Epitaph by Mary Doria Russell Read Free Book Online Page B

first act, he had his eye on a couple of girls in the chorus. When he found out the Markham troupe would be coming to Tombstone at the end of their Arizona tour, he leveraged good looks and good tailoring with good humor to get backstage, where he introduced himself to the manager.
    â€œJohn Behan,” he told Randolph Murray, “and I must warn you at the outset that I am a member of that most loathed and feared breed of man: the Irish politician.” The actor smiled, so Johnny followed that disarming confession with a few recommendations about Tombstone’s best hotels, nicest restaurants, and finest stores, along with a hint or two about where to find the prettiest and most accommodating girls, while letting slip—subtly, of course—that he himself was a mover and a shaker in southern Arizona’s exciting new boomtown.
    â€œJust mention my name,” Johnny urged, an inherited Dublin lilt adding interest to Missouri’s more prosaic tones. “The proprietors will do their very best to make you feel that Tombstone has treated you well, sir. And if you decide to stay at the Grand Hotel, I’d be happy to arrange for an accommodation on the fees. The owner is a friend of mine.”
    â€œHow very kind,” Randolph murmured. He was aware that he was being worked but didn’t mind, for it was useful to develop a connection with a local businessman before the troupe arrived in a town. He was also enjoying Johnny’s ingratiating performance, for actors andpoliticians are members of allied professions and often impress one another. “Mr. Behan, we’re having a little celebration this evening for Miss Markham’s birthday . . .” He dropped his voice before adding, “Though no one would think of mentioning the passing of the years within the Glorious Pauline’s hearing.”
    â€œA slip of a girl,” Johnny agreed solemnly. “Hardly out of ringlets.”
    â€œPrecisely! Perhaps you would care to join us?”
    â€œWell, now, that’s real friendly of you, sir. It’ll be my pleasure—sometime after midnight, I expect!” Johnny said with a wink.
    Randolph smiled back indulgently. They were men of the world, after all.
    WHEN YOU’RE ONE OF FOURTEEN CHILDREN, you learn to make an impression fast if you want to be noticed at all. Number three in the Behan brood, John Harris Behan did indeed crave notice, but he and his sisters and brothers had all been sternly taught the perils of getting above themselves. Take momentary pleasure in a small triumph and you’d hear, “There’s joy in the spring but sadness in the fall.” Brag and you’d be warned, “There’s a spoon you’ll sup sorrow with yet.”
    It was better to be discovered than to push yourself forward, so at dinner with the Markham troupe that first evening in Prescott, Johnny listened to the theater stories with quiet appreciation, merely tossing a witty aside into the conversation now and then. Asked a question, he responded with self-deprecating remarks calculated to arouse curiosity. It was only after dessert that he let himself be persuaded to tell the troupe about his frontier adventures.
    â€œWell, I did serve as sheriff of Yavapai County for a couple of years,” he admitted, pausing for murmurs of approbation around the table. “That was a lively sort of job, but nothing compared to the time I spent as a representative in the territorial legislature. In Arizona, Republicans and Democrats fight like Kilkenny cats—till there’s nothing left but the yowl.” He waited for the chuckles to subside. “Now, I’ma Democrat myself,” he continued, “but I reckoned there had to be a few things we could all agree on. Better roads—” Enthusiastic affirmation. “Education . . .” Insincere murmurs of concurrence. “Keeping the Apaches in check.” Shudders, all around.