Bovard took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Have they arrested the man who did it?”
“I believe so.”
Just then, First Lieutenants Waller and Bryant appeared on their way to the dining hall. Bovard waited until they passed on by, then said, “Well, there’s not much we can do about it now. I just wish he’d come and talked to one of us before he did something so stupid.”
“Ah, sir, he’s not the first man to fuck his life up over a letter from home.”
“No, I suppose not,” Bovard said, thinking of the anguish he’d felt upon first receiving his last one from Elizabeth.
“Over at the Front, I saw a dozen or more go to the firing squad over that silly horseshit. People can get downright crazy when it comes to gettin’ dumped.”
“Christ, you don’t think they’ll execute him, do you?”
“No, sir, not over here, but I imagine they’ll make it rough on him for a while, then send him home with a dishonorable.”
“I suppose I better go see him this afternoon, write up a report,” Bovard said. He started to turn away toward the dining hall. He hated to think what that obnoxious loudmouth Waller would say about this. Ever since Lucas’s name had come up during lunch that day, the sonofabitch had been needling him in pissy little ways. Bovard had been thinking a lot about a story Malone had told him that involved some soldiers who had murdered their commanding officer and made it look like he had stepped on a land mine. Five months ago he would have never dreamed of doing such a thing, but if Waller kept it up, well, who knew what might happen once they got to France? “Sir, you still need a groom,” he heard the sergeant say.
Bovard stopped. From where he stood he could see the hospital, and, beyond it, the stables. Oh, well, he thought, if he couldn’t have his pick, what did it matter who it turned out to be? Maybe the pain of Wesley’s absence at his side would make death at the Front even sweeter. “You were right,” he said over his shoulder to Malone. “I should have listened to you in the first place.”
“Sir?”
“About Cooper. He’s by far the best man for the job.”
49
AT NINE O’CLOCK, Cane left his brothers sitting on the south bank of Paint Creek and rode into Meade to look around. Within a few minutes, he was satisfied that the town was big enough that they wouldn’t attract attention. The sidewalks were overflowing with people of all sorts, and the streets crowded with every type of horse and mule and car and wagon imaginable. A hundred different sounds filled the sour, slightly chemical air. He returned two hours later and printed in block letters on a piece of paper the name of the livery and the hotel that he wanted Chimney to use, told him where they could be found. “Me and Cob will go first,” Cane said. “Give us half an hour. Then ride in and stable the horse and rent yourself a room. Buy some clothes and get cleaned up, then go find out what you can about buying that automobile.”
“Jesus, anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s a park at the north end of the street you’ll be going in on. We’ll meet you there by the pond this evening at six o’clock. Better buy yourself a watch.”
“Did ye see any whores?” Chimney said.
“No, but don’t worry about that right now. From the looks of things, I expect there’s plenty around.” Cane counted out five hundred dollars and placed it in Chimney’s hand. “That should buy the car and keep you going for a while.”
Crossing over the bridge on South Paint Street, he and Cob passed the paper mill. They veered off into the east end of town a ways and left their horses at Jonson’s Livery, slipping an extra dollar to a stable bum named Chester Higgenbotham to make sure they got some grain. Then they walked uptown to the Hotel McCarthy. Inside the two saddlebags they carried nearly $35,000 and three pistols, along with their mother’s Bible and the dictionary. Cane asked the clerk, a man named Harlan Dix, for a room with two beds and a bathtub. Dix cast a glance at them, noted their shaggy, unkempt appearance. Though he himself deplored the growing emphasis on personal hygiene as another reason why the country was turning soft, the McCarthy had a reputation for being the premier hotel in town, and his boss kept rates high to discourage clients such as this motley pair. “Five dollars a night,” he said. “In advance.” Just as he was getting ready to suggest the Warner down the street, Cane handed him twenty dollars for four days. He stared for a moment at the money, then shrugged and gave them two keys. “Second floor,” he said, pointing at the stairway. “Number eight.”
