Cities of the Plain tbt-3

by Cormac McCarthy

  They sat at a whorehouse bar on the outskirts of the city and the driver pointed out the virtues of the various whores that were in the room. He said that men out for an evening were often likely to accept the first proposal but that the prudent man would be more selective. That he would not be misled by appearances. He said that it was best to move freely where whores were concerned. He said that in a healthy society choice should always be the prerogative of the buyer. He turned to regard the boy with dreamy eyes.

  De acuerdo? he said.

  Claro que s', said John Grady.

  They drank up and moved on. Outside it was dark and in the streets the colored lights lay slurred and faintly peened in the fine rain. They sat at the bar of an establishment called the Red Cock. The driver saluted with his glass aloft and drank. They studied the whores.

  I can take you some other places, the driver said. Maybe she is go home.

  Maybe.

  Maybe she is get married. Sometimes these girls is get married.

  I seen her down here two weeks ago.

  The driver reflected. He sat smoking. John Grady finished his drink and rose. Vamos a regresar a La Venada, he said.

  In the Calle de Santos Degollado he sat at the bar and waited. After a while the driver returned and leaned and whispered to him and then looked about with studied caution.

  You must talk to Manolo. Manolo only can give us this information.

  Where is he?

  I take you to him. I take you. It is arrange. You have to pay.

  John Grady reached for his wallet. The driver stayed his arm.

  He looked toward the barman. Afuera, he said. No podemos hacerlo aqu'.

  Outside he again reached for his billfold but the driver said for him to wait. He looked about theatrically. Es peligroso, he hissed.

  They got into the cab.

  Where is he? said John Grady.

  We go to him now. I take you.

  He started the engine and they pulled away down the street and turned right. They drove half way up the block and turned again and pulled into an alley and parked. The driver cut the engine and switched off the lights. They sat in the darkness. They could hear a radio in the distance. They could hear rainwater from the canales dripping in the puddles in the alley. After a while a man appeared and opened the rear door of the cab and got in.

  The domelight was out in the cab and John Grady could not see the man's face. He was smoking a cigarette and he cupped his hand over it when he smoked in the manner of country people. John Grady could smell the cologne he wore.

  Bueno, the man said.

  You pay him now, said the cabdriver. He will tell you where the girl is.

  How much do I pay him?

  You pay me fifty dollars, the man said.

  Fifty dollars?

  No one answered.

  I dont have fifty dollars.

  The man sat for a moment. Then he opened the door again and got out.

  Wait a minute, said John Grady.

  The man stood in the alley, one hand on the door. John Grady could see him. He was wearing a black suit and a black tie. His face was small and wedgeshaped.

  Do you know this girl? said John Grady.

  Of course I know this girl. You waste my time.

  What does she look like?

  She is sixteen years old. She is the epilZptica. There is only one. She is gone two weeks now. You waste my time. You have no money and you waste my time.

  I'll get the money. I'll bring it tomorrow night.

  The man looked at the driver.

  I'll come to the Venada. I'll bring it to the Venada.

  The man turned his head slightly and spat and turned back. You cant come to the Venada. On this business. What is the matter with you? How much do you have?

  John Grady took out his billfold. Thirty somethin, he said. He thumbed through the bills. Thirtysix dollars.

  The man held out his hand. Give it to me.

  John Grady handed him the money. He wadded it into his shirtpocket without even looking at it. The White Lake, he said. Then he shut the door and was gone. They couldnt even hear his footsteps going back up the alley. The driver turned in his seat.

  You want to go to the White Lake?

  I dont have any more money.

  The driver drummed his fingers on the back of the seat. You dont have no monies?

  No.

  The driver shook his head. No monies, he said. Okay. You want to go back to the Avenida?

  I cant pay you.

  Is okay.

  He started the engine and backed down the alley toward the street. You pay me next time. Okay?

  Okay.

  Okay.

  WHEN H E PASSED Billy's room the light was on and he stopped and pushed open the canvas and looked in. Billy was lying in bed. He lowered the book he was reading and looked over the top of it and then laid it down.

  What are you readin?

  Destry. Where you been?

  You ever been to a place called the White Lake?

  Yes I have. One time.

  Is it real expensive?

  It's real expensive. Why?

  I was just wonderin about it. See you in the mornin.

  He let the canvas fall and turned and went on down the bay to his room.

  You better stay out of the White Lake, son, Billy called.

  John Grady pushed open the curtain and felt for the lightchain.

  It aint no place for a cowboy.

  He found the chain and pulled the light on.

  You hear me?

  HE LIMPED DOWN the hallway after breakfast with his hat in his hand. Mr Mac? he called.

  McGovern came to the door of his office. He had some papers in his hand and some more wedged under his elbow. Come on in, son, he said.

  John Grady stood in the door. Mac was at his desk. Come on in, he said. What do you need that I aint got?

  He looked up from his papers. John Grady was still standing in the doorway.

  I wonder if I could draw some on next month's pay.

  Mac reached for his billfold. How much did you need.

  Well. I'd like to get a hundred if I could.

