Authors: Glendon Swarthout
Pershing’s running around in Chihuahua chasing Villa in vain, and Wilson calling out the National Guard to defend the border against invading hordes of Mexicans reminded Runyon of the immortal Masterson vs. Plunkett shoot-out in the Waldorf bar two years before—much damned ado about nothing much at all. Hart and Dailey and McGraw hadn’t been there that night, so Runyon regaled them with a recap—Bat with gun hand in pocket calling Plunkett’s bluff and the clientele smashing glassware in their haste to dive under tables or break down doors and Bat, later, when the smoke had cleared, pulling from his pocket in lieu of anything lethal a pack of cigarettes. After the punchline Bat took a bow and remarked that if panic was the point, he was reminded of a big night in the Lady Gay dance hall in Dodge in 1880.
A loud pause.
“Oh, no, not again,” said Irwin.
“It’s a true story,” Bat insisted.
“Ring the bell,” said Jimmy Johnston.
“Mather was there,” said Bat. “He’ll back me up.”
“All right, suckers,” said Runyon. “Let us put our faith in God and the grape. This round is on me.”
Glasses and tankards were lined up for the barkeep, and when that worthy had done his chores the convivial crew assembled about Bat in various states of anticipation and inebriation.
Well, it seemed, he began, some quack from back East detrained at Dodge and commenced distributing cards which proclaimed his profession as “Physician-Phrenologist” specializing in “personal diseases” and his name as “Dr. Clapp.” Well, this was a kumquat of an opportunity too ripe to pass up, so a few of the boys got together and formed a welcoming committee of “prominent citizens.” They assured the quack that if there was any community in the West which had urgent need of a man who could handle “personal diseases,” it sure as hell was Dodge City. And further, that they would provide him with a forum that very night, and an audience literally burning to hear his words and purchase his curatives. True to their oath, they sent the tidings forth, and by nightfall the coal-oil lamps were lit and the Lady Gay, a ramshackle wooden structure with saloon attached, was packed to the rafters with interested parties in the same condition as the lamps.
“Wyatt Earp and I were marshals then, and we took chairs on the platform to see that everything was orderly. I introduced Dr. Clapp as an angel of mercy sent to salve our sinners and he started his spiel. He got through a few lines when Luke McGlue hollered ‘You lie!’ That got things rolling. Now there was nobody named Luke McGlue, but whenever we pulled a stunt we picked somebody to do the dirty work and always called him Luke McGlue. Anyway, Earp and I loosened our guns and I told the mob to settle down and listen to what the world-famous medico had to say. So Clapp went on, using a lot of scientific lingo about the connection between the shape of the head and the health of the balls and pretty soon McGlue hollers ‘You lie!’ again. That set off a real commotion— you see, most of the audience wasn’t in on the joke, they took Clapp seriously. Earp and I drew our guns and I told ‘em to shut up, we meant business, we would kill the next loudmouth who interrupted the proceedings. Well, by this time Dr. Clapp is what you might call a hair unnerved, but he steps up to the platform again and does his best till suddenly Luke McGlue jumps up out of his seat and shouts, ‘You lie, you son-of-a-bitch!’”
An intermission. Bat’s timing was professional. He bent to the bar. With whiskey he lubricated his larynx, with beer his narrative powers.
“Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry, but above all—” said Dailey, “make ‘em wait.”
Bat was affronted. “Do I go on or don’t I?”
“Hell, yes, go on!” cried Irwin.
“Play ball!” growled McGraw.
“Okeh,” said Bat. “But I will kill the next loudmouth who interrupts the proceedings. Okeh, we were talking about panic, remember? Well, “son-of-a-bitch” was the signal. Earp and I cut loose and shot out the lamps, the place went dark as the pit, and I guess every drunk sober enough to find his gun went for it and started throwing lead. It was a real rannicaboo. Everybody headed for the exits at once. It was a wonder multitudes weren’t shot or trampled to death. When we had some light again, there was poor Clapp under the table, praying and shaking like a leaf and his wallet was gone and his wig and practically everything but his pants and when we stood him up to see if he could walk he couldn’t. But we weren’t through with the faker yet. We said how sorry we were, and promised him to make amends for it the next day. We told him we’d get him a bigger audience, outdoors in broad daylight, and he’d do a land-office business—”
“Sorry, Mr. Masterson.” It was the barkeep. “Telephone call for you. End of the bar, round the corner.”
