The Prophets(85)

“He’s a private man,” Jake said. “Not much for public things like auctions. And before you ask, he likes to conduct business directly so he doesn’t send men in lieu of him.”

“And yet, here you are,” Paul replied.

The saloon shook as the men rose in song, something Paul had never heard before. They were slurring and off-key, but that almost seemed to be the point. Merriment had its own way, and the messiness of it all, under the red-red light, in the fuzziness of Paul’s inebriated senses, wasn’t just a kind of beauty, but beauty itself. He felt loose enough to stand and raise his glass.

“He didn’t really send me,” Jake said. “I sort of volunteered. As a favor to James.”

Paul looked down at Jake, who was still seated. “James said nothing to me.”

“I told him not to. Not unless I could be sure. But then you walked in here tonight and that was . . .”

“Providence,” Paul said.

He turned back to the table and grabbed the bottle and, this time, drank straight from it. Some of the whiskey missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin. His condition made it so that he didn’t care. Come to think of it, right now, he didn’t care about a lot of things. Not Isaiah and Samuel, not Ruth, not Timothy, not the plantation, not nothing. And the load that was loosened from him made him feel like he might well float right up to the ceiling with no earthly idea on how to get back down. And he didn’t care about that, either.

“So when can I meet this mysterious gentleman?” Paul said to Jake.

“As a matter of fact, he’s here. He’s out back. As I said before, he’s not much of a people person and prefers his privacy.”

“If he prefers his privacy, what is he doing in the back of a saloon?”

“He has other business to attend to. Otherwise, he’d be home.”

“And where is home? In fact, what is this man’s name?”

“You should save all of these questions for him. You won’t be disappointed. Follow me, Halifax. Right this way.”

So Paul followed Jake as he led him to the back, where the music could still be heard through the open door. The red-red light had followed them, too, but fainter now, confoundedly absorbed by the night as they strayed farther and farther away from the tumult that he strangely, but unmistakably, craved. Bottle still in hand, he took another swig before they made it out the back door of the saloon.

The bottle was all but dry and he threw it and lost his footing and fell down laughing. Jake helped him back up. When he got to his feet, he saw three men standing beside Jake.

“All right. So which one of these men is . . . Mr. Privacy?”

Jake said nothing as the three men charged Paul. They knocked him to the ground. Paul kicked one of them in the face and the man fell back, but the other two kept on him.

“His pockets!” Jake yelled and the two men began to tug at Paul’s pants. Paul went for his holster and one of the men grabbed his arm, trying to prevent him from pulling out his gun. Then the man whom Paul kicked returned to the fray and began to help the one who was trying to wrestle the gun from Paul. The third man, meanwhile, had managed to take the banknotes from Paul’s pocket and also pulled the gold watch from the chain attached to Paul’s waistband. He held it up to Jake.

“I got it!” he exclaimed.

“Good! Let’s go!”

One man grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in Paul’s eyes. Paul covered his face and the men took off running. Blinking and trying to rub the dirt away, Paul fired off a shot in the direction he thought they were running. He couldn’t really see if he had hit his target. He tapped his shirt pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe his face. He slumped against the rear wall of the saloon, looked up to the starry sky, and shook his head.

“Auction it is,” he whispered.

He slid down the wall until his ass hit the ground. He looked at his shoes a moment before he stood up. At least they didn’t take my shoes. Then he laughed. Then he laughed full belly. Then, finally, he fell backward onto the ground, unable to control the laughter that rocked his whole body. He had never before felt so light. He wished he could keep falling backward, relishing the flutter in the pit of his stomach, the tickle at the bottom of his sack. But he got up again because he thought he could float. When he was no closer to the stars than he had ever been, he swatted the thought away with his hand.

He stumbled toward the front of the saloon. He turned the corner and he saw his horse and coach, and Adam in the driver’s seat nodding off, head jerking before he caught himself and returned to the upright position. Paul straightened himself, but his mind still belonged to the whiskey.

“Where’s my boy?” he said with a smile on his face. “I need my boy.”

Adam, still dozing, didn’t hear him.

Paul got closer and repeated himself but louder. Adam shook and turned to see Paul standing there, disheveled. Forgetting himself, he recoiled at the sight of a smiling Paul. Realizing what this might earn him, he quickly resparked the dying light in the lantern at his side. He jumped down from his seat, lantern in hand, and bowed his head before Paul.

“Massa,” he said in a voice that had traces of interrupted sleep all up in it. “Is everything all right, suh?”

“Yes, my boy. Everything is perfect.” He touched Adam’s face and lifted it. He was dirtying Adam’s face with his scuffed and dusty hands. Adam’s eyes widened. “I need you, Adam.” Paul smiled with woozy eyes. “I need you to get me home right now. You hear me? Ready the horse for home. You know why?” Paul moved his face a little closer to Adam’s. “Because God has blessed us.”