  Mac looked at him. You can have it if you want, he said. What did you aim to do next month?

  I'll make out.

  He opened the billfold and counted out five twenties. Well, he said. I guess you're big enough to handle your own affairs. It aint none of my business, is it?

  I just needed it for somethin.

  All right.

  He shuffled the bills together and leaned and laid them on the desk. John Grady came in and picked them up and folded them and stuck them in his shirtpocket.

  Thank you, he said.

  That's all right. How's your foot?

  It's doin good.

  You're still favorin it I see.

  It's all right.

  You still intend to trade for that horse?

  Yessir. I do.

  How did you know Wolfenbarger's filly had a bad hoof?

  I could see it.

  She didnt walk lame.

  No sir. It was her ear.

  Her ear?

  Yessir. Ever time that foot hit the ground one ear would move a little. I just kept watchin her.

  Sort of like a poker tell.

  Yessir. Sort of.

  You didnt want to go off horsetradin with the old man though.

  No sir. Is he a friend of yours?

  I know him. Why?

  Nothin.

  What were you goin to say?

  That's all right.

  You can say it. Go ahead.

  Well. I guess I was goin to say that I didnt think I could keep him out of trouble on no part time basis.

  Like it would be a full time job?

  I didnt say that.

  Mac shook his head. Get your butt out of here, he said.

  Yessir.

  You didnt tell him that did you?

  No sir. I aint talked to him.

 
Well. That's a shame.

  Yessir.

  He put on his hat and turned but stopped again at the door.

  Thank you sir.

  Go on. It's your money.

  When he came in that evening Socorro had already left the kitchen and there was no one at the table except the old man. He was smoking a homerolled cigarette and listening to the news on the radio. John Grady got his plate and his coffee and set them on the table and pulled back the chair and sat.

  Evenin Mr Johnson, he said.

  Evenin son.

  What's the news?

  The old man shook his head. He leaned across the table to the windowsill where the radio sat and turned it off. It aint news no more, he said. Wars and rumors of wars. I dont know why I listen to it. It's a ugly habit and I wish I could get broke of it but I think I just get worse.

  John Grady spooned pico de gallo over his rice and his flautas and rolled up a tortilla and commenced to eat. The old man watched him. He nodded at the boy's boots.

  You look like you been in some pretty mirey country today.

  Yessir. I was. Some.

  That old greasy clay is hard to clean off of anything. Oliver Lee always said he come out here because the country was so sorry nobody else would have it and he'd be left alone. Of course he was wrong. At least about bein left alone.

  Yessir. I guess he was.

  How's your foot doin.

  It's all right.

  The old man smiled. He drew on his cigarette and tapped the ash into the ashtray on the table.

  Dont be fooled by the good rains we've had. This country is fixin to dry up and blow away.

  How do you know?

  It just is.

  You want some more coffee?

  No thanks.

  The boy got up and went to the stove and filled his cup and came back.

  Country's overdue, the old man said. Folks have got short memories. They might be glad to let the army have it fore they're done.

  The boy ate. How much do you think the army will take?

  The old man drew on his cigarette and stubbed it out thoughtfully. I think they'll take the whole Tularosa basin. That's my guess.

  Can they just take it?

  Yeah. They can take it. Folks will piss and moan about it. But they dont have a choice. They ought to be glad to get shut of it.

  What do you think Mr Prather will do?

  John Prather will do whatever he says he'll do.

  Mr Mac said he told em the only way he'd leave was in a box. Then that's how he'll leave. You can take that to the bank.

  John Grady wiped his plate and sat back with his cup of coffee. I ought not to ask you this, he said.

  Ask it.

  You dont have to answer.

  I know it.

  Who do you think killed Colonel Fountain?

  The old man shook his head. He sat for a long time.

  I ought not to of asked you.

  No. It's all right. You know his daughter's name was Maggie too. She was the one told Fountain to take the boy with him. Said they wouldnt bother a eight year old boy. But she was wrong, wasnt she?

  Yessir.

  A lot of people think Oliver Lee killed him. I knew Oliver pretty well. We was the same age. He had four sons himself. I just dont believe it.

  You dont think he could of done it?

  I'll say it stronger than that. I'll say he didnt.

  Or cause it to be done?

  Well. That's another matter. I'll say he never shed no tears over it. Over the colonel, leastways.

  You didnt want some more coffee?

  No thank you son. I'd be up all night.

  Do you think they're still buried out there somewheres?

  No. I dont.

  What do you think happened?

  I always thought the bodies were taken to Mexico. They had a choice to bury em out there somewhere south of the pass where they might be discovered or to go another thirty miles to where they could drop em off the edge of the world and I think that's what they done.

  John Grady nodded. He sipped his coffee. Were you ever in a shooting scrape?

  I was. One time. I was old enough to know better too.

  Where was it?

