be serving time.”
“Let's hope you're right,” said Holliday without smiling.
He finished his drink, got to his feet, stopped by the desk long enough to leave a note for Roosevelt to meet him at Edison's house at noon the next day, and went up to his room, where he had another coughing fit. When it had passed, he looked out the window to see if any of the birds or bats looked like an Apache in disguise, decided they looked like birds and bats, and went to sleep.
There was blood all over his pillow when he awoke, which was becoming a regular occurrence these days. Sometime during the night, while he was sleeping, he'd had another coughing seizure, but not bad enough to bring him to instant wakefulness, and he'd coughed up blood on the pillow and bed linens.
He got up, climbed into his clothes, and left a quarter on the pillow to pay for it, for the blood had seeped through and he knew they wouldn't use it again. Then he descended the stairs to the main floor. He pulled his watch out, checked the time, decided he could either have breakfast or get a shave, decided that he couldn't take the sight or smell of food this early in the day, and opted for the shave.
“Morning, Doc,” said the barber with a big smile.
“What's causing that shit-eating grin?” asked Holliday as he seated himself in the chair.
“Johnny Behan,” answered the barber. “You put a real scare into him, so he showed up at nine this morning for a shave, because he knows you sleep until early afternoon.” A pause. “Matter of fact, you're a little early today.”
“I thought maybe you'd like a tooth pulled,” answered Holliday, leaning back and closing his eyes.
“I might, if I had any left,” said the barber. “These things in my mouth were all the tusks of an elephant or hippo or something half a world away.”
“Or a cow from the next town,” replied Holliday.
“Makes no difference to me, as long as I can bite into a steak over at Sarah's Restaurant. You been there since you got back to town?”
“Not yet.”
“You ought to go,” urged the barber. “Not only does she make one hell of a steak, but she's got photos of you and the Earps and the O.K. Corral plastered all over the wall. I'll bet she'd give you a couple of free meals if she could advertise that you've eaten there.”
“I'll look into it,” promised Holliday, though he knew he wouldn't.
“Okay,” said the barber, spreading the lather and producing a razor. “Don't laugh or stick your tongue out.”
“I'll try not to,” said Holliday.
Five minutes later he was clean-shaven except for his mustache. He paid the barber, told him to tell Behan that now that he knew Behan's schedule he was thinking of showing up at nine o'clock in the morning for his shave, though of course he had no more intention of getting up early than of eating at Sarah's, and then he was out the door and on his way to Edison's house.
He arrived a couple of minutes later, walked up to the door, and waited for it to recognize him and swing open. Then he walked into the living room, where Edison, Buntline, and Roosevelt were all waiting for him.
“I see you survived,” said Edison. “Of course, we knew you had, because of the message you left for Theodore. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“Maybe later,” said Holliday. “We have things to talk about first.” He looked around the room.
“Is something wrong?”
Holliday shook his head. “No, nothing. But Geronimo should be part of this. I was hoping he was busy being a bird or a cat, hanging around just outside the window.”
Buntline got up and walked to the window, then shook his head. “Nope, there's nothing out there.”
“What the hell, he was probably watching every minute of it last night.”
“So tell us about it,” said Buntline. “Did you learn anything?”
Holliday nodded. “A bit.” He turned to Roosevelt. “I learned that he was created to kill Theodore Roosevelts. His eyes seek out Roosevelts, his hands are shaped to choke Roosevelts, his teeth are uniquely suited for biting off Rooseveltian ears, his—”
“Spare us your flights of fancy,” interrupted Roosevelt. “What, exactly, happened?”
“He tried to kill me, and he couldn't, and I tried to kill him, and I couldn't,” answered Holliday. “His skin is impervious to my bullets.”
“Surely you're not impervious to his blows,” said Roosevelt.
“Well, you know, that's the