Karen Mercury (12 page)

Fidelia looked at him skeptically. “So you
don’t
believe us.”

“Oh, I do! Not all of what I saw was bogus smoke. There was a woman who could materialize the most fantastic things on her séance table, all witnessed by university professors, upstanding merchants, and the like. She was a medium for all seasons, and produced tulips, ferns, grapes, and oranges. Once I saw a live eel appear.”

Fidelia laughed. “I certainly hope it wasn’t an electric eel.”

Chess had to admit, “Other times, when specific items were asked for, they did not appear. And during a week of snow and frost, the manifestations on her dining table consisted mostly of ice and snow. Her best feat, though, was when she materialized a dazed and sleepy Mr. Guppy in the middle of her table, who had been transported from his bed a mile away.”

“Oh, come now,” Spenser scoffed. “I’ll believe in a singing cowboy ghost before I’ll believe that.”

Chess held up an honorable hand. “I swear on my father’s talking board, I speak the truth.”

Fidelia giggled. “Your father has a talking board?”

“Indeed. As a child, we associated with Nathanial Hawthorne at a place called Brook Farm. We all lived in supposed transcendental bliss, doing utopian things like hoeing, not eating meat, and conjuring spirits on the talking board.”

“My,” said Fidelia. “That’s a very open-minded lifestyle.”

Chess couldn’t tell if she admired or laughed at the open-minded lifestyle he’d endured as a child, but someone was now shouting gleefully at him.

“My dear Zeus!”

“Oh, no,” muttered Chess. “Here he comes, Bullet Bob himself.”

Fidelia whispered, “And we should wonder why he’s called Bullet Bob if he isn’t running around shooting people!”

Chess told Spenser from the corner of his mouth, “You must get that part in the play. We must pretend everything’s okay until we get more evidence.”

Bullet Bob jangled over still wearing the Californio spurs, arms spread in greeting. He even had the audacity to still have on Chess’s Stetson he had stolen from Freund’s counter. “My dear Zeus! You have come here to reminisce about the days in Montmartre!”

“I’m not here to reminisce about anything,” Chess said, “especially something I don’t remember. I have heard you’re giving my friend Spenser a part in
Hamlet
. That is very kind of you.”

Fidelia stepped in. Even at her most bushy-tailed, though, she didn’t merit a glance from Bullet Bob, who had eyes only for Chess. She put her hand on Spenser’s shoulder. “He’s an excellent actor. I’ve worked with him for over a week now at the Morning Star, and I can verify that he’s never once blinked.”

Bullet Bob waved her away. “Yes, yes. I am sure Mr. O’Flannery—”

“Murphy,” said Spenser.

“—is a very good actor. Otherwise I would not select him for my play.” He affected a soft-soaping voice dripping with flattery as he put a hand on Chess’s shoulder. “My dear Zeus. Remember the balmy days in the Côte d’Azur?” He actually elbowed Chess then. “The Côte d’Azur, the Côte d’Azur! The women, the women!”

Chess actually
had
spent about two months in the Côte d’Azur, and there had been more than a few women involved, but he still couldn’t place Bullet Bob. He knew he had to kowtow, though, to gain more information about Ulrich, so he forced himself to snicker. “Yes, Bullet Bob, indeed. The women, the women! Listen here, though. That seems to be my hat you’re wearing. Did you pick that up at Freund and Brothers, by any chance?”

“Ah!” Bullet Bob lifted the Stetson off his head and looked at it as though he’d never seen it in his life. “This hat! Ah yes, I found it at Freund and Brothers. I did not know it was yours.”

“Hornswoggler,” whispered Fidelia. Louder, she said, “The
boss’s
hat,” as though it might joggle some clues loose from the swell.

“That’s the one, all right,” Chess said affably, accepting the hat from Bullet Bob.

But Spenser’s eyes had grown wide. “The Boss of the Plains,” he said with awe.

“What are you talking about?” asked Chess.

Spenser pointed to his hat. “The Boss of the Plains. That’s what the Stetson company called your hat’s particular model.”

