The Heavenly Table (46 page)

Sugar tried to calculate in his head. He wasn’t good with numbers, but he did know that half of five thousand still added up to a lot of cash. “All right then,” he said. “I’ll settle for half. But that’s as low as I’ll go.”

“Half! These fuckers have murdered a shitload of people already. Hell, we’ll be lucky if we don’t get killed.”

“Yeah, but—”

“One third,” Wallingford said. “That’s my final offer.”

“How much is that?” Sugar said.

“I reckon that’d be around sixteen hundred, wouldn’t it, Luther?” Wallingford said with a wink to his son.

“About that, yeah.”

Well, Sugar thought, even with only a third he could buy an automobile and a nice suit and a new bowler and a case of whiskey and still have quite a chunk left over. “Okay,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake on the deal. He could already see the look on Flora’s face when he pulled up in front of her apartment and tooted the horn. It would be even more satisfying than walking into Leroy’s with a new woman on his arm.

As Wallingford gripped the man’s sweaty hand, he asked, “So where they at?”

“Uptown.”

“Shit, that don’t tell me anything. Come on, boy, time’s a-wasting.”

“No, I’ll take ye there,” Sugar said. “That’s the only way I’m doin’ it.”

Wallingford sighed and turned to Luther. “Go back to the jail and get my shotgun and a couple rifles. Make sure they’re loaded. Then meet us up at Paint and Main.”

“I’ll need a gun, too,” Sugar said. “They already tried to kill me once.”

“No way,” Wallingford said. “Christ, son, I give you a gun people will think I’ve lost my mind. I just had you locked up this morning. Now come on, let’s go.”

When people saw the chief of police walking behind a black man who had shit stains on his tattered clothes, some, either out of curiosity or drunkenness or both, began to tag along. By this time, many of them had heard that the soldiers had captured one of the Jewett Gang, and since Wallingford refused to answer any of their questions, quite a few became convinced that they were hot on the trail of the other two outlaws. Some ran home to get their own guns, others slipped away to lock their doors or get another drink. By the time Luther showed up with the weapons and Sugar led the two policemen to the front of the Hotel McCarthy, there must have been fifty people behind them.

“So this is where they’re staying?” Wallingford said to Sugar quietly.

“I saw ’em go in there just ’fore I came lookin’ for you.”

Satisfied that the informant was telling the truth, the chief turned to Luther and said, “Arrest this man and take him back to the jail.”

“Who?” Sugar asked.

Luther pulled out his service revolver and pointed it at the black man. “You heard him. You’re under arrest.”

“For what? I showed you where they was.”

Wallingford looked back at the crowd of people milling about, many of them now armed. “Disturbin’ the peace.”

“You dirty sonofabitch,” Sugar cried. “I should’ve figured. Goddamn white bastards are all the same.”

“And verbally assaultin’ an officer,” Wallingford added. “Now get him the hell out of here.”

For Sugar, getting gypped out of his potential share of the reward money was the last straw in the series of crushing events over the past few days that had led to this moment. He realized that he couldn’t take it anymore, that he’d been beaten down too far. As Luther pulled out the handcuffs, he decided that the only thing that was going to make him feel any better about himself was to make a stand, to fight back, to cut the shit out of someone, regardless of the consequences. With all of his rage centered on the police chief, he took a step toward him, and someone yelled out, “Watch out! He’s got a knife!” Fortunately, for Wallingford anyway, his son didn’t hesitate to act. As is sometimes the case with those who go into law enforcement, Luther had been looking for a legitimate reason to kill a man ever since he’d taken his oath to protect people, and Sugar barely had time to snap his razor open before he was lying in the street with three bullets in his bony chest. Looking up at the crowd of white men gathering around to take a look at him, he thought one more time of many things, some of them good and some of them not: Flora’s big round ass, the bowler the first time he saw it in the shopwindow, the old white woman begging him not to hurt her, the way his mother used to sing him to sleep at night, and on and on, pieces of his life flying past before he could grab hold of them; and then, just before he took his last miserable breath, he turned his head a little to the left and spat on the toe of Sandy Saunders’s shoe.

