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“Take my hand.”
She does.
“Here we go.”
WE COME OUT by Wild Bill’s bar near the street market in Pandemonium’s western hinterlands. Only the street market isn’t there anymore. Just half-collapsed tents, overturned tables, and oil drums full of charred garbage. The sad red rain slicks over everything, turning the rows between the deserted stalls to mud.
Cindil drops my hand and takes a step back.
“What just happened?”
“We took a shortcut across town. It’s just a trick I can do.”
She looks at me, her hair matting down around her face.
“You’re a weird guy, you know?”
“That’s going to be my epitaph. You want to get out of this rain?”
I point to the bar. She heads over and we go inside.
I want to say that the place is usually crowded at this time of day, but I don’t know what time it is in Hell or Earth. Still, there’s usually some kind of crowd. Not tonight, today, whatever. A lone soldier from one of Hell’s legions sits by himself nursing the Hellion equivalent of beer. He barely glances up as we come in.
Hank Williams is on the jukebox singing “The Devil’s Train.” The man smoking a cigar behind the counter is tall and lean, with shoulder-length hair and a serious mustache. His name is James Butler Hickok. Wild Bill Hickok to his friends and enemies. We’re blood, separated by around seven generations. He looks up when he sees us. Puts out his hand when we get close to him. He and I shake. Bill isn’t a hugging kind of guy. He takes a look at Cindil and gets a bottle from beneath a bar, sets down three glasses, and pours us all a drink of the good stuff. As good as it gets in Hell.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about your grandpappy.”
“Not with that mustache,” I say.
He runs a knuckle under it, straightening it with pride.
We down our shots. Cindil has a hand around hers but hasn’t picked it up.
“Who’s your quiet friend?” says Wild Bill.
“I wanted to introduce you two.”
I turn to her.
“Cindil Ashley, this is Wild Bill Hickok. Wild Bill, this is Cindil Ashley.”
He puts a hand out to her. She takes it and they shake.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, young lady,” he says.
She just looks at him.
“Wild Bill Hickok. Like in the movies?”
“One and the same,” he says, not shy about his fame. “Born in Illinois. Sheriff, scout for the Union Army, shootist, gambler, and murdered dead as corn bread in Deadwood, South Dakota.”
Cindil smiles a little.
“I make donuts,” she says. “I used to paint and play bass, but not so much anymore.”
“You play bass?” I say. “I wish you could meet my friend Candy. She needs a bass player.”
“Is she down here too?”
