The Heavenly Table(88)

“Huh?” Cob said.

“Never mind,” Chimney said. He took the goggles off and stuck them in the pocket of the duster, then sat down on the bench. “Found out about some whores, too. All ye do is get in a taxi and he’ll take you right to ’em.”

“Boy, you have been busy, haven’t ye?” Cane said.

“So I’m thinkin’ we go out tonight and get us some.”

“Me, too?” Cob said.

“Ah, I don’t think you’d care for it, Junior,” Cane said. “Besides, we can’t all be seen together.”

“But what am I gonna do then?”

“How about I buy you some ice cream at that place we passed and then walk you back to the hotel? You got that ham to eat on and there’s still some doughnuts left.”

“I reckon,” Cob said.

“I’ll wait for ye at the corner right down from where I’m staying,” Chimney said, as he stood up. “You’ll see the taxis settin’ there. And don’t take too long, either.”

Forty minutes later, Cane finally showed up at the cab stand. “Jesus Christ,” Chimney said, “I was about ready to take off by myself.”

“Ah, you know how Cob is. He got started on that ice cream and didn’t want to stop.”

Just then a taxi pulled up and two soldiers hopped out of the backseat. They were in a heated argument about something. They paid the driver and walked around the corner still going at it.

“What was that about?” Chimney asked the cabbie as they climbed in the car.

“Ah, they been out to the Whore Barn,” the cabbie said. “The one with the glasses, he had trouble getting it up, and the other kept ridin’ him about it. I expect they’ll be a fight before they get back to camp. You can tell the red-faced f*cker’s one of those guys that likes to start shit.” He turned in the seat and looked back at them. “Is that where you wanting to go, to the Whore Barn?”

“Yeah,” Chimney said.

“This your first time?”

“Hell, no,” Chimney said, “I’ve had plenty of women.” He pulled a pint of whiskey from his duster pocket, twisted the cap off, and took a sip.

“No, I mean your first time to the Whore Barn.”

“We just got into town,” Cane said.

“Well, my advice is if Blackie tries to stick the fat one off on you, tell him you’ll just wait for one of the others. Just between us, she’s full of gonorrhea.” Ever since the cabbie had paid Esther to take a leak on his chest and she’d accidently drenched his new toupee instead, he had been informing everyone that she was wracked with various loathsome and incurable diseases. Not only had she ruined the hairpiece, but she’d made a wisecrack about it, as well, saying it looked so much like a muskrat, it should have been waterproof; and if there was anything he hated worse than a woman with poor bladder control, it was one with a smart mouth. Chimney passed him the pint, and he took a pull and handed it back.

“Who’s Blackie?”

“He’s their pimp.”

“What’s that?” Chimney asked.

“Why, he’s the one you pay.”

“Oh, like their madam,” Chimney said, recalling Miss Ashley, the red-haired, ivory-skinned woman who ran Bloody Bill’s favorite whorehouse back in Denver, Colorado.

“Madam? Uh, yeah. Only he’s a man.”

“How much they charge for a piece?” Chimney said as the cabbie pulled out and headed the car south down Paint Street.

“Oh, it’s cheap enough,” the cabbie said. “You can get a shot of * and two drinks for less than five bucks. Course it depends on what you want, too. Some things cost a little more.”

“What do ye mean?” Chimney said.

“Well, say you want to get pissed on or have your balls blistered with a candle. That’d be extra.”

“Pissed on?” Chimney said. “What kind of sick f*cker would want something like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the cabbie said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m just tellin’ you what I’ve heard.”

“Well, we just want some of the regular,” Chimney said. “The freaks can have all that other shit.”

The cabbie took them out on the Huntington Pike a quarter of a mile and drove down a lane, pulling up and stopping in front of a long open shed. “This is it?” Chimney said, sounding a little disappointed. He’d been imagining something grand, like the House of Love, a bordello that Bloody Bill once shot up in Kansas City, all stained-glass windows and mahogany woodwork with a string quartet playing on the stone terrace.

“Yep,” the cabbie said. “But don’t let the looks of it discourage you none. And if you’re anything like me, I’d say you’ve laid with women in places a lot worse than this. Why, one of the best f*cks I’ve ever had was in a coal bin.” In front of the shed a man in a white shirt and paisley vest sat alone at a campfire with a tin coffee cup in his hand. Off to the right, an older-model car and a huge wagon were parked alongside a wire pen that held some horses eating from a mound of hay. Three tents were pitched in a row inside the shed. Several soldiers were drinking at a bar made from boards set across two barrels and talking to another man with a holstered pistol on his side. Half a dozen lanterns hung from beams inside the shed, but they weren’t lit yet and the place looked more like a camp for migrant workers than a cathouse. “Who do we talk to?” Chimney asked as they got out.