by Len Levinson
“Whiskey,” Duane replied.
The bartender plucked a small glass from beneath the bar, dropped it before Duane, and filled it half full of murky brown fluid. Duane reached into his pocket, and flipped the twenty-dollar double eagle at the bartender, who bit the coin, to make sure it was real.
Duane pocketed his change, and carried his glass of whiskey to an empty table against the wall. He sat, pushed his hat back on his head, and gazed into the glass of iridescent fluid. The voice of Brother Paolo came to him from the monastery in the clouds. Whiskey is the one thing, outside of women, that can utterly destroy a man.
But Brother Paolo was far away, and the Longhorn Saloon wasn't the monastery in the clouds. I'm going to be a cowboy, and I don't care if it kills me. He grabbed the glass, raised it to his lips, drained half of it away, and swallowed fast. Mellow at first, just like last time, it became the Chicago Fire in a matter of seconds. His eyes bulged; he coughed, and his hat fell off. It hung down his back, suspended from his throat by the black leather neck strap.
A few tables away, a group of gamblers snickered. “Somebody ought to teach that boy how to drink.”
Duane covered his mouth with his hand, as he hacked uncontrollably.
A few blocks away, Edgar Petigru sat in his office, studying his ledgers. His saloons were making piles of money, but real-estate sales had been almost nonexistent for the past few months. People didn't want to invest in Titusville until it was confirmed that the railroad would come through.
Edgar had heard many tales of Texas towns that started strong, and then withered away as army posts moved, mines petered out, or the railroad chose another direction for its rails. Guess right, you could be rich as Joe McCoy in Abilene, but you could lose your shirt and even your life if you bet on the wrong town. How can I convince the Union Pacific to build a trunk line to Titusville? he asked himself.
There was a knock on the door. “Who is it?”
The door opened, and Jed appeared. “I seen a man leavin’ Miss Vanessa's house shortly before noon today. Whoever he was, he stayed all night.”
Petigru stared at him. “Does he have a name?”
“Nobody's never see'd him before. He looked like a cowboy, but din't have no boots.”
“He was barefoot?”
“Looked that way.”
Petigru leaned back in his chair. “Probably a beggar, and he slept beneath the front porch.”
“I see'd ‘im leave by the back door. He was young . . .” Jed tossed the last word out casually, but it struck Petigru like a flying chunk of iron.
“I'm sure there's an innocent explanation,” Petigru said. “See what you can find out about him, and let me know if he shows up there again.”
“I'm a little short of money . . .”
Petigru tossed him a coin. “Keep your eyes open, and your mouth shut.”
Duane sat at the table against the far wall of the Longhorn Saloon, studying denizens around him. Alcohol dispersed through the tissues of his body, and he felt mildly to moderately happy. The saloon was the strangest place he'd seen. Now that he examined his fellow Texans close up, he saw a variety of discreet little scenes.
The gamblers were as devout and concentrated as the abbot on a High Holy Day. If these men turned their energies in the direction of God, what a force for good they could be in the world, he reflected. Some games were for mere pennies, played by shifty-eyed, sorrowful cowboys, while coins were piled high on other tables, where fancy ruffled shirts bumped the stakes higher. Duane's sharp eyes caught one of the dudes dealing a card off the bottom of the deck.
At another table, a group of bleary-eyed cowboys mumbled to each other, dragging coins around the table, and trying to read their cards. They appeared in a stupor, or like mechanical men, their brains pickled by whiskey.
Several tables were beds for men who'd already passed out, and it wasn't even three o'clock in the afternoon. Duane heard political discussions, a lecture on the merits of a horse named Tony, a paean of praise to the sexual stamina of a whore named Sally, and a detailed account of a recent noteworthy barroom brawl in Santa Fe.
Meanwhile, a few tables away, a fiftyish man in a suit, with gray mustache and goatee, read a book through wire-rimmed eyeglasses, while steadily sipping a glass of whiskey. He looked out of place, like a scholar or professor, but he was a part of the saloon's eclectic ambiance, too.
“Don't I know you?”
