Beginner's Luck (14 page)

“If things were different, do you think you and I might . . . ?”

“But things aren't different.”

They stared into each other's eyes, and he wanted to touch the pale alabaster of her cheek. Her eyes filled with fear, and then, just when his fingers were inches from her satin skin, the door flew open.

“What's going on here!” demanded Edgar Petigru.

Duane drew his hand back quickly, as if caught picking someone's pocket. Vanessa recovered professionally, and swept toward Edgar, kissing him on the cheek. “Darling, I'm so glad you're here. This is the boy I told you about, who wants to be a cowboy. Edgar, meet Duane Braddock.”

Edgar took a step backward and measured his rival carefully. He realized immediately that a boy wasn't standing before him, but a man at least two inches taller than he, with a trim, rangy build. If Edgar didn't know any better, he'd think the young man was a seasoned rider of the sage.

Duane took his cue, and tried to grin convincingly, but it came out false. “Thanks for giving me the job, Mister Petigru. I'll work hard—you can count on me.”

Duane held out his hand for a friendly shake, while Edgar eyed it suspiciously. The entrepreneur realized that he was in grave danger of appearing foolish, so he smiled fraudulently, and gripped Duane's hand.

“Vanessa told me all about you. Report to my foreman, and tell him I said to hire you.”

“Sir, I've got a friend who's an experienced cowboy,
and I wonder if you'd have a spot for him, too?”

Edgar shrugged, and tried to speak in a deep rancher voice, but it came out oddly off-key. “We're a growing operation, and we can use all the
experienced
men we can find. Sure—take him along with you— why not?”

Duane muttered his gratitude as he fled out the door, leaving Edgar and Vanessa alone. “What a strange young man,” remarked Edgar.

“You'd be strange, too, if you were having a normal conversation, and somebody charged into the room without knocking. You know, Edgar—you don't own me, just because you've bought me a house!”

She slammed her fist on the dressing table, and little bottles performed a lopsided dance. Edgar was mortified, because the walls were thin and her volume substantially higher than usual. He held his finger in front of his lips. “Now, dear,” he began, “try to see my side. There I was with my business associates, and it's common knowledge that you and I are . . . having a romance of a certain kind, but then you invite
him
backstage, in full view of everyone, but not me.”

“I did invite him backstage,” she replied coolly, “to tell him about the job, because he's very poor. He would've left in a few moments, and I had intended to spend the rest of my time with you, but you have so destroyed the atmosphere between us with your thoughtless and inconsiderate actions, that I've changed my mind. If you'll excuse me, I must prepare for my next show.”

“But . . . but . . .” Edgar sputtered, as she pushed him toward the door. He wanted to explain that it was his saloon, and she was working for him, but before he
knew it he was in the hallway, her door latching behind him. He scuffled to the main room of the saloon, and realized that everybody was looking at him; sniggers reached his ears. She's making a fool out of me, he told himself, and if I let her get away with it, I'll be laughed out of town.

The street was filled with cowboys talking loudly, drinking whiskey from bottles, and no women were in sight. It's a man's world, Duane reflected, just like the monastery in the clouds, but Vanessa Fontaine has got the richest man in town jumping though hoops, and me, too.

He thought of her sitting insouciantly in her chair, chiding Edgar. What is it about her that makes me loco? Duane wondered. A lifetime in a monastery has done me no good, because I'm bad to the bone.

His hatband gleamed in the moonlight, as he searched for Boggs in every congregation of drinkers, cardplayers, and crapshooters. Titusville had twenty saloons, and Duane was resolved to search them all, especially since Boggs was going to teach him to ride a horse.

He veered into the Longhorn, another dirty, dingy little corner of hell, redolent with whiskey, tobacco, sweat, and cheap perfume. A black-tressed prostitute in her midthirties swung her hips toward Duane as he stood in the doorway, black leather thongs hanging down his tanned cheeks.

“Howdy, cowboy,” she said, flashing her best smile, and she had two teeth missing on top, and one gone from the bottom.

“I'm looking for a fellow named Boggs,” Duane replied.

“What're you want a feller fer, when you can have a gal.” She pressed her body against him and touched her tongue to his neck. If a man has enough money, he can screw himself into the grave, he realized.

“Let's go in back,” she whispered, biting his ear-lobe.

