Beginner's Luck

by Len Levinson

  She held out her hand. Butterfield bent over, and kissed the hot crinkly skin, as she looked Duane up and down. “In my ‘sperience, the main thing a man needs when he's shot somebody is a good piece of ass. Go git ‘im, girls.”

  Smiles on their faces, they moved around Duane, taking his hands, pushing him toward the corridor.

  “I'm Barbara,” said the brunette.

  “Just call me Joyce,” said the redhead, as she snaked her hand into Duane's pocket, and squeezed gently.

  Duane's boots floated over the corridor and up the stairs, Joyce fondling his body, as Barbara guided him toward their destination. At the monastery, I'd be fast asleep right now, dreaming about being with beautiful women, and now it's actually happening! he mused.

  “You don't look so good,” said Barbara. “What's wrong?”

  “I'm fine,” he said deep in his throat, trying to portray a rough, tough hombre, but he didn't even know these women, so how could be consummate the most intimate act of all? Joyce opened the door on a large, opulently furnished boudoir with a massive bed and the largest bathtub Duane had ever seen, full of bubbly water.

  “Take off yer clothes,” she said nonchalantly.

  He stared in awe as she touched something behind her gown, and the entire garment dropped to the floor. Naked as a jaybird, except for her high-heeled slippers, she stepped toward him, a frozen smile on her face. Duane felt off balance, because too much was happening too quickly. He needed to be alone, so he could think everything through.

  “You all right, kid?” asked Joyce, an expression of concern on her face.

  Duane nodded dumbly, as Barbara unhooked her gown, and it, too, fell away. “I think he needs to relax,” she said to her partner.

  “Have a seat,” Joyce told him. “We're not going to bite you.”

  “It's not that,” Duane blurted, “but I've had a rather . . . well, to tell you the truth, a very bad night.”

  “You should celebrate,” rejoinded Barbara, “'cause yer still alive. Maybe you need some laudanum.”

  “I guess I'm just . . .” Duane searched for the proper word, but somehow it eluded him.

  Barbara removed a brown medicine bottle from a cabinet, while Joyce filled three glasses with water. Then Barbara dribbled a few drops of laudanum into each glass.

  “Drink it all down,” Barbara said, her naked breasts jiggling. “It'll make you feel better.”

  Duane sipped the liquid, which had a faint medicinal taste, and didn't burn like whiskey. Meanwhile, Joyce bent over the tub, and touched her fingers to the water. “We don't want it to get cold, do we?”

  They approached his chair, smiles on their faces, and he thought: My God, surely they're not going to undress me. “But ...” he protested weakly, as Joyce bent down and pulled off his left boot. Meanwhile, Barbara unbuttoned his shirt, placed her hand on his chest, and growled like a cat.

  Joyce removed his right boot, as Barbara unbuckled his belt. They pulled him to his feet, stripped him naked, and all he could do was stand stupidly beside the chair, thinking of the monastery far from the cares and temptations of the secular world. Now they were leading him toward the bathtub, and he didn't know anything about them. He examined Barbara's face, and then Joyce's. They were painted dolls, not people, and Duane felt no compelling needs.

  He came to the edge of the tub, and the only thing to do was get in. He dipped his toe into warm and soapy water, and Duane suddenly felt very tired. He lowered himself into the water, as it rushed up to his neck, and he leaned back. Bright multicolored lights flickered on the ceiling, as the two women joined him in the tub, making soapy little waves. They slithered against him and ran their hands over his body.

  It felt cozy and relaxing, and the sheer sensuality of the experience overcame any doubts or fears that he had. He looked first at Joyce, then at Barbara, and wondered about their backgrounds, hopes, dreams, but then their lips and tongues were all over him, and all he could do was surrender to their tender ministrations.

  He closed his eyes, as they washed him with naughty hands. First one touched lips to his mouth, then another. He became confused about who was who, and it seemed as if they comprised one woman with many arms and legs, kissing and fondling him, numerous soft breasts rubbing against him, making that pesky artery in his throat throb.

