After their pay was doled out, Nolan walked with Samuel to the bazaar. His barter slips rubbed against his skin as they followed the crowd toward the torchlight and music. Nolan hadn't told Samuel about his conversation with Dr. Vandewater or what the girl had murmured. He didn't want his mentor angry. Plus, an unease had taken hold of him ever since the doctor had stalked out of Plan B. She'd threatened his sick father. The girls, the job, this whole thing seemed more than he could bear. His father had raised him, gone hungry to feed him and kept him on when everyone of his dah's friends had called him a fool. It’s the natural order of things, they'd said. A boy needs to make his own way, they'd said. Yet, what every one knew was that half the thirteen-year-olds died before their next birthday. Nolan's dah had given him everything and here he was jeopardizing it. He felt sorry for the girl, terrible even, but there was nothing he could do.
Nolan walked beside Samuel, barely aware of the throng of men drinking, eating, grabbing old whores and dragging them into perfumed tents. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands in his pockets. Eyes on the prize, his dah would say.
Before they entered the apothe's lean-to, he tugged Samuel aside. The old man looked up to him with a flash of anger. He was jonesing for his drug and the shakes had set in.
“Listen, Samuel, you're old enough to decide your own fate, but I think you should get off the spine.” Nolan's eyes flicked up to the old man's. The eye patch had slipped and Samuel hadn't bothered to fix it.
Samuel pushed Nolan aside. “Been smoking spine too long. Nothing to be done ‘bout it now.”
Nolan grabbed Samuel shirt and pulled him back. He was surprised at how easily he over-powered the man. Samuel banged into the lean-to and his eye went wide. Nolan saw his supervisor's hand drop to the knife on his belt. Then his expression eased a bit.
“I know you think it's for my own good,” Samuel said, straightening up, “but it's too late. Quittin'd kill me.”
“It'll kill you anyway.” Nolan was surprised at the lump at his throat. Besides his father, no man had ever taken an interest in him. Losing his father and Samuel at the same time might be enough to bury him. He raised wet eyes to Samuel.
The old man's hard face softened. He put a hand on Nolan's shoulder. “Ah, lad, I'm not going anywhere.” Then he turned and strode into the lean-to.
The apothe's shack smelled strongly of smoke tonight. As they walked in, he was selling a baggie to a decrepit, hunchback, wearing nothing but a stinking potato sack and hole-riddled boots. Nolan shrunk back as the man slid past him.
“Sammy-Sam-Sam, Dr. D's been expecting you, brother.” The apothe swung his long hair over his shoulder, grinning wildly. Nolan hated the apothe at that moment with his slippery smile. The man took joy in handing others their death. Still, Nolan kept his fist shoved in his pockets. He needed the apothe tonight, no matter how slimy he was.
Dr. D reached into his shelves, removed a few pots and lifted a false bottom off one of the drawers. He pulled out a package of spine and danced it in front of Samuel like a strip of bacon in front of a dog. Samuel followed the package hungrily, his mouth hanging open.
Samuel took the bag, stuffed it in his pants and held out a handful of trembling barter slips. When the apothe took them, the old man turned to go. “Come, lad.”
Nolan pulled out his wad of barter slips and watched the apothe's eyes grow wide. “I need a cure for wet-lung. You can see that I can pay.” He rustled the bills slightly and the apothe followed the slips just as Samuel had done with the spine.
“That sure is a wad of cash, sonny,” said the apothe, stroking a thumb and finger down his chin. “But I told ya, there's no cure.”
Nolan reached behind and pulled out even more slips. All of his savings. Now he waved the impossibly large stack in front of the apothe. Behind him Samuel breathed, “Jesus, kid, put the slips away before we're all killed.”
Nolan pressed the bills into the apothe's hand. “Please.” Tears gathered behind his eyes. This was his dah’s last chance. If the apothe turned him away, he didn't know what to do. He couldn't ask the doctor to help after what she'd said to him.
The apothe closed his fist over the bills. Then he turned and slipped behind the lean-to's back wall.
Samuel strode up. “Holy Mary, what're you thinking? Now he's gone!” Samuel shook his head in regret. “All those slips for nothing.”
Nolan's heart began seizing. That lying son-of-a… He strode toward the back as anger flared in his brain.
The apothe slipped back in, his hands clutching a large ceramic jar. He thrust the jar into Nolan's chest.
“This is my last and only jar of ointment. It was sanctified by the blessed father of Santa Marcos himself. It should stop wet-lung. Rub it on his chest three times a day. It should draw out the infection.”
Nolan inspected the jar—heavy, ceramic, painted with a bronze and pink glaze. He pulled out the large round cork and saw the amber balm inside. “How do I know you aren't lying?”
The apothe crossed his heart, an old gesture, but it still held meaning for Nolan. “Money back guarantee.”
“There better be,” Nolan said, turning. “Come on,” he said to his supervisor who stood, jaw agape. “I need to get home.”