57

I HAD A BEER with Chauncey Teagarden in a small saloon called Rabbit’s, near the new red-light section of town.

“You’re from New Orleans,” I said.

“Ah surely am,” he said, broadening the accent.

“Did you know that Callico’s wife is from New Orleans?”

Chauncey grinned.

“Amelia,” he said.

“You do know her,” I said.

“Know her,” Chauncey said. “She don’t know me.”

“Tell me ’bout her,” I said.

“Queen of Storyville,” Chauncey said. “Worked three, four cribs there, ’fore she met Callico and gave up honest labor.”

“Ever go to one of her establishments?”

“Hell, when she was first starting out she used to work the bedrooms herself,” Chauncey said. “I been to her.”

“Callico know that?” I said.

“No, she don’t even know that. She was a busy girl when I was going to her. And I didn’t shave yet.”

“But he knew she was a whore?”

“Oh, sure,” Chauncey said. “He went to her, too. Called herself the Countess. That was her trick, always wore a fancy dress. Nothing under it.”

“How’d she meet Callico?”

“Don’t know,” Chauncey said. “Don’t know too much about Callico. For a while, I know, he was a trick shooter at a carnival, used to play around New Orleans. Saw him once. Man, could he shoot.”

“Clay pigeons?” I said.

“Yep. Fancy ones sometimes. Made of glass.”

“Pigeons ever shoot back?”

“Nope.”

“Unlikely to,” I said.

“God, he was fast, though. And accurate.”

“She work the carnival?” I said.

“Doubt it,” Teagarden said. “Mighta been a bouncer in one’a her joints and then something clicked and they went off together. ’Cept I heard she took up with a fella by that name, I never thought anything about either one of them until I got here. I recognized her. And when I seen him, I remember him shooting. Ain’t all so many fellas named Callico you’re gonna run into.”

The doors to the saloon were open, and outside the sky was low and dark and there was a sense of something coming. Most people were off the street.

“Something coming,” Chauncey said, looking out at the dark street.

“A lot of it,” I said.

We carried our beer glasses to the doorway and stood, looking out at the empty street where the wind was beginning to kick a little trash around.

“This thing between Callico and the general is going to turn into something bad,” Chauncey said.

“If it does, you’re with the general,” I said.

“I am,” he said.

“You and the general against Callico and his policemen,” I said. “He’s got a fair number of hands.”

“Yeah, but mostly cowhands,” Chauncey said.

“You’re not a cowhand,” I said.

“No,” Chauncey said. “I am not.”

“So, he needs you to run the tactical command, so to speak.”

“I’d say so.”

“You didn’t come here to fight a war,” I said.

“Things change,” Chauncey said.

“Forever?” I said.

“Till after the war.”

“Then?”

“I do what the general hired me to do, if he still wants it done.”

“He don’t seem like a man changes his mind much,” I said.

“No.”

“General’s kid required it of Virgil,” I said.

“I’m sure he did,” Chauncey said. “Virgil Cole don’t go around shooting people ’cause he can.”

The wind was picking up as we stood, watching in the doorway. It pushed tumbleweed up the street past us. Far to the west, lightning flashed, and in a moment the sound of thunder came to us. No rain yet, but the tension of its pending arrival filled the air.

“Soon,” I said.

“I have to go against Virgil,” Chauncey said. “I assume that includes you.”

“Does,” I said.

“Still got that eight-gauge?” Chauncey said.

I smiled.

“Do,” I said.

“Won’t make it easier,” Chauncey said.

“I’ll come straight at you,” I said. “I don’t back-shoot.”

“Well, never lost yet,” Chauncey said.

“Neither has Virgil,” I said.

A single raindrop splattered into the still-dusty street in front of us.

“I know,” Chauncey said. “Sorta what makes it worth trying.”

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