Two-Gun & Sun (8 page)

Lots of room still in this basket underneath. Town people add to the load and then we roll it out.

He held his grubby hands out for the lavender-grey suit.

I clutched it tighter.

You do the cleaning, too?

Nooo, he said, horrified. We send it out to Lousetown.

I let go then, and received a ticket in return.

I stepped over to a table, lifted the sides of my coveralls like they were skirts, and sat. The cup rattled loudly in its saucer as Ed lowered it beneath the bar's countertop, then carried it to my table. I lifted the chipped bowl.

It was a stingy pour.

I sipped the raw liquor, then said I'd like to order a meal.

Sure enough, but you'll have to order in the dining room. Sorry ma'am, but that's where the kitchen is.

I stood and smoothed my coveralls. It struck me then that had I worn a dress I might have got my cup of tea a lot sooner. I finished the drink in one small swallow and, head high, swung around and then through the side doors into the dining room, slipping into the first available chair at the first available table. My ears, neck and cheeks grew hot.

They were all looking at me, their rows of eyes glistening, while the walls heaved with a constant hum of their comments and the room itself seemed to tip onto its side, trying to slide me out the doors.

Nerves. I decided right then I would order a meal to take back to the shop. I blinked to right the room.

It hadn't been decorated at all, but its bare-board floors and metal walls made me stand out all the more. A wonder of an iron stairway at the far end, though, curving up to the rooms.

Maybe it was the lack of sunlight or maybe the filth, but the diners—there was an odd colour to their skin. I would say green but maybe it was no colour, a white with no pink. Parker was of a similar hue.

I picked up the paper menu and lost myself in the descriptions.

It was just as Parker had described, with all sorts of delectable items. Cornish game hen with gooseberry sauce, trout with almonds, a roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding. I don't doubt there are birds of some sort in the woods beyond the grey hills, deer as well, fish in the streams—well, make that the ocean. I'd seen what fish the stream produced. But no man seemed to have time for hunting and fishing. The only creatures that ran wild around here were the pigs. If I were to propose a viable enterprise for the town, an alternative to mining, it would be fresh game. Everyone seemed too busy with what lay below the ground to wonder what roamed above it.

The waiter swung through the double doors, smiling, a white flash of teeth in a black face.
Mademoiselle
, he said, as though I weren't dressed like a plumber. Marcel, at your service. And then he bowed.

I stared, though Parker had described him already. I was transfixed by the health of his complexion. No green.

I introduced myself, name, first, occupation, second. I won't stay, I told him. I just need a dinner to take to my room.

He gestured around him. We get
beaucoup des
gentlemen, he said,
mais les femmes, les femmes—
and then he clapped a hand over his heart in a gesture worthy of Vincent's friend Morris. So beautiful, he added.

Hardly. I swept a hand across my coveralls. Another time.

He bowed again.

What do you recommend?

Crawfish boil. Escargot, perhaps. The best of the French Quarter.

I laughed. How long have you been here? I asked.

A few weeks.

I nodded with satisfaction. Another year here and his skin would turn dull as the others from lack of light.

Anything? I asked, and held up the tired menu.

He folded his white cotton arms, planted a chin in a palm, ruefully. Tinned chicken. Or tinned sardines. Peas and custard.

From a tin as well? I sighed. Chicken, I said, and then in my best French accent,
merci,
Marcel.

Alone now, I studied the hollow room. High up, the most unusual chandelier, the only adornment in the room. I tilted my head. Made of glass like radio tubes, like upside down canning jars. There was so much to note here, almost nothing that wasn't news to me. But to the town? Maybe not.

A man at a side table caught my eye. San Francisco, again. I nodded and he nodded back. To avoid more eye contact and the possibility, though unlikely, now, of him asking to join me, I fished a notebook from my pocket and busied myself writing my observations.

A tweed suit moved toward San Francisco's table, the dour Scotsman, his walrus mustache pulling his mouth into a frown.