The voice startled Duane, and he turned toward a familiar lantern-jawed face beneath a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. It was Lester Boggs, the cowboy from the stagecoach trip, peering intensely at Duane.
“You were supposed to buy me a steak last night,” Duane said, “but you never showed up.”
Boggs sat on the chair opposite Duane, and looked him over carefully. “Where'd you steal the clothes?”
“A friend of mine bought them for me.”
Boggs fingered the material of Duane's shirt. “Not bad at all. You look like you're doin’ all right fer yerself. Who's yer friend?”
Duane didn't want to describe his night with Vanessa Fontaine, so he replied: “How come you didn't show up at the Crystal Palace Saloon?”
Boggs spat disgustedly into the nearest cuspidor, missed by three inches, applying another horrendous stain to an already disgusting floor. “Had me a run of bad luck,” he confessed. “I went a-lookin’ fer that galoot what owed me ten dollars, but when I found ‘im, he denied that he owed me anything. Well, one thing led to another—and to make a long story short, I spent the night in jail. You got any money?”
“Damn right,” Duane replied proudly. “I'll buy you a steak.”
Boggs slapped him on the shoulder, and Duane nearly fell off his chair. “I always knowed you was a good boy,” Boggs said. “When I was in that stagecoach, I kept a-lookin’ at you and a-sayin’ to myself: that young feller's a-gonna be somethin’ some day. Where'd you steal the money?”
“My friend lent it to me. I'm going to become a cowboy, as soon as I learn to ride a horse. Do you think you could teach me?”
“I was born on a goddamn horse. Ain't nawthin’ to it. But first, let's git them goddamned grits.”
They headed toward the chop counter, and Duane felt like a lord of the sagebrush in his new clothes, with his authentic cowboy friend. At the counter, Boggs held up two fingers, and the Negro cook flipped two enormous steaks onto tin plates, smothered them with potatoes fried in beef fat, and ladled on the gravy. Duane paid, and then Boggs led him to the bar. Two mugs of beer were poured. Duane dropped the necessary coins in the bartender's palm, and they returned to their table beneath a moth-eaten Commanche blanket nailed to the wall.
Boggs didn't say a word, as he wolfed down the food. He'd eaten one stale biscuit in jail, and had dreamed about a steak dinner with fried potatoes. He looked at Duane, and thought that the kid appeared somehow bigger and older than he remembered. Boggs cleaned every morsel off his plate, and then gnawed the bone like a dog.
The Carrington Arms was the largest and most luxurious hotel in Titusville, but it looked like a three-story shack to Edgar Petigru, as he crossed the street in late afternoon. There were no coppers directing traffic, and he was nearly run down by two drunken cowboys racing each other through the main street of town.
Petrigru reached the far sidewalk with a splatter of mud on his pants. Titusville was a long step down for the sophisticated New Yorker, but it offered solid opportunities for rapid capital expansion. Someday I'll go back to New York, and thumb my nose at old Cornelius Vanderbilt. Edgar imagined himself riding up Broadway in an open carriage, waving to the throngs like the Prince of Wales during the latter's visit to the great metropolis in 1860.
Petigru entered the lobby, full of men talking horses, women, and business. Some of the men looked like bummers, but could own thousands of head of cattle on a vast almost unimaginable range. He made his way to the dining room, where Titusville's leading citizens gathered at the end of each day. Whiskey prices were the hig
hest in town, to guarantee the overall auspicious tone of the room, which was laughable to a man who'd been a member of the Union Club on Fifth Avenue. He remembered a line attributed to Julius Caesar:
I'd rather be first in a small Iberian village than second in Rome.
Two unlit crystal chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, as light radiated through tall windows overlooking Main Street. Above the fireplace hung a huge oil painting of a herd of cattle galloping through a thunderstorm. Portly Mayor Lonsdale noticed Edgar's approach, and muttered to the others. The town's leading citizens laughed heartily, as they turned toward Edgar Petigru.
Are they making fun of me again? he wondered, as he drew closer. Banker Holcomb, whose girth nearly matched his height, pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, Ed.”
Edgar sat on the proffered chair, then removed his mauve calfskin gloves. A bow-tied waiter approached from Petigru's left. “The same?”
