The Heavenly Table

52

AROUND FIVE O’CLOCK that evening, Chimney completed his driving lesson and took Triplett back to his office. The salesman climbed out of the car, his stomach in worse shape than ever. The boy was probably the most reckless driver he had ever met, but at the same time he did have a knack for it. At least a dozen times Triplett had thought they were goners, but somehow the little sonofabitch always managed to pull off another miracle. Triplett tore off his goggles and duster and sucked some air down into his lungs. He’d been so tense for the last hour he’d barely been able to breathe. “Where would I find me an outfit like the one you’re wearing?” Chimney asked him.

“Go to Wissler’s down on Second Street,” Triplett said, still a little dizzy. “That’s where I buy all my gear.”

Chimney made it to the hardware store just before they closed. He bought a pair of tinted goggles and tight leather gloves and a tan-colored duster, then drove back to the hotel and spent ten minutes trying to park along the curb between a roadster with a flat tire and a wagon filled with crates of apples. He rushed upstairs and washed the dust off his face and hands and combed his hair, then put on his new driving ensemble and admired himself in the mirror. Locking the door to his room, he walked past the ink-stained desk clerk and headed for the park.

Cane was seated on a wooden bench by the pond watching Cob throw bits of bread out onto the water for the ducks. He was mulling over the last scene he had read in Richard III, in which the cripple has two nephews drowned in a wine cask. Because this Shakespeare fellow used so many words he’d never heard before, it was hard to figure out exactly what was going on at times; but he was thinking Chimney would probably love a story filled with such meanness when he looked up and saw him striding toward them in his new clothes: the striped pants and purple shirt bright against the tan duster, the goggles covering half his face, the derby sitting atop his head like a black egg.

“So you got it?” Cane said. “The automobile?”

“I did. A Ford. ‘Coop,’ the man called it. The sonofabitch will go thirty-five miles an hour!”

“Where is it?” Cane asked, as Cob slung the rest of the bread into the pond, then walked over and stood silently looking at his younger brother.

“Parked up in front of the hotel. I been driving it around all afternoon with the salesman. Startin’ it up’s a little tricky, but I almost got the hang of it.”

“Good,” Cane said. “What’d ye pay for it?”

“Two-fifty.”

“You look funny,” Cob spoke up.

“Fuck you,” Chimney said. “This is what you wear when you’re operatin’ an automobile. Course, you wouldn’t know nothin’ about that. Shit, you can barely stay on a horse.”

“Well, that might be,” Cob said, “but me and Tom’s got the biggest dern ham you ever seen up in our room.”

“You watch out he don’t try to molest it while you’re sleeping.”

“Huh?” Cob said.

“Never mind,” Chimney said. He took the goggles off and stuck them in the pocket of the duster, then sat down on the bench. “Found out about some whores, too. All ye do is get in a taxi and he’ll take you right to ’em.”

“Boy, you have been busy, haven’t ye?” Cane said.

“So I’m thinkin’ we go out tonight and get us some.”

“Me, too?” Cob said.

“Ah, I don’t think you’d care for it, Junior,” Cane said. “Besides, we can’t all be seen together.”

“But what am I gonna do then?”

“How about I buy you some ice cream at that place we passed and then walk you back to the hotel? You got that ham to eat on and there’s still some doughnuts left.”

“I reckon,” Cob said.

“I’ll wait for ye at the corner right down from where I’m staying,” Chimney said, as he stood up. “You’ll see the taxis settin’ there. And don’t take too long, either.”

Forty minutes later, Cane finally showed up at the cab stand. “Jesus Christ,” Chimney said, “I was about ready to take off by myself.”

“Ah, you know how Cob is. He got started on that ice cream and didn’t want to stop.”

Just then a taxi pulled up and two soldiers hopped out of the backseat. They were in a heated argument about something. They paid the driver and walked around the corner still going at it.

“What was that about?” Chimney asked the cabbie as they climbed in the car.

“Ah, they been out to the Whore Barn,” the cabbie said. “The one with the glasses, he had trouble getting it up, and the other kept ridin’ him about it. I expect they’ll be a fight before they get back to camp. You can tell the red-faced fucker’s one of those guys that likes to start shit.” He turned in the seat and looked back at them. “Is that where you wanting to go, to the Whore Barn?”