“I've got things to do.”

He eluded her grasp, and scanned the sea of heads and hats before him, but couldn't spot Boggs. Saul Klevins sat at the bar, and Duane moved into the shadows, so he could observe the famous gunfighter at leisure. Klevins wore his black leather vest, black hat, and white shirt, his six-shooter low on his hip. He looked like a weasel, with his round nose and sinister grin, and was the major local celebrity, except for Vanessa Fontaine. Everyone deferred to him like vassals in the days of chivalry.

Duane heard a rough voice in his ear. “Hey, kid— buy a drink, or get the fuck out.” It was the bouncer, a bearlike man wearing pants low on his hips, crotch down to his knees.

“I was about to order,” Duane lied.

“What's yer pleasure?”

“Whiskey.”

The bear waddled toward the bar, and Duane spotted a lone table in the middle of the floor. He sat, while continuing to observe Saul Klevins. Is it a skill that he acquired, or do you have be born with it? he questioned. Saul Klevins perused the saloon back and forth, although he appeared to be relaxing with friends. Some men herded cattle, others worked in general
stores, but a gunfighter killed for money, like a mercenary soldier. Duane's father had been one of them, and he knew that the poison swam in his blood, too.

The bear returned with the glass of whiskey, and set it before Duane. Boggs wasn't in the saloon, and it was time to move on, but a cowboy doesn't walk away from whiskey. Duane leaned his head back, poured the whiskey down his throat, and swallowed furiously. The glass emptied, and Duane slammed it down on the table.

He suddenly became disoriented, as alcohol dumped into his bloodstream. His eyes protruded from his head, he sucked wind, and felt as though a firestorm had broken out in his chest. A wave of dizziness came over him; he desperately needed water. He arose from the table, and broke into a paroxysm of coughing.

Somebody slammed him on the back. “You all right, kid?” A mug of beer appeared before Duane. “Have a drink.”

Duane swallowed twice, as cool foamy liquid bubbled down his throat and put out the fire. Duane handed the mug back to the bearded, grinning cowboy, then made for the door, but it felt as though he'd wandered onto the deck of a ship in stormy seas. The room pitched and tossed, and he walked into one of the wooden posts that held up the ceiling.

“You okay, kid?”

The voice came from a grotesquely painted prostitute in a red polka dot dress. She reached out and pinched his cheek. “Come lie down with me. I'll make you feel real fine.”

“Got to find somebody,” Duane replied, lurching toward the door.

He stepped outside, and the cool night hair steadied him. I can't drink a glass of whiskey in every saloon, Duane realized. They'll find me in the gutter with all the other drunkards. He moved through the noisy night, arrived at the Cattlemen, pushed open the doors, and headed toward the bar. Without a hitch in his movement, he scouted the back of the saloon, cut through the tables, and was out the front door again.

He searched three more saloons, still no Lester Boggs. A substantial crowd gathered in front of the Round-Up, as cowboys tried to squeeze inside for the next show. Boggs won't be in there, Duane thought. He'll be in the most filthy and disgusting saloon available. Duane remembered the Blind Pig off Main Street. Of course.

Bodies became too numerous on the sidewalk, so he cut into the muddy street, walking behind horses' tails. He made a few turns, and came to the dark alley where the Blind Pig was located, its lights twinkling through dirty windows. A decent person wouldn't dream of going to such a place, and that's why Boggs is probably there.

He entered, stood in the shadows, and examined the small, crowded establishment, about one-quarter the size of the Round-Up, with no dance floor, no chop counter, nothing but whiskey and whores. One of the latter creatures sidled up to him, and he turned to her garish cosmetics. She was sixty if she was a day, had no teeth in her mouth, and grinned merrily. “You look like you could use a good screw.”

“I'm looking for a friend of mine,” Duane replied,
extricating himself from her claws. He plunged deeper into the Blind Pig Saloon, and it looked like the lower depths of hell, with grimy, sweaty cowboys squeezing against painted harlots. His eyes fell on Lester Boggs sitting in a corner, with a whore on his lap, both lapping whiskey. Duane pulled up a chair opposite them. “Figured this is where you'd be, pardner. Where'd you steal the money?”

