Karen Mercury (7 page)

But they had a good crowd this afternoon, and Spenser estimated only another ten minutes until that slave driver Sackett would let them take a break. There were the usual poseurs and boulevardiers in the audience, but since there weren’t many of those to begin with in Laramie, now there were mostly rowdies and loafers come to sample the unusual absinthe and ogle the nearly naked women.

That theater manager, Bullet Bob, who Spenser had mistaken for Chess, had entered around noon wearing his usual top hat. Spenser had been going over and over in his mind how to approach Bullet Bob about auditioning for his
Hamlet
production. Spenser could now see that Bullet Bob looked nothing like the masculine and well-built Chess. Bullet Bob was a good ten years older, for one thing. Bullet Bob couldn’t hold a candle to Chess, being not nearly as dashing or masterful.

Having plenty of time to ponder on things while he stood stock-still in the loincloth, Spenser’s mind wandered to Chess. What a changeable bastard Chess was! One minute grabbing him lustily to plant an ardent kiss on him. The next moment, making a big stink over how badly he wanted to court a barmaid he had only spoken two sentences to.

Spenser was convinced Chess was just a competitive brute, that he didn’t really have any interest in a lowly barmaid. Chess was the domineering sort of son of a bitch who would suddenly pretend interest just because another fellow wanted something. Then beat him to the gates of hell to obtain the thing, only to toss the thing away once he’d obtained it. Spenser had a suspicion this was the source of Chess’s fake interest in Fidelia, so he was also now eager to begin his courtship of the vivacious barmaid.

For Boswell had just given him the bounce from the ranch this morning. He had returned to the Wavy Stick around three in the morning a few too many times for the upright rancher’s liking, especially seeing as how hands were supposed to rise at five. Spenser didn’t blame Boswell. He would have given himself the boot, too. Spenser’s heart just wasn’t in the Wavy Stick. He wanted to live the exciting theater life for a while.

Who was playing the guitar? Maybe Sackett had hired an accompanist to give patrons something to listen to. Whoever it was, down the hallway that led to the bathhouse, he was extremely adept. Like one of those Spanish gypsy fellows who sounded as though they were strumming twenty strings at once. Get two or three of those fellows together at a fandango, and dancers beat their heels against the floor till the entire house rattled.

Fidelia, serving Bullet Bob some absinthe, perked up when the first guitar chords floated over. She practically dropped her tray on Bullet Bob’s table with a clatter to scurry off down the hallway. Spenser heard her conversing, most likely with the guitarist.

He didn’t hear the fellow answer her, so soon his mind drifted back to Chess. After all the androphile experiences Spenser had had, no buck had affected him as strongly as the robust libertine Chess. Chess had said they could no longer toy with each other sexually, but Spenser was hoping that was another of Chess’s changeable moods. Sure, Spenser had fiddled around with many young—and not so young—bucks in his time. It was all just a way to while away the dull hours that would’ve otherwise been spent looking at the hindquarters of steers and making cook fires out of cow shit.

Ranch hands were usually too exhausted for too much rutting, but there was always a lot of rope around, and so Spenser had discovered it excited him to be bound and toyed with. The first time had happened by accident. As penance for failing to rope some calf or other, a gang of hands, led by a much older fellow, had bound Spenser naked and tossed him into some hay. They stood above him in a circle, frigging themselves, soon splashing his squirming body with their ejaculate.

The most mortifying part was that his own prick had stiffened and his balls plumped with lechery to be bound so helplessly, at the mercy of this crowd of rowdies. Later, the much older fellow had taken him aside and sucked him so thoroughly he had drained every last seed in Spenser’s burdened balls.

Chess had stirred those old feelings in him again. There was something magical about the tough, virile Chess—something elemental that made Spenser crave more. He was the new owner of Serendipity Ranch, so Spenser knew he’d see him around, and he had every intention of seducing the pants off this debauched buck. Sure, Chess was tough and exhibited nothing but a selfish lack of feeling for anyone else. Maybe being an orphan had made Spenser so eager to please, so determined to elicit a show of emotion from someone as tough and cold-hearted as Chess.

