Virgil and I were leaning on the bar, watching the smoke swirl and the whiskey pour and the cards slap down on tabletops.
“Spent a lot of my life in saloons like this,” Virgil said.
“I know,” I said.
“Funny thing is, neither one of us drinks much.”
“Probably a good thing,” I said.
“Probably,” Virgil said.
He looked comfortably around, appearing to pay no attention, in fact seeing everything.
“I been reading a book by this guy Russo,” Virgil said.
“Who?”
“French guy, Russo. Wrote something called The Social Contract, lot of stuff about nature.”
“Rousseau,” I said.
“Yeah, him,” Virgil said.
Virgil never admitted to a mistake. But if he was corrected, he never made it again.
“He says that men are good, and what makes them bad is government and law and stuff.”
“Don’t know much about Rousseau,” I said.
“Didn’t teach you ’bout him?” Virgil said. “At the Point?”
“Nope. Spent a lot of time on Roman cavalry tactics,” I said. “Not so much on French philosophers.”
“That what he was?” Virgil said. “A philosopher?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Well, he says if people was just left to grow up natural, they’d be good,” Virgil said. “You think that’s so?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “And I ain’t so sure it matters.”
Virgil nodded.
“’Cause nobody ever grew up that way,” he said.
I nodded.
“And probably ain’t going to,” Virgil said.
I nodded again.
“So what difference does it make?” I said.
“I dunno,” Virgil said. “I like reading about it. I like to learn stuff.”
“Sure,” I said.
“And if this Rousseau is right, then the law ain’t a good thing, that protects people; it’s a bad thing that, like, makes them bad.”
“Ain’t much law here,” I said.
“’Cept us,” Virgil said.
I laughed.
“’Cept us,” I said.
Virgil grinned.
“And Cato and Rose,” he said.
We both laughed.
“There’s some law for you,” I said.
“And it don’t much come from no government,” Virgil said, “or any, you know, contract or nothing.”
“Nope,” I said.
“Comes ’cause we can shoot better than other people.”
“And ain’t afraid to,” I said.
Wolfson came across the room and stopped in front of us.
“Virgil,” he said. “I got something to say.”
Virgil nodded.
“I mean alone,” Wolfson said.
“Go ahead and talk in front of Everett,” Virgil said. “Save me the trouble of telling him what you said.”
Wolfson didn’t like it, but Virgil showed no sign that he cared.
“I didn’t appreciate you telling people not to shoot Redmond, ” Wolfson said.
“You wanted him shot?” Virgil said.
“I want to decide those things, not you.”
“Don’t blame you,” Virgil said. “But you ain’t doing the shooting.”
Wolfson frowned.
“I don’t get you, Cole,” he said. “I’d expect that you’d want him dead.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well,” Wolfson said, “I mean, you’re fucking his wife.”
Virgil stared at Wolfson and said nothing.
“Well, I mean, no offense,” Wolfson said.
Virgil stared silently.
“Damn it, Cole, you work for me, don’t you?” Wolfson said. “You act like you’re in charge of everything. Like you don’t work for anybody.”
Virgil shrugged. Wolfson looked at me.
“You too, Everett,” he said. “You act like a couple fucking English kings, you know? Like you can do what you want.”
“And Cato and Rose ain’t much better,” I said.
“No, goddamn it, they ain’t,” Wolfson said.
“You ever read Rousseau?” Virgil said.
“I don’t read shit,” Wolfson said. “Including Roo whatever his fucking name is.”
“Nope,” Virgil said. “’Spect you haven’t.”
He turned and spoke to Patrick.
“I’d like just a finger of whiskey,” he said.
Patrick poured some, and a shot for me as well. He held the bottle up toward Wolfson, and Wolfson shook his head.
“Things gonna have to change around here,” he said, and turned and walked away.
“Things gonna change,” he muttered as he walked. “Things gonna fucking change.”
“Why doesn’t he fire us?” I said.
“He’s scared of us,” Virgil said.
“And Cato and Rose,” I said.
“Same thing,” he said.
“So what do you think he’ll do?”
“Hire himself enough people to back him,” Virgil said. “Then he’ll feel safe. Then he’ll fire us.”
“You and me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Cato and Rose?”
“Uh-huh.”
We sipped our whiskey.
After a while I said to Virgil, “Is it true?”
“What?”
“What he said. You poking Mrs. Redmond?”
“Ain’t gentlemanly to tell,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
“Hell, it ain’t even too gentlemanly to ask,” Virgil said.
“You are,” I said.
Virgil shrugged.
“Well,” I said, “ain’t you some kind of dandy.”
“Always have been,” Virgil said.