one of them said in a clipped and courteous drawl, a sandy-haired specimen with the wingspan of a power forward, arms spread out to either side as he leaned over the desk. “Vargas. Rayella Vargas. She’s registered here as a guest.”

  The boyfriend, Lisa guessed. He wasn’t up in Rayella’s room after all. But why three others?

  She ventured over, an edgy flutter in her chest.

  “Hi.” She held out her hand, offering a cordial smile. “I’m Lisa Balamaro, Rayella’s lawyer. Can I help in some way?”

  All four heads turned slowly toward her, like turrets on a dreadnought. Every single pair of eyes seemed prematurely old, emitting a charge of tamped-down horror.

  The one who’d spoken had a kind of rough-hewn handsome strength, reminding her of a phrase Nico sometimes used—born outdoors, raised by strangers. But the face bore pronounced scarring on one side, a hand-sized blotch of red-rough skin, like an asphalt skid that had never quite healed. Except worse. Way worse. She doubted she’d ever again give her own scar a second thought.

  The one behind him to the left looked Black Irish: rangy but athletically built and tall, with heavy-lidded eyes—which, despite the veiling, shone pure blue—plus that defining blend of creamy white skin and raven-black hair.

  Behind to the right was a short, compact blond, freckles so red they resembled blood blisters. He had a prominent overbite that gave his face a horsey cast, except the soulless intensity of his eyes made him seem more like a feral Huck Finn.

  Fourth and final was perhaps the largest, tallest African American she had ever seen up close, and that included LeBron, whom she’d met courtside once at a Warriors game. He seemed possessed of a quiet calm that conveyed not gentleness or serenity but a laser focus. His shaved head glistened, and his crossed arms bulged.

  The one with the scarred face stepped forward and took Lisa’s hand. “Ma’am,” he said, aging her instantly. “I’m Connor. Connor Trapnell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Before she could muster a response, a voice from behind said, “Rags?”

  Not Rayella. Tuck.

  The sound of his voice, the sight of him approaching from the doorway—they unsettled her in a way she couldn’t quite place.

  He came forward with a cautious smile—not for her—free hand out, the other gripping his cane, tapping its way across the sandstone pavers.

  “I’m Tuck Mercer, the man Rayella’s grandma hired to handle the letters. She mentioned you might be coming—Rayella, I mean, when I caught up with her by phone last night. Her grandma mentioned you too back when. Nice to put a face to the name.”

  An awkward handshake segued into a round of further introductions, conducted by the boyfriend, Connor, aka Rags.

  The tall, blue-eyed lady-killer was Cody Brandt, nicknamed Chalky, or Chalkers. Huck Finn bore the wildly improbable name of Wander DeJesus—Rags rhymed it with “Hey, Zeus.” Regardless, no nickname required. The shiny-domed giant was Cardale Shipman.

  “But we call him BBK.” This from the bucktooth blond, Wander.

  A momentary, general, quizzical silence. In the background, the desk clerk stood at his post, smiling like a gargoyle.

  “Black Buddha Killer,” Wander explained. “Meanest Marine in Marja.”

  The man himself said nothing, just collected Lisa’s hand, squeezed it vacantly.

  Pushing back her jacket cuff to check her watch: “I need to get to court.” She shook her sleeve back down, turned for the door. Stopped.

  “By the way.” She circled back to face the men. “I’m not saying this out of some prissy lawyerly squeamishness, okay? But I was expecting a boyfriend, not a security detail. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to meet you, all of you, and I’m happy you’re here. But I also know there might be some temptation, given what took place…”

  She scanned the newcomers’ faces, met their empty eyes.

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t. It won’t help. Quite the opposite, it’ll make things worse, much worse.” She adjusted the shoulder strap of her valise. “Trust me, we’re going to get those letters back and fast, then punish the men who took them.”

  Said like she meant it, not just hoped.

  Nothing at first, just the same unavailing stares.

  Then Rags, the boyfriend, said, “No worries on that front, ma’am. We’re good. Just safety in numbers, is all. More the merrier when it comes to moral support.”

