Wilde West Read Free Page B

baron?”
    O’Conner leered. “Not a real one, Countess. You outrank him.” His glance dipped again to her breasts.
    â€œAs you would,” said Oscar, “even if he were a prince, and genuine.”
    O’Conner frowned slightly at Oscar and sipped at his whiskey. “Anyway,” he said, “if you’re meeting Tabor tonight, you’ll be meeting Baby Doe too. He doesn’t let her out of his sight. He may be an old fool, but he’s not stupid.”
    â€œNow, now, Mr. O’Conner,” von Hesse said, running his hand lightly over his scalp. “Let us not judge others, lest we ourselves be judged.”
    O’Conner shrugged. “Part of my job, General. The laborer is worthy of his hire.”
    Von Hesse smiled. “I was never a general officer, Mr. O’Conner. And does not a reporter’s job consist of determining the truth in a given situation, and presenting only that?”
    O’Conner grinned again. “Depends what you mean by truth, doesn’t it? Truth’s a pretty slippery thing. Ask Pilate. Ask any politician.”
    Von Hesse nodded thoughtfully. The man was seldom less than thoughtful. “You subscribe, then, to a sort of relativism. I believe, myself, in the existence of an objective truth. What about you, Mr. Wilde?”
    Oscar inhaled on his cigarette. “I think that truth is greatly overrated, mein Herr. Lies are infinitely more entertaining. Anyone, after all, can tell the truth. But only an artist can create a beautiful lie.”
    â€œI disagree,” said von Hesse. “Art, I think, must always at base be concerned with truth. Art, like religion, aspires to the Infinite.”
    â€œAh,” said Oscar, “but only Art stands a chance of actually arriving there.” And then, recognizing an exit line when he heard it, he stood up. He dropped his cigarette to the floor, stepped on it. “I’ll fetch us something else to drink, shall I?”
    The bar was still crowded; but, toward its center, his back to the room, stood a single individual who was bracketed on each side by an empty space. The man was slender and, like most men, shorter than Oscar, perhaps five feet, seven inches tall. He wore black trousers and a nicely tailored black frock coat, nipped in at the waist. He was hatless, unusual here in the West where males kept their heads covered from the moment they arose until the moment they went to bed, and conceivably beyond.
    Oscar glanced in the mirror opposite and saw that the man, lost in thought, was staring down at his whiskey glass. His thick black hair was combed back in soft waves from a high, intelligent forehead. Thin eyebrows arched gracefully over large dark brown eyes. Below the narrow pointed nose and draped neatly over the sensitive, almost feminine lips was a carefully trimmed handlebar mustache. The man wore a slim black bow tie and a starched white shirt and a snugly fitting waistcoat ornately brocaded in gold silk. Oscar rather envied him the waistcoat.
    The barman—barkeep, they called him here—approached, a tall slender man drying his hands at the hem of his once white apron. “What’ll it be, sport?”
    â€œHave you any tea?” Oscar asked him.
    â€œ Tea ? This is a saloon, sport.”
    â€œWhiskey, then. A bottle.”
    The barman handed Oscar a clean glass and a full bottle of whiskey (Old Harmony, The Finest Bourbon Whiskey West Of The Pecos). As Oscar turned to leave, his elbow accidentally bumped into the shoulder of the man standing beside him.
    â€œTerribly sorry,” Oscar said, and smiled pleasantly.
    The man turned to him. His eyes weren’t brown. They were black: as black as the outermost regions of the night sky, and at least as empty and as cold. Staring into that emptiness, Oscar all at once felt as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet. For a moment, it was as though a sudden seismic shock had splintered the reality he