Petigru nodded, and the waiter launched himself toward the bar. Councilman Finney, a short, red-haired man, grinned like a monkey on the far side of the table. “Yer one cool son of a bitch, Petigru—I've got to say that fer you.”
“In what way?”
Finney looked at Judge Jenks, another citizen who appeared never to've missed a meal, and both giggled like little girls. Petigru creased his forehead. “What's going on, gentleman? I'm afraid I don't get it.”
Finney leaned toward him and said confidentially: “If my woman spent the night with a certain young stranger, I would've shot him by now, but there you are, orderin’ the usual whiskey like nothin’ happened. You Yankees are like ice, and maybe that's why you won the war.”
Edgar, like most members of New York's high society, was expert at hiding his true feelings, but it took all his willpower to keep himself placid before such provocation. People gossiped in New York, but no one would dare say such a thing to another man's face. Maybe I should remain silent, and let it pass, he thought.
Mayor Lonsdale winked at Edgar. “I guess we'll be a-gittin’ a new singer at the Round-Up, eh?”
The table exploded with mirth, and Edgar once more pushed down his discomfort. But on the surface he raised an eyebrow and asked innocently, “Whatever can you be talking about?”
Judge Jenks leaned forward, his lips wet. “You mean you ain't gonna kick her ass out've town?”
“Who?”
“Miss Vanessa—who else?”
Edgar smiled, and showed the palms of his hands. “Gentleman, I think you're letting your imaginations run away with you. I understand that a beggar visited her home this morning, but you're making it sound like a cheap bedroom comedy.”
Banker Holcomb snorted. “Visited? Is that what they call it these days?”
The foremost citizens roared, and Petigru's ears became warm. They've never accepted me, and never will, he realized. But I don't care, because I'm going home once I've made my bundle in this filthy little corner of the world.
Lester Boggs chewed the steak bone until it was whiter than an ivory key of a piano. He chucked the bone over his shoulder, and it sailed through the air, but before it touched the floor, a fat, black mongrel dog scuttled from beneath a table and clamped it in his jaws. Then the animal retreated to the murky depths of the saloon, to suck out the marrow.
Boggs polished off his mug of beer, burped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and asked: “How much money we got left?”
“About thirteen dollars,” Duane replied.
“Why don't we go to the cribs?”
Duane stared at him. “Well . . . I . . . I've never been to the cribs before.”
“How come?”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Boggs. I was raised by Catholic priests until two weeks ago.”
“You mean you never been greased? So that's what's wrong with you. Listen, kid—you can't be a real cowboy till you been to the cribs. It's practically a rule in this part of Texas.”
Duane shook his head stubbornly. “I don't want to go to bed with a woman I don't even know, and have to pay for love.”
“Every man pays for love, one way or t'other. Let's git movin’, ‘cause Saturday night's a-comin on, and we want to beat the crowd.”
“What's so great about the cribs? Why don't you get married and settle down like a normal person, Boggs?”
“I'd rather buy the milk, than buy the cow. Listen, kid, no ranch'll have anythin’ to do with you, when the word gets around that you won't go to the cribs. What the hell're you afraid of? Fer only a dollar, both of us can have a good time, and some of them gals're real pretty.”
“Pretty?” Duane asked, perking up his ears. “Really?”
“Blonde, brunette, fat, skinny—anything you want.” Boggs spat in the cuspidor, then leaned forward and gazed into Duane's eyes. “If you want to be an angel—go back to the priests, but if you want to be a real man, it ain't good to go without a woman fer long. You'll get a little loco, and if you ask me, I think you're at that point ‘bout now.”
Maybe that's what's wrong with me, Duane thought. I need a woman. “Do you think they might have a tall, slim blonde?”
Boggs smiled, held out both his hands, and whispered: “Anything you want, kid.”
He'll tell any lie, to get me to take him to the cribs, Duane realized, but for fifty cents I could get naked with a pretty girl? “Are you sure it's just a dollar for both of us?” Duane asked.
Boggs leaned back, tilted his hat low over his eyes, and rolled a cigarette with quick, sure movements. “You can't get greased any cheaper'n the cribs. What's it gonna be?”
