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"Champagne, Jim?" Bart asked, leaning back into the Cadillac's leather seat and raising a bottle from the silver bucket on the floor.
"Oh, don't mind if I do!" It had been a long day, what with the fistfight, the pie fight, the breaking the fourth wall -- a gunslinger needed a cold drink, after a day like that.
Bart twisted the foil off and thumbed the cork. It popped, satisfyingly, into the car's headliner, before falling into the front seat. "Sorry," Bart called to the driver.
"S'alright," the chauffeur said, laconically. "Last feller hit me in the back of the head with it. Hard to drive off into the sunset when your head's being used for target practice."
Jim chuckled and held a pair of tall flutes out for Bart to fill. "Where are we headed, anyhow, Sheriff?"
Sliding the bottle back into the ice bucket, Bart took a sip before answering. "Well, let's think on that for a minute. Where do a Jew and a brother with a fondness for dressing up like cowboys and fighting for justice belong, in this mixed-up no-good world we live in?"
"The frontier?" Jim asked hopefully. "Where men are men, and horses are pretty, and women usually know better than to ask?"
He could see it now, in his mind's eye. There would be another town. There was always another town. Him and Bart, they'd roll in, mosey on up to the saloon, find a couple of stools and chat up a grizzled old barkeep, who'd tell them all about the crooked gang of thieves that were holed up just outside of town, making trouble.
There might even be a whore hanging out there at the bar, marking time, with a heart of gold and a low-cut blouse -- something in red, with some lace on it -- and oh, it'd be great if she had a little gun in her garter. Nothing like a woman with a little gun she wasn't actually going to use. She could even point it at him a little, until she realized he wasn't like other men. Not like the leader of the gang, who had done her wrong. She wouldn't like to talk about it, but she wouldn't be able to help herself, after a couple of drinks. Yeah, that'd be perfect. It had been a long, long time since he'd gotten to make nice with a woman, and hell, it wasn't like Bart was going to get the girl.
He'd take her to bed, but in a classy way, and then the next morning, she'd kiss him goodbye and he and Bart would ride off into danger -- they'd have to get the horses back, but that should be manageable, with a few phone calls to the right people. Couldn't ride off into danger in a chauffeur-driven Cadillac, nosiree.
They'd do some tracking, maybe sing a song, and then there'd be a running gun battle, through the badlands. He liked the sound of that: the badlands. He and Bart would be riding along, trading shots with the gang, who'd be, they'd be running for the border! That was it, the bad guys would be running for the border. Through the badlands. Perfect.
He and Bart would hunt them down, ambush them one by one, working together so smooth, they wouldn't even have to talk to each other. They'd communicate with hard, knowing looks, the kind of looks a man gets when he's been on the trail for a long time with his partner. After a while they wouldn't even need looks. They'd just smell each other and they'd know what had to be done. Jim was looking forward to that part.
They'd be down to the last guy, the leader of the gang, the man who'd been so mean to the girl, and they'd be sure they had him, wounded, backed into the end of a little box canyon. They'd have to go in after him.
Bart would insist on going first, because he was just that kind of guy. Selfless. He'd go around the corner, and bang! Bang! The shots would echo terribly, maybe scare a vulture or something, and Jim would race forward, and oh, the horror, the villain had shot Bart! And then Bart had shot him! The bad guy would be dead, but Bart would be clinging to life, just long enough to clutch Jim's arm and give him one of those looks that said more than words ever could. Or maybe a terrible smell of longing and self-sacrifice. Hell, why not both?
Bart would bleed out, nobly, across Jim's best pants, and Jim would turn his face up to the sky and scream, "No!" while clutching Bart's corpse. That was a classic. Jim could almost hear the violins swelling. He sniffled a bit. It was a tragedy, a real American tragedy. He had better put on his best wistful, faraway look, for dramatic effect.
It was hard to achieve a really good wistful faraway dramatic effect type look while drinking champagne in the back of a large automobile. Maybe if he tipped his head over at an angle. He tried it. The bubbles went up his nose, and he started sneezing.
There was a choking noise from the front seat, and Bart shook his head. "Well, no, I think I've had about all the 1887 I can stand for one week. I had in mind somewhere closer."
The Caddy thumped over a curb and down onto pavement, the tailpipe grinding on concrete. Jim blinked. "Closer? Really?" He pulled out his bandanna and dabbed at the champagne that had sloshed over his pants.
Bart leaned in. "Closer."
"Oh, like -- closer," Jim said. "I didn't think you were interested -- "
The driver turned south on Cahuenga, and Jim shut his eyes. The sheriff was even better at kissing than he was on a horse. Jim wondered, briefly, how he'd look in a red lacy blouse, and then dismissed the idea. Bart was really not an autumn.
"You ever been to West Hollywood, Kid?" Bart asked, finally, when they came up for air. He sounded a bit ragged. As well he should -- he wasn't more than half-dressed. Fastest hands in the west had to be good for something, Jim thought. Those pearl snaps had gone pop pop pop, just like little fireworks, and hey, Bart had been working out. Looked good. Jim'd have to give that a try, if alcoholism ever paled.
"A time or two, yeah," Jim said, slowly, considering.
"Or Toluca Lake. I'm willing to be...flexible."
"I've always admired that about you," Jim told him.
"Oh, is that what you were admiring?" Bart gave him an arch look, and, oh hell, that really was unreasonably appealing.
"Well, that and your ass."
"You've been checking out my ass?"
"I could stop, if it bothers you," he said, shrugging.
"It doesn't."
"Good, because I was lying." Jim grabbed one dangling shirtfront and tugged Bart into his lap, saying, "Garçon! Laurel Canyon, and step on it!"
There were some things, it turned out, that were even better than the frontier.