Outside the hotel, a man was singing a plaintive song about a woman's soul that no one, not even the lover he was singing to, was able to comprehend. The man's voice made it seem as if he was drowning or committing suicide inside someone else's dream.
Zebulon stood up with no idea where he was going or what he wanted to do. He was halfway out the door when Delilah called out to him.
"I thought you were dead."
Her eves focused on the Colt holstered around his waist, then shifted to the fifteen-inch Green River bowie knife tied to his right thigh, then to his Mexican trousers with silver buttons down the sides, his black sombrero, and finally, the bright blue serape that matched the color of his startled eyes.
"You seem to have recovered," she said. "My congratulations."
As he took a step towards her, she crossed both hands in front of her breasts. Help me, her gesture implied. And… whatever you do, stay away.
As impulsively as she had called out, she turned away, leaving him staring at Ivan, her companion that he remembered from the card game in the saloon. He wore a white flat-brimmed felt hat tilted over one side of his face and the same black cape was draped over his shoulders. Walking back and forth across the lobby in yellow hand-tooled leather boots, he banged a silverhandled cane on the floor, his voice rising as he argued in Spanish over the availability of the hotel's honeymoon suite, which, he claimed, he had booked three weeks before. The clerk threw up his hands, shouting that there was no record. Nada. Nada. Nada. There never was and there never had been. The only room was on the second floor facing the street. It was their choice. Take it or leave it. He had nothing more to say
Zebulon walked across the room as if pulled by an invisible rope. "Give them what they signed up for," he said to the clerk. "Or deal with one malo loco gringo. Conprende?"
Grabbing the clerk by the collar, he lifted him over the counter and dropped him to the floor. Then he removed the Colt from his belt and pointed it at the clerk's forehead, pulling back the hammer.
The clerk handed over the keys and yelled for a porter to carry the guests' luggage to the presidential suite rnuy pronto.
Before the porter could rush over, Ivan handed the key to Delilah, who seemed, by her controlled passivity, to have been through this kind of situation before.
Without a word, she picked up two bulging leather suitcases and hauled them up the winding staircase, leaving a bag and a wooden cello case behind.
The man in the black cape bowed to Zebulon. "I see that you found a way to survive." He paused, extending his hand. "Count Ivan Baranofsky I would be honored if you would join me for a libation."
Zebulon's eyes focused on the woman's slender ankles and long muscular legs as they disappeared slowly up the stairs.
"I'll handle the bags," he offered.
"No need," the Count replied. "Delilah is very capable."
After a brief hesitation, Zebulon picked up the bag and cello case and went up the stairs two at a time.
He tried every door on the floor until he found her suite. She was standing at the window looking out at the harbor.
"Are you following me?" she asked, not turning around. "Or are you under the impression that I am following you?"
Her bare shoulders and the high sloping curve of her neck reminded him of a stalking crane.
"I follow what I hunt for," he answered.
"Then you consider me an animal?"
"I'm helping out."
"That's not all you're doing." She held him inside her gaze, then walked over to the bed where she untied the flaps of a hand-stitched leather suitcase.
"Would it amuse you to know that I'm an expert at capturing wild animals?" She removed a rattle from the suitcase and shook it back and forth, her eyes rolling as she circled around him, uttering a throbbing chant that seemed to be coming from the middle of her chest.
"I don't like being circled," he warned. "When I'm trapped I feel — "
"I know," she said. "You're dangerous."
She laughed and shook the rattle in his face, then threw it on the bed.
"If you don't return to the lobby, Ivan will come up and shoot you. He's famous for that."
"I can handle Ivan," he said.
"Are you sure?" Her question seemed to be directed as much to herself as to him.
When he couldn't come up with an answer, he shrugged and left the room.
ount Baranofsky was waiting for him in the lobby. Taking Zebulon by the arm, he led him into the hotel's cantina and ordered a round of whiskey at the bar. When the drinks arrived, the Count raised his glass, toasting Mexico, the United States, the brand new State of California, and finally Russia — but not the Czar, who, he proudly pointed out, had placed a price on his head. Then he asked if Zebulon was residing in Vera Cruz.
"Passing through," Zebulon replied.
"And so are we," the Count said. "Thank god our ship has arrived. We expected it six weeks ago."
Zebulon reached for a plate of fried squid and cheese enchiladas. "The woman you're with — "
"She's my attendant," Ivan said. "Or consort, depending on circumstance and your cultural point of view We were traveling overland to California, but once in Denver and faced with the prospect of a harsh winter, we decided to take a stagecoach to Mexico and sail around South America to California. We were looking forward to a pause in Vera Cruz but, I admit, not one this long."
"How's your pause been treatin' you?" Zebulon asked.
"Abominably: This is our third hotel. Each one more frustrating than the last. Sullen service. Worse food. Mosquitoes. Flies. Bed bugs. But despite the inconveniences, the city is not without its sultry charms; although, as we have learned only too well, it's a city given to unexpected vapors and violence."
The Count sighed, grateful for the opportunity of talking to a stranger that he would never see again. In pedantic detail, he described their voyage from Venice to New York, including the side streets and mercenary shops of Algiers, the restaurants of Malaga and Lisbon, and finally, the physical hardships of traveling overland to Denver — a journey that saw them nearly drowned crossing the Mississippi, attacked by Comanches, and almost killed in New Mexico in a barroom brawl.
The Count hesitated, not sure how much he should reveal. "An occasion, I might add, that you seemed willing to provoke."
"I don't recall what went down," Zebulon said. "I was trapped inside a nest of snakes."
"When you sat down at the table, obviously you were asking for trouble. Of course, I was well lubricated. And then we rode out on the stagecoach, so we never did find out what happened."
"You call her Delilah?" Zebulon asked.
"A biblical name; her actual name is too difficult to pronounce, some sort of East African jibber jabber. I met her in Paris, where she had the misfortune to be handmaiden to a French officer. She's part French, the rest Abyssinian, with a dollop of Babylonian and Egyptian and god knows what else. I would be lost without her. Fortunately I was able to free her owner from certain financial difficulties."
"You mean you bought her."
The Count laughed, delighted to be face to face with an authentic man of the West who was not afraid to say what was on his mind. "It wasn't commerce that dictated my involvement. More an impulsive demand of the heart."
Delilah glided towards them, waiting patiently until Zebulon pulled back her chair, a courtesy that he had never performed before, much less observed.