"Wonderful," Potete growled. "I'll make all the arrangements. And I have to say, your demonstration was impressive in every regard. And playing Judge Grout that way-brilliant!"

"I am going straight to h.e.l.l."

"As your lawyer, I advise you that we can beat the charge."

"You'll have to find a new shill for the billet reading," I said. "We can't use Timothy again, but I have other work for him. I'll need him tomorrow night."

"No problem," Potete said. "Any special instructions?"

"Tell him that I am depending upon him for my safety, so he needs to stick close by. But no guns. I don't like guns and can't stand to have them around me."

"Understood."

"Any news from Counselor Sutton?" I asked.

"He has been unusually quiet," Potete said. "If he has a strategy for Monday's hearing, I can't imagine what it might be. Are you still sure we can't contact anybody from Chicago to-"

"I'm sure."

"What about that Sylvestre fellow?"

"I said I was sure."

"All right, Professor, don't bite my head off." Sulking, Potete did an overhand shuffle.

"What can you tell me about Jack Calder?"

"Nothing that will surprise you," Potete said. "With Jack, what you see is what you get. Sure, he's brighter than your average Texan, and good with that Russian on his hip. He's reading the law with Hunnicutt, hoping to go from bounty hunter to barrister. But the law would be a poor choice for Calder, because he may be the only honest man in Dodge City."

"Then what's he doing here?"

"Unlike the rest of us-who came because we were bored, or we didn't fit in back where we came from, or we were just looking to make a quick dollar-Calder came here to make a home. Built one, too, five years back. But somebody else lives in it now."

"Why?"

"Calder said he couldn't stand living in the house, and he couldn't burn it down, so he just walked away from it and began living in a shed back of the law office."

"Why couldn't he live in it?"

"After he built it, he went back to Presidio County in Texas to fetch his wife and child, but they died somewhere along the trail."

"How?"

"Don't know. Jack doesn't talk about it."

"Did he marry again?"

Potete looked at me.

"Forget I asked."

"No, he is not married," Potete said. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I don't know."

He placed the deck in front of me. "Cut the cards for drinks?"

"You first."

The king of spades.

"Can you beat that?"

"No," I said.

I ordered two mezcals.

We clinked our shot gla.s.ses together.

"Arriba, abajo, al centor, al dento!" Potete said, and moved his shot gla.s.s in a curious way, up and down, as if making a blessing. Then he drank down the liquor and grimaced. "Para todo mal mezcal, para todo bien tambien."

For everything bad, there's mezcal.

And for everything good, there's mezcal.

19.

By the time Jim Murdock came back with his homework, it was near dark and the Saratoga was roaring. I wasn't feeling too badly myself, having had three or five more mezcals in the interval. Maybe that's why I gave all of Diamond Jim's money back, except five dollars for overhead.

Jim had folded the letter neatly, in that old-fashioned way that people did before envelopes became common, and had put his sister's name on the outside in a painfully neat hand: KATIE.

"You get it all down?"

He nodded.

I slipped the letter into my vest.

"What now?"

"I will summon the spirits tonight," I said. "Then I will send this letter, through a sort of spiritual postal service."

"Don't you need an address?"

"Summerland has no street numbers."

He nodded. "How will I know that she received it?"

"You'll know," I said. "You'll have a warm feeling in your heart, just as if you've talked to her yourself. It may take a day or two, but it will come, and there may be some sort of sign along with it-something will remind you of the way you and Kathryn were as children, some innocent secret that you shared, and you will be able to go on with your life free from grief, knowing that your beloved sister has survived death."

He reached out and gripped my hand.

I jerked back, because I don't like people touching me, but his young hand was too strong.

"Thank you."

"For G.o.d's sake, don't cry," I said. "Not here, Jim."

Jim dabbed his eyes with his red kerchief.

"Oh, what's this?" a deep voice shouted from across the room. "Is that the famous Diamond Jim Murdock with tears in his eyes?"

I couldn't see who was saying this, because of all the cowboys at the tables around us. It was a regular orgy of gambling, drinking, and a.s.sorted riot. Jim recognized the voice, however.

"Go away, Deger!"

Actually, he didn't say "go away," he said something so coa.r.s.e that I am loath to repeat it here.

"Careful, or I'll have to run you in for drunk and disorderly."

The wall of cowboys disgorged an enormous man, at least three hundred pounds, a marshal's badge pinned to his collar and a small revolver hanging from a couple of yards of cartridge belt that circled his girth. He had a mustache, which needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and he looked, for all the world, like a walrus impersonating a lawman.

"I'm not drunk," Jim said.

"Tell me it ain't so!" Deger said, walking over to the table on legs like tree stumps. "Is there no water in Jordan? No balm in Gilead? I'm surprised the sky has not fallen."

"I'm sorry," I said. "This young man and I were having a conversation."

I may have slurred that last word.

"'Conversation'?" Deger laughed. "You can't even say the word. How much whiskey have you drunk?"

"No whiskey."

"Ah," he said, a fat hand grabbing a chair and dragging it over. He turned it around and straddled it, backward, crossing his arms on top of the back. I could hear the wood protesting under the weight. "I've heard about you, the Spiritualist. What's your name? Kate Bender?"

"They have said so."

Deger waited for me to elaborate, but I disappointed.

"Aren't you going to answer?" he asked. "You are accused of many things."

"I answer to a Higher Authority."

"Well, you're not Jesus Christ, so that must mean district court."

"She's not Kate Bender," Jim blurted. "She's good and kind and-"

"Shut up, Jim," Deger said. "Or I just might run you in for public display of stupidity."

Some cowboys nearby overheard and laughed.

Jim started to rise for battle, but I placed a hand on his arm.

"Think of your sister," I said. "What would she want in this situation?"

"For me to turn the other cheek," he said, ashamed.

"Now, Marshal," I said. "Is there some business you have with me?"

"There's the matter of the city permit," he said. "I usually let my a.s.sistant marshal, Wyatt Earp, handle this sort of thing, but he's been away on business these past few months in Deadwood in the Dakota Territory."

"Ha!" Jim snorted. "Wyatt and his brother used to run a wh.o.r.ehouse south of the tracks on Douglas Street. Back in Wichita, Wyatt nearly shot himself in the leg when he accidently discharged his own piece. And in the Indian Territory, he was arrested for horse theft. Some lawman!"

"You have a big mouth, Jim."

"I'm just saying what everybody already knows."

"Leave us," Deger said. "I'll deal with you later."

Jim looked at me for direction.

"Go on," I said. "But remember your promise. Go straight to the depot and send that telegraph."

Deger swiveled his head to watch him go, and his fat cheeks and bulging eyes reminded me of a bulldog.

"Drink?" I asked.

"I quit drinking," Deger said. From his pocket, he took a tin of chocolates, opened it, and plucked one from the nest of wrappers. His eyes closed as he chewed.

"What about this permit?"

"The permit," he said, opening his eyes.

"I'm sure Mister Potete can take care of that."

"No," he said, still chewing. "This is not that kind of permit."

"You mean, it's not a legal permit. It's a 'shakedown,' or whatever you'd like to call it."

"I call it 'the cost of doing business,'" Deger said, then swallowed. "And it seemed like business was pretty good at the opera house the other night. I reckon about fifty dollars would make us square."

"For the whole week or just last night?"