Frisco had the ideas but it would be the Scot who'd finance them. That could be a story, and when it was I'd get their real names. They must be in the ledger.

The bar patron had either roused himself, or Ed had kicked him out after I left. He shuffled into the room and stood reeling by the window. With his head held up, now, I could see the features that Parker had described: greasy bars of hair that had been plastered over his bald head had sprung loose and now dangled over his nose. I wasn't surprised he'd been fired, given what I'd seen of the man. Drunk, on both occasions. It was clear to me now that he was the same man who had sprayed into the street.

Morris strolled into the dining room, bright in his white suit that appeared to have been cleaned already, his gruff voice shouting greetings. I sat up, smiled and waved. He waved back, could see plain enough that I was sitting alone, yet he took his time to join me.

Have you another engagement?

Not at all, just taking in the sights. May I, Miss Sullivan? and at last he pulled out a chair, and sat.

Sinclair, I corrected. Lila.

And I leaned forward, impatient. Tell me, I said, what do you know about this Vincent Cruz?

As soon as I spoke, I realized I had asked much the same of the printer about Morris.

A good printer and a good cook. Learned his way around a kitchen from his father.

I mean the man, himself. Is he dangerous?

Vincent?

I saw him carrying something. Like a rifle. I'm not sure. It was wrapped up in a parcel.

Morris leaned back in his chair, studying me. He doesn't suffer fools gladly, he said.

And this leader, Sun. When do you plan to meet him?

Meet?

He shot forward in his chair.

Oh, yes. As I said, he is one of the reasons I'm here.

Tell me, I said again, is there any way you could arrange, that is to say, see to it, somehow, that I could meet him as well?

My lovely, he said. You'd have to make it worth my while.

I sat back as though he'd slapped me.

My dear, he said. I hope you don't think there was anything untoward in my statement.

Well, I said, I have nothing to give you to make it worth your while, whatever you meant by it.

He spread his fingers into a fan on the table and leaned on them. His blackened eyes had faded to a light green-brown bruising, as though he hadn't had any sleep. I could see, now, that his nose was large of its own accord.

What about your paper? he asked.

My paper?

I don't mean all of it, just a percentage.

How do you mean?

I mean I could invest in it. You get the money and the introduction, and I get partial interest. Trust me, I know finances. I used to work in real estate.

How much money are we talking about and what percentage, exactly?

I knew that by even asking I was letting him know I needed money. I didn't like being in that position but it couldn't be helped. How was I supposed to pay for a printer when there was no paper yet to earn the money to cover his wages? The bank money was intended for the cost of supplies to help produce the paper, but the loan had not factored in the added expense of an employee and machine repairs.

Fifty-fifty, he replied.

No.

Ah, I should have known you'd have a business head. Sixty-forty, then.

Seventy-thirty. The seventy being my share.

Dear girl. That gives me less than a third while you would have the clear majority. And on top of that you get to meet our leader.

Precisely. It's my paper.

Neither of us had yet said how much. I didn't recall the bank or the lawyer mentioning what the business itself was worth, just what the operating costs were. I didn't want to open my mouth and quote a ridiculous sum. But I didn't want him naming the sum, either.

My aunt sold her house on one acre for eighteen hundred dollars, I said. A business would be twice that.

Thirty-six hundred, he said, with such delight I knew I had hit too low.

But there's the press, I added, which is an expensive piece of equipment. Four thousand, two hundred.

Why don't we say current value four thousand as it is not yet producing a newspaper?

He had me there.

We can renegotiate, he said, once you're up and running. Partner, he added.

All right, thirty percent of four thousand is—wait a minute.

I scribbled in my notebook, crossing out numbers. I have never been good at percentages. I had to go at it in a roundabout way. Ten per cent was 400. Times three.

One thousand, two hundred dollars, I said.

I don't have that sum on me at the moment. But as a show of good faith why don't I give you—he dug into his jacket pocket, then through his billfold, and produced a couple of wrinkled bills. Shall we shake on it? he asked. We can have the papers drawn up later.

We can, I began, when the rest of the money is delivered.

