Further Adventures of James Butler Hickok (9781101601853) (11 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

Clint came down to breakfast the next day, wishing he were meeting Carla Mercer and not the writer, Silvester.

As he entered the dining room, he saw Silvester sitting at the same table as the day before. Good for him, Clint thought.

He walked over and sat across from the young man.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“You look tired.”

“I'm not sleeping real well,” Silvester said. “Otherwise I'm fine.”

“If you say so.”

The waiter came over and they ordered the same thing they'd had the day before. Clint poured himself a cup of coffee, then poured one for the kid. He had no way of knowing that Silvester hadn't been able to sleep because of his squeaking mattress.

Silvester took out his notebooks and sorted through them, found the one he wanted, and put the others away. He sipped some coffee, then looked at Clint.

“What do you want to talk about today?” the writer asked.

“I gave that a lot of thought,” Clint said. “How about New York?”

“New York?” Silvester said. “That's where I'm from.”

“I understand that.”

“No matter how many times you've been there,” the writer said, “there's nothing you could tell me that I don't know.”

“I could tell you about Hickok joining Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show in New York in eighteen seventy-four,” Clint said. “How old were you in eighteen seventy-four, Mark?”

“I, uh, was a kid.”

“Do you remember Hickok being with Buffalo Bill?”

“No, I don't.”

“He traveled the East Coast with Cody,” Clint said. “They played New York, Philadelphia, Boston, they went to Maine . . .”

“How did Hickok do?”

“Well,” Clint said, “being onstage really wasn't Bill's thing, you understand. But he did his best . . .”

THIRTY-NINE

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EW
Y
ORK
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ITY:
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ANHATTAN
1874

Clint Adams sat in the audience and watched as Bill Hickok painfully delivered his lines. On top of his stilted speech, someone had put too much makeup on Hickok's face, so he looked something like a clown. Of course, nobody dared mention it, or laugh at him, not even Cody.

Hickok had invited Clint to New York to see his stage debut with Cody, and Clint was wishing he hadn't accepted the invitation. Because when this was over, Hickok was going to ask him how he did. And up to now, Clint Adams had never told Wild Bill Hickok a lie.

“This is awful,” the girl sitting next to Clint said.

He had noticed her in the lobby, and was pleasantly surprised to find that she was sitting next to him.

“Shhh,” he said to her, “don't let him hear you say that.”

“Oh, I wouldn't,” she said, leaning closer to Clint so he could smell her, “but . . . he looks like a clown, doesn't he?”

“They'll just have to fix his makeup next time.”

She put her hand around his arm and leaned even closer.

“It'll take more than that,” she said.

She was blond, under thirty, with pale, translucent skin, beautiful blue eyes, and a face that would have been perfect except for a couple of crooked teeth. Instead of spoiling the perfection, though, it made her even more attractive—to him anyway.

“He needs help delivering his lines,” she said.

“Are you an actress?” he asked.

“Actually, I am,” she said. “I've come to New York to try to get into a show.”

“Have you had any luck?”

“Not yet,” she said. “When I heard Buffalo Bill Cody was here with Wild Bill Hickok, I thought I'd come and see.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I'm sure Bill will get better.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes, I do,” Clint said. “He's a good friend of mine. So is Cody.”

“Well,” she said, tightening her hold on his arm, “I guess that must mean you're somebody, too.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh, don't be modest—”

Someone behind them shushed them and the girl leaned back into her seat.

The show was nearing its end when Clint noticed that Hickok was in some sort of distress. He was squinting, and trying to shield his eyes from the lights that were being beamed down from the rafters.

Finally, Bill pointed up and yelled, “Turn that blasted thing off! It's blindin' me.”

When the spotlight operator did not turn it off, Hickok drew one of his pistols and put the light out with one shot.

The audience reacted with gasps and screams, but no one vacated their seats. They would all tell their children they were there the night Wild Bill Hickok shot out the spotlight.

“And get me some whiskey,” Hickok shouted. “I ain't drinkin' this damned cold tea! It's real whiskey or nothin'!”

The girl leaned into Clint again and said, “I've got to give him credit. He knows how to steal the spotlight.”

“Or shoot it out,” Clint said.

FORTY

After the show, Clint brought the girl backstage with him. Her name was Hannah, and she was eager to meet Cody, and Wild Bill Hickok, who—even if he was a bad actor—was a legend of the Old West.

There was a crowd backstage, but both Cody and Hickok stood out because of their flamboyance. Both had long hair and well-cared-for mustaches. Hickok appeared to have wiped the makeup off his face. Cody looked to still have his on, but it was more subdued than Hickok's was.

Clint made his way through the crowd until he reached Cody.

“Clint!” Cody exclaimed. He grabbed him by the shoulders and embraced him. “You made it!”

“I wouldn't have missed Bill's debut, Cody. This is my friend, Hannah . . .”

“Wilson,” Hannah supplied. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“It's my pleasure to meet such a lovely young lady,” Cody said. “What did you think of the show?”

“I think Wild Bill needs some help,” Hannah said.

Cody raised his eyebrows and looked at Clint.

