Epitaph (18 page)

When they finished exclaiming over the startling noise of the uncorking and how the champagne fizzed in their mouths, Doc helped them with the menu. (“The French is more ambitious than authentic,” he told them.) Everybody was trying to pretend that things weren't getting worse down at the other end of the restaurant. Curly Bill was wandering around the dining room, his manner offensively friendly as he leaned over tables, asking, “How is that? Any good? Would you recommend that dish?” Ike Clanton was still talking about the elephant he'd seen at a carnival one time.

Ringo had not taken his eyes off Doc Holliday since the coughing fit, but now he turned his head slowly. “Ike,” he said, dead-eyed, “shut up.”

Ike's face went slack. He covered his unease with a nervous laugh, like what Ringo said was a joke. Curly Bill changed the subject by reaching across a table and taking something off a stiff-faced mining executive's plate. “Now
that
is real damn good!” he declared, chewing. “We should have us some of that, Juanito! C'mon, Ike!” he called,
beckoning his companions toward a table near the front window. “Let's get something to eat.”

Conversations around the room resumed, and yet another waiter arrived at the table in the back, bearing little cups filled halfway up with brown water.

“Might be I could worry some of that down,” Allie said, “if it didn't have them little weeds in it.”

“That would be parsley, Miss Alvira,” Doc told her. “It is meant to add color without harmin' the soup very much.”

“They got some nerve callin' this soup,” Bessie said, frowning at the novelty. “Nothin' much in it.”

“
Consommé
is French for ‘broth,'” Doc told her. “It is meant to arouse the appetite without layin' it to rest.”

“It's nice,” Lou said after an experimental taste. “It'd be easy to make, too.”

“I admire your new suit, Doc,” Mattie said. “It's very
becoming
.”

Allie noticed Mattie said that like it was some kind of private little joke between her and Doc. The dentist's eyes warmed up, like Mattie'd done good, but he sounded doubtful about the judgment.

“It is very kind of you to say so, Miss Mattie. I am disappointed in it myself. Martha Anne—she is a very dear cousin of mine, Miss Alvira, back in Georgia—Martha Anne asked me to send my photograph. I thought a double-breasted suit might bulk me up some, but I fear she will receive the picture and think it a portrait of an unusually sturdy ghost.”

“Well,
I
think you look nice,” Mattie said. “Are your headaches better?”

“Infrequent, and not so severe as your own,” Doc said, reaching over to squeeze her hand briefly.

“Morg and I miss having you at the house,” Lou told him.

Allie's ears pricked up at that, for she knew Lou was glad when Doc's head cleared enough for him to move into a boardinghouse nearby.

“Miss Louisa, there is no plumb that could sound the depths of your hospitality, but I expect you two are relieved to have your home to yourselves again.”

“You were no trouble at all,” Lou assured him.

Another lie, Allie noted. I guess
Miss Louisa
ain't so pure as she looks!

“How is your new place, Doc?” Mattie asked.

“Clean, quiet, and entirely suitable to my small needs. Mrs. Fly is a very competent cook who is determined to fatten me up. I wish her well in this endeavor, though I don't imagine she will succeed.”

“I heard she's a photographer, too,” Bessie said. “Not just her husband.”

“A photographer?” Allie cried. “Her own self?”

Doc nodded. “Yes. Mr. Fly travels a good deal and Mrs. Fly does much of the studio work in his absence. She's the one who took my picture.”

The waiters arrived again. Soup cups were removed to make room for the main course.

“The rabbit is real tasty,” Bessie said after a few bites. “How's that lamb, Mattie?”

“Better'n elk. More like venison but not so chewy.”

Allie was staring suspiciously at the fish on Lou's plate, and Lou didn't look much happier.

“Salmon is supposed to be that color,” Doc told them. “‘Try one bite, sugar.' That's what my mamma used to say, Miss Louisa. If you don't like it, we shall send it back and order you something else.”

Lou picked up her fork and carried a little piece of the strange pink fish toward her lips. “Kind of a strong taste,” she admitted, “but I like it enough to keep going.”

“And how are you findin' your corned beef and cabbage, Miss Alvira?”

“Good,” Allie said, then held her tongue.