Though certainly not one of the hotel’s best, the room was still the nicest the brothers had ever been in. It contained two narrow beds and a round woven carpet and a cedar bureau, along with some hooks on the wall for hanging clothes. An upholstered chair sat in the corner. White lacy curtains hung from the two long windows that looked out on the busy street. Another door led to a bathroom with a claw-foot tub. Cob kept pulling the chain that turned on the electric light hanging from the ceiling until Cane, worried that he might break it, told him to stop. Of course, neither of them had ever used a commode before, and it took a minute or two to figure out exactly how it worked. Even then, Cob was afraid of it, and if it hadn’t been for his brother telling him he’d get arrested, he would have gladly done his business in the alley behind the hotel rather than risk some sort of injury.
A few minutes later, Cane walked down the street alone to a dry goods store called Lange Mercantile. After standing outside for a minute, looking at various items displayed in the windows, he went in through the double wooden doors. He was browsing along the first aisle when he suddenly realized that he could buy anything in the goddamn place if he wanted. He thought about that as he watched a dirty little man in a funny white helmet and knee-high rubber boots crouch down to admire a bathroom display in the plumbing section. He recognized that look. He’d seen it in his brothers’ faces whenever they followed Pearl into a store, and stood gazing longingly at everything they couldn’t have while he carefully counted out the pennies to buy some little thing they couldn’t do without, a few nails, say, or a can of strap oil. Never anything more than that. He took one more glance at the man, then moved on to the next aisle.
He ended up buying Cob a pair of bib overalls and two shirts and a pair of sturdy brogans and a cloth cap; and for himself, a new gray suit and a pair of ankle-high leather boots. He also picked up several pairs of socks and underwear and tooth powder and brushes and a razor and a bottle of perfumed water, along with some gauze and tape and a bottle of alcohol to dress Cob’s leg. At the back of the store, in a corner behind the veterinary supplies, he stumbled upon several tall stacks of used books for sale, and his immediate thought was to purchase them all, but then he realized how impractical that would be, at least for now. He wasn’t exactly sure why he loved them, but he knew that he did; and someday, he vowed, he’d have that many or more. He ended up choosing a slightly mildewed copy of Shakespeare’s Tragedies, remembering that a short passage from the playwright in the McGuffey Reader, something about time and how it rushes by so quickly, had been one of his mother’s favorites. He then began carrying everything to the front of the store.
A tired-looking man in a bow tie took his money and wrapped everything up in brown paper. “You got quite a load there,” the clerk said. “Want me to get a boy to help you with it?”
“No, I can manage,” Cane replied. “Don’t have that far to go.” He walked back to the hotel with the packages and found Cob pulling the light chain again. He ran a tub of hot water, and they each took a bath. Then he shaved them both and demonstrated how to use the toothbrush. “I want you to do this at least once every couple days,” he told Cob. He poured some alcohol on the wound and taped gauze around it. Dressed in their new clothes, they went downstairs and out the front door, the clerk hardly recognizing them now. They walked about for a while enjoying their new duds and looking in shop windows. Cane bought some cigars and two pints of bonded whiskey at a liquor store and a small ham from a butcher shop and a
bag of doughnuts from a bakery called Mannheim’s. At a place called the Belleview, they ate their first restaurant meal, and while they waited on their dessert, they saw the stable bum they’d left their horses with hurry past the window. Though they had no way of knowing, Chester’s boss, Hog Jonson, had just informed him a few minutes ago that, with the way automobiles were taking over now, he had decided to shut the stable down after Thanksgiving and start a garage with a couple of his nephews. It was the worst piece of news Chester had received since a judge sentenced him to a ten-year term for manslaughter in the Mansfield Reformatory back when he was twenty, and he was on his way to the Mecca Bar to settle his nerves with the dollar Cane had tipped him. All he’d ever done since his release from prison was work with horses; and now, at fifty-seven, he was too old to start over, but he was also too broke to retire. It was happening all over, Hog had told his wife when she asked what his stable hand would do, men and animals being replaced by machines. Nobody gave a shit as long as they weren’t the ones losing out. Don’t worry about it, he said, ol’ Chester will figure something out. And if he don’t, he can always go back to the pen.
