The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“What are you talking about?”

“Maps of bloodshed. Often when you play a town, a girl disappears or dies.”

Barrett said, “But we played head to head with Alias Jimmy Valentine in most venues. Go talk to them.”

“I have appointments to interview Mr. Vietor and Mr. Lockwood as soon as we wrap up our conversation with just a few more details.”

“You can’t print that nonsense.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Smith. “At least not yet.”

Buchanan spoke in a voice trembling with emotion. “We are carrying eighty people. Eighty people whose jobs depend on this tour continuing.”

Scudder Smith said, “I sympathize with every one of them. I’ve lost many a job in my life.”

Jackson Barrett said coldly, “I hope you’ll remember that when you get closer to ‘yet.’”

“Of course I will,” said Scudder Smith. “I am not a stone. Where did you say that Hamlet was playing when you met?”

“A godforsaken hole out west,” said Buchanan. “In the endless wastes between Denver and San Francisco.”

“Mr. Skinner warned those who would jump ship, ‘The Rocky Mountains are littered with the bones of actors attempting to get home to New York.’”

“Where, exactly, out west?”

“Butte, Montana. In a tent.”

“Of course, you’d already acted in New York before you met? Both of you?”

“If a platform stood a single step above the sidewalk and had a bedsheet for a curtain, we played it,” said Jackson Barrett.

“What year did you first act in New York?”

John Buchanan swept to his feet, saying, “You’ve entertained us far too long, Mr. Smith. Thank you for your time. We are so glad you liked our play.”

The publicist opened the door.

Smith closed his notebook and stood up with a gleam in his eye that suggested the morning’s work was done. “Oh—I almost forgot. Sorry. Just one more question. Where were you gentlemen born?”

“Under a cabbage leaf.”

“In a stork’s nest.”

Scudder Smith laughed dutifully. “But our readers would love to know more about your backgrounds.”

“They may read about them when we write our memoirs,” said Barrett, and they swept Smith out the door.

“If you’re in need of a ghostwriter,” Smith called over his shoulder, “I’m your man,” and added for the publicist, “Why wait ’til they’re old men? L

et their admirers read the memoirs of spectacular actors in the full tide of life.”

The publicist walked him to the stage door, musing, “I could imagine paying a ghostwriter.”

“I don’t come cheap.”

“We would match your rate—provided the New York Sun, the Denver Post, and the San Francisco Inquirer never print the phrases ‘map of bloodshed,’ ‘murdered girls,’ ‘launched in blood,’ nor the word ‘jinx.’”

Scudder Smith went straight to Central Union Station. In a far corner across the passenger hall an unmarked doorway led to the private car platforms. A burly railroad cop blocked the way.