The Americans (26 page)

imagine how sweet and soft the air must smell in the springtime, when the magnolias and azaleas were blooming. As the sun began to drop over the coast Jean Lafitte had sailed some seventy years earlier, he ambled back to the main section, admiring the city's Custom House, its solid- looking theater, its Cotton Exchange. Across from the last, he saw a clean-looking saloon whose gaudy sign announced it as the Sam Houston Rest. He fished in his pocket, counted his money, realized he was hungry, and with his bedroll over his shoulder and his second-hand Montana peak hat shading his face, crossed the dusty street and pushed through the saloon doors. It was his first mistake.

The place was popular, and noisy. Seamen and stevedores lined the bar. Carter had finished a tough piece of steak and was mopping up the gravy with a slab of bread when a round-faced stranger in a derby approached his table. The man had bland brown eyes, a stubby nose, and a short beard fringing his chin. He was about thirty-five; conventionally dressed. A merchant, Carter guessed. "You look like a stranger in Galveston," the man said with soft Southern speech and a friendly smile. Wary, Carter returned his bread to his plate. "You're right." "Mighty nice town. Mighty nice weather most of the year. About one more month and we'll see the end of hurricane season. Then we'll rest a lot easier." The man took off his derby and offered an apologetic smile. "Don't mean to intrude. It's just that the barkeep pointed you out as a newcomer and my brother-in-law, he's lookin' to hire a young man like you." The man's apology reassured Carter. He relaxed and prepared to finish his bread and gravy. But first he said, "To do what?" "Porter in a boarding house. Out on the edge of town." A porter? Carter rebelled at the idea. There should be better work available. Of course no work was very attractive to him. But he was nearly broke. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to explore this opportunity; maybe even take the job for a few days. That would give him time to look for something better. His distrust of the stranger was quickly disappearing. The man was holding his derby in his hands, and with those round cheeks and that fringe of beard, he looked like a slightly overweight saint. "I might be interested in talking to your brother-in-law," Carter said. To make sure the man knew who was in charge, he added, "As soon as I finish my meal and my beer. Meantime, why don't you sit down?" "Thanks kindly." The man bobbed his head, took a chair and held out his hand. "Name's Olaf. James Olaf. I'm a Kentucky Scotsman on my mother's side, and immigrant Swede on my father's. Care for a cigar?" Carter pushed his plate away and hesitated only a moment. A cigar would taste fine with the last of his beer. He accepted, bent to the match Olaf extended, then leaned back in his chair and introduced himself. The meal had been his first solid one in a couple of days. He'd eaten so fast, he felt uncomfortable; a little dizzy. The cigar seemed to enhance the feeling. But he was so used to being tired and light-headed from lack of food and exposure to the elements, he didn't think much about it. Sunshine slanted through a dusty window a few feet away. A ship's horn sounded in the harbor. Gulls cried in the fading autumn day. A sad season. A lonesome season. But they were all lonesome when you were wandering far from home. "Shall we go?" Olaf asked presently, a touch of impatience in his voice. A little glassy-eyed, Carter leaned back. "I'll be ready soon." "Yes, of course, didn't mean to rush you," Olaf murmured. Carter tilted his stein and drained it, thus missing the quick flash of hostility in his benefactor's deceptive eyes. in He should have been warned by the men loitering on the steps of the boarding house that sat on the Gulf side of the island, just outside of town. It was a large place-three stories combuilt on rotting pilings sunk in the sand. There was a palmetto thicket to the west, but no vegetation around the house itself except for a couple of patches of sea oats bending in the sunset breeze. Several miles out on the whitecapped Gulf, a side-wheeler spewed black smoke from its funnels as it plowed in the direction of New Orleans. Carter's attention was focused on the two men, emaciated and dirty, who were lounging on the steps. One had a ring in his ear-an unpleasant reminder of Ortega. The other was whittling. Carter couldn't bring himself to look at the knife. He knew both men looked shady, yet at the same time he didn't care. He was still pleasantly tipsy from the beer-unusual for just one stein to do that to him-and so he wasn't as cautious as he should have been. "Come on in," Olaf said, a comradely arm across Carter's shoulder; yet there was pressure in Olaf's hand, as if he were hurrying Carter past the loungers. One said something Carter couldn't hear. The other snickered. Inside, there was little light, and a heavy smell of cigar smoke and beer. In a minuscule room to the right of the frowsy entrance hall, Carter saw two more roughnecks leaning on a bar made of a plank and two ship's kegs. In a chair in a corner sat a yellow-haired girl in a