The Heavenly Table

40

THAT EVENING, A man in a thin coat named Everett Nunley stumbled out the front door of the Blind Owl and began walking south toward the Whore Barn. Frank Pollard watched him from the window and chuckled to himself. It was the man’s first night in Meade, and just by coincidence, he had turned out to be from over around McArthur, where the bartender had grown up. For the last three hours, Nunley had drunkenly recited every goddamn fact and rumor he knew about the place, along with all the births and deaths recorded over the past twenty years, to the point where, if it hadn’t been for Pollard’s rule of never maiming or killing anyone whom the law might be able to connect him to in even the smallest way, he would have gladly torn the bastard’s arms off and thrown him in Paint Creek to drown. So it was easy to imagine his glee when, desperate to get shed of him, he mentioned to Nunley that the pimp gave out free pussy on Thursday nights, and the dumb sonofabitch actually fell for it. After he disappeared over the bridge, Pollard ate a can of sausages with a fork — he was a great believer in preserved food, and had recently been toying with the idea of trying to can a human — then turned out the lights and settled down in the back room on his cot. From time to time he picked up the jar of teeth he’d collected and shook them. The sound always soothed him, reminded him of the rattle his mother had made him out of a gourd when he was just a little chap.

—

WHEN NUNLEY FINALLY arrived at the Whore Barn, he walked up to Blackie and Henry sitting by the fire and cheerily announced he was there for his free piece. “What the hell you talkin’ about?” the pimp said.

“The barkeep said ye give it out every Thursday.”

“Barkeep? Which one?”

“Man named Pollard. Over at the Blind Owl.”

“Ah, he’s just fuckin’ with ye,” Henry said.

“You mean he lied to me?”

“He did if he told ye it was free.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” the man swore. “And I used to run traps with his daddy.”

“Hell,” Henry said, “you should’ve knowed better. You could search the world over and you’ll never find such a thing as free pussy.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” the man said, his face now clouded with disappointment. “Oh, well, he always was a prick, even when he was a kid.”

“How much money ye got?” Blackie said.

The man weaved on his feet and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out a little change and struggled to count it in the campfire light. “Seventy-five cents,” he finally said.

“Have ye anything else you could trade? I hate to see a man go away horny, but goddamn, hoss, I got bills to pay.”

Nunley looked blank for a moment, then brightened up a little and said, “Got a good penknife.”

“Let me see it,” the pimp said. The knife was just a plaything with a crack in the handle, but it had been another slow night. Yesterday, he had knocked on the door at the clap doctor’s house intending to try to bribe him into easing up a bit on his lectures, but no sooner than he introduced himself, the man jerked a paper mask from his pocket and covered his face with it, then ordered him off his property. As if he, Blackie Beeler, was carrying some vile disease. He looked over at Henry and shrugged his shoulders. “Hand me the money,” he told the drunk. After a quick glance at the coins, he nodded toward the tents. “First one back.”

Nunley looked toward the barn, wiped his sleeve across his lips. “What’s her name?” he asked.

“Esther,” Blackie said. “Now go on, you got yourself ten minutes whether you’re done or not.”

“Ten minutes?”

“What do ye expect for a busted-up knife and three quarters?”

“Well, shit, I—”

“Don’t worry,” Henry told the man. “You won’t want no more than that once Esther wraps them big legs around ye. I guarantee it.”

—

BACK AT THE Blind Owl, Pollard shook the jar one more time, then set it down on the floor. He raised up and reached into his shirt pocket, took out a small brown bottle capped with an eyedropper. Sleep had never come easy to him, and lately the only time it came at all was when he dosed himself with some stuff he’d gotten from Caldwell, the druggist over on Walnut Street. After squeezing three drops onto his tongue, he put the bottle back in his pocket. Free pussy, he said to himself. Ha. Only a stupid sonofabitch from McArthur would ever believe something like that. He lay there awhile with his eyes closed, then reached over and picked up the jar again. Fuck that town. Someday he’d go back there and set fire to the whole goddamn place.