Hard Twisted (13 page)

Across the way a door swung open and the syncopated bars of a ragtime piano spilled into the street. An older couple exited, laughing and touching, buoyed aloft by the music. The word SALOON was gold-leafed on the corner windowpane, and beyond the glass were tables and booths and people moving among them.

I reckon there's as good a place as any to start.

The hotel was Victorian in its appointments, and the desk clerk, a young and bespectacled man, looked up from his newspaper and nodded. The barroom, which they entered off the lobby, had velvet wallpaper in scarlet and gold and oak tables and an oaken bar with a brass footrail. A high and empty balcony. A bartender in sleeve garters and center-parted hair. And in the corner by the picture window, a player piano.

The scene was a Western Germelshausen born of nostalgia and reminiscence and peopled by merchants and miners and teamsters unwittingly confederate in its reenactment. It was a sepia-toned daguerreotype, hand-painted and newly animate.

They found a booth by the window. A waitress, herself theatrically costumed in a flapper's red bustier and feathered headpiece, came and took their order. Two men watched from a nearby table, and one of them raised a glass.

Welcome, stranger. To your health and good fortune.

The accent was old-country Irish. The man wore a tweed suit that shone at the elbows, and a silk necktie, and a pearl-headed stickpin. He downed his drink and clapped the glass as the piano segued from one jaunty tune to the next.

A stranger it is, am I right? And a genuine cowboy at that?

The man beside him appeared to be a miner, or maybe a hod carrier, dark and simian.

Palmer removed his hat and set it on the table. Who is it wants to know?

The waitress returned with two soda pops, and as she set them down, the Irishman scraped back his chair and carried his glass and his bottle to their booth. The big man followed, squeezing unbidden onto the bench alongside Lottie.

Make yourself to home, Palmer told him.

The smaller man, still standing, fished into his pocket and proffered a printed card between two fingers.

McGuirk's the name, and real estate's my game. Residential or commercial, ranch or farm. He nodded to Lottie as he slid into the booth.

Palmer studied the card. Must be a burden in your business, you bein so shy and all.

The Irishman smiled. You see there, Monk? Did I not just say, now here's a man of rare intellect and humor? But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, friend. Mister... ?

Montgomery.

Montgomery. And who might this lovely creature be? Not your daughter, of course, for I see no family resemblance.

This here is Johnny Rae.

Johnny Rae. The man placed a hand to his heart. She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes. He nodded again. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

The big man had uncorked the bottle, and now he measured out two shots, sliding one across the table. The Irishman lifted his glass.

The formalities observed, to business. You and your young friend will be needin a place to tenant whilst in our fair metropolis,
and a stroke of luck it is that you've happened upon the finest land agent in all La Plata County.
Sláinte.

The strangers clicked glasses. The big man's fist was huge and hairy, the beveled tumbler a thimble within it. All noticed, at the apex of his motion, the third finger missing at the knuckle.

I don't reckon as the house would appreciate you shillin off their business.

Ah, yes. Well. The Strater is a fine establishment, Mr. Montgomery, make no mistake. But my guess is that a couple of sojourners like yourselves, Mormons to my eye, subscribe to the biblical injunction against ostentation and profligacy.

Lottie leaned across the table. We was lookin for a man named Dillard Garrett. He's from Oklahoma. Have you seen him anywheres about?

Lottie flinched at the clap of Palmer's bottle on the tabletop. The Irishman noticed both.

And what sort of man would I be lookin for, miss?

He's tall and kinda skinny. He's got reddish hair and he wears old shoes and dungarees and a tan jacket. And he sometimes limps a little.

The piano shifted again, to the “Mississippi Rag.” At the bar, someone began to clap.

Monk?

The big man frowned and shook his head.

I'm afraid we can be of no help in regard to your Mr. Garrett. But in the matter of accommodations—

The barroom quieted. All in the booth turned toward the bar, while all at the bar had turned toward the lobby door, where two deputy sheriffs with holstered sidearms stood in close
conversation. Palmer pressed his weight into the seatback, and the Irishman noted this as well.

