The Heavenly Table(90)

“No, no, it’s been nice,” Cane said. “Don’t worry, I got no complaints.” He bent through the flap and damn near ran over another customer waiting outside, a big-bellied, middle-aged man sucking on a lollipop and wearing a green eyeshade.

He bought a splash of whiskey for a quarter from the man at the bar, and nursed it while listening to the soldiers yipping and yowling like dogs inside the front tent where the fat lady was stationed. The pimp still sat at the campfire, but now he was slicing an apple with a knife, dabbing each thin piece into some salt sprinkled on a stump beside him before he stuck it in his mouth. It was another thirty minutes before Chimney finally emerged from the last tent, a sheepish grin on his face. He walked over to Blackie and said, “I owe you for two more.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed him eight dollars, then motioned for Cane that he was ready to leave.

They walked back toward town, the taxi passing them on its way to the Whore Barn again. It felt nice to be out in the open and not hiding in some dismal swamp or ditch somewhere. Chimney couldn’t stop talking about Matilda. How soft and velvety she felt inside, the sweet way she smelled, the manner in which she wrapped her legs around his back and held him tight after he shot his third load. “Third?” Cane said. “You were only in there an hour, if that.”

“Shit, I could have gone five or six if I’d known what I was doing at first. What about you?”

“Just one,” Cane lied.

“What’d she look like?”

“Oh, she was pretty enough,” Cane said. “What about yours?”

“Matilda? She was beautiful.”

“Well, I’m glad ye got you a good one,” Cane said.

“So, what about tomorrow night?”

“What about it?”

“Go back out, get some more. Maybe you should try the fat one.”

“Ah, I don’t think so,” Cane said. “I’ll probably do something with Cob. Wouldn’t be right to leave him alone every night.”

“Well, that’s up to you, but I already told Matilda I’d be back,” Chimney said. “And I wouldn’t want to break a promise.”

“No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” Cane said, trying his best to sound at least a little sincere.

“And at four dollars a shot, why, hell, you can’t beat that.”

“No, it’s cheap enough, I reckon.”

“Matilda’s probably worth twice that. And she’s nice, too. I mean, for a whore.”

“Well, just remember, those girls are apt to say anything for money.”

“Oh, you don’t need to tell me nothing,” Chimney said. “Remember that damn Joletta Bunyan? She fed Bloody Bill enough lies to fill a corncrib.” He started to say something else, but then stopped and pulled a flyer out of his pocket instead, handed it over.

“What’s this?” Cane said. They were crossing the bridge and a car was headed toward them. He held the paper up in the glare from the headlamps and saw, in bold black letters: THE LEWIS FAMILY! NOW APPEARING AT THE MAJESTIC THEATER! Underneath the heading was a picture of some stout men in bow ties and an ape dressed in a sailor costume.

“Guy at the hotel gave it to me. It’s like a show or something. I figured Cob might like to see the monkey.”

“Yeah, I expect he would.”

They were passing by the paper mill when Chimney noticed a saloon across the street. “How about we get us a beer?” he said. “All that lovemaking’s got me thirsty.”

“I bet it did,” Cane said. He was a little worried about what Cob might be up to, but he didn’t want to spoil Chimney’s big night, either. “All right, but just one. Then I got to get back to the hotel.”

The Blind Owl was empty except for the keep and a bearded man sitting alone at a table by the window, eating hog cracklings from a sheet of greasy newspaper. They asked for two beers, and Pollard served them with a grunt, then went back to the other end of the room. For a couple of minutes, they sat looking at their reflections in the mirror and listening to the man behind them crunch the rinds between his teeth. Finally, Chimney lifted his mug and said, “Race ye.” Once they were back outside, he spat and said, “Goddamn, a graveyard would be livelier than that f*ckin’ place. What the hell’s that sonofabitch’s problem anyway?”

“Maybe he’s one of them mutes,” Cane suggested.

“Nah, a prick’s more like it.”

Before parting ways uptown, they walked over to take a look at their new car parked underneath a light around the corner from the Warner. “Like I told ye,” Chimney said, “gettin’ it started is a little tricky sometimes, but I’ll figure it out.”

“I hope so,” Cane said, watching as his brother leaned over and rubbed the smudge of a handprint off the front fender with his shirtsleeve. “That thing’s our way out of here.” He yawned and stretched, then looked down the street toward the McCarthy. “Make sure you make it to the park tomorrow evening, okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

Back in the hotel room, Cane found Cob flat on his back in bed snoring loudly. He saw that half the ham was gone and all of the doughnuts. He hung up his suit coat and took off his shoes and sat down in the chair next to the window. Cob muttered something in his sleep, then rolled over on his side. Turning on the lamp, Cane took a sip of whiskey from one of the pints he had bought, then picked up the Shakespeare and turned to the page in Richard III he had dog-eared. After a while, he put the book down and looked out the window at the dark storefronts across the street. It was the end of their first night in Meade. Much had been accomplished, and there hadn’t been the slightest sign of trouble.