Doc Holliday was always so polite Allie suspected he was making fun of people, even if she couldn't quite work out how. Sometimes he didn't talk at all, but when he did, he talked a streak, and a lot of it was hard to understand. The other girls knew Doc from when they were all living up in Dodge, but Allie had only met him here in Tombstone after he got hit in the head. The clerk at the sundry store told her about how dangerous Doc was, but when she asked Virg about him, Virg just smiled. “Well, now, Pickle, tales are told that Doc Holliday has murdered men and committed crimes around the country, but when you ask a fella how he knows all that, it's just gossip and hearsay. Wyatt checked into it back in Dodge, but nothing much could be traced up to Doc's account. And Morgan thinks highly of him.” Bessie liked Doc, too, but what caught Allie's interest was the way Mattie brightened up and got sort of shiny when Doc was around.

Of course, all four of the girls were feeling pretty shiny by the time they finished their main courses, for they were working on their second bottle of champagne. Doc himself just sipped at his bourbon whenever his cough got bad. He didn't eat much either—no wonder he was so skinny! But when the waiter asked about dessert, Doc said, “Let's have one of everything for the ladies to try. And I myself would like to see how a California peach stacks up against the Georgia variety.”

“When was you home last, Doc?” Bessie asked, sounding a little wistful.

“Mercy . . . Must be seven years now.” He stared at nothing for a time, then shook the mood off. “You ever consider a trip back to Nashville, Miss Bessie?”

“No kin there. None who'd care to know me, anyways.”

“Yes. And if my family ever finds out what
I
do . . .” Doc left that hanging. “We had an acquaintance from Charleston back before the war—he was from a very good family, but a thing or two happened and his fortunes changed. When it became known that he was reduced to gamblin' for his livin'”—Doc paused to draw his silver case from
that inside pocket and removed another slim black cigar—“no one in society would so much as speak his name. I fear my fate would be the same.”

“What's wrong with gambling?” Allie asked. “Everybody gambles!”

“It's not gamblin'
per se
that is objectionable, Miss Alvira. It's professional gamblin'. I do for a livin' what respectable folks do for recreation.”

“Like a whore,” Bessie said. “Most women do it. Some of us get paid, is all.”

Doc had barely puffed on the little cigar to get the burn started before the smoke set off a nasty coughing fit. Allie herself didn't mind a pipe of tobacco now and then, but she reckoned she'd have the sense to give it up if smoking made her cough herself blue that way.

“Should I get you another?” Mattie asked, glancing at Doc's empty glass.

Still coughing, Doc nodded, handkerchief over his mouth. Mattie turned toward the bar, holding up Doc's empty and waggling it at the bartender.

Once again, folks in the restaurant were starting to go quiet. Allie reckoned that was because of the disgusting, croupy noise of Doc's cough. You could tell he was sorry for making this ugly racket, for he'd turned away from the table to face the wall, but when the violinist stopped playing in the middle of a tune, Allie looked behind her and saw why.

At the other end of the long room, Johnny Ringo was on his feet and headed toward the table in the back.

He was handsome, almost. Tall, slim. Boyish features. Mussed-up red-brown hair. But he was really drunk now. Mumbling to himself. “Lunger. Pathetic lunger. Die and be done with it, why don't you?”

Halfway along, he staggered against a table. The gentlemen sitting there moved quickly to catch their glasses before their drinks spilled. A few steps later, he almost banged into the waiter who was bringing
Doc another bourbon. The waiter hesitated, but Ringo didn't. He just snatched that heavy crystal glass right off the silver tray and carried it himself to the table at the back of the room.

“Come out here for the dry air, did you?” he asked Doc.

Handkerchief still over his mouth, John Henry Holliday turned.

“Won't help,” Ringo told him. “Sunshine won't help. Rest won't help. This won't help.” Ringo lifted the glass high. “Nothing's gonna help you, lunger.” He drained the bourbon in three long swallows before tossing the glass at the wall. “Nothing's gonna help you. Nothing but a gun. Pain'll get so bad, you'll want to die. It'll get worse, and worse, and worse, until you blow your own head off. Bony old skull, making everyone remember death. Walking
momento mori
, that's all you are.”

“It's
memento
, not
momento
,” Doc murmured, “but I suppose the metaphor is apt.”