“I see.” Chess tried to affect a lighthearted attitude. “Good name for a hat. Now Bullet Bob, my compadre. Why don’t you go see what sort of, ah, acting our dear Spenser here can do.”

Bullet Bob’s face lit up with extreme gratitude. “Of course…
compadre!
” He took great thrill that Chess had called him that, thrill that went far beyond a normal fellow’s reaction to such a trivial event. His eyes gleamed as though Chess had handed him a gold mine, and he tiptoed about in his spurs, definitely under the influence of great amounts of absinthe. He balanced himself by putting a hand on Chess’s shoulder and trilled, “We must get together later on, my dear Zeus.”

“Chess,” Fidelia tried to remind Bullet Bob.

“We can reenact the infamous Spanish fly incident in London! Oh, my, my, were not those the days?”

Mon Dieu
, did this potato-head know about that embarrassing event, too? Chess harrumphed. “Yes, those were the days, all right, although I wouldn’t really want to reenact them.”

“Spanish fly gives big balloons all over the skin,” Fidelia said helpfully.

Chess continued, “Now please, let Spenser audition for you. He is the best man to play the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”

Chess and Fidelia waved cheerily at Spenser as he loped down the center aisle of the theater and into the mass of poofs, clowns, and locos who milled about the stage, all clamoring to be in the ridiculous production. Chess noted Josephine from the Morning Star Gallery onstage. She had not even tried to wipe off her white
poses plastiques
makeup before auditioning for a
Hamlet
role.

Chess immediately led Fidelia out front of the Oddfellows Hall and said, “That was it, Fidelia! Your brother sang about a boss’s hat?”

“And a piece of paper!”

“Well, I’m not sure what the piece of paper means, but this is definitely the boss’s hat! We’re on the right track, I can feel it. With you and Spenser keeping an eye on that dandy joker, we should be able to get our proof in no time.”

“But you’re the one he’s in love with. You heard him, mentioning the ‘infamous’ Spanish fly incident in London. Did you really know him in Europe?”

“Not that I can recall. But I must confess, I don’t recall much about my years in Europe.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Bullet Bob probably overheard your companion telling that Freund brother that you were the fellow responsible for the ‘infamous’ Spanish fly incident. So that could be all that Bullet Bob knows about it.”

“Yes, and ‘the paper’ could refer to the newspaper article about it.”

“An article about you?” Fidelia’s cunning smile melted Chess’s heart. She was the cutest piece of calico he’d seen in years. “Is this the article that shows the fat slob smoking a hookah?”

Chess frowned. “Never mind. I wish people would just forget that damned article. The artist obviously had no idea what I really looked like! Anyway, I’ve got to go get some papers signed at a lawyer’s.” He took her by the upper arms. “My dear Fidelia, my dove.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her little shell-like ear. He enjoyed standing this close to her in front of the Oddfellows Hall. Already he felt envious eyes upon them. For once, he wasn’t being stared at because he had his shirt on backward or was wearing a spittoon for a hat. “Will you come with Spenser later on to Albuquerque House, several blocks east on Grand? That’s my sister’s where I am staying. I’d like to meet Ulrich face-to-face. You can conjure him, right?”

“I believe I can. If my emotions are running strongly, it seems to draw him in.”

“Oh,” said Chess with confidence. “I can get your emotions to run strongly.”

* * * *

“All right,” Chess growled in Spenser’s direction, his eyes flashing. “I’ll give you a shot at the bonny milkmaid. But only to further our investigation into the murder of Fidelia’s brother.” He puffed out his stupid chest and rifled through his sister Liberty’s kitchen cabinet, ostensibly looking for some hors d’ouevres. Although the extent of Chess’s culinary skills probably ran to spearing his own olive.

Spenser bowed stiffly at the waist. “Thank you, Your Grace.” In his normal voice, he said hotly, “I can get her riled! I was the one who saw Ulrich to begin with—you’ve never even
seen
him, and you were the one canoodling with her in that Chinese pharmacy—don’t try to deny it. You both came into the Oddfellows Hall on a wave of cinnamon, opium, and jism.”

