Ben Rittenauer stood in the street across from the hotel and looked up at the fourth floor window, the one where the desk clerk said Beth and Frank Evans were staying. A kerosene lamp burned beyond the gauzy white curtains, and once or twice he’d glimpsed the silhouette of a woman passing quickly by the window. He’d felt sick and exhilarated alike. Twice a uniformed policeman walked by the comer where Rittenauer stood, taking suspicious note of the stranger standing there.
It was getting late now. Everything but a few saloons was closed up. Fog in silver tatters floated down the streets. Inside the fog you could hear footsteps on the board sidewalks, and the occasional sounds of lovers laughing about something to each other. A huge clock mounted on a pole outside the jeweler’s chimed loudly at midnight. Far away a single surrey worked its way home, the hoofslaps of its one horse lonely in the silver gloom. The fog made everything dreamy and unreal. Rittenauer stood there staring up at the fourth floor window, having absolutely no idea what to do with not only this evening but with his entire life. Being heartsick made him like this, crazed and frantic in a quiet way.
The third time he passed by, the policeman said, “You got business here?”
“I’m just getting some air.”
“You keep looking up at the hotel.”
“I suppose I do.”
“I’d like to know why.”
Rittenauer sighed. “There’s a woman up there.”
“Oh?”
“A woman I know.”
“Why don’t you go up and see her then?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s with somebody.”
The policeman raised his eyes to the fourth floor, third window from the right. The silhouette was there again. Beth.
“Yeah, she might complain,” the policeman said.
“Complain?”
“Look down and see you standing here and complain. You’ve been here a long time. She’s apt to get frightened.”
The policeman, who had a belly beneath his blue uniform with the smart gold buttons, wore a wide creaking holster and a pair of stylish fawn-pink gloves. He tugged the gloves on tighter now, as if he were going to punch Rittenauer. “You don’t take a hint very well, do you?”
“Huh?”
“I’m asking you to move on.”
“Oh.”
The policeman stared at him. “Now.”
“Oh. Right.”
Rittenauer took one more look up at the window. He felt sick to his stomach. She was so close. In a minute or two he could be at her room. He had so many things to say. Soft and loving things, hard and bitter things. He wanted to hold her and feel her and taste her. He wanted her to be the way she’d been back in the days when he’d been the peacekeeper in the infamous Kansas City saloon where everybody from the Earp brothers to Wild Bill took time to get drunk.
Being a gunfighter wasn’t in itself lucrative, but when you were a gunfighter of some repute, rich and powerful people always wanted to hire you for something or other. Rich and powerful people seemed to like gunfighters as much as young kids did. You could sit with a rich man and he’d buy you steaks and drinks all night, and maybe even get you a woman or two. Just as long as you kept playing hard at being the tough and fearless gunfighter he wanted you to be. You never told him about the night before a gun-fight, how you paced and prayed and sweated, or about the aftermath sometimes, how you couldn’t quit shaking till way into the next day. They wanted to believe that you were brave and fearless, and so that’s how you played it for them.
“You hear me?” the policeman said. “About moving on?”
Rittenauer, moving his gaze from the window to the policeman’s doughy, middle-aged face said, “I hear you.”
And then Rittenauer, too, was just invisible footsteps on the board sidewalk in the silver floating fog.
He didn’t even really look at the place or anybody in it while he downed three shots of whiskey and two glasses of beer. When he saw that one drunk was in the process of recognizing him, he turned his face away. He was in no mood to amuse hayseeds with tales of gun battles.
Rittenauer was in the place an hour. He didn’t feel any better when he left but he did have an idea anyway. Tonight, this very moment, he was going to speak his piece, and if Beth didn’t like it or Frank Evans didn’t like it, he didn’t give a damn.
He walked straight over to the hotel.
Except for an old man sleeping in a chair, the lobby was empty. The young desk clerk was reading a magazine when Rittenauer walked past.
The desk clerk looked up. “Hey.”
“Pardon me?”
“You got business upstairs?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What sort of business?”
“Seeing a friend.”
“What friend?”
Rittenauer walked over to the desk. “Son, do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. Because if you did know who I was, you wouldn’t be taking that tone with me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t, huh?”
“No, you wouldn’t. I’m Ben Rittenauer.”
And it worked. Just like that it worked. Rittenauer didn’t even have to drop his hand to the .44 strapped around his waist. He just spoke his name and watched the reaction.
“You really are?” The desk clerk now sounded as young as he looked.
“I really am.”
“I’ll be dogged.”
“Now I’d like to go upstairs if you don’t mind.”
“All I ask is you don’t get me in trouble. Don’t shoot anybody or anything.”
“Right.”
“I’m really glad to meet you, Mr. Rittenauer.”
“Right.”
Rittenauer went upstairs.
Beyond the doors were the sounds of coughing, of nightmares, of snoring. Beyond the doors drummers lay lonely, long-married couples lay sleeping with a familiar hand planted fondly on a familiar hip, and young married couples lay making love. He felt separate from all this. He had his anger now, his need to tell her everything that was constantly exploding in his head and heart.
He found their door and put his head to it and listened. And heard nothing. They were sleeping.
He wanted to ease open the door, go in there and slap the hell out of Evans, and then take her by the arm and drag her down the stairs and out of this place forever.
His hand touched the doorknob. Started to turn it. His heart hammered. He was eager to get inside.
And then he heard the footsteps creaking down the hall. He turned to see this slender and very pretty woman standing there. She had an odd, almost crazy smile on her face and she said, “I see we both got the same idea.”
“Ma’am?”
“Go in there and tell them what we think of them. Make them just as miserable as they’ve made us.”
“Ma’am?”
The woman took a few steps closer to him. “You’re Ben Rittenauer. I’m Sarah Evans. I’m Frank’s wife.”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”