Dry Weather ~Doc Holliday FanFiction~

Chapter 9

Smoke was in the air. I coughed and stumbled to the bar. Milt was there in his usual position, wiping down the dark wood. I eased my way closer and tugged at his shirt.

"M-milt?" I slurred his name and tilted my head low with a smirk. He turned to look at me and immediately raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah? And what are you pulling on my sleeve for, huh?" He questioned me with a stern look about him. "You've got that look, haven't ya?"

"Well, I have a job don't I? I came to work. Here I am." I scoffed and hiccupped. "Jesus, Milt. You want me to play for you too?"

"Hell, maybe. My old pianist quit. Had enough of the vagrants, I guess. But you're obviously too goddamn drunk to even count the keys."

"Milton?"

He sighed. "What is it?"

"Please, don't make me play. I'm not very good with crowns- crowds." I whispered pathetically to him.

"Right, umm... No- I won't" he turned to grab a glass from the opposite side of the bar. Oh, thank God. I only remember the first half of the Can Can anyway. I thought I heard him mutter something with an amused tone, but then again, I couldn't even tell right from left.

In truth, I did actually know quite a few pieces for the piano, not that my drunkenness knew that, of course. I wasn't a virtuoso or even proficient, just mildly adequate. I memorized a few pieces from my childhood and always resorted to reciting those when the circumstance called for it. Some were romantic songs, Chopin's nocturnes, Liszt's 'Liebestraum', and others were earlier than that; Bach; Vivaldi. Nothing more than that, a small repertoire, but slightly impressive in its contents. If not, when I was feeling particularly creative I would improvise an extremely basic tune, usually of the waltz variety. However, I hadn't played in a few months, so the result of me doing so promised to be very ugly. I did not plan to perform without a bit of practice beforehand.

My eyes wandered from Milt, who was slowly walking back towards me, across the people in The Oriental. There was a faro table, a monumental source of income and continuously subjected to large gatherings of people. If you weren't interested in playing then you were interested in watching, and, if you weren't interested in watching, you were, whether you liked it or not, always going to witness the aftermath of the gambling. Sometimes it was quite hideous, fighting and obnoxious quarreling, but other times, the dealer managed to maintain some sort of civility between the players. I knew that the dealer was one of the Earp brothers. Which one, I did not know. He was from Kansas, a peace officer from Dodge County. I never cared to introduce myself, which seemed slightly rude because I was his co-worker in most respects, but it didn't matter to me. I was sure we would meet eventually.

It was a Sunday night, making it our busiest night of the week. Everyone had their day off and wanted to spend it at one of Tombstone's finest establishments. There was significant competition between the saloons in town, especially the ones that resided on Allen and 5th Street. There were four of them on that corner, each beckoning their customers to choose them instead of their competitors. This was never a significant problem for The Oriental though. We attracted a wide enough clientele to compensate for all of the saloons. "There's never a glass left empty" as Milt had stated many times. He took pride in his catering skills.

I finally shifted my attention, or at least as much as I could, to Milt as he snapped his fingers loudly in my face. I blinked with unnecessary force and smiled like an ignorant idiot.

"Yes, sir?" I giggled.

"Please, Miss Clarke, just get something done." He groaned with annoyance and put his hand on my arm. "Don't come here like this again. It ain't healthy for you." He let me go and hurried me towards the main dining room with his hands.

I pushed my way through the crowd of people, occasionally tripping or nearly getting trampled. Usually I had a specific task that was entitled to me during working hours, cleaning, cooking, mixing drinks, and so on; but that night I was so far from sanity that I aimlessly wandered around the room in search of some direction. I felt that one of our patrons would give me instruction. I stopped at the faro table and prayed that someone needed something. If I didn't busy myself, Milt would surely have my head.

No one. Not a word. Admittedly, I didn't look like I was employed there, but even so, I was expecting orders to overwhelm me. I was too drunk to understand how a saloon worked.

I gasped under my breath. I recognized one of the men at the table. He was pale and wasn't wearing his signature black hat or cloak. I unintentionally took note of his outfit, a red waistcoat and darker ascot were the defining features. It didn't take a terribly long time for me to decide to take matters into my own feeble and incompetent hands.

I giggled once again before beginning my verbal tangent, "Friends! Yes, you all! My dearest c-companions, please, don't be so horribly shy... Drinks for all and-" I hiccupped with an embarrassingly high pitch, "meals for you hungry plebeians. Get some of the good stuff, Milt!" I concluded my solo with a flourish and a bow, immensely pleased with myself for my generosity.

The saloon went quiet. A man a few tables down coughed awkwardly and shifted in his seat. Everybody was staring at me, some with a slack jaw (in what seemed to be the deepest shock imaginable) and others wide eyed with interest. No one seemed very delighted, which I thought was exceptionally odd, until a young man, who was leaning against the piano, stood upright and quietly squeaked, "no charge, ma'am?"

I stood there in contemplative silence for a moment, almost forgetting what my offer was. There was about a three foot gap that had developed between me and everyone else, but it slowly began to shrink as they took small steps forward with curiosity, waiting for my response.

"Umm... Yes- yes, absolutely." I confirmed with a bright grin.

There was silence for a split second while my onlookers processed my statement, then, absolute and rabid chaos. Chaos of the unorganized type, not frightening. Cheers erupted from every nook and cranny of the room. Some of them gave me brief handshakes before heading directly to the bar. I received many dramatic declarations of gratitude. A few pedestrians from outside had heard what I said and joined the ever growing group of thirsty customers at the bar. The faro table lost a few of its players and the dealer shook his head in amusement.

I felt happier than ever at this development. I was suddenly the most desirable person in the room, with parading cowboys yelping in delight at my heels. It was wonderful and I laughed and hiccupped in excitement. In my ecstasy, I found my way back to the bar where most of the commotion had migrated. I was lazily leaning against the bar, feeling proud and honorable. In the midst of excited chatter, Milt approached me from the other side of the counter. He gestured for me to lean towards him.

"And you're payin' for this?" he whispered urgently. "I hope you are. I don't want this to be a misdemeanor on your part and you know it."

"Milton, don't be ridiculous, I'm not paying. I c-couldn't afford this in a million years!" I yelled in his ear. He shrunk back with pain and surprise at my volume and questioned me for the second time.

"Who the hell's payin'? Who?" He became slightly frustrated. There was the possibility that he expected this to come out The Orientals pocket.

"Well, you see that ugly man over there?" I pointed to the faro table. It was The Stranger in the Night (who was rather the opposite of ugly, but I refused to admit it) who sat dignified amongst the remaining players. "It's him. He's paying, Milt. I assure you."

"Whatever you say, Miss Clarke. Whatever you say." He said quietly. "And you oughta watch your mouth, you know, that there is Doc Holliday."