The Heavenly Table(110)
67
JUST AS THE still slightly baffled waiter at Goldman’s was handing Cane his change from a hundred-dollar bill, Chimney walked out of a florist’s shop called Charley’s with a dozen red roses just shipped in from Florida by train, and laid them on the front seat of the Ford. A man who’d come to the Whore Barn last night bearing a single wilted carnation for Peaches had given him the idea. By this time, he had gone from thinking he would offhandedly offer Matilda a way out of whoring to figuring this was the most important night of his life, and he wanted to make the best impression possible. He tried not to worry, but he was growing more apprehensive by the minute. What if she refused him? How should he react? And what if the pimp wouldn’t let her go? What then? He started the car, wondering as he turned the crank if he should put the top up, then decided he could do that later. Distracted by all the questions and doubts running through his head, he nearly collided with a couple of soldiers on horseback while making a U-turn in the street. Ignoring their curses, he continued south down Paint Street toward the Whore Barn, but then, just as he got to the paper mill, he decided he better have a drink to settle his nerves before going any farther. The only bar around was the Blind Owl, that dismal joint he and Cane had stopped at right after meeting Matilda for the first time, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like he was going to hang out there all evening. He pulled the Ford over and shut off the engine, sat for a minute going over the speech again that he planned to dazzle her with once they were alone in the tent. The sun was beginning to set when he got out of the car and went inside. The place was empty, and only one coal-oil lamp was lit to lessen the gloom. Even it was doing little but sputtering blackish fumes. He was just sitting down on a stool when the keep came out of the back room with a sullen look on his face. “A shot and a beer,” Chimney said, pushing his derby back on his head and resting his skinny arms on top of the bar.
“Only if ye got fifty cents,” Pollard said.
“Don’t worry, I got the money.”
“You know how many times I’ve heard that shit?”
Reaching in his pocket, Chimney brought out a twenty-dollar gold piece and slapped it down on the bar. Pollard stared at it for a moment, then drew a beer from a tap and poured two skinny fingers of whiskey in a glass he’d rinsed in his mop bucket a couple of hours ago. He should have locked up, he thought. After pulling off one of the lieutenant’s ears with a pair of tongs—goddamn, he didn’t think it would ever come loose!—he had just decided to snip the other one off with a pair of wire cutters when he heard the front door squeak open; and now he felt a bit put-upon by this sonofabitch, the same as if he’d been a normal person interrupted in the middle of making love to a woman he’d just met out catting around, but whose husband was due home by nightfall.
Chimney overlooked the bartender’s surly attitude; he recalled the f*cker had acted the same way the last time he was in here. Instead, he sipped the beer and studied himself in the mirror. He’d always known that he wasn’t what the women called handsome—God knows, the f*cking newspapers had made that clear enough—but he thought if he gained some weight and grew a mustache, maybe he’d look good enough for a whore to love. Once they got to Canada and quit all the running, maybe he’d even buy a set of those Indian clubs he’d seen in a store window uptown, start building up his muscles. He figured there wasn’t anything a man couldn’t do in life if he put his mind to it and didn’t allow silly everyday shit to distract him.
Pollard wiped his hands on a wet rag and made the boy’s change. He stared at his tan duster, the purple shirt, the striped pants, the hat cocked back at a jaunty angle. If he didn’t already have one chained up in the back, he’d love to work on this little bastard stinking of shaving lotion and store soap. Another goddamn ladies’ man. Images of the shopgirl laughing at him flickered in his head like a picture show, and it suddenly occurred to him that there was no reason he couldn’t do two at the same time. Let this one watch while he made the other skirt-sniffer small enough to fit into a bucket. Who knew? It might be nice to have an audience.
“Looks like things is kinda slow,” Chimney said.
Pollard ignored the remark and looked out the window. “That Ford out there, does that belong to you?” he asked Chimney.
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
“How much it cost ye?”
“I forget.”
“Well, you better keep an eye on it,” Pollard said. “Lot of thieves around here since they opened that goddamn army base.”
“He be a sorry sonofabitch whoever tries to steal from me.”
“Is that right?” the bartender said, suddenly lighting up. “You talk mighty big for someone your size.”
“I ain’t afraid to fight, if that’s what you mean,” Chimney said.
“Well, then, tell me what you’d do to them.”
Glancing up from his whiskey, Chimney took note of the hateful glare in the barkeep’s eyes. Tardweller had looked much the same that day he held him by the shirt collar and booted his ass in front of those women like someone would do to a little kid. As Chimney remembered the greatest embarrassment of his life, his heart started beating faster, his hands began to sweat. He was right on the verge of telling Pollard to step outside when he thought about Matilda. Within a couple of hours, if everything went as he hoped, he would have her all to himself, and there wasn’t any way he was going to allow this fat bastard to f*ck that up. “Ah, just give me another one,” he said, pushing his whiskey glass forward.