‘I hope you’ve made your peace with God. I hope you’ve kissed that wart-faced, fat, smelly old whore of a mother of yours Ah-dee-fuckin’-ose, because you’re about to be nothin’ but patty sausage.’
‘Shit, I don’t know how you lived this long, somebody hasn’t parked a sixteen-wheel goddamn Mack truck in that ugly fuckin’ mouth of yours, it’s big enough, that’s for damn sure.’
‘I’ll kick your ass all the way back to King Tut’s court. I’ll kick you right outa this century.’
‘Well then, why don’t just get to it, motor mouth.’
‘Kiss this sweet earth farewell, motherfucker.’
‘That’ll be the day, you stand-short, rubber-muscled dipshit.’
‘Why don’t you stop talkin’ and start fightin’.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for, you little dork, a goddamn band or somethin’. Goddamn fireworks. Goddamn invitation from the fuckin’ president.’
‘Listen, they friends most time,’ Sy confided to Hatcher. ‘I bring Amehrikaan tourist here alla time, they buddies usually.’
‘Buddies!’ Hatcher answered with surprise.
‘Most time.’
The white man tied the big dog to one of the posts in front of the Longhorn and struck a classic boxing pose, holding one fist close to his face, snapping his nose with his thumb and shooting his other arm out tauntingly.
‘Get serious, Potter,’ the black man said with a smile. ‘I’ll whack you into the sidewalk, won’t be nuthin showin’ but the top of your miserable head.’
‘Well, get at it, Corkscrew, get at it,’ the man called Potter said, dancing about.
A large man with shoulders like a bison’s stepped out of the Longhorn and stood with his bands on a waist the size of a ballet dancer’s. He had snow-white hair and a white handlebar mustache, and he wore cowboy boots and jeans and a holster with a .357 Python jammed in it.
Hatcher watched the display with open-mouthed awe. What we got here is a time warp, he thought to himself.
The white-haired man stepped between Potter and Corkscrew and laid a gentle hand on their shoulders. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked?
‘He’s making fun of my dog,’ Potter snapped. The white-haired man looked at the dog and smothered a laugh of his own.
‘You know what that dog’s name is?’ asked the black man, still struggling to keep from laughing. ‘Otis. Otis, for God’s sake. His name’s enough to make a grown man cry.’
Potter struggled to get at him and the big man pushed him gently back.
‘Just take it easy, Benny,’ the white-haired man said. ‘Come in, I’ll buy you both a drink. You can leave Otis tied up there on the post.’
Benny looked stricken.
‘Somebody’ll steal him,’ he said, panic in his voice. Corkscrew broke out in gales of laughter, but the white-haired man tried to be diplomatic. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think anybody’ll steal your dog.’
‘Not unless they’re real, real hungry,’ said Corkscrew through laughter that was approaching tears.
‘Damn it, Corkscrew, I’ve had enough!’ Benny roared.
‘Aw hell, c’mon,’ Corkscrew said, ‘I’ll buy the damn drinks.’
The white-haired man herded them both into the saloon. Otis watched them go, then flopped down on the sidewalk, snorted, and fell sound asleep.
‘Who’s the big guy with the—’ Hatcher said, twirling his fingers at the corners of his mouth.
‘Mr Mustache? That is Earp,’ Sy answered.
‘Earp?’
Sy nodded once emphatically.
‘Not Wyatt Earp?’ Hatcher asked, almost sarcastically.
Sy reacted with surprise.
‘You know him?’ he asked.
‘No, I just guessed.’ Hatcher sighed.
‘That very good,’ Sy replied, obviously impressed.
‘I think I’ll just check that place out,’ Hatcher said, heading across the street toward the door of the Longhorn.
‘I wait here,’ Sy said. He started practicing a few moves on the sidewalk.
‘Suit yourself,’ Hatcher said.
When he stepped inside, the time warp was complete. He waited for a few seconds, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dark interior. Then he fixed the details of the place in his head so he wouldn’t forget them. It seemed remarkably authentic, a big room with green shades over the tables and sawdust on the floor; ceiling fans lazily circulating the air, which smelled of bar drinks and hamburgers; an antique bar that stretched the width of the room, and obviously had come from America, with a beveled mirror behind it, which made the saloon seem wider; large letters engraved in the glass that spelled ‘Tom Skoohanie’ and under the name, ‘The Galway Roost, 1877’; a beat-up old buffalo head with one eye and a black patch over the other; faded daguerreotypes and drawings of famous outlaws, lawmen and Indians on the wall, a vintage Wurlitzer jukebox in a corner, turned very low, playing an old record — Tony Bennett’s ‘Younger Than Springtime’; in another corner, a bulletin hoard covered with notes, business cards and patches from Army, Navy and Marine units; on one side of the room, raised a couple of steps above the floor, a smaller room behind a beaded curtain.
The man called Wyatt Earp sat at one end of the bar chatting with Corkscrew and Benny, who seemed to have forgotten their differences.
The bartender was a tall, elegant black man in a black T-shirt covered by a suede vest, blue jeans and cowboy boots. He wore a cowboy hat big enough to take a bath in with a red, yellow and green parrot feather stuck in its band. The only other person in the main room had long blond hair and sat hunched over the bar.
Nobody gave Hatcher a first look as he walked toward the bar, yet he felt a sudden chill, like a cold wind blowing across the back of his neck, and the hair on the back of his arms stood up. He felt uncomfortable, as if, uninvited, he was entering a private club. Why had Wol Pot come to Tombstone day after day for short periods of time? Was he indeed watching the Longhorn? Was he following Cody? Thai Horse?
Was the answer to the riddle of Murph Cody somewhere in that room?
TOMBSTONE
Hatcher knew he would have to proceed with caution. If Cody was alive and in Bangkok, he obviously did not want to be recognized, so it was reasonable to assume that anyone who knew him was protecting his identity. Did someone here know about Huie-Kui, the ghost camp? Or Wol Pot, Cody, ‘Thai Horse? He knew caution was called for — about what he said and to whom.
‘What’s your poison?’ the bartender asked in a deep cultured voice that was almost operatic.
‘Singha,’ Hatcher answered.
‘Draft, bottle or can?’
‘Draft.’
The bartender filled a frosted mug with Thai beer, all the while keeping his eyes on Hatcher. ‘First drink’s on the house,’ he said, sliding it down the bar. Hatcher held out his hand and felt the cool, wet glass slap his palm.
‘Khawp khun,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome.’
The black man’s face was friendly but his sparkling eyes were suspicious.
‘You don’t look like the average tourist we get in here,’ he said, casually running a rag over the highly polished bar. ‘You have the look of a man who did some time in-country.’
‘Military intelligence out of Cam Ranh,’ Hatcher answered.
‘Special Forces,’ said the bartender. ‘I was never sure where the hell I was. Where you from?’
The man who was slouched over the bar sat up and leaned on his arms, staring at Hatcher through faraway gray eyes; eyes that were bloodshot and drowsy. Clean- shaven with his long, blond surfer’s hair tied back in a ponytail, he had on an unbuttoned khaki safari jacket with sweat stains half-mooning the armpits, no shirt, a pair of white tennis shorts and old-fashioned high-top Keds. Hatcher could not guess his age, which could have been thirty-five or fifty. The man said nothing. He just stared at Hatcher for a while, then turned back to his half-empty drink and stared into it.