We shook hands.

As long as it's understood, I added, that I get an introduction to the leader. Good. For now, I said, I'll give you a receipt.

I tore a page from my notebook and scribbled:

I hereby accept twenty dollars as a down payment from Mr. Morris Cohen toward a thirty percent interesttotalling one thousand, two hundred dollars in The Black Mountain Bullet.

I signed it, dated it and handed it to him. I held my breath as I did so, and hoped that would stop my hand from shaking. It was a bold thing to do, and I was both excited and nervous.

Then he pushed his chair back, stood, tipped his hat, again, and shambled over to greet my reeling competition from
The
Bugle
. I watched as Morris leaned his back against the wooden rail that ran the length of the wall, foot perched on the brass bar below, and began chatting with the man. I felt a flame of anger lighting up my face. The competition. And moments after discussing investing in my paper. Unless Morris was there to elicit information. I wouldn't mind that. I could hear his hoarse voice, but not what he said. I'd like to know about his financial situation, and what sort of machine he used.

Bugle Boy raised a hand as Silver Evans stepped into the room. I knew that's who it was by his moustache with the pointed tips. He dressed just as Parker had said he would, with the addition of a helmet that was ant-shaped, bullet smooth, as though he were ready to be loaded into a cannon.

Laughter was teasing my pipes and I had to choke it back when he passed. I assumed he was heading over to join Bugle Boy, but no, he took my head-snap for a nod, an invitation to sit.

Sheriff Silver Evans, he said, and shook my hand. Are you crying? he asked.

I waved my hand sharply to shoo away the suggestion of tears. He put his shiny ant head onto the table and sat in the chair Morris had just left. It was all I could do to control myself.

I glanced over at Morris for the distraction and got more than I counted on. Was I seeing correctly? The Scot had joined him, and Bugle Boy turned his back to say something to the Scot, at which point Morris leaned forward, hand reaching toward the man's jacket.

I sat up as high as I could, eyes bulging. It was a look that said, Are you doing what I think you're doing? Don't you dare. My movement snagged his attention. His expression said, Not what it seems.

What else could it seem—unless he was trying to pluck information from our competitor's pocket? A terrible thing to do, the man had no scruples. Still my spine stiffened with excitement. I wanted to see what was in that pocket, too.

Morris' eyes widened then, seeing who was sitting beside me. His hand dropped, empty. A grateful grin, as though I had been warning him in order to prevent his arrest. The shit. I was doing no such thing. But good, good, so his hand should be empty. He could jeopardize our business arrangement with his antics. He was the friend of the Chinese, too, which meant friend of that contrary printer. I wouldn't want to get on his bad side. No theft was worth risking my business, either, no matter how newsworthy the stolen item might be.

The Scot returned to his table. Bugle Boy sat again, pockets intact, but I kept glaring at Morris until he fluttered his fingertips as though he was about to play the piano, tipped his hat at me again, and left.

It was only then that I noticed the faces around me were turning one by one, aghast, toward the other end of the room, so I turned, too.

An old gentleman was descending the curved staircase into the dining room, elegant cane tapping the iron steps. Except for a bowler hat fitted with a headlamp, and boots, he was as naked as a Freedomite.

The Scot leapt to his feet. Jesus Christ, man!

For a moment I stopped breathing for fear that drawing in air would somehow draw him closer, sack of skin and heft of gristle, like the neck of a turtle, dangling. All of it darker than the rest of him.

I glanced quickly at Evans, who was slowly rising to his feet.

Any respectable woman would have screamed and turned her head. But I breathed at last, free now to laugh loud and long, as the Scotsman turned to the rest of the guffawing men, seeking assistance.

In front of a woman! Have ye no decency?

But the naked man rolled his watery eyes about and in a thin, nasal voice said, Not six o'clock, yet? and slowly climbed back up the steps, each lift of leg revealing a distended rectum like a withered phallus. A two-necked monster.

I was snorting with laughter, now, tears coursing, and I mopped at my eyes with my sleeves.