As the marshals lead me out of the courtroom in handcuffs, I glance over Ron’s shoulder and see that he has gone with a close-up sketch, which is probably the right move. My cheekbones are accentuated exactly how I like them. I nod at him and show him a sliver of respect, so he can at least try to have some semblance of a normal life. Plus, I might need him in the future for something.
On my way back to jail, I notice a slew of wagons rolling into town stocked full of gold-mining supplies and crates stamped with the word “Schläger” on them in big, black letters. One of the wagons stops in front of the saloon, and Manuel walks out to meet it. Prosecutor Van Buren strides over and stuffs a thick envelope of money in his hand, and starts laughing in his face as he makes a throat slash sign. That’s when it dawns on me that he isn’t in town just for the trial; he is in town for something more.
I think back to Van Buren’s opening remarks in court when he said that shit about me only killing half of them and that the other half were coming to bury their brothers. He was planting the seed. Sven was right—they don’t die, they multiply. A coldness washes over me as I realize that I’m going away for three weeks and can’t do anything to stop them from taking over. At least there is a gentlemen’s code that you don’t harm another man’s family while he’s locked up.
A solitary tumbleweed kicks up dust, rolling down Main Street as I stand there, lost in thought about how I shamed Louretta. My moment of reflection is soon interrupted as the front door of the jailhouse opens and the remnants of that smell hit me square in the face again. The deputy leads me back to my cell, where I see the fat Mexican up to his old tricks, sitting on the makeshift toilet while eating a can of beans. He looks up, surprised to see me.
“You’re back already?”
“Yeah, I’m fucking back, and I’m in here for three more weeks. I know you ripped the seams on your cheeks, and I want you to know a man took his life because of it. Your stink ends right now for the next three weeks, and so help me God, if I hear even a fart come out of you, I will kill you. Got it?”
He begins sweating heavily. “One week was hard enough, I don’t think I can hold out for three whole weeks.”
The deputy takes the cuffs off me and puts me back in my cell, closing the door behind me. He hands me a sewing kit, and I look at him surprised.
“It’s from your wife. She gave it to me in court today, said you asked for it.”
I nod my head and squeeze the kit in my hand, feeling worse about my actions earlier today. Goddamn it, Louretta. It’s the little things that women know how to get you with.
“Thanks, boss,” I say to him.
He nods at me in appreciation for saving his life earlier. “You do what you need to do if his poop chute opens up. I’m indebted to you, and I won’t say a word, whatever you decide to do.”
The deputy tips his hat to me, acknowledging what I did for him earlier, and I respect him for that. He recognizes I saved his life, and in return, I decide to live out my three weeks in jail without harming him. Plus, if I rub out another member of the law and get arrested for it, how am I going to pay off the judge? I blew all of my last remaining chunks of gold, and my mine shaft is dry. Pun intended.
Chapter Eleven
AN IRONIC NAME FOR A CHAPTER WHEN YOU LOSE ALL YOUR MONEY
When I walk out of jail and into the streets after my three-week stint is over, I look up at the sun and think, “Holy shit, that thing is goddamn bright.” I take my shirt off, letting the rays greet my unusually pale frame. A familiar gallop echoes through the air, and of course it is my steed trotting over to greet me with a saddlebag full of dynamite and a fresh bottle of laudanum. I missed this son of a bitch. While I was on the inside, five things became painstakingly evident.
1. My wife definitely hates me. She didn’t visit me one single time after I was sentenced. No food, no basket-weave HJs. Nothing.
2. I’m completely out of gold, and I’m fucking broke. I can’t even dig through my family’s shit anymore.
3. The Schläger brothers have completely taken over. According to the newspapers I read every day in jail, this is no longer a backwoods operation, this is some well-run gangster shit. Van Buren is now running shit like a boss. He’s in charge of the new set of Schläger brothers that came to town, and they are 100 percent business. They even wear suits and bowler hats now, so they’re more easily identifiable.
