Part 17 (1/2)

”Yeah, sure, of course. Whatever you say. Naturally. I mean, there's no need to get yourself in a tizzy.”

”I am not in a tizzy. I have never been in a tizzy in my life.”

Quagmire of a mind.

Swamp, Oscar thought. Swamp would've been better. Has it even once penetrated that swamp you call a mind.

Still, all in all, it had gone off very well.

Poor Vail had been absolutely terrified. As well he should've been. He had revealed himself as possessing the mind of a ferret. He deserved defenestration.

Has it once penetrated that bog you call a mind.

Swamp. Yes.

”Mistuh Oscar,” said Henry. ”This 'pears to be the place, ahead here.”

Oscar looked. Ahead, on the right side of the narrow dirt roadway, a ragged crowd of ragged people was sluggishly milling about, slowly eddying before a tiny gray ramshackle building where three blue-clad policemen stood morose silent guard.

”Police not gonna let you in there, Mr. Oscar,” Henry said.

”No, of course not. What we want now is a public house.” He leaned forward and called to the driver, ”Is there a saloon nearby?”

Over his shoulder, the driver grumbled in a sour voice, ”And how would I be knowin'? This bein' me first time in this h.e.l.lhole of a place?”

The Irish, Oscar thought. Ever amiable.

”Do you suppose you could find one?”

The man grumbled, shrugged.

Oscar sat back. If anyone could locate an establishment where whiskey was served, even in h.e.l.l, it was an Irishman.

Oscar looked around. h.e.l.lhole was in fact an apt description.

He had been silent throughout the trip, fuming, still furious at Vail, looking up only now and then to notice vaguely that the streets were growing more narrow, the houses more slovenly and shoddy.

But this, this Shantytown, this was worse than anything in London, worse than Spitalfields or Whitechapel. There the buildings, squalid though they might be, were at least made of brick and stone; here they had been thrown together, hastily, with bits of tin and tarpaper and strips of mismatched timber clearly torn from packing crates. Some of the structures had been painted, quickly, slapdash; but all of them were coated with a dull coat of grime that seemed, despite the temporary character of the buildings themselves, ageless and ineradicable. Looming in the alleyways and empty lots between the buildings were piles of rubble and rubbish-empty liquor bottles, tin cans florid with rust.

The sky overhead, which in the rest of Denver had promised rain, here threatened apocalypse. A thick, shapeless, yellow-gray fug lay over everything, leaching away the light and stinking of sulfur.

The wind had begun to blow, moaning and whistling as it swept around the shanties, sending sc.r.a.ps of paper tumbling down the desolate roadway; but it left untouched the blanket of gray overhead.

How, in a country so rich in resource and promise, could a place like this exist? How could anyone permit it to exist?

The carriage pulled up alongside a low rambling wooden edifice which was as dreary and dingy as the rest, but which had apparently been constructed with some small hope of permanence. A thin yellow light quivered behind the two small windows in the clapboard front. Over the door, swaying in the wind, a weathered wooden sign identified it as the Devil Dog Saloon.

The driver turned, his wrinkled red face pinched with displeasure. ”Two dollars,” he said.

Oscar took the money from the pocket of his topcoat and handed it to the man. ”Would you mind waiting until we return?”

The man snorted. ”Wait? Around here? Are ye daft? Close me eyes for a minute and some ruffian will be off with me wheels and me horse. Ye wanted Shanty town, where the poor bawd got herself killed, and here ye are, and that's an end to it. I'll be off now, and good day to ye.”

Oscar smiled. ”You'll be a Galway man, by your voice.”

The driver narrowed his eyes. ”Will I now? And just why, exactly, would you be thinkin' that?”

”I've connections there. To the O'Flaherties and the O'Flynns.”

”Course you do,” said the driver. ”And me own b.l.o.o.d.y name is Prince b.l.o.o.d.y Albert. Pull the other one, why don't ye.”

The wind snapped at Oscar's hair. ”The name is Wilde. OscarFingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. You've heard of my mother, perhaps. Jane Francesca Wilde. Speranza.”

Still dubious, the driver said, ”The poet lady? Of Dublin?”

”The very one.”

”And how is it, then, that ye talk with a mouthful o' b.l.o.o.d.y English plums?”

”Ah well,” Oscar smiled. ”The result of a youth misspent at Oxford University.”

The driver considered for a moment. Then he said, ”Speranza's son? You'd not be lyin' to me?”

Oscar smiled. ”May the good Lord strike me dead in my boots.”

The driver suddenly grinned. ”Well, why din't ye say so?” He swiveled farther around on his seat and stuck out his hand. ”O'Hara. Benjamin J. O'Hara. Of Galway and Denver.”

Oscar shook the hand and the driver leaned toward him, his face abruptly serious. ”But now listen, young Mr. Wilde. This shebeen here, 'tis a nasty place, not fit for decent folk. There are hard men hereabouts, thieves and killers and the like. I've heard me some terrible stories.”

”It can't be helped, I'm afraid. I've some business to transact. But there's a fiver in it for you, Mr. O'Hara, if you'll wait the carriage for us.”

”Git away with your fiver. Take money, would I, just for standin' about? No, I'll be waitin' for ye, never fear. And if ye find yerself in some difficulty, you just give me a holler and I'll come runnin'.”

”I'm sure of it.” Oscar turned. ”Henry, shall we go?”

Henry, his face as expressionless as always, looked from Oscar to the driver and then back to Oscar. ”Yes suh, Mr. Oscar.”

PLEASE INFORM ME ANY RECENT DEATHS PROSt.i.tUTES YOUR AREA.

Short and sweet, thought Grigsby.

He looked up from the sheet of paper, sipped at the bourbon in his half-full water gla.s.s, and called out, ”Carver?”

Through the closed door, he heard a sharp clunk from the anteroom as the legs of the deputy's tilted chair slammed to the wooden floor. The chair squeaked against the floor, chalk on blackboard, and a moment later the door opened and Carver Peckingham loped into Grigsby's narrow office, brus.h.i.+ng lank brown hair from his eyes with thin eager fingers.

”Yes sir?”

Grigsby sat back in his chair. ”I got a job for you. Couple jobs.”

”Yes sir?” Tall and slump-shouldered, the deputy stood at eager near attention in front of Grigsby's desk. One thing about Carver-he wasn't any great shakes when it came to brains, but he was eager as all get-out.