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First time Charlie meets Ben Wade, he's on his knees in some alley.
It's not quite as bad as it sounds, but it ain't too pretty, either.
"Charlie Prince," Wade says, like he's heard the name used somewhere and is now taking it out for a spin, trying out how he likes the sound of it. "You like sucking other men's dicks?"
"It's a living," Charlie says. He doesn't know Ben Wade from Abigail Bennett at this point; he looks at the man and takes stock - might be tricky to take him in a fair fight, but then, every man Charlie's ever met so far has let his guard down right along with his pants.
(Charlie don't go around killing all of his customers, mind. Only the ones who've got it coming.)
"That it is," Wade agrees, easily. Casually. "So 's cutting their throats and robbing their corpses, seems like."
Charlie spits in the dead man's face. "He deserved it."
"How'd you like to make an honest living? Stealing from the rich, giving to the not as rich. God's work, some might say. Be easier on your trousers, for one."
Charlie laughs. There's a kind of rush, always, that comes with killing a man, and it's still singing in his blood. "Who the fuck are you, then? Saint Peter?"
"My name's Ben Wade," Wade says, taking off his hat like he's addressing someone respectable. "You may have heard of me."
"I find out you're lying, you gonna wish I just slit your fucking throat," Charlie says.
Wade chuckles. "Then I suppose I'll consider myself a lucky man. Welcome to the gang, Charlie."
"Ain't much of a gang I can see," Charlie says.
That's how it starts, and it's kind of odd, really. Sucking cocks or, fine, call it what it is, whoring wasn't nothing to do with what Charlie wanted, ever - like he told Wade, it was a living.
'Course, the killing made it more profitable. That part, he did enjoy.
First few weeks, he keeps expecting Wade to bring it up, to sneak up behind him, clear his throat and remind Charlie of what he's here for, all casual-like. Some men, now, they're a bit shy, a bit ashamed of what they want. Charlie reckons Ben Wade ain't one of them.
Ben Wade wants something (or someone), he's gonna come right out and say it.
Charlie lets it all play out in his head, dozens of time. Some times, he says 'no'. He tells Wade to fuck off, knowing Wade can tell that he don't mean it, not really, daring Wade to do what men do when someone whose body's for sale tells them 'no'.
Some times, he says 'yes'. Some times, he don't say nothing at all.
Weeks turn into months, though, and Wade never asks.
They're in some dusty town, wetting their throats with some piss-poor whiskey.
Charlie's sticking close to Wade because sticking close to Wade's what Charlie's done and gotten used by now. It's instinct and protectiveness and possessiveness all in one, and never mind that Ben Wade don't need none of that.
"I like redheads," Wade says, a propos of fuck-all, except that there's maybe one or two women out there might warrant the term, if one is minded to be generous.
"This about the sea captain's daughter?" Charlie asks, resigned. He's heard the story dozens of times by now, and it never changes. Not like Kinter's story of how he got himself lost in a mine once and came out with a small fortune that grows each time the story gets told.
Wade sips his whiskey. "What sort of women do you like, Charlie? Fat ones? Skinny ones? Blondes? Brunettes?"
"Fuck off," Charlie says.
"No women?" Wade asks. "See, that's what puzzles me, Charlie. You don't whore, you don't drink overly much - you might gamble a bit, but never much. What do you do with your money, Charlie? Saving up for a ranch? A store? A fine establishment where people like use may come and spend their money, perhaps?"
"Guns," Charlie says. "I want to go and get meself a pair of guns."
"Guns," Wade repeats slowly. "Ones we gave you ain't doing the job? Not shooting bullets?"
"Scofields," Charlie says. He almost wishes Wade had stuck to the women. "I wanna get a pair of Scofields."
"Well, you've got good taste, at least," Wade says. "Know why I like women, Charlie?"
Contrary to what people seem to think, Charlie likes women just fine. Wouldn't want to fuck one, but then, what of it? That's his business, innit? "Why?"
"Because they're soft, and pliant, and smell nice." Wade grins. " 'course, those aren't the only reasons. You know what my absolute most favorite thing about women is?"
"What?"
Wade leans in close. "Way they make you even meaner than you usually are."
Charlie reels back a bit. "The fuck?"
"I like seeing that side of you," Wade says, like he's mentioning the weather. "The angry, rotten side that just wants to get back at everyone for all the wrongs this world has done you. That look you get in your eyes when I'm taking someone upstairs. You wish it were you, don't you? Went and got yourself sweet on me, Charlie? Like I said, nothing wrong with your taste."
"Fuck you," Charlie says.
"The other way around, perhaps," Wade says. "Some other time. If you're lucky."
"Seriously, fuck you."
Wade chuckles, gets up. Grabs his hat. "All in good time, Charlie. All in good time."
Charlie gets his Scofields, and a brand new coat, and if anyone's got a problem with the way he looks, they don't get the chance to tell him more'n once.
He puts bullets in Pinkertons and posses and everyone stupid or unlucky enough to get in his way.
Some of the gang, Charlie knows, you ask them honest, they tell you they're just here to make a living. Ranching's hard work, and none too certain; chances are, you break your back for years on end, with nothing but a broken back to show for it.
Charlie's not with Wade to make a living.
Charlie does what he does because he couldn't do nothing else - not and still feel like he's living.
Day he stops being Wade's man's the day someone better put a bullet in him. Won't even matter none to him whose; he'll be a dead man walking already.
Another town, another shot of cheap whiskey.
Once, in Dodge City, Wade had taken him - just him, somewhere, made him taste the good stuff, the kind that burns all the way down your throat and warms your stomach, leaving you to feel like there's nothing you couldn't do, nothing you wouldn't do for the person sitting next to you.
"Redheads," Wade says.
Charlie drinks, because why not? He ain't got no problem drinking to his own self. They've split up the loot, all nice and fair, and in a couple of hours, him and Wade will part ways as well.
It's the sensible, smart thing to do.
Wade eyes the barlady, who pretends not to see him looking. She's a brunette, with mud-brown eyes, too skinny, but Charlie knows it won't matter none. Wade'll tell her she looks pretty, and she'll believe him, mostly because it's true. To Wade, every damn woman he meets is one he wants to fuck, seems like, and every damn women he wants to fuck is pretty.
Charlie supposes it's better than Wade having some genuine sweetheart somewhere, but other than that damn sea-captain's daughter, none of them seem to stick around in his memory at all.
"Green eyes," Wade says, once their glasses have been refilled. "You got green eyes, Charlie?"
"You know damn well what color my eyes are," Charlie says. "Boss."
"I do," Wade admits. "You got some pretty eyes on you, Charlie. Like a woman's, but not like a woman's. They remind me of a - well, never mind. You know the story, I'm sure."
"Only heard it about a hundred times or so."
"Well, it's a good story," Wade says. "You want me to tell it again, or shall we just go upstairs and have a go at it? Your choice. I ain't fussed either way."
Charlie downs his shot if whiskey, barely feeling the burn. "I don't really wanna hear your fucking story, Boss. No offense."
"Oh, none taken." Wade smiles. "I'll simply save it for some other time. Very well, lead the way then."