A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (9 page)

A CHANGE IN FORTUNE

Paco

Keeping one eye on the clientele, Earl dunked the mug in the dirty water and polished it with an old towel he kept behind the bar. When the glass was as close to clean as any dusty eyed, road weary traveller would expect to see in a small town like Blankenship’s mill he tucked it away beside the others on a shelf under the counter. In the far corner, a few of the locals were playing a rare, friendly game of poker. The night was young, though, and drinking and gambling typically led to a fight before closing time. He’d have to keep an eye on that table, but he wasn’t too concerned. Next to the mugs he kept an old club he’d carved out of a hickory branch when he first settled in the Dakota Territory. To the locals, it was known as Earle’s peacemaker. The handle was worn smooth by years of use and the end was impregnated with the rust colour of dried blood. There were a few passers through milling about, sipping on whiskey and talking about their westward bound adventures, or speaking in fevered whispers about gold veins and mining techniques. And then there was Clarence, the town drunk, sitting at the end of the bar next to the vacant piano. He didn’t have the shakes yet, but Earl knew they would come soon if he didn’t intervene.

“Hey Clarence,” he said, “come on over, sit a spell, and have one on the house.”

Clarence hopped off the stool, brushed his long, greasy bangs back with his fingers and gave Earl a yellow toothed grin. “That’s mighty generous of you. It has been a dry one…sure has.” He slid up to the bar and greedily watched earl pour him a glass of bottom shelf rotgut from the swill barrel. “Generous indeed…” he said, licking his lips and thinking about the warm swill and hoping that Earl had to empty more whiskey glasses than beer from the night before. The idea of choking down that foul concoction made his stomach lurch. Little beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. They accumulated at his temples and ran down his neck. He’s pouring it slow just to torture me, he thought. Hurry up you sonofabitchinfuckinbastard! By the time Earl sat the mug on the counter, his hands were shaking and his palms were sweaty. He lifted the mug with both hands to keep from spilling it and downed it without taking a breath. “Thank you,” he said, in between breaths.

“Want another?” Earl said, grabbing the mug before he had a chance to answer. He drew from the swill barrel again and filled the mug with what was left. “That’s the last of it. You’ll have to rely on your wits for a refill.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. He took a sip from the mug, wanting to make it last at least until he found someone in a generous mood to buy him another. “I’ll manage. Always do.”

“That you do.” Earl stole a look at his pocket watch. It was twenty till midnight. Too quiet for a Saturday, he thought. He rubbed his temples. The headaches were getting stronger. He could feel the urgency, the pressure building up right behind his eyes. How long has it been? Two weeks, or more?

“When you getting a piano player, Earl?” Clarence said.

“Huh?”

“A p-i-a-n-o player,” he said, miming with his fingers.

“I’ll get a piano player just as soon as you become a paying customer,” he shot back.

“Oh, Earl, you’re hurting my feelings.” He lifted the mug as if to toast the bartender and drained what was left. “You know I pay…indirectly, of course. But I still pay.”

“I suppose you do, Clarence,” he said, dunking Clarence’s empty mug into the dirty water. “But you do it at the expense of annoying the hell out of the other customers.”

“Shit, I bet you’d find something to complain about, even if I was a paying customer.” He slipped off the barstool and began making his way toward the men at the card table. “I think I’ll go try my luck at another refill.”

“You do that, Clarence,” he said, huffing on the mug and rubbing out a spot with the dirty rag. “You do that.”

