The Heavenly Table(56)
“Like what?” Cob asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chimney answered. “Could be any number of things. Maybe a train, or a pack of wild dogs, or those ass-f*ckin’ bounty hunters, or a—”
“Come on,” Cane said, “let’s just get it over with.” Then he nudged his horse lightly and disappeared into the tunnel, his brothers following close behind, the hooves of their animals ringing hollowly on the wooden floor high above the water.
And so, on September 28, 1917, the notorious Jewett Gang entered the state of Ohio at approximately one o’clock in the morning. Just a few hundred yards on the other side of the bridge was a small hamlet known as Sciotoville. They entered it warily, with guns drawn, though not even a single dog was awake to greet them. The only sound to be heard was the creaking of a metal sign hanging in front of the general store, slightly swinging in the dank, fishy-smelling breeze coming off the river. It didn’t take them more than five minutes to cross the entire town. As they headed out, they stopped and watched a northbound freight pour out of the tunnel at forty miles an hour, the headlights of the engine looking like yellow smudges in the fog. They were only a couple of yards down the gravel bank from the rails, and, as the train rolled past, the earth began trembling under the horses’ hooves. The animals skirted and thrashed their tails nervously, their heads thrown back and their startled eyes bulging in their sockets. Cane saw his brothers mouth some words, but the loud, thumping clatter of the steel wheels drowned them out. They waited until the last of the swaying boxcars blew past them, and then they proceeded on.
32
AGAINST HIS BETTER judgment, Bovard had taken a taxi into town that night and had the driver drop him off in front of the Majestic. Soft and slothful Lucas Charles was the complete opposite of everything the lieutenant respected in this world, but, as so many men throughout the centuries have discovered, a contrary nature often proves the most irresistible. He promised himself, however, that this would be the last time. He was too close to fulfilling his dream—with Pershing now in Chaumont, there were rumors that they might finally be shipping out within the next few weeks—to ruin everything with a sordid scandal. So, one last dalliance and that would be the end of it. He bought a ticket at the booth and endured an utterly stupid performance by some inept vaudevillians who brought out a monkey every time they began to lose the audience. He felt sorry for the poor animal. It was obvious from the way he attacked a stagehand that captivity had driven him insane. As soon as the show was over, Bovard rushed over to the Candlelight and downed two brandies to rid himself of that brainless song the performers kept singing, something about life being as sweet as a cherry pie. When he returned to the theater, he found the crowd gone and the theater manager standing in front of the closed double doors smoking a cigarette. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” Lucas said.
“After that atrocious spectacle, neither was I.”
Lucas laughed, then said, “Well, I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it. Would you like a refund?”
“It’s hard to believe they get paid for that.”
“The Lewis Family is actually quite popular. Didn’t you notice? There wasn’t an empty seat in the house.”
“Yes, but—”
“Look at it this way. Did you think about your problems while you were watching them—that is, if someone like you has any? About the war, say? If not, then they did their job. Sure, those poor bastards can’t sing or dance their way out of a paper bag, but being so goddamn awful is part of their appeal.”
“But when an ape is the most talented one of the bunch, then—”
“Mr. Bentley is a chimpanzee,” Lucas said curtly. “Not an ape.” Although he knew that the five brothers who made up the Lewis Family were a stupid, vulgar bunch—and, Lord knows, they were almost impossible to deal with at times—criticism of any of the acts he brought to the Majestic always rubbed him the wrong way. For sure, he’d rather be booking someone with class, say, one of the famed Barrymores or the juggler W. C. Fields, but he did his best with what he’d been handed. He flipped his cigarette out into the street where it landed in a pile of fresh manure. “Come on, let’s go upstairs and have a drink.”
As soon as he locked the door to the room, Lucas began shedding his clothes. “Hold up,” Bovard said. “Let’s not get in a hurry.”
“Don’t worry,” Lucas replied with a smirk, “I’m not going to defile you. I just need to get this goddamn suit off.” He reached for a silk kimono hanging on a hook. Then he poured some Kentucky Tavern into two dirty glasses, and handed one to the lieutenant. It had a bit of dry lipstick on the rim. Probably Caldwell’s, Bovard figured. The druggist had found a tube of red in the nightstand drawer the other night, had it smeared all over himself by the time they tied him to the chair. “Cheers,” Lucas said, as he sank back on the bed.
Bovard sat down on the chair and took a drink. He was beginning to regret his decision to come here tonight. He looked about the room, the wrinkled sheet stained and crusty, the smashed crackers scattered on the rug, the leather whip curled up like a viper in the corner. The smell of a slow, relentless decay hung in the stale air, and he found himself breathing through his mouth as lightly as possible. Silence filled the room and he nervously took another sip. Bovard wondered, for the first time, how Lucas had ended up here in this tomb. He recalled something an uncle had once told him: “Vincent, whenever you find yourself in a situation with nothing to say, just remember that most people love to talk about themselves. A condemned man could probably forestall his execution by fifteen precious minutes just by asking the hangman where he hailed from.” And the truth was, he realized, he actually was curious about how Lucas had become overseer to an endless parade of debauched thespians, shameless comedians, and mediocre songbirds hoping for a big break. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” he finally said.