70

U
P IN
R
OOM
8 on the second floor of the McCarthy, Cane was hurriedly packing the saddlebags when he heard the three gunshots. He looked out the window, saw a gang of citizens gathered in front of the hotel. Some cradled rifles and shotguns, others were sipping from liquor bottles. A dozen or so, along with several policemen, stood over a body lying in the street. He shoved another shirt into the bag and cinched it tight. “Cob,” he said in a tense voice, “get up.” He reached for his pistol on the nightstand.

“What?” Cob said. He had just learned five minutes ago that Chimney had been apprehended, and he was lying on his bed wondering how much longer it would be before they were sitting in the pokey beside him, waiting to be hanged. He wished he’d saved back some of those doughnuts.

“Get up,” Cane ordered. He shoved his hand under Cob’s mattress and felt for the other pistol he’d hidden there, stuck it in the saddlebag that held the money. He glanced over at the books by the chair. As bad as he wanted to find out how
Richard III
turned out, he was going to have to leave them behind. “Come on, we got to move.” Sticking his head out the door, he looked up and down the carpeted hallway.

“Heck,” Cob said as he rolled off the bed, “we just got back and now you—”

Grabbing Cob by the shirt, Cane shoved him out of the room. They made their way down the back stairs and out the rear service entrance, then started down the alley at a slow trot, but after a hundred yards or so, Cob stopped. “What the hell are you doing?” Cane said, turning back to him.

“I can’t run on this leg,” Cob said.

“Jesus,” Cane said, “you’re not helpin’ matters.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“I know,” Cane said. “Come on.” They walked a few yards, then ducked into a weedy vacant lot heaped with mounds of coal cinders and trash.

“So I reckon they’re lookin’ for us?” Cob asked.

“You reckoned right,” Cane said. “We don’t find a way out of here, we’re in trouble.” They crouched down behind a pile of busted-up bricks, and a few moments later they heard a loud voice telling people about the Jewett the soldiers had captured, and that the other two were close by somewhere. Then someone else called out that he had dibs on the reward, and another hollered back that they’d buy the Blind Owl together.

“Take me to Jasper’s,” Cob said suddenly.

Cane gritted his teeth. Though his brother might be slow, he wasn’t that slow. “Goddamn it, this ain’t no time to be playin’ around.”

“I’m not. We need to get to Jasper’s. He’ll help us.”

Just then, seven or eight men carrying guns and lanterns marched down the alley past the lot. Cane thought for a minute. They had been in some tight spots before, but never one this bad. If only they could get to their horses, they might have a chance, but the stable was on the other side of town, and they would never make it that far without getting caught, not with Cob’s leg slowing them down. “So you know where he lives?” he asked.

“Yeah, he showed me yesterday. It’s not that far. Come on, I can find it from here.”

—

W
HEN HE HEARD
someone knocking on the back door, Jasper was lying half-asleep on his mother’s couch. In all the time he’d lived here by himself, the only person who had ever visited him was Itchy, and he thought at first that he must be mistaken. But then the taps started again, and he jumped up. A sharp pain shot through his groin. He’d had another one of those evenings when his situation had gotten the best of him, and he had quelled it the best way he knew how, by thrashing his cock against the furniture until he could hardly walk. Holding a candle, he cracked open the kitchen door, and for a moment all he saw was a pistol stuck in his face. “Don’t make a sound,” he heard someone hiss. For a few seconds, he stood frozen, but then he made out Cob standing behind the one with the gun, and he took a step back, allowing them to enter.

Cane shut the door quietly, and motioned for Jasper to move into the next room. As they passed the stinking work gear piled in front of the cookstove—the helmet, measuring stick, truncheon, and rubber boots—he remembered that this was the same man he’d seen in the store the other day looking wistfully at bathroom fixtures. In the dim light from the candle, he glanced around the parlor at the faded embroideries hanging on the walls and the dust-covered saints on the mantel and the little wooden shrine to the Virgin Mary. He recalled something Bloody Bill had said one time, after an old Mennonite woman hid him under her hoop skirts and saved him from certain death, about how salvation is sometimes found in the strangest places.

“Howdy, Jasper,” Cob finally said, smiling a little sheepishly.

“Hey, Junior.”