Bat frowned. “Excuse me, gents. Hate to leave you hanging—wait a minute, Dave here’ll finish the story. Tell ‘em about the next day, Dave.”
He headed for the phone. The others waited upon Wyatt.
“Not much to tell,” said he, with all the beans he had exhibited onstage at the Belasco. “Next day we pulled a big crowd in on Front Street and set up a box for the doc to speak from and waited for him to show. But he never did.”
“Why not?” Johnston demanded.
“Because Bob Wright—a storekeeper—warned him to get on a train and leave town, so he took the advice. Bob was in on it.”
“On what?” Dailey demanded.
“The bomb.”
“What bomb?” Irwin demanded.
Wyatt was uncomfortable. “The one we planted under the box.”
“Well what in hell happened?” McGraw demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” cried Johnston. “Then what’s the damn point?”
“Well, it was a good thing Clapp left town,” said Wyatt. “We blew the bomb up anyway, and it had too much black powder in it. If he’d been on that box, parts of him wouldn’t be down yet.”
“Oh,” said Johnston.
“Oh,” said Irwin.
“Oh,” said Dailey.
“Oh,” said McGraw.
Wyatt leaned on the bar and studied his shot glass. Five of the other six leaned on the bar and studied theirs. Bill Hart, however, who knew more about the West than anyone present except Runyon, was studying the stranger from Kansas.
“Mather,” he said.
Wyatt did not respond.
“Mather, who are you?” asked Hart.
Wyatt stared at him.
“I suspect a colored gentleman in the woodpile,” said Hart. “There’s something about you—I don’t think your name is—”
“I’ve got it!” Damon Runyon banged his tankard on the bar for attention. He had scarcely listened to “Mysterious Dave’s” denouement. “Frien’s, Romans, countrymen, lemme your ears!”
They lent.
“I’ve heard enough of this goddam Western buffalo shit! How’s about we get revenge? How’s about we give Masterson a stiff dose of his own Clapp?”
“Hear, hear!” cried the five.
Runyon might be in his cups, but even in theirs they knew that any idea bearing his by-line would be a lollapalooza. Damon Runyon’s poems and columns in the
American
and short stories in
Collier’s
and the
Saturday Evening Post
were up everyone’s alley, even those of 42nd Street illiterates. He wore fifty-dollar shoes and monogrammed neckties. He was a born gambler. He bet on fights and horses and cubes and cards and ratting contests and elections and whether or not it would rain, take your pick. He would one day bet he could walk into the Stork Club in shirtsleeves, and win. He had already bet he would revisit the earth after death, and offered to let Satan hold the scratch.
“Aw right, aw right,” he said. “We gotta set this up fast, before he gets back. Aw right, so he bluffed himself out of the Waldorf with a pack of smokes. Les’ do ‘er again, and this time do ‘er right. This time les’ put ‘im up against somebody serious! Lessee what he does! I got a hundred dollars says he guts himself out of it again!”
They went for it like steers for salt—but how, when, where?
“Tomorrow night—the Knickerbocker Bar—midnight. Everybody spread the word—we want a full house.” Runyon was improvising out loud. “I’ll be responsible Bat’s there. Now—the gunslinger walks in—lets everybody know he’s from out West and he’s got a big bloody bone to pick with Masterson—the place freezes—silence—they face each other—then the stranger orders Bat to slap leather or die yellow. Can you see Bat’s face? Spuds won’t save ‘im this time! What a set-up!”
They seconded the motion with shots and suds.
“Just one catch,” said Bill Hart. “Who do we get to play the heavy? He’s gotta be the real McCoy or Bat’ll laugh him out of there.”
That stopped them. Then the cowboy star began staring at “Mysterious Dave” Mather, and the rest gave him a twice-over, too.
Wyatt shook his head. “He’d never believe me. We’re friends from way back.”
“Sure he would, goddammit!” cried Irwin. “Play drunk! Look murderous! Draw on ‘im!”
Wyatt considered, then said, “Talk’s cheap. You have to pay for whiskey.”
Irwin was miffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t even have a weapon,” said Wyatt with a straight face. “I’m low on funds.”
Runyon broke it up. “Oh, well, Christ on a crutch, yes.” He pulled a roll, and peeled a double sawbuck onto the bar. “C’mon, you guys, everybody in twenty. Mr. Mather needs coffee-and-cake money—who doesn’t?”
The rest began to pull and peel.