  Down on the river east of Clint. It was in nineteen and seventeen just before my brother died and we were on the wrong side of the river waitin for dark to cross some stolen horses we'd recovered and we got word they was layin for us. We waited and waited and after a while the moon come upjust a piece of a moon, not even a quarter. It come up behind us and we could see it reflected in the windshield of their car over in the trees along the river breaks. Wendell Williams looked at me and he said: We got two moons in the sky. I dont believe I ever seen that before. And I said: Yes, and one of em is backwards. And we opened fire on em with our rifles.

  Did they shoot back?

  Sure they did. We laid there and shot up about a box of shells apiece and then they left out.

  Was anybody hit?

  Not that I ever heard of. We hit the car a time or two. Knocked the windshield out.

  Did you get the horses across?

  We did.

  How many head was it?

  It was a few. About seventy head.

  That's a lot of horses.

  It was a lot of horses. We was paid good money, too. But it wasnt worth gettin shot over.

  No sir. I guess not.

  It does funny things to a man's head.

  What's that, sir?

  Bein shot at. Havin dirt thowed on you. Leaves cut. It changes a man's perspective. Maybe some might have a appetite for it. I never did.

  You didnt fight in the revolution?

  No.

  You were down there though.

  Yes. Tryin to get the hell out. I'd been down there too long. I was just as glad when it did start. You'd wake up in some little town on a Sunday mornin and they'd be out in the street shootin at one another. You couldnt make any sense out of it. We like to never got out of there. I saw terrible things in that country. I dreamt about em for years.

  He leaned and put his elbows on the table and took his makings from his shirtpocket and rolled another smoke and lit it. He sat looking at the table. He talked for a long time. He named the towns and villages. The mud pueblos. The executions against the mud walls sprayed with new blood over the dried black of the old and the fine powdered clay sifting down from the bulletholes in the wall after the men had fallen and the slow drift of riflesmoke and the corpses stacked in the streets or piled into the woodenwheeled carretas trundling over the cobbles or over the dirt roads to the nameless graves. There were thousands who went to war in the only suit they owned. Suits in which they'd been married and in which they would be buried. Standing in the streets in their coats and ties and hats behind the upturned carts and bales and firing their rifles like irate accountants. And the small artillery pieces on wheels that scooted backwards in the street at every round and had to be retrieved and the endless riding of horses to their deaths bearing flags or banners or the tentlike tapestries painted with portraits of the Virgin carried on poles into battle as if the mother of God herself were authoress of all that calamity and mayhem and madness.

  The tallcase clock in the hallway chimed ten.

  I reckon I'd better get on to bed, the old man said.

  Yessir.

  He rose. I dont much like to, he said. But there aint no help for it.

  Goodnight sir.

  Goodnight.

  THE CABDRIVER would see him through the wroughtiron gate in the high brick wall and up the walk to the doorway. As if the surrounding dark that formed the outskirts of the city were a danger. Or the desert plains beyond. He pulled a velvet bellpull in an alcove in the archway and stood back humming. He looked at John Grady.

  You like for me to wait I can wait.

  No. It's all right.

  The door opened. A hostess in evening attire smiled at them and stood back and held the door. John Grady entered and took off his h
at and the woman spoke with the driver and then shut the door and turned. She held out her hand and John Grady reached for his hip pocket. She smiled.

  Your hat, she said.

  He handed her his hat and she gestured toward the room and he turned and went in, brushing down his hair with the flat of his hand.

  There was a bar to the right up the two stairs and he stepped up and passed along behind the stools where men were drinking and talking. The bar was mahogany and softly lit and the barmen wore little burgundy jackets and bowties. Out in the salon the whores lounged on sofas of red damask and gold brocade. They wore negligees and floorlength formal gowns and sheath dresses of white satin or purple velvet that were split up the thigh and they wore shoes of glass or gold and sat in studied poses with their red mouths pouting in the gloom. A cutglass chandelier hung overhead and on a dais to the right a string trio was playing.

  He walked to the far end of the bar. When he put his hand on the rail the barman was already there placing a napkin.

  Good evening sir, he said.

  Evenin. I'll have a Old Grandad and water back.

  Yessir.

  The barman moved away. John Grady put his boot on the polished brass footrail and he watched the whores in the glass of the backbar. The men at the bar were mostly welldressed Mexicans with a few Americans dressed in flowered shirts of an intemperately thin cloth. A tall woman in a diaphanous gown passed through the salon like the ghost of a whore. A cockroach that had been moving along the counter behind the bottles ascended to the glass where it encountered itself and froze.

  He ordered another drink. The barman poured. When he looked into the glass again she was sitting by herself on a dark velvet couch with her gown arranged about her and her hands composed in her lap. He reached for his hat, not taking his eyes from her. He called for the barman.

  La cuenta por favor.

  He looked down. He remembered that he'd left his hat with the hostess at the door. He took out his wallet and pushed a fivedollar bill across the mahogany and folded the rest of the bills and put them in his shirtpocket. The barman brought the change and he pushed a dollar back toward him and turned and looked across the room to where she sat. She looked small and lost. She sat with her eyes closed and he realized that she was listening to the music. He poured the shot of whiskey into the glass of water and set the shotglass on the bar and took his drink and set out across the room.