by Rod Miller
Among the benefits of that choice is the satisfaction of having sampled the wares of countless breweries in many cities, enjoying the malt beverage within sight of the place of its birth. Likewise, the wares of whiskey artisans across the country. The velvet smoothness of grain alcohol fresh from the oak aging barrel at the distillery bears no comparison to the adulterated slop served from bottles in saloons and roadhouses. But the traveling man takes what he can get.
While my line of work has provided many advantages, it has, at the same time, been a living hell.
In my apprenticeship, you see, the cloak of protection offered by the military shielded Dunn and myself from the malice of civilian society. But upon leaving the service and ever since, I have found myself a social outcast.
Mothers shoo their children out of my presence like a hen driving chicks away from a serpent. Men, save a few wishing to satisfy a morbid curiosity, carry their drinks to the opposite end of the saloon. Passengers on trains and coaches select seats as far from me as possible once they learn my identity. Even harlots, let alone decent women, resist consorting with me.
Were it not for drink, my life would be a lonely one. Even with the comfort of drink—perhaps, to some degree, because of drink—I have grown bitter.
You see, while I never did care a whit for the men I kill, I have learned over the years to likewise despise the men who pay me to do it and the crowds who gather to watch. I laugh in their faces, treat them rudely, hang their criminals, take their money, and drink straight from the bottle through it all.
If they wish to consider my presence a necessary evil, I will do nothing to change their minds.
I have grown less careful in my calculations over the years—not careless, mind you, merely less careful. It has all become routine, so to speak, and requires little in the way of serious thinking.
The challenge of Harlow Mackelprang is a welcome diversion.
“Step over here, Harlow Mackelprang,” I tell him.
He stops just across the bars and I reach through and encircle his neck with my hands. That gets the attention of the young deputy leaning on the doorpost, and he snaps to as if awakened from a bad dream. Once he is made to realize that all is well, he drifts back into his daydreams.
“I see you have had a little something to drink,” I tell the prisoner as I palpate his neck muscles.
“What of it?”
“Nothing. It pleases me. I enjoy a good drink myself, and am not one to begrudge any man the pleasure. In fact, in these circumstances, I often recommend it. Have you any more?”
“A little. Only had a hip flask to begin with and I guess I’ve drunk half of it.”
“Might I suggest that you save the rest until morning? A good stiff drink before hanging will oftentimes allow even a lowly cur like you to stand on the gallows with a little dignity.”
“Don’t you worry none about me. I won’t give the people in this town the pleasure of seeing me snivel.”
“You are a big talker, Harlow Mackelprang, but I know your type. I suspect your will power is as weak as your skinny neck. So you just save that whiskey for morning and save me the effort of dragging you kicking and screaming up the gallows steps.”
I explained the procedure we would follow come morning.
The marshal would shackle and handcuff him in the cell and lead him under guard down the street to the gallows. I warned him there would likely be a crowd and he would be forced to run a gauntlet of insults. I would meet him at the bottom step of the gallows and lead the way to the top. The preacher would be waiting there to offer up a prayer, if wanted.
The Marshal too would climb the steps, leaving the armed deputy at the bottom to keep the crowd at a respectful distance.
“Once we are up there and alone in the wind, Harlow Mackelprang, it is best just to get it over with. Pray with the preacher if you so choose. The marshal will read out the legal papers about the hanging. You will be invited to speak if you wish. I shouldn’t bother if I were you, because no one gives a damn what you have to say.
“Walk to the mark I have made on the trapdoor and face the crowd. I will bind your ankles tighter than the shackles do, with a length of rope. I will check the security of your hands in the handcuffs behind your back. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I get it. Don’t sound like much to me.”
“Good. Then I will place the noose around your neck and draw it snug. I will place a soft cloth bag over your head. You will hear me walk a few steps across the platform. By the time you realize I have stopped walking, I shall have tripped the lever and you will be dead. Do you understand?”