“Go ‘head, take it, Mather. Tomorrow night midnight—the Knickerbocker. You be there with bells on—and a gun.” Behind the lenses of his glasses, Damon Runyon’s eyes were bright as his diamond cufflinks. He grinned up and down the bar. “Whassay, boys? Twenty bucks a throw for the greatest show in town!” He waved his roll. “Now for the side bets!”
“Tomorrow night, huh? Where?”
“The Knickerbocker.”
“Oh, yeah, the bar.” Bat was thinking. “All right, damn ‘em. We’ll give ‘em a hell of a lot more than they’ve bargained for— I’ll figure something out.”
They had paused for a conference halfway up the stairs out of Toby’s Slide.
“By the way,” said Bat. “That telephone call was from Grogan. He wants to see me. Now.”
“Strong—arm.”
“I reckon.”
“You going?”
“We’re going.”
“It’s two in the morning. I’m tired.”
“Shank of the evening.” Bat took Wyatt’s arm. “And listen, Wyatt, this is New York—don’t get cute.”
“Why go at all?”
“Knuckles Grogan pays the fiddler, friend, so he calls the tune.”
“I don’t dance.”
They ease in through the dark cigar store on 43rd Street
and through the swinging door into the race room and some long-shot surprises. The joint looks like after a raid. The bettors are gone, the bums have vamoosed, even Eddie the Cuff and the other bookies are conspicuous by their absence. Knuckles Grogan and the two muscular mugs are draped around behind the desks awaiting the bell. But you have to double-take the mugs because instead of caps and leather jackets they are all spruced up in pinstripe suits and felt fedoras and shoes up on the desks with spats. Bat comes out of his corner like a has-been with hungry kids.
“These your dogs, Grogan?” He scowls at the mugs. “Well, call ‘em off. They tried to rough me up the other night—my friend here hadn’t come along and reminded me of my age, I might have hurt ‘em.”
“Not my idea, Bat. The guy I work for.”
“Rothstein.”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
Grogan has the kind of voice he should have his adenoids out. He has a broken nose and he leans back in his chair, squeaking.
“Listen, Bat. You’re into us for over three of the big ones. You got two days.”
“Two days!”
“You’re behind the eight-ball, Bat.”
“I couldn’t raise three grand in three weeks!”
The two bruisers rise from their chairs and circle the desks and a wary Wyatt and move across the room to take stands on either side of the swinging door. Grogan moves a big black Havana from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Two days,” he says. “The other night was just a prelim. You don’t cough up, you’re gonna be in the main event.”
Bat shoves up his hat. “What happened to Auntie Tan in the first at ‘Gansett? I had fifty on the nose with Eddie.”
“Finished fourth.”
Sweat sparkles on Bat’s forehead. “All right, listen. Here.” He fishes in his pants and unfolds a bill on the desk. “I got paid yesterday. There’s a hundred. That cleans me out. Put that on account and take the heat off. Gimme a week.”
Grogan leaves it lay. “Sorry. Tell you what, though. There’s a fight coming up—why don’t you start touting McLaglen in the paper?”
“Your money’s on the Sailor, huh?”
“We’ll maybe forget the three grand.”
“No deal. I don’t do that. White’ll massacre ‘im.”
Grogan salivas the Havana out of his mouth and produces a large silk handkerchief and blows his nose loud enough to wake a freighter in a fog off Sandy Hook. He tucks away the hanky and looks at the loser with sad, bloodhound eyes. “Sorry.”
“Be reasonable.”
“It’s your funeral.”
“Gimme a fair shake!”
“See you around, Bat.”
Bat starts for the door, Wyatt after him. Suddenly they haul on the reins.
The two hoods have unbuttoned their pinstripe double-breasted coats and laid back the lapels to show off their armament. Each carries a snub-nose .38 automatic in a shoulder holster.
To their credit, the plainsmen appear to be unperturbed. Their jackets, too, are unbuttoned, their right hands free.
Bat had once written the following: “Never try to run a bluff with a six-gun. Many a man has been buried with his boots on because he foolishly tried to scare someone by reaching for his hardware. Always remember that a six-shooter is made to kill the other fellow with and for no other reason on earth. So always have your gun loaded and ready, and never reach for it unless you are in dead earnest and intend to kill the other fellow.”
After a minute of silence, as though for the national anthem, Bat turns to Grogan.
“I don’t scare, Knuckles. In my day I’ve stood up to redskins and cowhands too drunk to give a damn and guys really good with a gun. I don’t scare.”
“Rothstein don’t either.”
“You said it, I didn’t.”