Ringo didn't even pause. “Every day is
el Día de los Muertos
when a lunger's around! Why don't you just put a gun to your head? Pull the trigger, and the pain'll end—just like that!” Ringo said, snapping his fingers, his voice rising now. “Why don't you just be
done
with it? Too scared? Too scared to do it yourself? I'll put you out of your misery, lunger. Say the word. I'll shoot you, and it'll be over—just like
that.
”

“Careful, Juanito,” Curly Bill called, making his voice jolly. He was on his way to the back of the room, with Ike Clanton trailing him. “That's Doc Holliday.”

“Yeah, Johnny, that's Doc Holliday,” Ike repeated, smiling uncertainly.

“Doc Holliday?” Ringo's dead eyes glittered. “Well, now . . . I've heard of you, Holliday! I'm Johnny Ringo. You heard of me, Holliday?”

“I cannot say that I have had that pleasure, sir, though I must confess that I was not listenin' attentively.”

“Well, I've heard of you.”

“So you mentioned.” The coughing had stopped. Laying his handkerchief on the table beside his plate, Doc sat back in his chair. Allowing the drape of his coat to slip back. Letting a brace of pistols become visible.

“Oooh, now, lookit
them!
” Curly Bill said, with fun in his voice. “I heard Doc Holliday's
real
fast, Juanito! I heard he dropped Mike Gordon over in New Mexico! Single shot, straight through the heart!”

“Yeah?” Johnny said, eyes still on Doc's. “Well, I heard he emptied a gun in the Oriental and only hit a bartender in the toe.”

“In the toe!” Ike Clanton repeated, cackling.

Ignoring Bill and Ike, John Henry Holliday kept his eye on Ringo. “I have no quarrel with you, sir, but if you insist on makin' one,” he said, his voice mild and musical, “let us choose a time and place when there are no ladies present to have their evenin' spoiled by a boorish, drunken, belligerent cracker.”

“Ladies?”
Ringo sneered. “I don't see no—”

In an instant, Doc was on his feet, cane in hand, ready to beat the man to the ground. Mattie half-stood, crying, “Doc! No!”

That was when Fred White arrived, alerted by the restaurant staff to an impending fracas. He and Curly Bill shouldered in between Holliday and Ringo, pushing the pair apart, staying between them until it was clear that the two didn't propose to make a shooting matter out of it.

“Don't mind Ringo, Marshal,” Curly Bill said with good-natured smile. “He's just drunk. No harm done, right?”

“Dammit, Bill, you told me you'd keep him out of Tombstone!”

Curly Bill's smile was rueful now. “I do my best, Marshal. I truly do.” He clapped Ringo on the shoulder and said, “C'mon, Juanito! Time to go.”

“Yeah,” Ike said. “Time to go, Juanito!”

Looking vaguely in Ike's direction, Ringo seemed to lose his train of thought. Then, without warning, he buried his fist in Ike's belly, doubling the man over.

There were small cries of surprise and dismay around the room. Ike dropped to his knees, windless and bug-eyed.

“Ike,” Ringo said as he moved toward the door, “if you had half a brain, you'd be twice as smart.”

Arms over his chest, Fred White stayed where he was, blocking Holliday's way. Curly Bill—smiling and murmuring encouragement—got Ike to his feet and steered him out of the restaurant.

When all three of the Cow Boys had left the building, Fred called out, “It's over, folks. Enjoy your meals.”

The fiddler began a sprightly tune. Conversation began to buzz.

Fred took a step back from Doc Holliday so he could study the man. The Earp brothers all vouched for Holliday. They claimed the dentist never started anything. He was trembling after that little dust-up, and Ringo was always looking for a fight, so could be Holliday hadn't started the trouble, but some men just seemed to draw it, like shit draws flies.

“It's over,” Fred said. “Right, Doc?”

“Never started, Marshal,” Holliday replied softly.

“Well, see that it don't,” Fred said.

The marshal left, but Doc remained on his feet until Mattie put a hand on his arm. Blinking rapidly, he didn't seem to recognize her for a few moments. He came to himself at last and sat down, using his arms to control the drop into his chair. “My apologies for the unpleasantness, ladies.”

“Wasn't your fault,” Mattie said firmly.