50
IN THE MEANTIME, Chimney had settled his horse at Kirk’s Stables, four blocks over from Jonson’s, and given the livery man an extra two dollars to keep his Enfield safe for him. In the saddlebag he slung over his shoulder were two Smith & Wessons and a box of shells. One of the Remington .22s was stuck inside his grimy overalls. He watched the man lock the rifle in a cabinet, then walked uptown to the Warner, the hotel Cane had written on the piece of paper.
The desk clerk was reading a book when Chimney walked in. “Can I help you?” he asked. His name was Roland Blevins, and, with the exception of the black ink stains on his fingers, he was what his mother proudly called “the most fastidious and upright young man in southern Ohio” whenever she sensed that she might be talking to someone with an unwed daughter or sister. He brushed his woven black suit three or four times a shift, and not a single strand of hair on his rather pointy head was out of place thanks to the creamy gobs of Fussell’s Hair Restorer he applied every morning. Everything about Roland pointed to clean and careful living. He wished he worked at a better establishment, one that didn’t cater to riffraff like the boy standing before him, but so far he hadn’t been able to get his foot in the door at any of the other hotels. Someday, though, he’d be the day manager over at the McCarthy. His mother was sure of it.
“Need a room,” Chimney said.
“That would be two dollars a night,” Roland replied.
“You got one with a bathtub?”
“Those are three dollars a night.”
“I’ll take one of them.” Chimney pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece and laid it on the counter.
“How many days do you plan to stay?”
“Not for sure yet. At least a couple.”
The clerk opened the guest registry and told Chimney to sign his name. His stomach roiled just a little when he saw the new guest make two sloppy X’s. Since he was a small child, Roland’s hobby had been penmanship, and though he should have been hardened to it by now, encountering someone this early in the day who couldn’t even print his name was almost too much to take. Just last week, a group of wealthy widows had asked him if he’d give a talk about the Palmer Method at one of their monthly soirées. By the end of the current century, he had predicted during the question and answer session that followed, typewriters and other gadgetry would make artful handwriting obsolete. His pronouncement practically sucked all the oxygen out of the room, and two of the oldest ladies had to be revived with smelling salts and tiny dabs of sweet sherry on their dry, crinkled lips. Mrs. Grady, the hostess, had gently admonished him for his negativity, but what he’d said was true all the same. Why, he doubted if even the bare rudiments of cursive would be taught in the classroom in another fifty years or so. He handed the boy his change and a key. “Room thirty-one, on the third floor.”
Chimney started for the stairway, then came back to the desk. “Any idy where I might find me a whore?” he asked.
Roland already had his nose buried in the book again, an introduction to French grammar. He looked up with a startled expression on his face, as if he had been caught in some embarrassing act, which was nearly the case. If the old widows who had practically swooned over his talent with pen and ink had known to what depths he had recently sunk, he wouldn’t have been allowed on their property, let alone to sit with them and sip tea from a dainty cup all afternoon. Though his wages at the Warner barely kept him afloat, he had taken out what was for him a substantial loan and visited the Whore Barn several times over the past few weeks to lay with a young trollop who spoke French. Peaches had taken his virginity away from him while whispering “très bien” over and over into his ear, and now he was infatuated with her. He covered the book with his hand and quickly said to Chimney, “I don’t know anything about that.” That was the bad thing about falling in love with a whore; anyone with four bits in their pocket was a potential rival. It was driving him crazy, the number of men he imagined rubbing their rough beards and dirty paws over that pale, beautiful body. His plan to win her over by mastering the language of love had seemed brilliant at first, but it was proving more difficult than he’d expected. He had tossed and turned all last night worrying about it, finally deciding, just before his mother called him down to breakfast, that if he hoped to make sense out of the verb conjugations, he was going to have to hire a tutor. It didn’t occur to him until later that morning that if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to afford to fuck Peaches anymore—that is, unless maybe he got another loan. To be in love, he was beginning to realize, meant being mired in one goddamn mess after another.