“Hannah is an actress.”

“Is she now?”

“Oh, yes,” Hannah said. “I don't mean to be insulting, but he didn't seem to be very well prepared, did he?”

Cody looked around to see who might be listening. There was no much commotion that his conversation with Clint and Hannah was going unheard. He reached out, took hold of her arm, and walked her over to a corner. Clint followed.

“Miss Wilson, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Bill what you just told me.”

“I'm sure it wouldn't matter to him what I said,” she replied. “In fact, he stole the show when he shot out the spotlight.”

“Yes, he did,” Cody said. “But he wasn't supposed to do that.”

“Why did he do that?” she asked.

Cody looked at Clint, who shook his head.

“I'm afraid that's somethin' I'll have to ask him later, Miss Wilson,” Cody said. “Listen, would you mind if we talked again tomorrow?”

“You and I?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I wouldn't mind at all.”

“Perhaps we could find somethin' for you to do in the show.”

“Well, that would be marvelous.”

“Clint,” Cody said, “why don't you get the lady a drink, and introduce her to Bill.”

“I'll do that.”

Cody looked at Hannah again.

“Would you mind if I spoke to Clint for a moment?”

“Clint?”

Cody looked at Clint again.

“We only just met tonight,” Clint said. “I haven't told her my name.”

“You haven't? Why not?”

“Yes,” Hannah said, “why not?”

“Just hadn't gotten around to it yet,” Clint said.

“We'll be right back,” Cody said to her.

“I'll wait here.”

Cody took Clint's arm, walked him out of earshot of the young woman.

“What the hell?” Cody said to Clint.

“She was sitting next to me, making comments,” Clint said.

“Is she a good actress at least?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, maybe we can find out,” Cody said. “Maybe she could work with Bill on his lines.”

“Maybe, but what about him shooting out lights?”

“I'll have to talk to him about that,” Cody said. “But you know why he did that, don't you?”

“His eyes.”

“Yes,” Cody said. “He won't admit it, but his eyes are bothering him.”

“It's been going on for a while,” Clint said.

“Maybe you could get him to see a doctor?”

“You know Bill as well as I do, Cody, maybe better,” Clint said.

“Well, just talk to him.”

“I'll try.”

“And don't let the young lady criticize him—at least, not tonight. I'll talk to Bill tomorrow about his performance.”

“All right.”

“And for Chrissake, tell her your name,” Cody said. “Maybe that'll distract her.”

* * * 

“Clint . . . Adams?” Hannah asked moments later.

“Yes.”

“The Gunsmith?”

Clint nodded.

“So when I said you were somebody, I was right.”

“I suppose so.”

“My goodness,” she said, “I'm meeting all the legends tonight, aren't I?”

“Speaking of which, let me introduce you to Hickok.”

“Aren't you going to warn me?”

“About what?”

“Criticizing him,” she said. “I get the impression he wouldn't take it too well.”

“Probably not.”

“Then I won't do it.”

“That's good,” Clint said. “Cody is going to talk to him about his performance tomorrow.”

“But I won't tell him he was good either.”

“That's fine.”

Clint took Hannah across the floor to where Hickok was surrounded by people and looking for help.

“Clint! Clint, boy!” he shouted. “Let my friend through here.”

The people parted and Clint approached, with Hannah in tow.

“Hey, Bill,” Clint said.

Hickok took Clint's hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

“I'm glad you made it, pardner,” he said. “And who's the pretty lady?”

“This is Hannah Wilson, Bill,” Clint said. “She was sitting next to me in the audience.”

“Well, little lady,” Hickok said, “I hope you didn't get showered any with broken glass when I shot that light out.”

“No, that's all right,” she said “I was quite impressed, though.”

“Were you how?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “One shot. That was very impressive.”

“A lot better than the rest of my performance, huh?” he asked.

“Well, uh . . .”

“That's okay,” Hickok said. “I know how bad I was. And I looked damn silly.”

“Hey, Bill—”

“You ain't gonna lie to me, are ya, pard?” Hickok asked.

“Have I ever?”

“Nope,” Hickok said, “and that's how come I know you won't now.”

“Well . . . you were pretty bad, Bill,” Clint said. “But all you need is some experience.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What do you think, young lady?”

“I think you can get better, Mr. Hickok,” she said, and then added, “A lot better.”

“Are you an expert?” he asked.

“I'm not an expert,” she said, “but I am an actress.”

“Well,” Hickok said, “maybe we should talk. You might have some advice for me.”

Cody came over at that moment and said, “Bill, I got some newspapermen here want to talk to you.”

“They wanna tell me how bad I was, too?” Hickok asked him.

Cody glared at Clint, and then Hannah.

“I didn't say a thing,” she said. “I swear.”

“Don't give the lady a hard time, Cody,” Hickok said. “She was real nice.”

“Well, that's good,” Cody said. “Come on, Bill. Let's talk to those reporters.”

The two legends walked away, leaving Clint and Hannah alone. The other people had drifted away as well.

“Come on,” Clint said, “let's get a drink.”

“All right.”

