The Night Watchman(29)

“Ah. The daughter of a chieftain?”

Chief Firewater, thought Patrice. She looked around the place. There were small windows, like portholes, and some tables underneath. She was hungry.

“If we can sit next to the door under one of those round windows, I will listen,” she said. “And I want that hamburger sandwich.”

“Absolutely. After you,” said Jack, flourishing his arm. She walked to the table by the window and sat down on a little black chair. The table was painted deep purple and the surface was sticky. She put the suitcase on the chair beside her. Jack sat down across from her, a drink in his hand.

“Your traveling case is charming,” he said. “Rustic.” He gestured at the bartender.

“The refreshments are coming,” he went on. “As well as my apologies. They know not what they do.”

“I think they do know,” said Patrice.

“Incompletely though,” said Jack.

The bartender brought an orange Nehi soda, ice-cold, and set it down beside a glass of ice.

“So here’s the thing.” Jack hunched toward her. “This place changed owners last year, see. Before, it was an underwater theme. Mermaid Palace. Lots of shells and fish. The big tank. A trained mermaid worked shows in the tank.”

“Trained mermaid?”

“Yeah. Wore a glitter tail. The guy who bought this place, W. W. Pank, made his money off timber so as a tribute to north-woods industry he decided on a lumbering theme. Thus, Log Jam. 26 is just a number. There is a Paul Bunyan type of theme to the drinks and such. The menu. We’re still making changes with the décor. And of course the tank, which is what the place is known for. You heard of Babe?”

“No.”

“Paul’s blue ox. She hauls his logs. She’s his sidekick. So that’s the outfit. Babe.”

“Outfit for what?”

“Instead of a mermaid outfit, a Babe outfit. Hilda used to wear the outfit, do the underwater tricks. Ox tricks. People love it, come from miles around, all through the city and beyond. They love the waterjack. I’m surprised she has such a following already, but there you have it. And shame on me. I have not even asked your name.”

“Doris,” said Patrice.

“Doris what?”

Patrice blanked out for a moment.

“Doris Barnes,” she said.

“Do you have an Indian name? Is it respectful to ask? Or perhaps it is a secret?”

“A secret,” said Patrice.

“As it should be. However, I could see you as . . . say . . . Princess Waterfall.”

“No.”

“Well, Doris. Have you any interest in the job?”

“Swimming around in an ox costume? No.”

“You haven’t even asked the salary.”

“I don’t care about the salary.”

“Fifty dollars per night. Plus you keep all of your tips every other night.”

Patrice was silent. Counting the tips, which she couldn’t estimate, it was more than she made each week at the jewel bearing plant. For one night’s work.

“I don’t really want to,” she said.

“Would you like to see the outfit anyway?”

“For a laugh,” said Patrice.

“Then come with me.”

A chubby florid man set a platter before her. Arranged upon it was a hamburger, with sides of lettuce, pickles, fried potatoes, and coleslaw.

“Mind if I eat first?”

Jack smiled—his teeth were long, brown, broken. She wished that she hadn’t seen his teeth. But then she took a bite of the hamburger and forgot. Briskly, neatly, efficiently, she devoured everything on the platter. She wiped the tips of her fingers on a purple napkin.

“Impressive,” said Jack. “Pretty soon everything will be lumberjack—the napkins black and red checks and so on.”

He thought a moment, observed her meticulously cleaned plate, and said, “Of course, you would also be served dinner after the show.”

“All right, let’s see the outfit,” said Patrice. “But I want the lights turned on in that hallway.”

“Whatever you say,” said Jack.

She picked up her suitcase and walked beside Jack, who greeted those he passed with a sardonic twitch of his mouth. He walked down the hall, up a narrow stairway. Opened a door.

“Your dressing room.”

Patrice peered in from the doorway. An ordinary room with a maroon-gray-swirled linoleum floor. There was a built-in dressing table with a mirror with lights around it. Bottles of foundation makeup and a messy array of lipsticks.

“Waterproof,” said Jack, flourishing his hand at the litter.

The dressing-table chair was flecked with old white paint and had a stained pink flowered seat cushion. Jack walked over to open a deep closet. Removed a cloth bag from a large box, and unzipped it to reveal the outfit. There was a blue rubber wet suit with white hooves painted at the ends of the hands and feet. Two large white disks with scarlet centers were where the breasts would be. Patrice flinched. Was that a dark shadow between the cow legs? She looked away. Jack held the outfit reverently in his arms. In a hushed voice he asked if she would try it on. She stayed in the doorway.

“Of course I won’t.”

“Would you just, please, hold it up to yourself?”