  What do I care who they are? he asked himself dreamily. And what does it matter who I am? If this is what happens when you shoot somebody, I'm surprised that people don't get killed more often, he thought, as he gave in to the moment.

  Vanessa Fontaine poured a glass of whiskey, then sat in her favorite chair and wondered how to handle Duane Braddock if she ever saw him again. What do you say to somebody who's lied to you, and the little son of a bitch nearly seduced me.

  She knew that the world was full of tricksters, and chided herself for being so gullible. He made up the whole story about the monastery, to take advantage of my better nature. Now it turns out he's a gunfighter, and God only knows what else he is. What a dirty, sneaky little varmint he turned out to be. She gazed at the lamp flickering through her glass of whiskey. Maybe I should turn the joke around, and bamboozle him, she pondered.

  Duane opened his eyes, and found himself flat on his back in a strange bed, his arms wrapped around naked women, their breasts jutting into him, legs entwined with his. He recalled the events of the past few hours, and felt shame mixed with jaded pleasure. In the bathtub, on the floor, and in the bed, he'd performed acts that he'd never dreamed possible between men and women. Barbara and Joyce were totally depraved human beings, and so was he. Now he understood more clearly why people loved to sin. It was more fun than not sinning.

  He was surprised to note that he didn't feel guilty about performing lascivious acts with two women he didn't even know. A man must take pleasure where he finds it, he realized, because he never knows when somebody might shoot him in the back.

  His memory roved back to the most troublesome part of the evening. It was as though my father were with me, drawing the gun, pulling the trigger. Daddy's legacy wasn't a ranch or a gold mine, but a fast hand, he thought. He tried to feel compassion for the man he'd killed, but Dave Collins had insulted a cripple and started the mess in the first place. If I hadn't gone to the cribs, the incident never would've happened, he told himself.

  Duane was cursed with a mind that saw all sides of an issue, and that's why he often was confused. But wasn't Mary Magdalene a prostitute? he asked himself. Maybe she worked in a whorehouse just like this. He hugged the two women tighter, and one of them whispered an endearing word. Tenderly, he kissed her forehead. I've had more women's love in one night than I've ever had in my life.

  But despite everything, he didn't know anything about the prostitutes. They might even have children from men they never married, like my mother. If I hadn't killed Dave Collins, they'd probably spit in my eye. I wonder who they think they're in bed with? He felt satiated, yet perceived a need that hadn't yet been touched.

  He was getting a headache, and wanted to pray. He was also hungry, and couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. It was difficult to cogitate clearly with two buxom women in his arms. He crawled out of their arms, as they sleepily tried to keep him with them.

  “Where you goin'” Barbara muttered, as she cuddled with Joyce.

  Duane dressed at the foot of the bed, and strapped on his Colt. It felt heavy, familiar, and gave him an illusion of invulnerability. Candles burned in the corridor. The whorehouse was silent, as he descended to the first floor, and found himself in a maze of corridors. He stopped and looked around, wondering how to get out, when the woman with long, straight black hair appeared. “Lost?” she asked.

  “Where's the door?”

  “Why are you leaving so soon?”

  “I'm hungry.”

  “Right this way, Mister Braddock.”

  She opened a door, and Duane entered a small dining room with maroon drapes covering the window, and a chandelier hanging from the ceilin
g, illuminating the remains of a roast beef, some chickens, a variety of vegetables, and two apple pies.

  “Help yourself,” she said, closing the door behind him.

  He filled a plate with slabs of meat, scoops of vegetables, and slices of bread, then sat at the table with his back to the wall and ate hungrily, as a fly buzzed over his head. Gradually he felt stronger, more awake, and more confused. He had the impression that he wasn't normal, and possessed a flaw that would hound him for the rest of his days. Why do I ride off in all directions at the same time? Am I a lunatic? Do I belong in an asylum? he kept questioning himself.

  Duane finished his repast, left the whorehouse, and slogged along the road, hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched over, looking at the ground. I've got to settle down, save my money, and buy my own ranch. Somehow I've got to make my life normal, after I learn how to ride a horse, he vowed.