Spenser wanted to be loved.

Oh, for the love of God
. Thinking of Chess’s meaty pectorals with that sprinkling of satiny chest hair had made Spenser’s penis thicken, elongating inside the fleshing costume. Instantly he drew the attention of a knot of men, those special androgynous fellows who usually came into the gallery to admire Spenser and the actor playing Adam. They elbowed each other and pointed, murmuring appreciatively. Spenser noted that Bullet Bob also admired his lengthening tool, so perhaps it wasn’t all a loss. Maybe this would help him get whatever part Bullet Bob thought he’d be suited for.

Yeah. The part of a slave.

“That’s impossible!”

Luckily, Fidelia’s voice from the hallway distracted some attention from his bulging penis. It was odd that the guitar player continued to play while she was talking to him. Even odder still why the guitarist didn’t enter the theater itself.

“I refuse to believe your silly predictions! If you continue to tell me such ridiculous things, how am I supposed to believe your other instructions are true?”

Oddly, the guitarist wasn’t
saying
anything. From where Spenser stood onstage, it merely sounded as though Fidelia were talking to herself.

“Time,” said the bodyguard who stood nearly as immobile as the
poses plastiques
actors.

There was a collective whoosh of relief as the actors melted from their positions and rubbed their aching limbs. A few rays of sunlight entering the theatre through gaps in the wall lit up the scene with a heavenly glow. Spenser was ready to hurl the damned sword at the nearest wall.

Josephine took a bite from Eve’s white-dusted apple, a white dove fluttered its wings against Spenser’s face, and he decided to head for the hallway instead of flapping gums with Bullet Bob about
Hamlet
.

A sight even odder than the
poses plastiques
gallery awaited Spenser in the hallway. Fidelia stood with hands on hips, looking daggers at the guitarist. He was an affable enough fellow, it seemed, if a little bit puffy and pasty-faced. He would have looked cherubic were it not for his unruly and untrimmed muttonchops. The black velvet ribbon did not dress up his ridiculous porkpie hat and only made him look sillier.

None of those things alone were terribly odd. What made Spenser gasp was that the guitarist was transparent.

Spenser could see right through him to the bathhouse door, and several people rushing up and down the hallway
passed right through him
, as though they didn’t even notice him.

Fidelia turned to Spenser and gasped, too. Her face blanched and she lifted a hand to her mouth. “Spenser.”

“Fidelia,” he acknowledged, with equal horror.

Fidelia made no move to hustle the guitarist out of the way of the
poses plastiques
woodland sprite actress who dashed down the hall—to the backhouse, no doubt, where actors who had to pee raced during breaks. Fidelia tried to set a look of normalcy back to her face and shrugged. “I was just out here, you know, preparing the bathhouse for more customers.”

“Yes, I know, but…” Spenser raised a finger to point at the guitarist’s face. The musician seemed to have a permanent and bland smile glued to his mug. “Talking to
this
fellow?”

Fidelia’s eyes widened, and she looked sideways at the guitarist. It was odd that he didn’t move a muscle, as though he were a cardboard cutout propped there. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “To this fellow. Have you met him before?”

“Met him? Isn’t he our new accompanist? Is he here to play background music for the
poses plastiques
show?”

Fidelia grasped Spenser by the arms. “You
see
him!” she cried with relief.

Spenser allowed the barmaid to rattle him about. “Of course I see him. But Fidelia…” Now Spenser gripped her arms, too. He leaned close and whispered, “
He’s transparent.”

“I know!” she cried happily, flinging her arms about. One of her arms went clear through the guitarist with no apparent damage or even a change to his expression. He merely glowed, like an eerie cigar-store Indian. “I know he’s transparent, and I’m so glad you see him, too! No one else has seen him, and I’ve been starting to think I’m going mad!”

