THE WEST - An Excerpt from THE RICH ARE DIFFERENT

Undaunted by the previous night’s drama, I rolled out of bed while the dawn was still grey, checked the throbbing splinter in my foot, got dressed and went to fetch my horse. The livery man, Kurt, was already mucking stalls, and after some small talk about the fire, he saddled me up and sent me on my way.

Riding down the main drag, swaying in the saddle, I found myself shaking my head in awe. I’d been too tired to appreciate Ricochet when I arrived last night, but now, in the soft morning light, I could see this place was the Old West. A treeless dirt street divided two long rows of buildings. Wooden sidewalks ran the entire length of town while hitching posts and watering troughs waited at regular intervals. False fronts trumpeted every business and amenity that might have existed in an 1880s Montana town, and then some: laundry, newspaper, barber, bank, claims office, post office, blacksmith, mercantile, three hotels with restaurants, two saloons and a church. Every detail was pitch-perfect, right down to the font on the WANTED bills posted in front of my office.

The café was warmly lighted, and as a few guests went inside my heart swelled with admiration for Ricochet’s creator, Sidney Vaillancourt. From the time I took this case, right up until this moment, Sidney’s Old West resort had been an abstraction to me, a rich man’s foolish hobby. Now I realized that as odd as his obsession might have been, it belied a man with vision and the willingness to commit to that vision. So what if he took his half-billion dollars and created a refuge from the 21^st century for himself? At least he created something with his money, rather than hoarding it or wasting it on trappings and toys. He also employed a heck of a lot of people and, if what Briggs had said was true, he was exceedingly generous. Such a man deserved to have his killer brought to justice. Which was why Marshal Stevens was here.

As the horse clomped along, I consulted Shaw’s map and devised a plan. This morning I’d explore the south side of town; this afternoon, the north side. I folded up the map and snapped the reins.

The horse must have thought I was nuts because I took us in meandering loops across long stretches of pasture, into the woods and back into open fields. Each time I reached a spot that corresponded with one on the map, there was nothing noteworthy there. A boulder maybe, a fallen tree, or just barren ground. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to build in these locations, and there seemed to be no pattern to the locations whatsoever. Two hours later, I cantered back into town hungry and annoyed.

The café charged me a dollar for overcooked eggs and burnt toast. I paid and stepped into the sunlight. At least nobody had stolen my horse.

Down the street, Keller was sweeping the walkway in front of his mercantile. Our eyes met, and he waved one-handed with his thumb still connected to the broom. I nodded back and crossed the street to my burned-out apartment. Maybe there was a clue.

Bad as it was, most of the damage was isolated to the side of the room nearest the windows. The bed and bureau were now wet, black cinders. Although not an expert on arson, I knew that a fire’s point of origin is usually the lowest point where you observe the results of the most intense burning. I was also pretty sure the fire had been started by something thrown through the window. My hypothesis was that it landed on the floor at the corner of the headboard. I went over and squatted.

Without a doubt, this area had borne the most intense heat. I fingered the ashes. Mixed in among the cinders were shards of brown glass. Groping under the bed, I found what I was looking for: the neck of a bottle. I pulled it out by my fingertips, blew off the ashes and smiled. Embossed on the glass was a brand I knew well: Bass Ale. At least the arsonist had good taste in beer. I sniffed the bottleneck and the corner of the mattress. Gasoline.

I couldn’t see any prints, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. I took the bottle to the post office, boxed it up and mailed it to Briggs, omitting his title to foil any snoopers. I included a note about it and asked for a complete fingerprint check. When I got back to the office, Heather was there, studying a map of Ricochet on the wall. I closed the door and she whisked across the room to me.

“What happened last night?”

“Just a little fire. No problem.”

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.”

“How did it start?”

“Clumsy,” I said. “Not used to those oil lamps.” I led us outside and shut the door. “I feel awful about it. You know, it being Sidney’s room and all.”

“Objects can be replaced, Mr. Stevens. You can’t.” She took my arm. “Let’s go.”

The entire town was awake now. Proprietors chatted in front of their storefronts, and a group of male guests stood outside the Mountain View Hotel, gathering for their morning constitutional. At the church, Heather let go of my arm.

“Well, Mr. Stevens, here we are. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Once she was inside I waited a moment, then slipped in quietly. With giant clear-glass windows that drenched the room in sunlight, the church reminded me of the ones I’d known as a kid in New England. Leaning over their pews, the talent gestured grandly and gossiped. Someone sang. As Heather glided down the aisle, some of the girls stopped talking and stared. She sat alone in the front row. A Native American woman made eye contact with me, elbowed the girl next to her, and she the next girl, until a dozen actresses had eyeballed every inch of me, like bidders at a steer auction. Just as unnerving were the male actors, who ignored me altogether.

Onstage, McCourt raised his hands and clapped them several times.

“Okay, people, let’s settle down. We have quite a lot to cover, so if you please...” He scanned the room. “Where’s Kat?”

“Here, unfortunately,” a woman said from the doorway.