There was a bar set up in a corner, and the bartender was pouring champagne. Clint grabbed two glasses and gave one to Hannah.

“So, the Gunsmith, huh?”

“That's me.”

She sipped her drink and said, “It's been an exciting night for me, and now I've got an appointment with Buffalo Bill Cody tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“You think he'll hire me?”

“If you're any good. But do you want to be in a Wild West Show?”

“I want to be in any show,” she said. “Does he have any women in the show?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “He didn't used to, but he might by now.”

“Oh well,” she said. “I guess I'll find out tomorrow. Thanks for introducing me, Clint.”

“You're welcome.”

She finished her drink and put down the empty glass, then looked around.

“Looks like folks are leaving,” she said. “Would you like to escort me back to my hotel?”

“Sure I would, Hannah,” Clint said, setting his glass aside. “Come on.”

“Shouldn't we say good-bye?”

“Cody and Hickok will be busy with reporters for a while,” Clint said. “We'll see them tomorrow.”

“That's right,” she said. “We will.”

She slipped her arm in his and they left.

FORTY-ONE

Hannah was staying in a midsized hotel downtown, while Clint was staying in a more expensive hotel in midtown called the Biltmore.

They took a cab to Hannah's hotel and he walked her into the lobby, which wasn't the cleanest in Manhattan.

“You're staying here?” he asked.

“It's what I could afford,” she said. “Why, where are you staying?”

“The Biltmore.”

“Wow. Fancy.”

“I tell you what,” he said. “Pack your things and I'll take you there.”

“We just met, Clint,” she said. “And you're asking me to move in with you?”

“Not with me,” he said. “I'll get you your own room.”

“And what do I have to do for that?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “That'll be up to Cody.”

“You're acting like Cody is definitely going to hire me.”

“I think he will,” Clint said. “In fact, I'll bet on it.”

“How much?”

“A week,” Clint said. “If Cody doesn't hire you and pay for your room, I'll pay for it for a week.”

“Okay,” she said. “You're on.”

“You need help packing?” he asked.

“I've got one bag,” she said. “I'll be down in five minutes.”

Clint waited in the lobby until she returned with a carpetbag. He took it from her, and they went outside and caught another cab, this time to the Biltmore.

Clint checked her in, accepted her key from the clerk, and walked her to her room.

“Oh my God,” she said, “this is the biggest room I've ever seen.”

It was a good-sized room, furnished in expensive reds and greens. She sat on the bed and bounced, and for a moment looked like a little girl—until he got a quick peak beneath her skirt at her flashing thighs.

“Well, I'm glad you like the room,” he said. “I'll come by and get you tomorrow when I find out where Cody wants to see you.”

“I appreciate that,” she said. “I was wondering where our meeting was going to take place.”

“Probably here over breakfast,” Clint said.

She walked with him to the door and said, “I can't thank you enough for this. I guess I really got lucky when I sat next to you.”

“We'll see,” Clint said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Clint.”

He stepped out into the hall, went to his own room on a different floor. He hoped Hannah was at least a good actress who could coach Hickok a bit.

He doubted that Cody and Hickok were back in their rooms, so he thought he'd leave it 'til morning to connect with Cody on what he wanted to do with Hannah.

* * * 

The next morning Clint got dressed and walked to Cody's room. He had only knocked on the door twice when Cody opened it, looking fresh and fit.

“Good mornin',” Cody said. “Where's Miss Wilson?”

“I got her a room here,” Clint said, “anticipating that you'd be hiring her.”

“And did you anticipate what I'd be havin' her do?” Cody asked.

“Well, I assume coaching Hickok.”

“Hopefully she's a good actress.”

“Even if she's not,” Clint said, “she's got to be better than Bill.”

“Don't say that to him.”

“He knows he was bad.”

“But he also knows he stole the show,” Cody said. “The reporters loved him!”

“That figures.”

“Are you ready for breakfast?” Cody asked.

“I am, but I told Hannah I'd find out when you wanted to see her.”

“Now,” Cody said. “Bring her to breakfast. I'll meet you downstairs.”

“We'll be there,” Clint said. The restaurant in the Biltmore was excellent, and he knew Cody and the other performers were taking most of their meals there.

They parted company and Clint went to see if Hannah was awake.

She answered her door even faster than Cody did. Clint had the feeling she'd been standing just on the other side, waiting.

“Finally,” she said. “I've been up for hours. Where does Cody want me? And when?”

“Right now,” Clint said. “At breakfast.”

“Then let's go.” She stepped into the hall, pulling her door closed, and tried to start off down the hall.

“Some advice first.”

“Oh, good, I can probably use it.”

“When you're talking to Cody, be honest,” Clint said. “He'll know if you're just telling him things you think he wants to hear.”

“I see.”

“He's not a man you can fool.”

“It sounds like you've tried.”

“I never tried,” he said. “I knew better right from the beginning. And now you do.”

“Okay. Can we go now?”

“We can go,” Clint said. “Just remember what I said. Just tell him the truth.”

“I will, I will,” Hannah said. “I'm not about to lie to a man who's going to give me a job.”

“Okay, then,” he said. “Now we can go.”