Experimentally, Spenser put a hand through the musician’s waistcoat. He could still see his hand, but the gold satin waistcoat fabric closed around it at the wrist. There was a slight resistance, as though he put his hand in a lake, and he even felt eddies emanate from his hand. He withdrew it instantly.

“I
see
him, but…who
is
he?”

Fidelia pulled Spenser into the back storeroom where they kept kegs of liquor and fixings for the hors d’oeuvres they served patrons, giving him only time to snatch up his sword. She didn’t seem to care any longer about the guitar player, and she shoved Spenser back against a cask of olives. He was engulfed in her cinnamon and mint aroma and was beginning to think that Fidelia may have some otherworldly, mystical leanings of her own.

Fidelia glanced from side to side, then fixed Spenser with her intense eyes. “
He’s my brother, Ulrich.
”

Spenser frowned. “What? One night you told us you’d come to Laramie to bury your dead brother. This is a different brother, then? A…
transparent
brother?”

This seemed to please Fidelia. “Yes. Exactly.”

Now it was Spenser’s turn to look from side to side. He wondered if all the absinthe floating in the air had addled his brain. “But Fidelia. He’s…
transparent
. I can see right through him. And no one else seems to see him. They’re walking right through him!”

“Yes!” she exclaimed happily. She even slapped Spenser playfully with the back of her hand. “That’s because he’s a
ghost
, Spenser. Oh,
mein Gott
, am I glad you can see him too!”

Spenser peeled himself from the olive cask and shook Fidelia. “A ghost. So your brother
is
dead, then.”

“Yes. Exactly! Oh, I’m sorry if this doesn’t make much sense. It didn’t make much sense to me at first, either. I was terrified out of my wits when he came to me in Wisconsin in the middle of the night and told me he’d been murdered in Laramie City. Of course there was no one I could cable for confirmation, because Ulrich had wandered away from Wisconsin one night in search of fame as a musician. I didn’t know a single soul in Laramie who could confirm or deny this. Just the fact that his
geist
, you know, his spirit, was standing in my room telling me these things led me to believe he was dead.”

“So you came to Laramie…” Spenser prompted.

“Yes! I ran away—” Fidelia stopped, and once again the color drained from her face. She corrected herself. “I came to Laramie, and of course, after asking around, I met people who did know Ulrich—he was living in a shantytown on the other side of the tracks with other vagabond musicians and traveling showmen. But no one has seen him for over a month.”

Spenser shrugged. “Maybe he moved on.”

Fidelia compressed her mouth into a thin line. “Then how do you explain what you just saw in the hallway?”

She was right. There
was
no explanation for that other than the ridiculous and absurd. “So he has given you clues as to how to find his murderer?”

“Yes. At first all I knew was it had to be someone who came to ‘the place where women pose as Eve,’ so I easily found the Morning Star Gallery. Ulrich told me he’d drink absinthe, so that made perfect sense, since this is the only place in town where they serve that. I was convinced that Chess was the murderer when I searched his room last night and found this pair of enormous spurs—”

“What?” Spenser guffawed. “You rifled through Chess’s room?”

“Yes, but he convinced me he wasn’t the murderer.”

“Enormous spurs?”

“Yes, Chess had a pair of those spurs the size of saucers maybe six inches in diameter, with spikes like nails.”

“Californio spurs. The Spaniards wore those, but I’ve never seen anyone in Wyoming Territory stupid enough to. You have to take them off every time you dismount. I’d suspect Chess too—he’s arrogant and angry enough to murder someone—only he just arrived in town.”

“Right. Today Ulrich has been making things worse by telling me—oh, silly, teasing things. Now I don’t know whether to believe a word he’s saying.”

Fidelia blushed, and a wave of tenderness washed over Spenser. She was confiding her most mortifying and intimate secrets to him. That was a good sign. Spenser grinned seductively, playing upon their new friendship. “What sort of silly things? You can tell me. After all—I must be close to you if I’m the only one who can see his ghost.”