The waitress spoke with the deputies, and the deputies conferred again before touching their hats and leaving. Barroom conversations resumed, and the man who'd been clapping began clapping anew.

Tell you what, Palmer said as they all shifted in their seats. My grubstake's a little thin right now, but if you could put me onto a cockfight, you might have yourself a cash customer.

The odd companions exchanged a glance.

Well, pilgrim, the Irishman said, we've got dogfights, and we've got bare-knuckle fistfights. I've even heard tell of a bear-bait once, but I can't attest to it. But cockfighting? He shook his head ruefully. Alien, it is, to the local culture.

Well then, how's about a little stud poker?

Ahh. The Irishman brightened as he reached for the bottle. Mr. Montgomery, you'll be pleased to know that more silver has changed hands in this town over a deck of cards than over all the assay scales combined.

They took a room, at the Irishman's suggestion, in a side street boardinghouse, paying the week's rent in advance, no board and no bath. Now they sat on their yellowed mattress surrounded by the whole of their worldly estate and resumed the quarrel that had begun on the sidewalk outside the hotel.

You'd think you'd of learned, that's all.

All I did was ast one question.

All I did was ast one question, he mimicked in singsong. You keep your big mouth shut around strangers, you hear me?

She turned to the window. I want to go home.

And what home would that be? Last I seen you was livin by the side of the road.

He stood and stepped over his saddle to study his face in the dresser mirror. You'll put us all in the calaboose, do you know that?

What do you mean?

I mean your daddy's hot, darlin. He's in Dutch. Johnny Law finds him now, he'll be in jail for life. And so will you.

Why me? I didn't do nothin.

Palmer examined his teeth. You're not very smart, do you know that.

What're you talkin about?

I'm talkin about accessory. I'm talkin about aid'n and abettin. You ever heard of them?

No.

He turned around to face her. You got a lot to learn, sister. Like, when the law wants you, the law finds a way to get you.

He crossed to the bed and resumed his seat beside her.

Look. I'm sure we'll get word from your pa soon enough. But in the meantime, you mind what I say, understand?

They sat for a long time, listening to another couple, another altercation, rising up through the floorboards. As time passed, the room around them darkened.

I'm goin now, he told her, rising to a chorus of bedsprings. He found his hat and his satchel, and he set them on the edge of the dresser.

Goin where?

Goin to work. He removed his pistol from the satchel and dropped the cylinder and eyed the movement as it spun. He flipped it closed and replaced the gun and gathered up his hat.

Don't lose no more belt buckles.

He froze in the doorway. And then he slammed the door behind him.

They fell, day by day, into the semblance of a routine. Each evening Palmer left at nightfall. Each morning he returned before sunrise. Each day he slept until noon.

Some days he was gay when he awoke, and solicitous, and would tease her and coax her back to bed. On these occasions they would sleep late and take the air and eat an early supper at the hotel.

Other days his mood was dark, and Lottie was made to feel like a houseguest who had overstayed her visit. On these occasions they ate not at all, or else in brooding silence at the drugstore, where Palmer smoked and watched the street with furtive eyes, pretending to read his newspaper.

On their sixth day in the boardinghouse Palmer woke and stretched and rose from the bed and crossed to the dresser. Here, he told her, opening a drawer. I brung you a present.

The dress he gave her was old and blue and faded in color. Frayed at the hem and yellowed at the lace collar. She held it up to her chin. It's too short, she said.

Try it on.

She turned her back and stripped out of her jeans and worked the dress over her head.

See? She stepped toward the mirror where he stood, turning to examine herself.

Go sit on the bed. Like that, only with your legs crossed.

I ain't barely covered.

Get your hands out of your lap. There, just like that. Now take them drawers off.

What?

You heard me. Take your drawers off and sit just like that.

I ain't gonna do that.

She flinched at his hand. Take off your goddamn drawers.