4. Never trust a gypsy woman. The disguises might have been diversion tactics just so she could have an actual dude blow me, which I think is what she wanted all along. Throughout the three weeks, I became so exhausted from her comings and goings that I couldn’t tell if it was really her anymore. In fact, I’m almost positive that on one of my last days in the clink, I was fellated by a normal dude named Bobby. I can’t be too sure, but this is my best guess. She finally has the best secret of all time to keep to herself.
5. The human body can only go eight to ten days without having a bowel movement before you die. That fat Mexican didn’t make it out of that cell. I’m not sure if the coroner took out the stitching or not before they buried him, but my guess is no. The bowels of hell would have opened and swallowed the earth. Rest in—actually, fuck that guy.
Riding up to my house, I see Louretta and the kids planting fruits and vegetables in a brand-new garden, something that we haven’t had since we were poor. The kids all scream and run up to hug me as I hop down from my horse. I’m genuinely grateful to see them.
“Hold your hands out; I brought you guys back something from the joint.”
They clap excitedly as I pull out a set of chess pieces that I have hand-carved out of soap. My youngest sticks a bishop into his mouth and starts violently sneezing. Louretta walks over and pulls it out from under his tongue. He laughs and walks away.
“He’s walking now? Wow, I really missed a lot these last three weeks.”
“He’s been walking for two years,” she says hastily.
“Oh, he’s that one. Got it. What’s with the garden?”
“We’re out of money. It’s been up to me to feed and raise six kids while you were locked up getting blowjobs from strangers for the last month.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“There’s all of these rumors going around town that strange women and men have been crawling in and out of your cell at all hours of the day.”
“Well, that’s why they’re called rumors, because there’s no room or circumstance for matters of the blindness of others’ chatter—”
“Just stop. Do you even hear yourself? You’re just making up words. Look, I don’t have it in me to fight with you. Dinner is almost ready. Wash up before you come inside the house. You smell like a fart in water.”
I smell myself as she walks into the house. Indeed, I do stink. Daniel walks out of the front door using only one crutch now. He pulls a bottle of laudanum out of his back pocket and tosses it to me. I catch it and immediately begin double-fisting with the other bottle my steed brought me. Daniel pulls his shirt up over his nose as he hobbles down the front steps of the house.
“I love you, Dad, but you smell like a dead seal’s cock.”
We walk down to the river so we can catch up while I wash myself. In the water Daniel regales me with stories that in no way, shape, or form happened. It becomes painfully clear that he has been hallucinating on laudanum for weeks. On the way back, a bald eagle swoops down in front of us and Daniel punches it in the face, knocking it dead to the ground. I stare at him in wonderment.
“Did you just punch a bald eagle out of the air?”
“Yeah. It’s the only way we can eat meat around here now,” he says with a shrug.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
He tucks the bald eagle into his back pocket and hobbles back up the steps of the house. I take a seat at the kitchen table with my boys, and lead them in a “We want food!” chant as we bang our forks and knives on the table. It was nice to be home . . . until Lour
etta walks over with bowls of salad, placing them down in front of us one by one.
“Um, what the fuck is this?” I ask as I throw my utensils down in disgust.
“It’s salad.”
“I know what it is, but where is some form of meat?”
“We can only afford to eat what we grow off the land, so we have to eat salads. We can’t afford any chicken or livestock, hence no meat is served.”
“Daniel just punched a live bald eagle out of the air, cook that up. Give your mom the bald eagle.” Daniel pulls it out of his pocket and slams it down on the table.
Louretta’s face grows red with anger. “If you guys want to punch bald eagles down out of the sky, then cook them yourself!”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I still believe in this country, and I don’t condone killing the animal that is the symbol for American freedom just so we can have some meat! I wasn’t raised that way!”
“You were raised by a bunch of ginger bushes who sucked the starch out of every last potato they came across in Ireland. It wasn’t until this little leprechaun married you and gave you a magic pot of gold so that you could have all this shit!”
