The Heavenly Table(117)

“Yes, sir,” Malone said. “He’s inside gettin’ patched up.”

“What the hell happened?”

After the sergeant related the details of how they came upon the lieutenant mutilated in the back room of the Blind Owl, Fisher said, “A jar of teeth? Did ye bring ’em with ye?”

“No, sir, I didn’t think of that.”

“Shame,” Fisher said. “I would have liked to have seen ’em. Was the bartender a Mex?”

“Uh, no, sir. He was a white man.”

Digging a wad of tobacco out of his pouch, Fisher smiled contentedly. It had become a habit with him, ever since returning to the States, to spend time with the moon on clear nights, partly because its craters and barren plains reminded him of the Mexican landscape, but mostly because it seemed to be the most honest thing he could find to confide in anymore; and tonight he’d had a long talk with that white orb and decided that he would move to the Sierra Madre after his current commission was over with. No matter how much he cursed and ridiculed Mexico, he’d realized over the last few days that he’d never been as happy as he had been there. He’d give his wife the house in Connecticut and his pension. What did it matter? He could live on beans and frijoles and whatever he could kill. “So you think the one you hauled in is one of those Jewetts?”

“Yes, sir. Though he won’t admit. Keeps sayin’ he’s someone else, but he’s the spittin’ image of one of ’em on the poster.”

“Have ye tried to beat it out of him?”

“Sir?”

“The truth. I don’t care how tough he thinks he is, get you a pair of brass knuckles and work him over for a while. He’ll talk.”

“Well, I don’t think—”

“Of course, there’s other ways to make a man squeal, too. If you don’t like blood, take him over to that goddamn Majestic Theater and make him sit through an hour of that goddamn Lewis Family and their monkey. He’d probably rat out the whole goddamn bunch of them then.”

“Sir?” Malone said. “The Majestic? I’m not sure I’m following.”

“My wife’s in town this week and insisted on going there last night. I’ll tell you what, Sergeant, I’m still not recovered from it. The worst excuse for entertainment I ever saw in my life.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you don’t think this Jewett had anything to do with what happened to Bovard?”

“No, I think the barkeep tried to pull something on him like he did with the lieutenant, but the boy got the jump on him.”

“And no sign of the other two?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it’s late,” Fisher said. “Maybe we better let someone else figure out how to proceed. From what I’ve read about them in the papers, he’s sure to hang regardless, isn’t he?”

“I expect so.”

Fisher yawned and stretched. “Good work, Sergeant. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Malone said. He waited until the captain left, then went inside the infirmary and sat down in the hallway to wait and see how things turned out with the lieutenant. The man had damn near cried when he heard they might not get to the war for another five or six months, and then this morning, contrary to the rumors that had been circulating, Malone had found out that the 343rd would be shipping out for France sometime in November. Now the poor sonofabitch would never know what war felt like. Then again, maybe he already did; the day or so he spent chained in that maniac’s back room was probably as close to being horrific as anything he would have ever seen at the Front. The sergeant took another sip of the cold coffee, thought about all the men who’d voluntarily shot off their fingers and toes trying to get out of it.

An hour later, an orderly pushed Bovard out of the operating theater on a gurney and down the hall to a room. Eisner, the clap doctor, came out a minute or two later, and Malone asked him about the lieutenant’s condition. “Well, he’s suffered a serious shock, and there wasn’t anything to be done about the hand or the ear, but from what I’ve heard, it could have been a lot worse. My biggest concern is the risk of infection. A tavern is one of the worst places in the world for germs. Which reminds me, have you and your men washed up since you left that filthy hole?”

“Uh, well, we haven’t had—”

“I don’t understand you people,” Eisner said angrily. “Good hygiene is one of the most important keys to a long and happy life, and yet you refuse to embrace it.” Then he turned and stomped out of the building.

Malone walked down to the room where they’d taken Bovard. He stood in the doorway and looked in. A soft light burned in the far corner. Wesley Franks was sitting in a metal chair beside the lieutenant’s bed. He was talking softly to him and dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. “Has he said anything?” Malone asked.

“No, sir,” Wesley said. “They got him knocked out.”

Malone stepped into the room, moved up closer to the bed. The stub of Bovard’s left hand was wrapped with gauze, and another bandage covered his ear hole. A bit of bloody cotton was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Well, at least it wasn’t his right.”

“Sir?” Wesley said, squinting at the sergeant with his good eye.