“I suppose so. You’ve done this all before, ain’t you?”
“Indeed I have, Harlow Mackelprang. It has been a good many years since I have hanged a man who has killed more men than I have.”
“Shit. I wished I’da known about your line of work. I do enjoy killing folks.”
I laughed at that one. “It does have its pleasures. Especially when you consider that I never have to kill innocent people—just low-life murderers, rapists, sodomites, gunmen, and other vile criminals like you who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as decent human beings.”
He laughed at that one. “I reckon you’ve got a point there. Only I don’t agree about decent folks. All the ones I have ever seen have been as worthless as me, if not worse. I can’t hardly stand to be around them.”
“We shall free you from that burden come morning, Harlow Mackelprang. Let’s get it done and over with in a hurry so I too can get out of this godforsaken town.”
With that, I left him. I walked down the street to the gallows and calculated the distance from the gibbet to the ground. Harlow Mackelprang’s lack of bulk required a long drop, see, and I had to assure myself that the extreme length of the man would not hit the ground before he hit the end of the rope.
On the other hand, there’s that damn skinny neck of his. It’s likely to stretch right in two if I drop him that far. I guess there’s nothing to do but curl up in my hotel bed with another bottle of whiskey and give it some serious consideration.
You see my problem.
ALTHEA
Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper echoes forth in a foul-smelling belch that fills the room like a creeping miasma.
A revolting display of his utter lack of manners. It is not my first exposure to the man’s lack of couth.
Thank God it shall be my last.
In my line of work I see men at their worst. As often as not, I see the worst of men. I submit, without fear of contradiction, that Harlow Mackelprang is the lowest of the low, the absolute nadir of humankind, residing on the underside of the bottom of the deepest hole.
And I have seen a lot of men. A lot.
I will not mince words, although I shall attempt a socially acceptable description of my occupation. I am a fancy lady—or as near as you will find of the type in Los Santos and for many miles in any direction therefrom. A woman of ill repute, if you would rather. I entertain gentlemen (using the word advisedly) in my home as a commercial proposition. Am I clear, or shall I go on?
Let’s call it good.
It has been an interesting enterprise. Not one I came by honestly but one that, once thrust upon me, proved so lucrative relative to the effort expended that I could not envision a change of career.
I will relate some of those details in time, but first allow me to say why I am here; why I have made the effort and taken the trouble to call upon Harlow Mackelprang in his jail cell on this, the eve of his execution.
The explanation is simple: I want to spit in his face and invite him to enjoy an eternity in hell as penance for the wrongs he has committed against my person.
“Harlow Mackelprang, is that any way to greet a lady?” I say.
“Why, Althea,” he says, obviously startled at my presence at his place of incarceration, “you are a sight for sore eyes. But you sure ain’t no lady.”
“Mind your manners. I can leave as easi
ly as I came, you know.”
“I reckon that’s true enough. What brings you here? You fixing to comfort me in my final hours?”
“Don’t be morbid. And don’t be silly. If you were perishing of thirst and I had the only libation on earth, I would refuse to moisten your tongue.”
“I’m not sure I followed all them fifty-cent words, but I take it that’s no.”
“Not just no, Harlow Mackelprang. Hell, no!”
“Why Althea, listen to you curse!”
“I have not begun to curse you.”
“I always thought we were friends, Althea.”
“You have never been my friend. I have put up with much abuse from men in my life. But seldom have I been treated in the vile manner in which you treated me.”
My “involvement” with Harlow Mackelprang commenced a good many years ago and coincided, more or less, with the arrival of his physical manhood. In a town the size of Los Santos, my means of earning a living is not a secret. This knowledge results in sidelong glances from men, total disregard on the part of their wives, and insatiable curiosity among adolescent boys. Most are satisfied to giggle and whisper upon sighting me.