“Where is that gold now, huh? Oh, right, it’s melted onto our dead son who was murdered because of you!”
“I could have fucking knocked a gold chip off his shoulder, but you—”
“Don’t you dare say it!”
I think better of it and shake my head. She stares me down before storming up to the bedroom with her salad as I sit in silence. My boys look up at me expectantly. I know I have to do something.
“All right, who wants to go outside with me and build a campfire to cook up some bald eagle?” Everyone immediately raises their hands except Daniel, who stares off into the distance mumbling.
“Dad, I killed a leprechaun while you were gone. I never told Mom. It’s in the barn.”
I shake my head and rub my temples. “I’m sure you did, buddy. Let’s go start that fire.”
That night, my six remaining sons and I build a campfire and enjoy some fine bald eagle, fresh out of the sky. Daniel keeps the beak and hangs it on a necklace with a collection of other beaks, from other kills he’s made. I really did miss a lot while I was gone.
After putting the kids to bed, I head out to the barn to think. It’s nice to curl up with my steed again and not have to listen to Louretta cry. If you think hearing a woman cry is terrible, try hearing her cry in an Irish accent. Holy shit, it’s awful. With the barn door open, and my head resting on my steed’s belly, I stare up at the bright full moon with sadness.
As delicious as it was, that tiny slice of bald eagle tonight isn’t going to fill me up on the reg. I’m not eating salads every day, and we can’t keep eating bald eagles. Actually, maybe we can. Judging by Daniel’s necklace, this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Why am I considering this? I need money ASAP, so I start to ponder all my options.
First of all, the Schläger brothers have too much manpower. Can I overtake them and kill them all again like I did the last seventeen? Probably, but they’d more than likely kill my entire family in the process. Is that something I’m willing to risk? I take another sip of laudanum to silence these thoughts.
That night I toss and turn in constant fear that the gypsy woman is going to try and wake me up with a blowie. I finally give up on sleep as the sun slowly begins to rise. Strapping the saddle to my steed, I notice a foul smell drifting into my horse’s stall. I draw my gun and cautiously walk back to check the rest of the stalls. When I approach the last one, the smell gets stronger. I kick open the stall door and see a dead leprechaun lying faceup on the hay. Holy shit, that son of a bitch actually did it.
“Daniel, come outside and bury that leprechaun you killed! He fucking stinks!”
“Okay, Dad!”
I hop up on my steed and we ride into town, but this time I am not looking for a drink and a whore to start off the day; I’m looking for a job. As I gallop through the town, I see Schläger brothers everywhere. There are at least two of them dressed in their suits and bowler hats in almost every store along Main Street.
The Schläger name is on every marquee outside as well: Schläger Bros. Mining Supplies, Schläger Bros. Fine Suits, Schläger Bros. Furniture, Schläger Bros. Wigs Shoppe. You name it, they own it.
Two Schläger brothers suddenly drop a crate they are carrying, and it explodes right in front of us. I pull the reins on my steed abruptly, as hundreds of doorknobs roll into the street. Their immediate laughter makes it evident that this was done on purpose. I dismount and draw my guns, kicking a doorknob back toward them as I cock my pistols.
“Does this mean you want me to open you up? I’ll put a doorknob straight up your fucking ass and keep turning.”
“Break it up, boys!” screams the deputy, who has become the sheriff. His mustache has fully grown back. He runs out into the street and blasts a street howitzer into the air, just as the Schlägers start going for their guns. In the process he trips over a doorknob and falls backward on his ass. His shotgun accidentally discharges again, and he shoots the leg of one of the Schläger brothers clean off his body. Mr. Van Buren flies out from one of the shops as the legless Schläger brother rolls around on the ground in agony, holding his stump. He picks up the leg and points it at me.
“What in the hell is going on?” Van Buren forcefully asks.