  Tuck told the desk clerk, “It’s all right,” then turned to the four marines. “I’ll take you on up. Room’s this way.” He pointed with the walking stick, his gift from Lisa, then offered her a parting wink, as though to say: I’ve got this handled, all good.

  But it isn’t, she thought, that’s the problem. And his confidence, his uncanny knack for showing up at just the right moment and knowing so much. But not quite everything. Not quite enough.

  ***

  Rayella sensed his presence nearby even before he knocked, as though attuned to some subsonic vibration only he emitted. Just to be certain, she peeked out from behind the curtain, saw his handsome, half-ruined face with its sad-strong eyes, the bad-ass shoulders, the lanky boot-camp build. Behind him, down the walkway, three others and Tuck slipped into the next room down. Lisa the lawyer’s room.

  A combination of joy and panic turned her fingers into twigs as she fumbled with the deadbolt. Once the door cracked open, she threw it back, diving headlong into his arms then pressing herself so tight against his chest she feared for a moment neither of them would be able to breathe. But that would be fine. That would be wonderful.

  Dragging him inside, she wiped at the tears streaming down her face. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”

  “It’s okay.” He wrapped her up again as the door clicked shut, pressing his cheek against her unruly hair.

  Into his shirt, she whispered, “I missed you so much.”

  “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”

  “I can’t tell you how scared I’ve been.” Wiping at her face once more, using the inside of her wrist, the back of her hand, sniffling. “I’m sorry, I know it’s wrong, it’s stupid, but I hate them so much—”

  “You’re not the one should be sorry,” he said, rocking her gently back and forth. “Shush now. I’m here, it’s all good, okay?”

  She began to sob softly into his chest, trembling as he stroked her back and cooed reassurance.

  “Know what’s awful?” She pulled herself back from the closeness of his hold. “Yeah, I want the letters back, want them now, this minute. But that’s not enough. I want those bastards to pay. Pay hard. To the point they beg for it to stop.” Looking up into the brutal damaged miracle of his face, she whispered, “Does that make me a horrible person?”

  CHAPTER 20

  The parking garage for the courthouse was a low, two-storied, concrete bunker with slatted walls, through which jagged spears of sunlight offered the only relief from the dreary atmospherics. Great place to get kidnapped, Lisa thought as she pulled up to the ticket booth. Or killed.

  A tiny Navajo woman wrapped in a fringed poncho too
k her money, handed back her change and a day pass to place on the dash, then returned to her folding chair to resume her knitting, surrounded by tottering stacks of dog-eared magazines.

  The courthouse itself resembled a two-tone monument to architectural indifference, as though the government had hoped for something majestic, then settled for a postmodern fortress.

  A dozen lawyers waited outside, gazing fixedly or jabbering like mad into phones as they stood around or milled back and forth beneath the high glass archway leading to the entrance. Lisa dreamed of her next jolt of coffee, picturing buckets of it—no, no, a caffeine shower, pelting her face, her shoulders, her breasts, and a beautiful shirtless man (Tuck perhaps, maybe not) waiting with a fluffy, immaculate towel…

  Finally, at eight sharp, the marshals—blue blazers, white shirts, dark ties, gray faces—unlocked the doors, and Lisa headed the scrum toward security.

  Echoes bounced forever off the smooth granite walls and the high glass-paneled ceiling as she surrendered her documents, purse, valise, and phone, passed through the scanner, then snatched her things off the conveyor belt and dashed straight across the shiny earth-tone tiles for the clerk’s office.

  Standing in the narrow vestibule, Lisa passed her documents and filing fee through a chrome slot in the bulletproof partition.

  The clerk, a pretty and ample Latina wearing a turquoise blouse, read the caption on Lisa’s complaint and stopped cold. A brief glance up, as though for a mental snapshot, followed by a wary smile, then back to work.

  Lisa almost said something but, not wanting to interrupt the process, kept mum.

  She’d named as defendant not just Littmann, a regional icon, but also Rankin, Giordano, the Whetstone Inn, plus the proprietor, who turned out to be named Phineas Honnicutt. And admittedly, the caption, worked out with Nico over the phone, was eye-catching: