‘What do you mean, “would be”? His name
‘Well then, that’s who I’m talkin’ about.’
‘You’re really pissing me off, brother, I told you, that’s
‘If you don’t say anything, nobody’ll know.’
‘I’m proud of that fuckin’ dog, man.’
‘Then you’re dumber than he is.’
‘Maybe you’d like to gum your dinner tonight. Maybe you’d like to pick your teeth up off the floor and carry them home in your pocket.’
‘Yeah, and maybe you’d like me to pull your tongue down and tie it to your dick.’
‘Lord God a’mighty, you must be having a lucky day. You must think this is the luckiest fuckin’ day in your lousy, worthless, fuckin’ life.’
‘I don’t need luck to grind you into the street and make a big ugly spot out of you.’
‘I hope you’ve made your peace with God. I hope you’ve kissed that wart-faced, fat, smelly old whore of a mother of yours Ah-dee-fuckin’-
‘Shit, I don’t know how you lived this long, somebody hasn’t parked a sixteen-wheel goddamn Mack truck in that ugly fuckin’ mouth of yours, it’s big enough, that’s for damn sure.’
‘I’ll kick your ass all the way back to King Tut’s court. I’ll kick you right outa this century.’
‘Well then, why don’t just get to it, motor mouth.’
‘Kiss this sweet earth farewell, motherfucker.’
‘That’ll be the day, you stand-short, rubber-muscled dipshit.’
‘Why don’t you stop talkin’ and start fightin’.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for, you little dork, a goddamn band or somethin’. Goddamn fireworks. Goddamn invitation from the fuckin’ president.’
‘Listen, they friends most time,’ Sy confided to Hatcher. ‘I bring Amehrikaan tourist here alla time, they buddies usually.’
‘Most time.’
The white man tied the big dog to one of the posts in front of the Longhorn and struck a classic boxing pose, holding one fist close to his face, snapping his nose with his thumb and shooting his other arm out tauntingly.
‘Get serious, Potter,’ the black man said with a smile. ‘I’ll whack you into the sidewalk, won’t be nuthin showin’ but the top of your miserable head.’
‘Well, get at it, Corkscrew, get at it,’ the man called Potter said, dancing about.
A large man with shoulders like a bison’s stepped out of the Longhorn and stood with his bands on a waist the size of a ballet dancer’s. He had snow-white hair and a white handlebar mustache, and he wore cowboy boots and jeans and a holster with a .357 Python jammed in it.
Hatcher watched the display with open-mouthed awe. What we got here is a time warp, he thought to himself.
The white-haired man stepped between Potter and Corkscrew and laid a gentle hand on their shoulders. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked?
‘He’s making fun of my dog,’ Potter snapped. The white-haired man looked at the dog and smothered a laugh of his own.
‘You know what that dog’s name is?’ asked the black man, still struggling to keep from laughing. ‘Otis. Otis, for God’s sake. His name’s enough to make a grown man cry.’
Potter struggled to get at him and the big man pushed him gently back.
‘Just take it easy, Benny,’ the white-haired man said. ‘Come in, I’ll buy you both a drink. You can leave Otis tied up there on the post.’
Benny looked stricken.
‘Somebody’ll steal him,’ he said, panic in his voice. Corkscrew broke out in gales of laughter, but the white- haired man tried to be diplomatic. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think anybody’ll steal your dog.’
‘Not unless they’re real, real hungry,’ said Corkscrew through laughter that was approaching tears.
‘Damn it, Corkscrew, I’ve had enough!’ Benny roared.
‘Aw hell, c’mon,’ Corkscrew said,
The white-haired man herded them both into the saloon. Otis watched them go, then flopped down on the sidewalk, snorted, and fell sound asleep.
‘Who’s the big guy with the—’ Hatcher said, twirling his fingers at the corners of his mouth.
‘Mr Mustache? That is Earp,’ Sy answered.
‘Earp?’
Sy nodded once emphatically.