The sheriff stands up. “I’m sorry Mr. Van Buren, I was trying to break up a fight when I slipped on a doorknob and blew off Jared’s leg by accident.”
I don’t even try and contain my laughter as I say, “On the plus side, you might be able to put it on one of your homemade tables in your furniture store.”
“Goddamn it, Sheriff, we hired you to protect this town, not to turn people into sack-race contestants,” Van Buren says as he throws the leg down in disgust.
“Wait, you hired the sheriff?” I ask. “What is it that you’re actually doing here in town, Mr. Van Buren?”
“Same as you, I’m a businessman. I heard through the grapevine that this was a good prospector’s town.”
“You wouldn’t have heard that from a former president, would you?” I ask. “You know, I wasn’t kidding when I said your father used our outhouse.”
“Oh, I’m well aware. Your father had sex with my mother in it. That heinous act tore our family apart for years.”
My jaw hits the dirt. Maybe my dad was cooler than I thought. Not cool enough to warrant a longer first chapter, obviously, but good on him. At least I know where I get it from. I stare at Mr. Van Buren inquisitively.
“So you’re pissed because my dad fucked your mom and you came here for revenge? Now we’re getting down to brass tacks.”
“She was a first lady!”
“Yeah, but was she a lady first? Wink.”
The sheriff quickly looks away, and Van Buren tries to compose himself. “Look, Saint James, we don’t want any more feuding between you and the Schlägers. You noticed no one came after your family while you were locked up, right? We’re running clean businesses now, and we don’t want any shenanigans. Here’s a few dollars for your trouble today.” He walks over and hands me twenty dollars. “Sorry about the doorknobs.”
“The shiny ones on the ground or the ones wearing the bowler hats?” I ask as I take the money.
“Too good, Mr. Street James. Too good,” Van Buren says before forcing a fake laugh. “Let me get these doorknobs out of your way so that you may safely travel through.”
He motions for the brother with both his legs still intact to pick up the doorknobs. I feel like killing this motherfucker right here and now for giving me a shitty fake laugh, but killing a president’s son would bring down the fury. Now that I know why he’s really here, I need to fucking strategize. I tip my hat and reholster my pistols, hopping back on my steed. Oh, and that bullshit I said about not starting off my day with a drink and a whore so I can look for a job is obviously
out the fucking window now. I can read the want ads at the whorehouse while getting blown and enjoying a whiskey thanks to this newfound jack. Time to mosey on down to the saloon.
Just walking in and smelling the prostitution reminds me how much I miss it. When I cozy up to the bar, I notice row after row of Goldschläger bottles stocked on the shelves. There’s no other bottle of any other kind of liquor in sight. It’s all Goldschläger. Looking around at the few patrons scattered about, all I see are gold flakes in everyone’s glasses, and they’re all drinking it. I whistle Manuel over.
“You hiding the good shit from these dirtbags? Give me a whiskey, Manuel.”
“I can’t, Street. The Schläger brothers bought my bar, and their liquor is all I’m allowed to serve.”
“Why did you sell it to them?”
“I didn’t really have much of a choice. Van Buren and the sheriff made me sign it over on account of me being an Indian and all. They said I could still work here and that they wouldn’t kill me as long as I tell people I’m Mexican.”
“Well, we’ve already taken almost all your land in this country, so this shouldn’t be too much of a shock, I guess. Sorry, Manny. I tell you what, bring me a glass of that shit to whatever bedroom I walk into back there. I don’t want any of them to see me drinking that unicorn piss in public.”
Manuel nods as I pick out a whore and walk back into an open bedroom. I pull my pants down and sit down on an old rocking chair inside the room, before reading the paper. The whore I chose is one of my regulars, a sweet-natured girl named Claire who knows not to start straddling me immediately.
“Do you want me to go down on you?” she politely asks.
“No, I just want to sit in this chair and let my junk air out for a bit while I read. Why don’t you take off your clothes and crochet on the bed for a few?”
At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed Page 11