  He saw the dark outlines of Vanessa's house in the distance. You don't wake up somebody in the middle of the night for a little chat, he prompted himself, but didn't she say that friends were supposed to stand up for each other? He traversed the backyard, and her bedroom window was raised four inches. “Vanessa?”

  She stirred, and rolled onto her back. Duane's appreciative eyes verified the pointed mounds of her breasts. A bittersweet longing came over him, because he doubted that he'd ever be lucky enough to actually taste one of them.

  Suddenly she spun around, a gun in her hand, and aimed it at his head. “Who's there!”

  “Duane. I've got to talk with you. May I come in?

  Vanessa had just awakened from a deep slumber, befuddled by the sight of him at her window. I'll make him sorry that he ever woke me up in the middle of the night, she promised. She rolled out of bed, put on robe and slippers, and clumped toward the back door. He stood in the shadows, hat in had. “I know that this is a bad time to come, but I had to speak with you, Vanessa. I need your advice.”

  “Are you sure you don't need another meal?” she asked coldly. “Or some new clothes? I hear that you're a famous gunfighter, and you shot somebody tonight.”

  He couldn't comprehend the hostility in her voice, so he ignored it. “That's what I wanted to talk with you about. I'm confused about what to do, and you said once that friends should say anything to each other, so I thought I'd come by to talk. It'll only take a few minutes. May I come in?”

  He thinks he can humbug me again, she thought, but I'll give him something to remember me by. “Right this way,” she uttered, with a false smile. She held the door for him, and he entered the murky kitchen. “Go ahead,” she offered, lighting a candle on the stove. “Tell me what's on your mind?”

  “You don't sound very friendly, Vanessa.”

  “You woke me up in the middle of the night. How am I supposed to sound?”

  “But you said that friends could depend on each other.”

  “What do you want this time?” she asked sharply. “I've bought you clothes, given you money, fed you, and found you a job. You had me so bamboozled I nearly gave my body to you. You said that you were a poor orphan boy, and I believed you, but now I find out that you're a professional killer.”

  “I never fired a gun in my life until tonight,” he retorted, “and I was lucky, while the other cowboy was drunk on his feet. Or maybe my daddy came up from hell to help me—I don't know. I thought you'd be the one person who'd believe me.”

  “Why should I believe you?” she asked. “If everybody's a liar, why shouldn't you be one, too? You took advantage of my good nature once, but you'll never do it again. Start walking.”

  He wanted to tell her that she was mistaken, but no sound emitted from his mouth. His face turned red, as he made a tentative, thin-lipped smile, and headed for the door. It slammed; pots rattled on the walls, and he was gone.

  No one had ever called Duane a liar before. He shambled toward the outskirts of town, and recalled his simple life in the monastery, where such events simply didn't occur. He and the other monks never questioned each other's veracity, but lying evidently was common in the secular world. Why'd I ever leave?

  The monastery had lacked the luxuries of the outside world, but it possessed other goods far more precious, such as trust, and the effort to lead decent lives in the eyes of God Almighty. Maybe tomorrow I'll go back, but where'll I get the money for the stagecoach? Life seemed so complex here, and he was unaccustomed to making decisions; In the monastery, every day was exactly like the last, an endless round of prayer, study, and the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

  He came to the outskirts of town, and ahead was the endless rolling sage. The wind picked up, and Duane gazed through heavily lidded eyes at the dim outlines of jagged mountain ranges in the distance. Stumbling, holding out his arms to the moon, he followed the wind into measureless wastes, but then fatigue, whiskey, and remorse hit him at the same moment. He lost his footing, tripped over a rock, and plummeted to the ground. Groaning, rolling over, he landed on his back. The heavens were ablaze, and he picked out the Big Dipper, Orion the Hunter, and Cassiopeia, the Lady in the Chair, who looked like Vanessa Fontaine. He closed his eyes, and she was engraved on his eyelids, glowing into his brain.