“Will you teach me how to roll a cigarette like that?”
“I'll teach you how to roll a cigarette, ride a horse, drink whiskey—anything you want.”
They headed for the door, and Duane tried to imitate the insolent roll of Boggs's shoulders. He knows what this world's about, Duane thought. Everything happens for a reason, and maybe this cowpoke is my new spiritual advisor.
They walked down the planked sidewalk, and Duane puffed out his chest proudly. If anybody looked at us right now, they'd think I was a cowboy, too, he thought proudly. He felt as though he were fulfilling himself for the first time, but something was missing, as if he were trying to climb on a horse, but the saddle kept slipping.
Boggs slapped the back of his hand against Duane's leg. “You see this galoot a-comin'? They say he was one of the meanest gunfighters that ever was.”
Duane perceived Clyde Butterfield, the fancy gentleman who'd advised him to buy a gun after he had been robbed by street urchins. Butterfield appeared not to notice Duane as he strolled along with thumbs hooked in his suspenders, hat slanted low over his eyes, cheroot sticking out of his teeth.
“Howdy, Mister Butterfield,” Duane called out.
The tall man with the ruffled shirt slowed his pace, his eyes widened in surprise, and then he smiled warmly. “Well, I'll be goddamned. Didn't recognize you for a moment, in your new clothes. Looks like you're doing okay. Where you headed?”
“The cribs.”
Butterfield touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat. “Give ‘er one fer me.”
The ex-gunfighter stepped out, chin high, hat brim low, spurs jangling every time his heels came down, as he made his way toward the Black Cat Saloon. Duane watched him in wonderment and admiration. “He was a real gunfighter?”
“That's what they say, but now he plays cards fer his supper.”
Duane thought of his father lying somewhere beneath six feet of Texas, probably without a decent tombstone. I should ask Butterfield if he ever heard of my father, he thought. Boggs grabbed Duane's sleeve, and pulled him toward the outskirts of town. “Let me tell you about the cribs, so you won't act like a greenhorn onc't we git thar. Now, the cribs ain't fancy, so don't go expecting no palace. And there ain't a hell of a lot of privacy. As fer the gals theirselves, well—some of ‘em ain't so young. In fact, to tell you the God's honest truth, the gals in the cribs are usually the bottom of the b
arrel. But it's the cheapest place to get greased.”
“I thought you said the girls were young and pretty.”
“Kid, I been lookin’ at cows so long, anything in skirts looks young and pretty to me.”
There was a knock on the door, and Vanessa stirred on her pillow. She lay on her bedspread, attired in a pale purple silk dressing gown gathered at the waist with a matching belt. “What is it?”
The bedroom door opened, and Annabelle stood there, a distraught expression on her moon-shaped face. “Miss Vanessa, there's . . .”
She was pushed out of the way, and Edgar Petigru stood in the doorway, wide-brimmed hat in hand. Vanessa shot to a sitting position, her heart racing wildly. “What are you doing here!”
Edgar closed the door behind him, then bowed mockingly low. “I thought I'd thank you personally for making me the laughingstock of the town, Vanessa. It's not every day that such an honor is bestowed upon me.”
She rubbed her eyes with the backs of her fingers. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Don't play innocent with me, young lady. This is Edgar, remember? Who was the young man you spent the night with?”
“Is this your idea of a jealous rage?” she asked, smiling haughtily. “I don't believe I've ever seen you in such a state. Would you like some of my smelling salts?”
“Who was he?”
“You're being absurd, and this isn't funny anymore. First of all, he spent the night in the guest room. He's a poor, pathetic, homeless boy. I fed him, gave him a roof for the night, and sent him on his way.”
“Where did you meet this poor, pathetic boy?”
“In the living room of my home. He'd broken in to steal some food, but he just needed a helping hand, so I gave it to him in the spirit of Christian charity.”
“Is he here now?”
“He left for town early this morning, and I haven't seen him since. Why don't you give him a job on your ranch?”
Edgar was taken aback, his self-assurance shaken by her careless jocular manner. “How old is this so-called boy?”