“Yeah,” Chimney said.

“This your first time?”

“Hell, no,” Chimney said, “I’ve had plenty of women.” He pulled a pint of whiskey from his duster pocket, twisted the cap off, and took a sip.

“No, I mean your first time to the Whore Barn.”

“We just got into town,” Cane said.

“Well, my advice is if Blackie tries to stick the fat one off on you, tell him you’ll just wait for one of the others. Just between us, she’s full of gonorrhea.” Ever since the cabbie had paid Esther to take a leak on his chest and she’d accidently drenched his new toupee instead, he had been informing everyone that she was wracked with various loathsome and incurable diseases. Not only had she ruined the hairpiece, but she’d made a wisecrack about it, as well, saying it looked so much like a muskrat, it should have been waterproof; and if there was anything he hated worse than a woman with poor bladder control, it was one with a smart mouth. Chimney passed him the pint, and he took a pull and handed it back.

“Who’s Blackie?”

“He’s their pimp.”

“What’s that?” Chimney asked.

“Why, he’s the one you pay.”

“Oh, like their madam,” Chimney said, recalling Miss Ashley, the red-haired, ivory-skinned woman who ran Bloody Bill’s favorite whorehouse back in Denver, Colorado.

“Madam? Uh, yeah. Only he’s a man.”

“How much they charge for a piece?” Chimney said as the cabbie pulled out and headed the car south down Paint Street.

“Oh, it’s cheap enough,” the cabbie said. “You can get a shot of pussy and two drinks for less than five bucks. Course it depends on what you want, too. Some things cost a little more.”

“What do ye mean?” Chimney said.

“Well, say you want to get pissed on or have your balls blistered with a candle. That’d be extra.”

“Pissed on?” Chimney said. “What kind of sick fucker would want something like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the cabbie said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m just tellin’ you what I’ve heard.”

“Well, we just want some of the regular,” Chimney said. “The freaks can have all that other shit.”

The cabbie took them out on the Huntington Pike a quarter of a mile and drove down a lane, pulling up and stopping in front of a long open shed. “This is it?” Chimney said, sounding a little disappointed. He’d been imagining something grand, like the House of Love, a bordello that Bloody Bill once shot up in Kansas City, all stained-glass windows and mahogany woodwork with a string quartet playing on the stone terrace.

“Yep,” the cabbie said. “But don’t let the looks of it discourage you none. And if you’re anything like me, I’d say you’ve laid with women in places a lot worse than this. Why, one of the best fucks I’ve ever had was in a coal bin.” In front of the shed a man in a white shirt and paisley vest sat alone at a campfire with a tin coffee cup in his hand. Off to the right, an older-model car and a huge wagon were parked alongside a wire pen that held some horses eating from a mound of hay. Three tents were pitched in a row inside the shed. Several soldiers were drinking at a bar made from boards set across two barrels and talking to another man with a holstered pistol on his side. Half a dozen lanterns hung from beams inside the shed, but they weren’t lit yet and the place looked more like a camp for migrant workers than a cathouse. “Who do we talk to?” Chimney asked as they got out.

“The man a-sittin’ at the fire,” the cabbie said. “He’ll fix you up.”

When Blackie saw them approaching, he stood up and smiled at them with the biggest, whitest teeth they had ever seen. His thick, dark hair was slicked back in a high pompadour that reminded Cane of a rooster’s crest. “You boys lookin’ for some fun?”

“Yeah,” Chimney said.

“Well, you came to the right place,” Blackie said. “I got one named Matilda who’s free at the moment.”

“She ain’t the fat one, is she?”

“No, that’s Esther. You want her, you’ll have to wait in line. Those boys standing at the bar are next. Matilda’s a little on the lean side, but she’s a wildcat in the sack.”

“How much?”

“Matilda’s a high-quality four-dollar piece.”

“She’ll do,” Chimney said, pulling out some money. “Maybe I’ll try the big one later.”

“Last tent down,” the pimp said. “Go ahead. She’ll be waiting on ye.” Then he turned to Cane and looked at his suit. “Now you look like a man who likes something a little more refined. I got a real lady who speaks French. She’s with another customer right now, but they should be about finished.”