Kat Styles strutted in wagging a giant fan of peacock feathers. Her dress was plum silk with a high collar, tight bodice and prominent bustle. Despite the layers of clothing, she somehow managed to walk like she was stark naked—and proud of it. The Omega Female joined a clique of girls and flapped her fan.

“You may begin now,” she said.

He glared at her, then cleared his throat.

“People,” McCourt said, “you know what I’m up here to talk about. There have been too many instances of anachronistic items being found in the resort.”

“Translation, please!” Kat said.

The other actors laughed.

“You all know very well what I mean,” he said. “Wrappers from smuggled-in food, battery-operated DVD players—”

“And other battery-operated items,” Kat said, smirking at the girls.

More laughter. McCourt continued.

“Cosmetics, beer cans, flashlights. Need I go on?” The room hushed. “People, our guests pay a lot of money to experience the nineteenth century. Yesterday I found a condom wrapper in front of the mercantile. This cannot continue.”

“You’re right, McCourt,” Kat declared. “If I can’t get laid in the middle of Main Street, nobody should be able to.”

The room howled. Kat stood up and gave little bows all around.

“Thank you, thank you! I’ll be here all summer.”

McCourt had just opened his mouth to speak when a shadow appeared in the doorway. It stretched all the way down the aisle. Everyone turned.

“You’re late, Mr. Boone,” McCourt said.

The guy was a walking monolith. So tall, a man would strain his neck talking to him for any length of time; so broad, he walked with his torso slightly pivoted—a habit probably developed from having to enter rooms at an angle. If I weren’t playing the hero, I would have gulped.

“Maybe if you didn’t have me living in Bumfuck,” Boone replied, “I wouldn’t be.”

McCourt turned to a man with unruly hair, maybe 30, seated behind him.

“Irving, talk to him, would you?”

The man walked to the edge of the stage. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he clutched a sheaf of papers. Maybe it was the exasperation on his face, but he looked overworked and under-appreciated. He had to be the writer.

“Mr. Boone, we’ve been through this,” the pale writer said. “You’re the stranger.”

“Save it, I’ve heard it all before.”

Boone sauntered to a chair in the corner and eased himself down. The chair actually groaned.

“Let’s get this bullshit over with,” he said.

McCourt’s jaw clenched. “Mr. Irving will now discuss storylines.”

“Guys, gals,” Irving said, “remember who we’re here for.”

The entire room droned, “The guests.”

“That’s right. And it’s the little moments that make it real. Remember, verisimilitude.” He let the word hang in the hot air for a moment. “Next. Improv, improv, improv. Make it your mantra. Ladies, if you’re in the mercantile and a guest walks in, strike up a conversation about the weather, complain about your husband’s drinking, gossip—heck, you’re all good at that—but do it in character. Guys, same goes for you. Talk about your businesses, politics, the pretty girls. Rib each other at the saloons. This goes for everyone. If a guest is around, you’ve got to be on.”

He shuffled papers.

“Now, even though attendance has been down since Sidney’s death, we’re sticking with our tried-and-true storylines: the feud between the saloons, the shooting contest, the cheating gamblers—Eric, Maggie, keep up the good work there—and tonight we’ll do the fight at the 24 Karat, which will involve Kat, Mr. Boone, and our new marshal—”

Kat sprang to her feet. “Damn it, when are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“What do you think? The gigantic elephant in the room—Sidney’s death. What are we going to do, pretend it never happened? The guy was our benefactor, for God’s sake. We need to do something to remember him.”

McCourt stepped to the edge of the stage. “And what would you suggest, Kat?”

“I don’t know. A monument, something. Write him into the story maybe. Heather, you wanna help me here?”

The room went silent. I was leaning against the back wall when I got an idea.

“What if the new marshal was looking into the old marshal’s death?” I said.

The entire room went silent and turned to face me.

“Who the hell are you?” Kat said.

I strode up the aisle, my spurs clinking with each step. Standing over the exotic terror, I opened my frock coat to reveal the tin star.

“Name’s Dakota, miss.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

As she held out a gloved hand, her eyes drifted to my groin. I raised her chin with two fingers.

“I’m up here, darlin’,” I said.

She leaned back and her dress pulled snug across her chest.

“Everyone,” Irving said, “I’d like to introduce Marshal Dakota Stevens.”

I tipped my hat. From his chair, Boone spoke up.

“So, we’re supposed to revolve our stories around the new guy, is that it?”

“Yeah, Boone’s right!” shouted an actor in the back.

“That’s for Mr. Irving to decide,” I said.

“Actually, Mr. Stevens,” McCourt said, “it’s for me to decide.”

Boone was about to say something when Keller stood up. The room hushed again. He had an honest, upright posture that, with his height and lean build, reminded me of Abe Lincoln.

“Well, I think it’s a great idea,” he said. “About time we got some new blood in this place. Seems to me a story about Sidney’s death is just what the doctor ordered.”

I nodded, turned to Irving. “Any ideas, you know where to find me.”

I walked out.