chemise. Skinny, yet touchingly pretty. Twenty or so, Carter figured, smiling at her. She smiled in return, smoothing the front of her chemise so that her small breasts stood out. "We like to make our boarders comfortable," Olaf said with an understanding chuckle. "Seamen expect certain amenities any place they stay-was He had led Carter to the back of the hall, and now pushed open a door to a kitchen. A heavy black woman was frying potatoes at an iron stove. "Horace here?" "Gone to Houston overnight, Mist' Olaf. Business. Your sister went too." Olaf looked upset. "Horace didn't tell me he'd be away." "Came up sudden like." "Yes, but I brought this young man here to talk about the porter's job." The black woman studied Carter through the smoke rising from her skillet. Quickly she lifted the pan from the stove top and cooled it, hissing, in a bucket of water. "Mist* Horace say he be back on the first morning ferry. We ain't full tonight. The young gen'man could have a bed, I "spose." "Capital idea," Olaf said, beaming. "We'll even give him a drink on the house. Thank you, Maum Charlene," he added with great politeness. In the makeshift barroom, only the girl remained. Olaf introduced her as a distant cousin of Horace's, from up San Antonio way. Her name was Lu Ann. "You're welcome to chat with her, Mr. Kent, but I'm afraid the largesse of the house doesn't include her favors. Any arrangement you make with her is strictly a cash transaction." Carter nodded blearily, still feeling the effect of the beer. "Fair enough," he mumbled. Olaf poured him a drink of surprisingly good bourbon, and left. He sat down and began to chat with Lu Ann. She offered him another cigar, and after a few puffs he grew foggier still-drunkenly dizzy-and before long found himself toasting the little yellow-haired whore: "To you, Miss Lu Ann. The most beautiful girl in Texas. The world, maybe." She laughed, showing bad teeth. "My, my, Mr. Kent Ypu have a charming way to talkin", indeed you do." "You inspire it, ma'am," he said with a grin, knowing that he shouldn't let down so completely, yet too tired and drunk to care. "I do believe I've fallen in love with you." In his state, it was almost true. She reached out, dropped her hand between his legs and began to stroke slowly: "I declare, Mr. Kent-you just take a girl's breath away. I "spose we could do somethin" about the way you feel, though I hate to bring up such a thing as the price of our enjoyin' ourselves in my room." He told her he still had two dollars. It was enough. He finished the cigar, which he had decided smelled curiously sweet-or was that Miss Lu Ann's scent? He followed her up to her quarters-the door had a tin numeral on it-where she disposed of her chemise, and he was soon floundering on top of her. Of the rest he remembered very little. In the middle of the night he rolled on top of Lu Ann for a second romp, gushing out a lot of silly words about her beauty, and when it was finished, he slept long and hard. He roused in response to someone shaking him. "Lu Ann?" he mumbled, his eyes not yet open. "Wake up," said a familiar voice. "Wake up and pay your bill." Carter sat up and reached for his drawers, befuddled by the sight of James Olaf with a marlin spike stuck in his belt, a piece of paper in his hand, and a decidedly ugly expression on his face. iv "Pay-?" Carter repeated. Olaf thrust the paper at him. "Four hundred and six dollars." He didn't think he'd heard correctly. "For what?" "Read, for Christ's sake!" Olaf shook the paper. Sure enough, there it was-itemized. Lodging. Liquor. Extra. The extra amounted to a hundred and fifty dollars. Dumbfounded, Carter pointed to the last item. "What's this?" Olaf sniggered. "You mean you forgot little Miss Lu Ann already?" For the first time, he realized she was gone. "She told me-she told me it cost two dollars!" Another laugh; harsh this time. "What the hell does she know? She's only been here a week. The customers pay me." Carter raked fingers through his hair as he peered at the bill, noting that it was soiled and wrinkled, as if it had been used many times. There was no name at the top, merely a notation. Charges, Room 6. The tin numeral on the open door was 6, he saw. "Where's the girl-?" he began. "She doesn't want to talk to you." "But I thought-was "That she liked you? She does what she's told, friend." "Let me speak to the man who runs this place. Your brother-in-law." "Horace?" He smirked. "No such fellow. I run this place." Carter began to realize how stupidly he'd behaved. Hunger, tiredness, and the need for a little companionship had I lulled him out of his usual wariness. In his hand he held the result. He thought of the girl, and of his foolish babbling. How she must be laughing. She'd put one over on him. Put one over on the glib Mr. Carter Kent, who always fancied himself in charge of things. Somehow, being gulled by the little yellow-haired whore was worse than being cheated by this-this- He couldn't finish. He didn't know the word he wanted. What was this place? The answer came suddenly from the past; from "his memories of the docks of Boston: "This is a damn crimping operation. You're all in cahoots." "Smart boy for a Yankee," Olaf said with a