“How much does she cost?” Cane asked, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. He watched his brother disappear inside the brown canvas tent.

“Peaches is the same as Matilda.”

Cane had just handed the man his money when a wheezing old-timer with brown, leathery skin came out of the second tent dragging one leg behind him. He stopped and bent over, hacked a throat-full of yellowish phlegm onto the ground, then continued on until he disappeared into the line of trees beyond the horse pen. “There ye go,” Blackie said, “right on time.”

As he walked past the soldiers, Cane heard them talking among themselves about Esther. “She’ll do anything you want and you don’t have to pay extra for it, either. Me and ol’ Dugan double-teamed her the other night, worked her over from the front and the back till we damn near met in the middle.” With a little trepidation, he pulled back the flap on the tent and stooped down a little as he entered. A woman with long blond tresses and a pretty face was squatted down over a bucket in the corner, but when she saw him, she sprung up and pulled her white slip down. She reached over and picked up a cigarette from a little wooden box on the table, then said with a frown, “Just give me a couple minutes, okay? I need a smoke.”

“Take your time,” Cane said. “I’m not in any hurry.” He was a little surprised at how comfortable the tent looked, almost like a regular room. A padded chair sat in the corner, and on a polished nightstand beside the small bed was a lit candle and some slightly wilted wildflowers in a blue vase.

“I’m supposed to get five minutes between customers.”

“I’m sorry, but he told me to come on back. The boss, I mean.”

“Yeah, Blackie’s a slave driver. That’s what Matilda calls him.”

“Want me to step back outside until you’re ready?”

“No, Jesus, don’t do that. He’ll wonder what’s going on. Just take your pants off and lay down on the bed.”

Cane glanced over at the bucket, then sat down in the chair instead. He tried not to think about the old, dirty bastard who had just left the tent a couple of minutes ago, looking like a mummy emerging from his tomb. Christ, if he’d actually been able to get an erection, she probably still had some of his dusty wad up inside her. Though he wanted a woman, he didn’t want one this bad. He was trying to figure a way out of it without hurting her feelings when he remembered what the pimp had said. “So, you speak French?” he asked her.

“I do,” Peaches said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “but only for money.”

“Well, how about you just talk to me for a while? To tell ye the truth, I think I’m too worn out to do anything else.”

“You mean in French?”

“Yeah,” Cane said. “We built a fence one time for a man whose wife spoke it whenever she was pissed at him. I always did like the sound of it.”

“It’ll cost you a dollar extra.”

“That’s all right,” Cane said. He took a dollar out of his pocket and laid it beside the flower vase.

Peaches stabbed the cigarette out in an ashtray, then stood up and shook out her hands, as if she were getting ready to perform some great feat. “Parlez-vous Français?” she asked with a wink. “Oui,” she replied, nodding her head. It turned out that her entire act was composed of perhaps a dozen or so such words and phrases. Then, as far as Cane could tell, she repeated everything two more times before finally stopping and looking down at his crotch. “Did ye get off yet?”

“What?” he asked, a little confused. “No, I was just…You mean men actually…”

“Well, yeah, that’s the point, ain’t it?” She reached for another cigarette. “Hold on a minute and I’ll start over. Try to pay attention this time.”

“No, that’s all right,” Cane said, relieved that it was over with. “Like I said, I’m wore out.” He stood and turned to exit.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Look, I don’t want you complaining to Blackie, so if you’re in the mood for something else, I’d be happy to oblige. As long as it’s not too, well, too unnatural. You want something like that, you’ll have to see Esther.”

“No, no, it’s been nice,” Cane said. “Don’t worry, I got no complaints.” He bent through the flap and damn near ran over another customer waiting outside, a big-bellied, middle-aged man sucking on a lollipop and wearing a green eyeshade.

He bought a splash of whiskey for a quarter from the man at the bar, and nursed it while listening to the soldiers yipping and yowling like dogs inside the front tent where the fat lady was stationed. The pimp still sat at the campfire, but now he was slicing an apple with a knife, dabbing each thin piece into some salt sprinkled on a stump beside him before he stuck it in his mouth. It was another thirty minutes before Chimney finally emerged from the last tent, a sheepish grin on his face. He walked over to Blackie and said, “I owe you for two more.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed him eight dollars, then motioned for Cane that he was ready to leave.