“Opium? I’m not denying it,” said Chess, taking down a jar of something and staring blankly at it. “We were fucking the stuffing out of each other. It was
she
who took out my cock and straddled me.”

More than a twinge of jealousy shot through Spenser’s stomach at Chess’s admission.
How can you blame Fidelia? I’d like to take out his cock and straddle him, too
. He really couldn’t blame Fidelia. Spenser had still been untying the leather cuffs from his wrists by the time Chess had sprinted down the back alley to find her, and the race was to the swiftest—and the richest. And evidently having witnessed the two men locked in such a steamy and compromising embrace had not cooled her ardor, much less had her skedaddling from them in horror.

Now he pointed at the floor and said, “If anything should get her ruffled and bring forth her brother’s spirit it would be fucking, wouldn’t you imagine? Emotions run high during sex.”

Chess scoffed and replaced the jar in the cupboard. “Sperm runs high during sex. What emotions?”

“Oh, you think your johnson is the only thing stimulated when you give someone a poke? Buddy, you’ve got a lot to learn about real, genuine, human emotions. You think you can just spoon with a gal and she won’t have any feelings about it one way or the other?”

Chess looked blankly at Spenser. He held a jar of preserved nectarines. “Yes. What feelings is she supposed to have? She thinks, ‘Damn, that was a good fuck,’ and that’s the end of it. No one ever fell in love with anyone because they were a good fucker.”

Hah! What a sap. This is where I’ve got one up on this jackass.
“Oh, yeah? Then allow me to prove my point. You lurk here in the kitchen. Within five minutes I’ll have that gal so worked up her brother is challenging me to a duel.”

Chess barked, “Right! The vaquero who has only left the ranch in the past ten years to go to a hog farm? What sort of skills do you have that’ll get her worked up?”

Spenser narrowed his eyes at his nemesis. “Oh, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Chess laughed. “What tricks would you use on a hooker? Men don’t even kiss hookers. Have you ever even courted a gal?”

This rankled Spenser so thoroughly he shoved Chess aside and grabbed a china platter from the cupboard. Within a flash he had opened a tin of sardines and a jar of cherries and had spread a fan of crackers onto the platter. “I’ve courted gals! You think they don’t have gals on a ranch?”

Chess took one of the crackers. “No. Not really.”

Spenser yanked open the ice box and grabbed a hunk of cheese, placing it on the platter. “What do you think us hands do all night, get each other off and bumfuck?”

“Yes.” Chess reached for the cheese, but Spenser slapped his hand away.

“Well, we don’t! Not all the time, anyway.” Spenser found a cheese knife in a drawer and whisked the platter away to the swinging door, opening it with his ass. In a quieter voice, he said, “Now you observe without butting in. And
behave.
”

Breezing through the dining room, Spenser snatched up a bottle of something that turned out to be aguardiente. He found Fidelia in the parlor clutching her wine glass to her swelling bosom and staring at a framed photograph hanging on the wall. Her eyes widened at the platter, and Spenser realized with guilt she probably hadn’t eaten since their feeble breakfast of eggs at the Morning Star. She spread cheese on a cracker while Spenser poured the aguardiente, but she was all atwitter about the photograph.

“That photograph is the strangest thing. It looks like the interior of the Bucket of Blood saloon. There are at least a dozen people in the photo who all look very sharp and clear like normal people, but there’s one ghostly woman who is practically transparent, like Ulrich.”

His curiosity raised, Spenser handed Fidelia her glass and went to observe the photograph. She was right—an extremely angry woman with a severe haircut brandished what looked like a jug of forty-rod, as though about to slam the bartender with it.

“She probably moved,” Spenser suggested. “You know how when people move in the middle of a photograph, they appear as blurs?”

Fidelia stood so close to Spenser her sleeve brushed his. “You mean she was caught in the act of smashing that jug over that fellow’s head? But her entire outline is sharp. She wasn’t moving. It’s just that she’s transparent.” She gasped suddenly. “Could it be…”

Spenser picked up on her idea. “It’s a spirit photograph? I’ve heard of such things. But why would Chess’s sister have a spirit photograph on her parlor wall?”