Through the open window came more yelling, then a car horn beeping, and the echo of a gunshot. Cane wiped some sweat from his brow. It suddenly occurred to him that there was no way he and Cob could make it out of town tonight, not together anyway. There had to be another solution, another way to save them both. “Sit down,” he told Jasper. Cane watched the man limp toward the couch, figured he must have a bad rupture from the looks of that bulge in his pants. “My brother keeps talkin’ about you, says you’re his friend. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Jasper said, looking nervously at the pistol Cane still had pointed at him. “I’d like to think so anyway.” He hesitated, then blurted out, “I know who you are. I saw your pictures on a poster over at the jail this morning.”

“Heck, why didn’t ye say nothing?” said Cob. “We was measurin’ them ol’ shithouses all day.”

“I don’t know,” Jasper said, shrugging his thin shoulder blades. “I guess I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Have ye told anyone about us?” Cane asked.

“No, no, I swear. I wouldn’t do that.”

Sensing that perhaps the man could be trusted after all, Cane sat down in a chair, laid his pistol on top of one of the saddlebags. “All that commotion you’re hearin’ out there, that’s people huntin’ us,” he told Jasper.

“Yeah, they done caught Chimney,” Cob added.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Now they’ll hang him and he won’t ever get a chance to sit at the heavenly table. Well, shoot, I don’t reckon we will, either, for that matter. Yes, sir, I sure would’ve liked to seen it.”

“The what?” Jasper said.

“The heavenly table. Like I told Miss Eula, it’s where you—”

“Hold up,” Cane interrupted. Once again, just by making some offhand remark, Cob had given him an idea, and though it certainly wasn’t perfect, it was better than nothing. “You know a place called Nipgen?” he said.

Jasper nodded. He and Itchy had rented a horse and buggy on several occasions and spent the day riding around the county talking to strangers and pretending they were looking for land to buy. “Yeah, out west of town. I been through there once.” From what he could remember, they’d stopped at a little store there and bought some baloney heels and crackers from a man who wore an eyeshade.

Cane bent down and opened one of the saddlebags, started pulling money out. He counted for several minutes, then put a tall stack of bills next to one of the Bibles lying on the table in front of the sofa. “What I need is a big favor, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it, but I need to know tonight.”

“A favor?” Jasper said, trying not to look at the money. “What is it?”

“There’s a man and his wife got a farm three or four mile past there, and they—”

“The Fiddlers!” Cob said excitedly. “They’re the—”

Cane held his hand up to signal his brother to be quiet. “They know Cob, and he knows them. Ellsworth and Eula Fiddler.” He nodded at the money. “There’s fifteen thousand dollars there. You get my brother to their house safe and half of it’s yours. That’s seventy-five hundred. What do ye think?”

Jasper’s head was reeling. Why, there was more money there than he’d ever seen. He didn’t know much, but he had the feeling that if he refused the offer, he’d regret it for the rest of his life. Not only that, no one, not even Itchy, had ever put this much trust in him before. But then he heard some more footsteps running down the street, saw the shadow of a lantern passing through a yard three doors down. What would happen if he got caught aiding a bank robber? And a murderer, though he still couldn’t picture Cob ever hurting anyone. Would they hang him, too? No, maybe he better not get involved. Then he looked over at Cob, sitting beside him on his mother’s couch, the same couch he had damn near beat his peter off on just two hours ago. But what kind of man turned his back on his friend? Let’s face it, he thought, he couldn’t save Meade; it didn’t matter how many corrupt citizens he pretended to slay in front of his mirror. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, it had never been a clean town. And there would never be any speeches made about him in Cone Park. Christ, who was he fooling? No matter what he did, people around here would always call him Shit Scooper. But still, maybe he could save someone, save his friend. “I’ll try my best,” he said.

It took him a minute, but all of the sudden, Cob sensed that something was about to happen that had never happened before. “Hold on now,” he said to Cane. “You mean you ain’t goin’ with us?”

“No, we’re gonna have to split up for a while,” Cane tried to explain. “Even if we could get to the horses, with your leg like it is, it’d be—”

“But we ain’t never been apart before. Never.”

“I wish there was some other way, but I can’t think of one. Look, all you got to do is stay at the Fiddlers and wait on me. I swear, as soon as I can, I’ll come back for ye.”