She rocked and scooted and peeled her dirty panties and dropped them to the floor.

Now cross your legs again.

He studied her from several angles, pacing as he spoke.

They's a big game on Monday, and you're comin out with me. You're gonna sit behind me, just like that. Give them Injuns a peek at some nice white coochie. Sweet as apple pie. Keep their minds off their cards.

I am not.

You are too.

You're crazy.

I am crazy, he said, returning to the mirror. Crazy like a goddamn fox.

On their seventh day in the boardinghouse Lottie woke to an empty bed. She dressed and sat watching the street from their window, marking the cars as they passed and listening to the sounds in the hallway. She paced and sat, and lay as if to sleep, and rose to pace again. She stood before the mirror with the dress held to her chin.

In the afternoon she was dozing when the click of the door latch startled her awake. But it wasn't Palmer's shape that she saw in the filtered half-light, but the great plaid bulk of the man-ape from the saloon. He stood in the doorway, ignoring Lottie where she lay, reading the room around her. Then he turned abruptly and left, the door closing quietly behind him.

She took some coins from the dresser, and she left by the back
stairs. Dark clouds were gathering to the north, and the afternoon breeze carried with it the leaden promise of rain. She sat at the soda fountain with her back to her breakfast plate and watched the street grow darker. Cars passed, and a few pedestrians with fists clutched at their collars.

The train schedule was framed in a glass box, like a thing of great value on display. There was a 3:05 to Denver, and she counted out her remaining coins as the ticket vendor watched.

Can I help you, miss?

I'm all right.

Children ride for half fare.

That's okay.

The man leaned down to peer below the cage. Are you waiting on somebody? The train from Salt Lake's due in twenty minutes.

Lottie reexamined the schedule. Is there a train goes to Wilburton?

Wilburton? What city's that near?

I don't know. Red Oak, I reckon.

The man vanished within the booth, and when he appeared again, he was leafing through a large gazetteer.

Red Oak. I don't see any Red Oak. Or any Wilburton, for that matter. Is that up near Fort Collins? Miss?

But the girl was already gone, past the hotel and the drugstore and halfway to the boardinghouse when the rain began to fall. She shielded her eyes and quickened her pace. Then at the sight of the Buick idling at curbside, she broke into a run.

The car boiled in a cauldron of its own exhaust, the front seat empty, the dark shapes of saddle and bedrolls crowding the back. She crossed the lawn and mounted the front steps of the boardinghouse
and only then saw Palmer, his collar upturned, circling from the rear.

There you are! Let's go, dammit! This here's the last!

The sky had opened, and the rain was cold and slanting. Palmer slammed the driver's door and shook out his hat and set it on the satchel as Lottie fell in wet and breathless beside him.

Looks like a gully washer! he shouted over the flat slapping of raindrops on the windscreen. Then as he turned to face her, she caught her breath.

His lip had been split, wide and purple, and the swelling at his temple had closed his left eye to a slit.

What happened to you?

Palmer smiled thinly, then winced. He started the wipers and worked the gearshift and leaned to the inside as to make out the street behind them. They backed and clutched and swung a blind U-turn southward in parallel with the main street.

There had been trouble, he explained, shaking a cigarette from the pack. New players to the game. Boilermakers laid off from the smelter who'd drunk too much and won too little and had made Palmer out for a sharp. Monk, the Irishman's partner, had been summoned by the house. The players were ejected, but had lain outside in wait.

Did they get your money?

Palmer's smile was lopsided. He bent into his match. My, but you've grown downright practical. No, darlin, all's they got was a close-up look at my pistol.

Then what happened to your face?

Oh, that, he said, leaning toward the mirror. The sheriff must of got wind somehow, cuz them deputies was waitin for me at the hotel.

They done that?

Nope. This here is a souvenir from some of the local boys was in the cell they put me in, after tellin 'em some lie or other.

What lie?

It don't matter. What matters is, I'm out on a twenty-dollar bond and due at the courthouse on Wednesday.