Boggs replied without batting an eyelash: “You remember that feller I was supposed to meet—the one what owed me ten dollars? I ran into him in the piss-house behind the Cattlemen Saloon. He was sober fer a change, said he remembered that he owed me, and paid up. This here bundle of beauty a-sittin' on my lap is Maggie. Say hello to Duane Braddock, Maggie.”

“Hiya Duane,” she said with a wry grin, and she, too, didn't have a tooth in her head. “Yer kind've cute.”

Duane leaned toward Boggs. “You'll never guess what happened. I've found the both of us cowboy jobs at the Lazy Y. A friend of mine introduced me to Edgar Petigru, who owns the spread. He hired me even though he knows that I can't ride a horse.”

Boggs looked seriously inebriated, his eyes half closed, face flushed with rotgut whiskey. “You got some pretty good friends in this town. Who is he?”

“He's a she.” Duane didn't want to mention Vanessa's name, so he told another lie. “Old friend of the family.”

“Back in the stagecoach, to tell you the truth, I thought you was a little simple, but it ain't even Monday yet, and you got
both
of us a job? I guess you ain't as dumb as you look.” Boggs spat toward the
cuspidor, but the cargo landed on the boot of a cowboy passed out at the next table.

Maggie unwound her tongue into Boggs's ear. “Let's go in back, cowboy. I'll give you the ride of yer life.”

Boggs winked at Duane and said: “See you in a little bit.”

Boggs drained his glass of whiskey, took Maggie's hand, and they walked like bride and groom down the aisle, heading toward the rooms in back.

Duane felt dispirited by lonely men willing to descend to any depths for a few fleeting moments of women's love. He couldn't help comparing the Blind Pig to the monastery in the clouds. This is exactly what the Gospels tell you to avoid, Duane realized, and here I am in the middle of it, a glass of rotgut whiskey in my hand.

He drained off half the glass, and infernos licked his throat. You can't really understand sin unless you wallow in it, he decided. I won't come to town for another month, so I might as well enjoy it while I'm here.

A familiar voice came to him from the direction of the bar. “Isn't that the little son of a bitch over thar?”

Duane was shocked to see the four cowboys whom he'd fought earlier at the cribs. They peered in his direction, and didn't appear willing to let bygones be bygones. Dave wore a white bandage on his nose, and his face was puffed like Duane's. “I orter shoot ‘im like a fuckin' dog!” Dave said.

It was difficult for Duane to believe that they were actually discussing the termination of his existence. Casually, he arose and headed toward the
door, leaving his half-glass of whiskey behind.

“Hold on!” Dave sidestepped among tables, moving to cut off Duane's retreat, and he felt a rise of panic. He wanted to run for the back door, but could get a bullet in the back. He slowed his pace, as Dave blocked his path.

“Where d'ya think yer goin', Sonny Jim?” asked Dave.

“What's it to you?” Duane replied.

Lightning flashed out of Dave's eyes, and his broken nose still hurt despite several shots of whiskey. Dave thought he had a score to settle with Duane, and the time had come to submit the bill. “Yer a mean little son of a bitch,” Dave said, “but I'm a-gonna kill you.”

Duane knew that whatever he said, it'd only make matters worse. Please, God—don't let him shoot me. Dave reached down, pulled out his Colt, drew back the hammer, and aimed the barrel at Duane. “You done fucked with the wrong cowboy.”

Duane closed his eyes. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed is . . .

His prayer was interrupted by a sound from the bar. “If yer a-gonna shoot ‘im, do it in the alley. I ain't got time to clean up the mess, and the deputy ain't wuth a fiddler's fuck.”

The bartender was an old, white-haired man with a tobacco-stained mustache, wearing a dirty white apron and holding something that looked like a blunderbuss.

Dave motioned with his gun to the back door. “Git movin'.”

Duane realized that he was headed for his summary
execution, and wished somebody would step forward to save him. Then a shot rang out, and Duane felt a stab in his heart. He was certain he'd been hit, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender stagger to the side. One of Dave's cowboy pals had taken a side shot at him. The bartender fell to the floor, the blunderbuss fell out of his hands, and the Blind Pig became very silent.

Cowboys and whores drifted toward the doors, while others ducked behind the bar, or dropped to the floor. Dave lined up his sights on Duane's shirt, and Duane realized that his only hope was to buy time. “I'll go outside with you,” he said.