Read Online One-Eyed Jack by Elizabeth Bear - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Bear
Tags: Novel
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the Americas. Folklore creatures.
Like me. “You’re Doc Holliday, sir. That there is John Henry the drillman. You’re American legends, sir.”
Holliday opened his mouth, but a coughing jag took him and he fumbled in his pocket for his flask and drank quickly, neatly, even when I thought he’d choke. The whiskey calmed his cough and he shook his head as he screwed the silver cap back on. “Jack, I never killed but three, four men in my lifetime. And every one of those bastards deserved to die.”
John Henry shifted balance beside him, a mountain changing its stance. “I heard it was fifty, Doc.”
“Stories grow in the telling, son.”
I’d done some reading since Stewart got killed. “Wyatt Earp said you were the most dangerous man he ever knew, and the fastest gun.”
Holliday laughed and stroked his moustache, straightened his cravat. “Wyatt never minded stretching a tale till it squeaked protest, and you know what the papers are like.” He couldn’t hide a pleased smile. “He was right about one thing.”
“Doc?”
I was maybe three feet from Holliday. Before I could have moved, even shouted, his revolver was out of the hip holster and leveled at my chest. He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger so quickly I didn’t have time to close my eyes before the report boxed my ears.
So I saw the bullet hit my chest, go through, and pass without a whisper of sensation. Holliday laughed and spun his pistol back into his holster. “Ghosts,” he said, and took another swig from his flask, squinting in pain. I wondered how the whisky tasted around the cough drop.
“Well,” I answered. “I called you up with a task in mind, gentlemen. And you can’t go back to rest until we figure out how to do it. So—immaterial or not—I suggest we go get a drink and talk it over.”
“I can’t drink your liquor,” Doc Holliday said, as John Henry fell silently into step on my other side.
“I’ll pour it on the ground.”
I led them toward the Strip. Dead men don’t mind the heat of the sun.
The American and the Russian.
Somewhere in the Desert Inn Hotel & Casino, 1964.
Bram Stoker— that Bram Stoker—said of Teddy Roosevelt that he was a man you couldn’t cajole, couldn’t frighten, couldn’t awe. Some mornings, I wake up certain that the ex-president has somehow managed to get himself reincarnated as my partner. He won’t be cajoled. Neither will he be beguiled.
Someone must have lied to him once. Someone I would like very much to find, someday, and talk to.
Because if he weren’t so darned frictionless, I might be able to get him to talk to me a little more about what he said about Oswald—
“What are you writing?” the Russian said, toweling his hair as he walked out of the bathroom. The American crumpled the sheet hastily and dropped it into the wastebasket by his knee.
“A letter to my aunt, but it’s not coming out well. Ready to go down and see if the café is still serving?”
“What’s the expression? No locks, no clocks?” The Russian looked about for his shoes and sat on the bed to tug them on. “And then we need to try to figure out why the assassin’s here.”
“Because if we know what he’s doing—”
“—we know where he is.” Their eyes met, and a brief smile passed between them. “What do you plan to do with him if we do track him down?”
The American grinned, knowing he looked like a shark. What do you mean if? “Kill him. In cold blood. Preferably from a distance and from hiding. We’ll work out a justification later.”
“Excellent,” the Russian said, stamping his feet into his black loafers. “Get your coat. And don’t forget your concealed carry card. This is Vegas.”
“Yes. They don’t care if you have a pistol on your hip, but God forbid there’s one under your coat.” The American stood and followed his partner out, pausing for a second to hang the Do Not Disturb card and trap a strand of his own dark hair between the lockplate
Like me. “You’re Doc Holliday, sir. That there is John Henry the drillman. You’re American legends, sir.”
Holliday opened his mouth, but a coughing jag took him and he fumbled in his pocket for his flask and drank quickly, neatly, even when I thought he’d choke. The whiskey calmed his cough and he shook his head as he screwed the silver cap back on. “Jack, I never killed but three, four men in my lifetime. And every one of those bastards deserved to die.”
John Henry shifted balance beside him, a mountain changing its stance. “I heard it was fifty, Doc.”
“Stories grow in the telling, son.”
I’d done some reading since Stewart got killed. “Wyatt Earp said you were the most dangerous man he ever knew, and the fastest gun.”
Holliday laughed and stroked his moustache, straightened his cravat. “Wyatt never minded stretching a tale till it squeaked protest, and you know what the papers are like.” He couldn’t hide a pleased smile. “He was right about one thing.”
“Doc?”
I was maybe three feet from Holliday. Before I could have moved, even shouted, his revolver was out of the hip holster and leveled at my chest. He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger so quickly I didn’t have time to close my eyes before the report boxed my ears.
So I saw the bullet hit my chest, go through, and pass without a whisper of sensation. Holliday laughed and spun his pistol back into his holster. “Ghosts,” he said, and took another swig from his flask, squinting in pain. I wondered how the whisky tasted around the cough drop.
“Well,” I answered. “I called you up with a task in mind, gentlemen. And you can’t go back to rest until we figure out how to do it. So—immaterial or not—I suggest we go get a drink and talk it over.”
“I can’t drink your liquor,” Doc Holliday said, as John Henry fell silently into step on my other side.
“I’ll pour it on the ground.”
I led them toward the Strip. Dead men don’t mind the heat of the sun.
The American and the Russian.
Somewhere in the Desert Inn Hotel & Casino, 1964.
Bram Stoker— that Bram Stoker—said of Teddy Roosevelt that he was a man you couldn’t cajole, couldn’t frighten, couldn’t awe. Some mornings, I wake up certain that the ex-president has somehow managed to get himself reincarnated as my partner. He won’t be cajoled. Neither will he be beguiled.
Someone must have lied to him once. Someone I would like very much to find, someday, and talk to.
Because if he weren’t so darned frictionless, I might be able to get him to talk to me a little more about what he said about Oswald—
“What are you writing?” the Russian said, toweling his hair as he walked out of the bathroom. The American crumpled the sheet hastily and dropped it into the wastebasket by his knee.
“A letter to my aunt, but it’s not coming out well. Ready to go down and see if the café is still serving?”
“What’s the expression? No locks, no clocks?” The Russian looked about for his shoes and sat on the bed to tug them on. “And then we need to try to figure out why the assassin’s here.”
“Because if we know what he’s doing—”
“—we know where he is.” Their eyes met, and a brief smile passed between them. “What do you plan to do with him if we do track him down?”
The American grinned, knowing he looked like a shark. What do you mean if? “Kill him. In cold blood. Preferably from a distance and from hiding. We’ll work out a justification later.”
“Excellent,” the Russian said, stamping his feet into his black loafers. “Get your coat. And don’t forget your concealed carry card. This is Vegas.”
“Yes. They don’t care if you have a pistol on your hip, but God forbid there’s one under your coat.” The American stood and followed his partner out, pausing for a second to hang the Do Not Disturb card and trap a strand of his own dark hair between the lockplate
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