  Five men huddled around the embers of a campfire approximately ten miles away. Like a nest of vipers on a vacant stretch of sage, they seethed and writhed as they passed around a half-full bottle of whiskey, while two empty bottles lay near the fire pit.

  Nearby was a fresh mound of earth topped by a pile of rocks and a crude cross made from the limbs of a cottonwood tree. Six feet beneath the mound lay a rustler and outlaw named Dave Collins in eternal slumber.

  The men around the fire had weathered faces and scraggly beards. They wore rough range clothes, and all had been cowboys at some point in their lives, but they couldn't knuckle under to rules and regulations, so they rode the owl-hoot trail, stealing whatever they could, killing whenever they had to, and doing anything necessary to prevail.

  They were a brotherhood bound together in bloody deeds, and respected no laws save those concocted by themselves. As for women, they bought them same as they bought beans and tobacco. Although they blended in with other cowboys, they were in the Titusville area for one reason only: to rob the bank. They'd seen a copy of the Sentinel and realized that Titusville was a prosperous town in the middle of nowhere, a peach ready to be plucked.

  The group had ridden into Titusville like any other bunch of cowboys, and reconnoitered the bank. They'd even gone inside, on spurious business, to see where every teller stood, and where the safe was located. All had been proceeding on schedule, until Dave got into a beef with the young cowboy, but Dave always had a mean streak, and no stopping once he got started. The outlaws weren't bothered so much that Dave had been killed, but felt that the kid had tricked him, so that he could add another notch to his gun.

  One of the outlaws was Daltry, and he threw the butt of his cigar into the fire, where it sent up a plume of smoke. “I think we orter go in first thing in the morning, track down the son of a bitch, an’ shoot ‘im like a dog. We cain't let ‘im git away with it.”

  There was silence for a few moments, as the others considered the proposition. One of them was Hardy, who wore the tattoo of a skull on the back of his left hand. “If we're a-gonna shoot him, we should bushwhack him at night when he's tired, and cain't see us. He's a fast hand, and we cain't afford no more mistakes.”

  “Fast hand—my ass!” said Domenici, a tall, thin outlaw with a black beard to his chest. “Dave fired first, fer Chrissakes. If he hadn't been drunk, he would've killed the kid. What fast hand?”

  He was answered by Singleton, who wore an eagle feather in the band of his hat. “He sure looked plenty fast to me. Don't underestimate that kid, ‘cause he'd been drinkin’ too. I got near him at the end, and he smelled like a still. He ain't nobody to fuck with.”

  One man hadn't spoken yet—the leader of the outlaw band. At first glance, one might think he were a fat man, but what appeared fat were
really thick slabs of muscle. His most arresting features were his small, intense blue eyes that darted about the group curiously, making little notations.

  His name was Smollett, and he'd been a major under Jubal Early during the war. He understood logistics, maneuver, surprise, and retreat. Without his professional skills, they would've been hanged long ago.

  “I don't think Duane Braddock is worth our trouble,” he said in his deep baritone voice. “Dave was always looking for a fight, and only a matter of time before somebody drilled him. Dave's ruined our whole operation in Titusville. We should move to another town, and forget him. If you cut yourself with a knife, you can't blame the knife.”

  “Forget hell,” replied Domenici. “That little son of a bitch killed a good friend of mine. I say we got to even the score.”

  “We're wastin’ our time,” said Daltry, chewing his cigar butt, “He's probably left town.”

  “We can't afford to lose any more men,” Smollett reminded them, “and we're running out of cash.”

  “Fuck cash,” Domenici replied.

  Singleton spat in the fire, his face narrow like a polecat's. “I'll go into town first thing in the morning, and find out where he is. Maybe I can come up behind him and put a bullet through his noggin.”

  Firelight flickered on Smollett's porcine features, as he realized the direction of their intentions. They were extremely violent men, the type that made good soldiers, but good soldiers didn't rob banks, and that was Smollett's main objective now. He couldn't do it alone, and needed them as much as they needed him.