The Heavenly Table(82)

“No,” Bovard said quickly. “I mean the eye. How did he lose it?”

“Oh, that,” Malone said. “Well, from what I heard, he was in a saloon and some preacher started spouting off about the war being nothing but a moneymaker for the fat cats. One thing led to another, and Franks took a swing at him. Before it was over, he had a piece of glass in his eye. Broken bottle, I suspect.”

Bovard took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Have they arrested the man who did it?”

“I believe so.”

Just then, First Lieutenants Waller and Bryant appeared on their way to the dining hall. Bovard waited until they passed on by, then said, “Well, there’s not much we can do about it now. I just wish he’d come and talked to one of us before he did something so stupid.”

“Ah, sir, he’s not the first man to f*ck his life up over a letter from home.”

“No, I suppose not,” Bovard said, thinking of the anguish he’d felt upon first receiving his last one from Elizabeth.

“Over at the Front, I saw a dozen or more go to the firing squad over that silly horseshit. People can get downright crazy when it comes to gettin’ dumped.”

“Christ, you don’t think they’ll execute him, do you?”

“No, sir, not over here, but I imagine they’ll make it rough on him for a while, then send him home with a dishonorable.”

“I suppose I better go see him this afternoon, write up a report,” Bovard said. He started to turn away toward the dining hall. He hated to think what that obnoxious loudmouth Waller would say about this. Ever since Lucas’s name had come up during lunch that day, the sonofabitch had been needling him in pissy little ways. Bovard had been thinking a lot about a story Malone had told him that involved some soldiers who had murdered their commanding officer and made it look like he had stepped on a land mine. Five months ago he would have never dreamed of doing such a thing, but if Waller kept it up, well, who knew what might happen once they got to France? “Sir, you still need a groom,” he heard the sergeant say.

Bovard stopped. From where he stood he could see the hospital, and, beyond it, the stables. Oh, well, he thought, if he couldn’t have his pick, what did it matter who it turned out to be? Maybe the pain of Wesley’s absence at his side would make death at the Front even sweeter. “You were right,” he said over his shoulder to Malone. “I should have listened to you in the first place.”

“Sir?”

“About Cooper. He’s by far the best man for the job.”





49


AT NINE O’CLOCK, Cane left his brothers sitting on the south bank of Paint Creek and rode into Meade to look around. Within a few minutes, he was satisfied that the town was big enough that they wouldn’t attract attention. The sidewalks were overflowing with people of all sorts, and the streets crowded with every type of horse and mule and car and wagon imaginable. A hundred different sounds filled the sour, slightly chemical air. He returned two hours later and printed in block letters on a piece of paper the name of the livery and the hotel that he wanted Chimney to use, told him where they could be found. “Me and Cob will go first,” Cane said. “Give us half an hour. Then ride in and stable the horse and rent yourself a room. Buy some clothes and get cleaned up, then go find out what you can about buying that automobile.”

“Jesus, anything else?”

“Yeah, there’s a park at the north end of the street you’ll be going in on. We’ll meet you there by the pond this evening at six o’clock. Better buy yourself a watch.”

“Did ye see any whores?” Chimney said.

“No, but don’t worry about that right now. From the looks of things, I expect there’s plenty around.” Cane counted out five hundred dollars and placed it in Chimney’s hand. “That should buy the car and keep you going for a while.”

Crossing over the bridge on South Paint Street, he and Cob passed the paper mill. They veered off into the east end of town a ways and left their horses at Jonson’s Livery, slipping an extra dollar to a stable bum named Chester Higgenbotham to make sure they got some grain. Then they walked uptown to the Hotel McCarthy. Inside the two saddlebags they carried nearly $35,000 and three pistols, along with their mother’s Bible and the dictionary. Cane asked the clerk, a man named Harlan Dix, for a room with two beds and a bathtub. Dix cast a glance at them, noted their shaggy, unkempt appearance. Though he himself deplored the growing emphasis on personal hygiene as another reason why the country was turning soft, the McCarthy had a reputation for being the premier hotel in town, and his boss kept rates high to discourage clients such as this motley pair. “Five dollars a night,” he said. “In advance.” Just as he was getting ready to suggest the Warner down the street, Cane handed him twenty dollars for four days. He stared for a moment at the money, then shrugged and gave them two keys. “Second floor,” he said, pointing at the stairway. “Number eight.”

Though certainly not one of the hotel’s best, the room was still the nicest the brothers had ever been in. It contained two narrow beds and a round woven carpet and a cedar bureau, along with some hooks on the wall for hanging clothes. An upholstered chair sat in the corner. White lacy curtains hung from the two long windows that looked out on the busy street. Another door led to a bathroom with a claw-foot tub. Cob kept pulling the chain that turned on the electric light hanging from the ceiling until Cane, worried that he might break it, told him to stop. Of course, neither of them had ever used a commode before, and it took a minute or two to figure out exactly how it worked. Even then, Cob was afraid of it, and if it hadn’t been for his brother telling him he’d get arrested, he would have gladly done his business in the alley behind the hotel rather than risk some sort of injury.