Harlow Mackelprang, however, wanted more. His curiosity surpassed insatiable and became an obsession. For a number of years, I seemed to attract him like a magnet during my every foray into the town. At first he kept his distance, content to stare at me from afar and, I swear, drool. As he grew older and became bolder, his proximity on occasion became oppressive. While inspecting goods in the stores I might turn and trip over him, as he would creep close enough to sniff my perfume and stealthily stroke the fabric of my garments.
Contributing to the discomfort of the situation was his size. Harlow Mackelprang was tall for his age, surpassing many grown men in height. To find him unexpectedly towering over me was intimidating and discomfiting.
The unpleasantness was compounded by his personal grooming—or lack thereof. His clothing was always ragged and dirty. His body was unwashed. His hair likewise, and uncombed as well. His skin pimpled and pus-laden. It is a mystery to this day why I could neither catch his disagreeable odor upon his approach nor escape from it once he was gone.
At times while entertaining gentlemen callers I would, for lack of a better term, “get the willies”—the odd, anxious feeling of an unseen presence or of being watched. As you have no doubt guessed by now, it was because I was being watched. By Harlow Mackelprang, as he lurked outside my windows. I can imagine the education he received thus, and cannot bear to imagine the self-gratification it may have involved on his part.
Fearing for my safety and that of my customers, as well as the loss of business that would result should this lack of privacy become known, I petitioned the marshal for help and protection. I felt entitled, having paid his “assessment” on my business promptly and regularly on the tenth of every month for the duration of my presence in Los Santos. (In addition to providing the occasional “favor” to the marshal himself or an out-of-town associate he wished to impress and entertain.)
But to no avail. Not that the marshal did not believe me. And not that he did not attempt to remedy the situation. But Harlow Mackelprang had, and still has, I suspect, a sixth sense that warns him when trouble approaches. That sense, combined with the boy’s practiced stealth in moving about the town and concealing himself, meant the marshal was never able to catch him in the act of peeping Tomery—or whatever other acts that might accompany it. The marshal even confronted Harlow Mackelprang about it directly on a number of occasions, and the boy merely scoffed at my accusations and his warnings.
I believe he eventually outgrew his reprehensible behavior of that ilk. But what was to replace it was, in the end, immeasurably worse.
To begin with, Harlow Mackelprang stopped skulking around outside my windows—I believe—and started knocking on my door. He must have been about eighteen years old at the time. I must admit his personal grooming had improved with maturity. Still as long and skinny as a beanpole, he at least bathed and shaved on a somewhat regular basis.
Nevertheless, I refused to admit him to my parlor.
No matter how often he came around or how much he begged, Harlow Mackelprang was not allowed over my threshold. He feigned politeness at first. But on occasion he would grow angry at my intransigence and throw a temper tantrum. Other times he would whine and snivel like a spoiled child. In all that time, over a period of two or three years, he never laid a finger on me, nor did he threaten violence.
So why would I not invite him in? Women in my line of work are not known for being picky. We take what comes and take their money and take who’s next as long as it’s there for the taking. We take men who are hairy and men who are bald, men who have bathed and men who should have, shy men and boisterous men, nervous men and men who haven’t a care in the world, men who are violent and mean and, rarely, men who are tender and kind. They are all men and it is all work and it is all money.
It is work that is seldom pleasant or enjoyable. Usually it is barely tolerable. You must learn to give a man the pleasure he seeks no matter what is involved or what is asked. Many women of my kind turn to alcohol or opium to insulate themselves from the harsh realities of the work. I simply close my eyes and mentally count my money. That is the strategy I have found most useful to ensure personal survival.
So why did I not take Harlow Mackelprang’s money?
I have asked myself that question over and over again. Perhaps if I had taken his money, things would not have spiraled downward into the bloody, vicious, sadistic well that later engulfed me.
But every time I have asked myself why, I have wanted even more to ask Harlow Mackelprang why. This is my last chance and I intend to take it.
“Why did you do it, Harlow Mackelprang?”