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Roland said. He looked around nervously, then offered Chimney a handbill from a stack on the counter. “Here, if you need something to do, go over to the Majestic and see the Lewis Family.”
“What’s the Majestic?”
“Only one of the finest theaters in the Midwest,” Roland said. “Right up the street and around the corner.”
“What do they do, this family you’re talkin’ about?”
“Sing, dance, tell jokes, you name it,” the clerk said. “Good clean fun. They come through here at least three or four times a year. Just seeing Mr. Bentley is worth the price of admission.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s the monkey,” the clerk said.
Chimney studied the picture of the five grinning stooges and the primate dressed in a little sailor suit. Unless that monkey was putting out, he wasn’t interested, but it sounded like something Cob might get a kick out of. Hell, he’d probably go nuts over such a thing. He thought about the pet squirrel they’d kept for a week or so that summer they picked cotton in Alabama, and how Cob had bawled like a baby when he woke up one morning to discover Pearl frying it up in a pan. Wouldn’t even eat breakfast he was so upset, which was the first time that had ever happened. “Mind if I keep this?” he asked.
“Go ahead.”
Chimney stuck the paper in his pocket and went on up the stairs. After taking a glance about the room, he hid the two Smith & Wessons under the mattress and walked down to a store called Burton’s that sold men’s clothing and accessories. He bought a pair of soft black-and-gray-striped trousers and a lavender shirt and a derby and a new pair of shoes, along with a pair of long johns and some soap and a bottle of rosewater. On the way back to the hotel, he stopped at a barbershop called O’Malley’s and got a shave and a haircut for a quarter. An old man, bald as a turtle, sat in a chair by the window, half asleep. “Any idy where I might find me a whore?” Chimney asked as the barber lathered his face.
“Jesus Christ, son, just look around,” the barber said as he began scraping some peach fuzz off the boy’s skinny neck. “The world’s crawling with ’em. I ought to know. I married one, didn’t I, Jim?”
The old man by the window jerked up wit
h a startled expression on his face. “Who? What? You mean Nancy? Aw, she’s not so bad.”
The barber laughed bitterly. “That’s my father-in-law,” he whispered low in Chimney’s ear, the sour smell of his breath nearly making the boy’s eyes water. “He don’t know shit.”
“What’d ye say?” the old man asked.
“Nothing,” the barber said. “Not a goddamn thing. Just talkin’ to my customer here.”
“I’m serious,” Chimney said. “Where can I find one?”
The man wiped the remaining lather off the boy’s face with a towel and turned to pick up a pair of scissors. “There’s two taxis that park down here on the corner every evening after six o’clock. Either one of them can show ye.”
Now he was getting somewhere, Chimney thought. Then the barber turned him in the chair, and he saw an automobile drive past the window. “They a place around here sells cars?” he asked.
“Jesus, what’d ye do? Rob a bank?”
“What’s that ’sposed to mean?” Chimney said, laying his hand on the butt of the little Remington stuck in his pants.
“Well, first you asking about buyin’ whores, and now automobiles. Sounds like he’s got money to spend, don’t it, Jim?”
“I don’t know,” the old man muttered. It was obvious that the crack about his daughter had hurt his feelings.
“Oh, don’t be mad, Jim,” the barber said. “I was just kiddin’ about Nancy. You know that.”
“Well.”
“Besides, it shouldn’t be nothing to you anyway. Hell, I’m the one stuck with her now.”
“Clarence, you shouldn’t talk like that. Nancy’s all right.”
“Best place to go look at cars is Triplett’s,” the barber said, turning back to Chimney. “Just make a left when you leave and another left at the first street. You’ll see his lot a couple blocks down. I’d go with ye and buy one myself, but that all right bitch I’m married to keeps me in the poorhouse. Ain’t that right, Jim?”