“And no one will bother me.”
“Of course not, sir. Of course.” He reached under the counter for a key and slid it across the bar. Ricardo took it gratefully. Only a few more moments and he could collapse. Worry about blood tomorrow.
He turned to the stairs, and out of the corner of his eye saw the faro dealer nod to his players, stand, and nonchalantly make his way over, as if he just happened to want a stroll across the room at that moment, and they just happened to meet at the base of the stairs. The man glanced into the tumbler of whiskey he held, swirling the amber liquid. He also held a handkerchief, which he’d coughed into a couple of times already. Lungs rotting from the inside out—Ricardo could smell it.
Ricardo waited. The man obviously wanted to say something.
“Remind me never to sit down to cards with you, sir,” he said finally. His grin seemed amused.
So, the faro dealer noticed that, did he? Ricardo hadn’t planned on playing cards; most games of chance weren’t, and he wasn’t interested. But did this man really understand what he had seen? The hair on the back of Ricardo’s neck stood up. “I’m not much for cards myself.”
“Your wisdom impresses me.”
The gambler stood out with his precise way of speaking, his polite bearing, and his fine clothes. Shirt starched, jacket pressed, tie neatly knotted. He drew the eye, a calm pool in the grungy saloon. A man like him didn’t have to go out and dirty himself in the mines and the town, when people would come to him and hand over their money.
“Thank you, Mr.— ”
“Doctor, if you please, sir. Doctor John Holliday.” The handkerchief disappeared in a pocket, and he held a hand for shaking.
Ricardo knew that name. Everyone knew that name. “A pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine. Gratifying, meeting a fellow man of manners way out here.”
“Indeed. My name is Ricardo Avila.”
“You are from Mexico?”
“Spain.” Really, though, he’d only spent the first seventeen years of his life in Spain, and the next two centuries in Mexico. He sometimes said the latter, when the situation warranted. In this place, he judged it would be better to be from Spain. “Though I have not been back there in some time.”
“Won’t you have a drink with me, sir? I suspect you have some fine tales to tell of your recent travels.” He gestured at his whiskey, nodded to a chair, and Ricardo lamented that it was sunrise. He was dead on his feet, nearly.
“My deep apologies, sir. I need to rest after the night I’ve had. Can I take up your invitation tonight?”
“Just after sunset, maybe?” Holliday suggested.
And wasn’t this ominous? Ricardo had to remember to draw breath in order to answer, “That’ll do nicely.”
“Tonight then, sir.”
Holliday watched him rush up the stairs.
As he’d been informed, the closet had a bed, a chair, barely enough room to navigate around both—and no windows.
Ricardo locked the door, propped the chair in front of it for good measure, and collapsed just as the coming day pulled him out of consciousness. Somehow, he’d made it through another night.
Hours later, the sun set, and he awoke in darkness, uncertain where he was until he retraced his steps. He’d had to kill Bandita. He’d managed to find shelter. And Doc Holliday was dealing faro in the saloon downstairs.
Well then.
His veins burned, his mind throbbed. He didn’t get hungry, but his heart gaped, empty. He’d gone several days without new blood. The situation would not stand—he could feel every heart in the place. The saloon had filled with patrons. He didn’t just hear their voices echoing against the floorboards. He could hear their hot, beating hearts, and he wanted them all.
He had not lasted this long by not being very careful at times like these.
Even without windows or a lantern, he could see a little. He straightened his clothing, rubbed a hand on his stubbled face. He needed to get cleaned up. He took the chair away and carefully opened the door to look out in the hallway. Fortunately, he only had to wait a moment before the matronly woman from last night appeared, climbing up the stairs.
“Oh sir! You’re awake! Been waiting to hear from you—you were quiet as the dead in there.”
“No doubt,” he said. “If I could trouble you for a few things? A lantern maybe, some water?”