“Why’d I do what, Althea? Hell, I done a lot of things.”
“Why did you force your way into my parlor that night, then force yourself on me?”
“That’s the business you’re in, ain’t it? My money’s as good as the next man’s.”
“But it is my business. I decide who I will and will not entertain, and whose money I will and will not take.”
“But why? Something wrong with my money?”
“Don’t ask me why. I am here to ask you.”
“Hell, you know, Althea. I was young and full of myself and figured I was way past due for havin’ me a woman. Since all them prissy little honest girls around town turned up their noses at me, you were the only chance I had. And you are in the business. It ain’t like you were choosy until then.”
“I told you no.”
“Aw, shit, Althea. How dumb do you think I am? I ain’t takin’ no from no whore.”
“But you hit me.”
“Damn right I did. Like I said, no wasn’t goin’ to cut it.”
“I had an unsightly mouse under my eye and bruises and discoloration on my arms and chest. How was I supposed to keep working in that condition?”
“Everything seemed to work fine to me,” he says with a cruel laugh.
Once again, the utter repulsiveness of the man engulfs me like a stained sheet, as it has so often in the past.
“I meant my other gentlemen callers, Harlow Mackelprang. Not you.”
He laughed again. “Gentlemen? That what you call them? Is that what I am, Althea, a ‘gentleman caller’?”
“Nothing, I mean nothing, could be further from the truth. The words ‘Harlow Mackelprang’ and ‘gentleman’ are contradictory. So why did you do it? Tell me why.”
“Like I said, you had what I wanted and I meant to get it. Truth is, though, it wasn’t as good as I thought it would be. But slappin’ you around—I liked that. Got me all stirred up inside, if you know what I mean.
“Hell, if it wasn’t for you getting me all mixed up, I likely wouldn’t have got all mad and shot that cardsharp in the saloon or busted up the place. But you had me howlin’ at the moon, Althea.”
Another belch, the equ
al of the original in stench and foulness, rolls out of Harlow Mackelprang. Then he continues.
“And, of course, if’n I hadn’t of done that, I wouldn’t of done all that other stuff—you know, setting fire to the stable and robbing and shooting that stupid dirt farmer. Then I wouldn’t of thrown in with Catlin and become a bandit and gunman.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “I see. So it is I who must bear responsibility for all your misdeeds.”
“I ain’t sayin’ that. But you don’t know how it is with a man.”
“Harlow Mackelprang, you are the world’s ultimate fool. I know more about ‘how it is with a man’ than you will ever know. Or have you forgotten whence comes the money that supports me?”
“Hell, no. How could I forget? That’s why I kept coming back.”
“I surely wish you had not.”
“What, come back?”
“As I have said, I wish you had not darkened my door the first time. And I wish you had never darkened it again. Your visits were the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
“Well, I sure enjoyed coming to see you. I never thought you liked it, but I never knew you didn’t neither.”
“I hated it. I hated every minute. You are so crude and vulgar. Breaking into my house in the middle of the night, unannounced and uninvited. Striking me with fist and foot. The cuts. The bruises. The pain. The swelling. The blood. How could you possibly think such treatment could be anything but hated? I despise you for it!”
“I paid you, Althea. Paid you right handsome every time.”
“In the first place, if you will recall—supposing your puny brain has sufficient capacity for a modicum of memory—on many an occasion you offered no payment whatever, merely a request that I charge it to your imaginary account. But even when you left cash behind, it did not count for payment. I never kept a cent of your tainted money. Not a penny of it, Harlow Mackelprang. It all went to the poor fund at the church. Every cent.”
“Then alls I can say to that is you’re a damn fool.”
“That I am, Harlow Mackelprang. I wouldn’t feel nearly so foolish today had I but shot you dead. Fortunately, that will not be necessary now. Your death will not come at my hand, but it will be no less satisfying. I cannot wait to see you hang.”