As Clarence made his way to the table, the last of the passers through walked out the batwing doors and took Earle’s hopes with them. I’m gonna have to explain, he thought. I’m gonna have to try and make it understand that it’s not always safe and that we could lose everything we’ve worked so hard for. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. He could feel the pressure in his head intensify, as if it was eavesdropping on his thoughts. The pressure felt like pure anger, like some sort of acidic passion that was eating him from the inside out. He turned away from the customers towards the mirrored wall that was lined with domestic liquors and put his face in his palms. The pressure was intensifying and he could feel a small trickle of blood run out of his left nostril onto his palm. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.” The pressure immediately vanished and was replaced with a new feeling: a soothing, reassurance. Even the tension he usually carried in his shoulders was gone. He wiped his hands and blotted his nose with the dirty towel, while watching in the mirror to make sure that no one saw and that he was getting all the blood off. When he was finished he went back to wiping down the bar where Clarence had been sitting like nothing happened.

Clarence had turned a chair around and was resting his chin on the back. He watched the cards get shuffled and dealt, played and then shuffled and dealt again. All the while, he was building up the courage to ask the winner to buy him a celebratory drink. It was a close match from what he could tell. So far, Jacob Andrews, the town’s dentist, was beating the two Anderson brothers, William and Peter, by a significant margin, but Francis Peterson, the blacksmith, was quite literally giving him a run for his money. Jacob was a bit of a tightwad when it came to sharing his good fortune, so he was hoping that Francis would pull ahead.

“What do you say boys,” Jacob said as he shuffled the cards, “last round?”

The Anderson brothers looked at each other and Peter shook his head. “I think you can count us outta this ‘un,” William said. “We’re ‘bout busted.”

“Suit yourselves. How about you, Francis? One last round?”

Francis leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and began rubbing his hands together. “What do you think? Should I go one more round?” he said, looking at Clarence.

“Well, is there a drink in it for me if you win?”

“There’s a drink in it for you either way,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and rested his strong, calloused hands on his belly. “Just tell me what you would do in this situation.”

Clarence sat up in his chair. For once, the stakes were high for him. He knew that if Francis played the hand and lost, there was a chance he would have a change of heart about buying him a drink. But he also knew that if he won he would probably be able to squeeze another drink or two out of him.

“You know,” he said, twisting his moustache with his fingers, “I think I’d call it quits. You’ve already made a good sum off the Anderson boys, and you don’t stand to make much off Jacob unless you both go all in…I just don’t think it would be all that profitable.”

Upon hearing his remarks, the eldest Anderson, William, stood up, opened his pocket knife, and began digging dirt from under his fingernails. “What’re you suggestin’ Clarence?” he said.

“Nothing against you fellas,” he said, squirming in his seat, “I just mean that Francis and Jacob had a better night, that’s all. You two are fine players, real fine indeed. It’s just that you win some, lose some, you know. I’m sorry if you…”

“Someone get this poor bastard a drink before I take to carvin’ out his throat, for Christ sake,” he said. He folded his knife and slid it back into the front pocket of his overalls. “Fuckin’ drunk…”

“You know,” Francis cut in, “I think that’s some sound advice, Clarence. I think I’m just going to call it quits.” He leaned forward and put one of his heavily calloused hands on William’s arm. “How’s about I buy a round for you as well?”

“I don’t need no damned charity,” he said, whipping his arm away. “Me an’ Pete will make an accountin’ of the two of you next week. C’mon, Pete,” he said as he started to make his way around the table, “we need to get some rest if we’re gonna put in some extra chores for old man Blankenship in the mornin’.”

“Night, fellas,” Peter said as he stood up. “It has been a pleasure.” He raised his mug in a half salute, downed its contents, and winked at Clarence. “Sorry, no swill barrel for this one.”

“Yeah, ‘night Clarence,” William said as he slapped him on the head almost hard enough to bounce his face off the back of the chair.

“Damn bastards,” Francis muttered as he watched the two Andersons laugh their way through the batwing doors.

Jacob scooped his winnings into his hat and tossed enough for a drink onto Clarence’s side of the table. “Well, I guess that’s that. You boys take care.”