chilly smile. "Guess you're quick enough to figure what comes next, then. A choice. You can go to jail for refusal to pay my fair and lawful charges, or you can sign on as an ordinary seaman on the Gulf Empress, leaving day after tomorrow." "For where?" "Liverpool, Marseilles-you'll only be gone half a year or thereabouts. Don't think you can go to the law about this. They're friends of mine." Carter shivered under the coverlet he was still clutching against his middle. He thought he heard someone tread on a board in the hall. Had the crimp brought help, just in case? He eyed the room. No windows, but he seemed to recall one in the corridor. Desperate, he knew he had to choose an option he detested. "All right," he said, feigning defeat. "Guess I don't want to go to jail." "You Yankees have some brains after all," Olaf chortled, weaving the paper. "Pull your britches on. Maum Charlene will feed you a plate of grits, and then I'll introduce you to the master of the Empress" Carter nodded, rubbed his stubbled jaw, lurched from bed, and got dressed. Just as he was buttoning up his denim pants, Olaf turned and stepped through the door to -- say something to whoever was waiting outside. Seeing his chance, Carter lunged and hit him in the back. Behind Bars JAMES OLAF WAS HURLED across the hall so violently, his chin tore a hole in the flimsy wall. He hung there a second or so, his right hand clawing for the spike in his belt. "Help, help up here!" he bellowed. A man leaped at Carter from the left; one of the loungers he'd seen on the front steps the night before. Carter ducked as the man hacked the air with his whittling knife. Suddenly he smelled fish. His stomach ached so badly, he wanted to double over. The knife shaved past Carter's left arm. He drove two hard but clumsy punches into the man's midsection. The man reeled ba'ckward, off balance. Not far behind him, there was a landing where the stairs went down to the left. At the far side of the landing was the window Carter remembered. Beyond it, calm water glittered in the morning sun. Terror drying his mouth, he charged the staggering man"- and hit him with his shoulder, driving him toward the glass. The man realized he was falling, and fought for balance. That gave Carter a chance to rush in beneath the man's knife hand, seize his old blue seaman's shirt and fling him sideways down the stairs. Halfway to the bottom, he crashed into the black woman, Maum Charlene, who was coming up with a shotgun in her big hands. Arms and legs flew, the gun discharged, and shot punched scores of small holes in the ceiling directly over the stairs. Carter had other things on his mind-chiefly "Olaf, who was running toward him full tilt, swinging the marlin spike in a murderous arc. Carter backed toward the window but miscalculated the distance. He struck the glass too quickly and forcefully. It gave way. He flung his arm over his face and tumbled through with a strangled oath. Because of his fall, the spike missed his face by three inches, burying its tip in the window frame instead. Amid a shower of glass, he rolled down the sloping roof below the window. The roof saved him from a serious injury; when he tumbled off the eave, he fell only six feet to the sand. He fought to get his wind back as he scrambled to his feet. He ran toward Galveston in fear of his life. u When he reached the center of Galveston with no sign of pursuit, he calmed down and tried to reassure himself that the incident was over. He'd hear no more from Olaf-the man was obviously a crook, and couldn't afford to draw attention to his crimping operation. He was famished. But he had no money for a meal; his trousers had been searched while he slept in Lu Ann's bed. His Montana peak hat and his bedroll had been left behind, so he had nothing to sell, either. He'd have to steal the price of the ferry to the mainland, or sneak aboard. But that could wait until he filled his growling belly. That decision was his second mistake. Carter was foraging for food in the garbage cans of a large hotel when two uniformed men suddenly appeared at the mouth of the alley, billy clubs in hand. "There he is!" the taller policeman shouted, charging. Carter turned to run, bumped against one of the garbage barrels and overturned it. He slipped and fell in a slimy heap of cold meat fat, fruit rinds, coffee grounds-all of it stinking like hell. "Fits the description," panted the other officer as the two raced up to him, clubs ready. This time Carter was in no mood to fight. He lay there in the garbage, staring up at their coarse faces. The bigger officer leaned down and grinned: "Say somethin', boy." "How-how'd you find me?" "Why, Jim Olaf came to see the captain-Jim's got a lot of friends in town, y'understand. He described you and the rest was easy. We Just started lookminin for a dark-haired, well set-up Yankee tramp. Your accent just filled in the last bit of identification. You're a Yankee, all right." "An' he's right where a Yankee belongs," said the other, grinning even wider than his companion. "In the slops." He drew his booted foot back and kicked Carter's genitals. Carter screamed and clutched himself. After the fourth kick, he faulted. m The magistrate was an