They walked back toward town, the taxi passing them on its way to the Whore Barn again. It felt nice to be out in the open and not hiding in some dismal swamp or ditch somewhere. Chimney couldn’t stop talking about Matilda. How soft and velvety she felt inside, the sweet way she smelled, the manner in which she wrapped her legs around his back and held him tight after he shot his third load. “Third?” Cane said. “You were only in there an hour, if that.”

“Shit, I could have gone five or six if I’d known what I was doing at first. What about you?”

“Just one,” Cane lied.

“What’d she look like?”

“Oh, she was pretty enough,” Cane said. “What about yours?”

“Matilda? She was beautiful.”

“Well, I’m glad ye got you a good one,” Cane said.

“So, what about tomorrow night?”

“What about it?”

“Go back out, get some more. Maybe you should try the fat one.”

“Ah, I don’t think so,” Cane said. “I’ll probably do something with Cob. Wouldn’t be right to leave him alone every night.”

“Well, that’s up to you, but I already told Matilda I’d be back,” Chimney said. “And I wouldn’t want to break a promise.”

“No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” Cane said, trying his best to sound at least a little sincere.

“And at four dollars a shot, why, hell, you can’t beat that.”

“No, it’s cheap enough, I reckon.”

“Matilda’s probably worth twice that. And she’s nice, too. I mean, for a whore.”

“Well, just remember, those girls are apt to say anything for money.”

“Oh, you don’t need to tell me nothing,” Chimney said. “Remember that damn Joletta Bunyan? She fed Bloody Bill enough lies to fill a corncrib.” He started to say something else, but then stopped and pulled a flyer out of his pocket instead, handed it over.

“What’s this?” Cane said. They were crossing the bridge and a car was headed toward them. He held the paper up in the glare from the headlamps and saw, in bold black letters: THE LEWIS FAMILY! NOW APPEARING AT THE MAJESTIC THEATER! Underneath the heading was a picture of some stout men in bow ties and an ape dressed in a sailor costume.

“Guy at the hotel gave it to me. It’s like a show or something. I figured Cob might like to see the monkey.”

“Yeah, I expect he would.”

They were passing by the paper mill when Chimney noticed a saloon across the street. “How about we get us a beer?” he said. “All that lovemaking’s got me thirsty.”

“I bet it did,” Cane said. He was a little worried about what Cob might be up to, but he didn’t want to spoil Chimney’s big night, either. “All right, but just one. Then I got to get back to the hotel.”

The Blind Owl was empty except for the keep and a bearded man sitting alone at a table by the window, eating hog cracklings from a sheet of greasy newspaper. They asked for two beers, and Pollard served them with a grunt, then went back to the other end of the room. For a couple of minutes, they sat looking at their reflections in the mirror and listening to the man behind them crunch the rinds between his teeth. Finally, Chimney lifted his mug and said, “Race ye.” Once they were back outside, he spat and said, “Goddamn, a graveyard would be livelier than that fuckin’ place. What the hell’s that sonofabitch’s problem anyway?”

“Maybe he’s one of them mutes,” Cane suggested.

“Nah, a prick’s more like it.”

Before parting ways uptown, they walked over to take a look at their new car parked underneath a light around the corner from the Warner. “Like I told ye,” Chimney said, “gettin’ it started is a little tricky sometimes, but I’ll figure it out.”

“I hope so,” Cane said, watching as his brother leaned over and rubbed the smudge of a handprint off the front fender with his shirtsleeve. “That thing’s our way out of here.” He yawned and stretched, then looked down the street toward the McCarthy. “Make sure you make it to the park tomorrow evening, okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

Back in the hotel room, Cane found Cob flat on his back in bed snoring loudly. He saw that half the ham was gone and all of the doughnuts. He hung up his suit coat and took off his shoes and sat down in the chair next to the window. Cob muttered something in his sleep, then rolled over on his side. Turning on the lamp, Cane took a sip of whiskey from one of the pints he had bought, then picked up the Shakespeare and turned to the page in Richard III he had dog-eared. After a while, he put the book down and looked out the window at the dark storefronts across the street. It was the end of their first night in Meade. Much had been accomplished, and there hadn’t been the slightest sign of trouble.