“Thank you,” Clarence croaked. His cheeks were flushed with shame and anger. His eyes welled up, threatening to compound his problems. If only I could kill those bastards, he thought. They’re right. I’m a useless drunk who doesn’t know how to keep his tongue under control. He wiped his eyes with his sleeves, snorted, and took a shot at the spittoon. His phlegm hit it with an audible ring and slowly slid its way down the rim into the rest of the muck.

***

Poor bastard, Earl thought. He watched as Francis put a consoling hand on Clarence’s shoulder and drop some loose change on the table as he made his way out. Other than throwing some coin at him, no one cares. No one cares…now that’s an idea! “Hey, Clarence,” he called across the bar, “how would you like to earn a free drink or two and help me close this place up tonight?”

“Sure thing,” he said. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean it. If you do a good enough job, you can help me close up every night if you like.”

“Hell, yeah!” Clarence stood up, swung the chair back around and scooted it into the table in one giddy motion. Putting both hands on the back of the chair, he said “You know, Earl, I haven’t held down a steady job since…well since Jenny passed. I don’t know…I don’t know if I could…”

“Shit. I think this will be right up your alley. I tell you what; I’ll keep my expectations low. When you help me or don’t help me is on you.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. You can start with shutting the door and putting up the closed sign.”

The two men made it through Earl’s closing routine in no time. He was feeling nervous about what he was about to do, so he tried to keep Clarence busy with additional work while he worked up the nerve. He could still feel the steady push behind his eyes, threatening to blow up into a full tidal migraine fury at any moment. He doubted Clarence would be missed and he reasoned that he could always unload the slush on some other poor drunk, but it bothered him that he was about to do this to someone he knew. The others had all been passers through, wayward travellers on their way to their westward dreams who just happened to stop by the wrong establishment. For them it was a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. This, as far as he was concerned, would be a larger burden on his conscience.

“Could you put a quick polish on the mugs for me?”

“Sure, mind if I have a drink while I do it?”

What the hell. “Sure, you’re doing a fine job. I don’t see why not.” One last drink for the road, friend. One last drink.

Clarence poured a mug and greedily drained it. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was a drunk’s wet dream to work at a bar for drinks.

He watched Clarence work his way through the mugs, sneaking extra drinks when he thought he wasn’t looking. Dirty little sneak thief! Biting the hand that feeds him! Clarence’s indiscretion was just what he needed to strengthen his resolve. It’ll be like putting down a suffering animal. Just look at the way he shakes…it’s now or never.

Earl slipped behind the bar, slid the peacemaker off its shelf, and slid it up his sleeve. “I need to pull a new cask of beer from the cellar. Think you could give me a hand?”

“Sure,” he laughed. “You like to get your money’s worth, eh?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. This is the last thing. I promise.” His hands were sweaty, which made the wooden club feel as if it was slicked with oil. He began to have some reservations about using it, but the pressure in his head became a sharpened sense of urgency. That it could read his thoughts, he had no doubt. He was sure it could sense his resentment along with his fear. There were times when he could sense things from it too, things other than hunger. Things like pleasure from his fear and indifference towards his resentment. When dried his sweaty palms on his trousers, he could sense mild amusement with an undercurrent of impatience.

“Grab this empty and follow me,” he said, motioning towards an old empty, dusty cask in the far corner of the bar.

“Boy,” Clarence said, hefting the cask, “you are getting your money’s worth. I think this thing has been sitting in the corner for as long as I can remember.”

“Sure am. An empty cask doesn’t make me any money, but a full one will.” He grabbed a lamp, lit it, and motioned for Clarence to follow him to the storage room behind the bar.

As he followed, Clarence noted that the room was especially dark and musty. The absence of windows, which he could only assume was some sort of theft deterrent, made the small room extremely dark. The lamp did little to light it. About halfway in, Earl reached down and pulled a trapdoor open. From what he could see, the steps leading down were narrow and steep. The flickering light was insufficient to illuminate the floor, and the dancing shadows gave it the impression of a large, multi-fanged mouth opening up wide for a spoonful of whoever was foolish enough to enter it.