Red Sky in Morning (17 page)

During the day the blacksmith looked in on him, fetched water in a bucket and fed it to him and when darkness fell they returned to the shanty and found the kid worse and later that night one of the men noticed he was dead. Another man started shitting badly and he came back saying he was sick and then he was taken to the tent. In the morning Coyle and The Cutter went with two others to dig a hole. They put the body in a wooden box and buried him and when they were finished and standing over the grave they saw Doyle dragging his heavy foot up the fill towards them. He came near and stopped and looked at them with white ringing eyes and pointed to them. The four of yous. Come with me. The men looked at each other and followed him down to the sheds where he started hitching horses. I need yous to go on these carts with me into Philly for supplies.

T
HE CARTS WERE LOADED
with boxes of goods that reached up near five feet to the heavens and then the men tied tarpaulin on top. Doyle appeared out of the back of a building scanning as he walked a pocket watch. I’ve got to go and find some folk, he said. It might take me a few hours so hold on till I be back. He looked about for where he left his hat and found it resting nearby on a barrel and he set off limping out past the gate. Coyle sat up on the edge of a cart kicking the air while the others sat on the ground. I’m famished, he said.

The Cutter turned towards him. Aye. And I need to be slaked. He rubbed his hands and looked towards the other two men. Yous aren’t sitting about here like fools when there’s a wee sup to be had?

One of the men frowned and looked about over his shoulder towards the other man who was silent. Naw. I’m waiting here so I am.

The Cutter shook his head at them. I am in me hole. We’ll be back before him. Come on Inishowen.

The Cutter turned and paraded towards the gate and Coyle shouted after him. Will ya hold on a minute till we figure where we’re going.

The Cutter bellowed over his shoulder. Fuck knows, he said and he disappeared out the gate.

A
FTERNOON SUN SHOT
fire through the Philadelphia streets. Coyle and The Cutter wandered the alien thoroughfares, jostled in the mud tracks by a clamor of bodies, the calls of bootboys with blackened faces and butchers bloodied, and they stared at the faces of negro men, complexions that were unknown to them. Everywhere signs for objects for sale and the invitations of merchant men marshalling prospectors to their wares, their voices fat with bombast masking thin desperation and the two men pressed their noses at shop fronts full of fancy items they knew not what they were for. Women haranguing over handcarts and the better-dressed in ribbon and colorful cloaks and they watched wealthy men smart-dressed and striding, each one they stared at in his finery though they learned their gaze was invisible.

Music jingling and jaunting towards them and they came upon a man with jesting eyes and a grease-painted moustache winding a barrel organ. On a string was tied a miniature monkey and it held out a tiny hat and the men stared at the creature incredulous and they asked the winder what it was and he looked at them puzzled and he told them to speak in English and they winced at him and said they were and walked on.

They were tired and they licked their dry lips and they decided they wanted a drink. A place signed Bull’s Head Tavern and they opened tentatively the door. Card players with clean faces and suits and they stopped their game to eye the two strangers. A man coughed and they thought they heard him say dirty Irish and they felt they were being watched. The Cutter clanked coins on the counter and waved a grubby hand and ordered two drinks but the barman turned away from them. The Cutter spoke again but was met by silence and he slammed his fist on the counter. I got fucking money don’t I? he said and a white-suited man with an ivory-handled cane stood tall from a table and Coyle pulled The Cutter by the sleeve and yanked him till they were outside.

They walked through tapering streets where the sun did not reach. Children playing in the dirt with dogs and pigs grunting and women standing about talking with faces sober and skeletal. They recognized the Delaware and the waterfront opened up to them, the bowsprits of the ships stretching forward to poke windows. Coyle nodded towards a small tavern and they went to it and hesitated at the door and they went to the window and peered in. Go on, The Cutter said. The door thirsty on its hinges and the place quarter full, stevedores and sailors and stewbums drinking under a stuttering lamp. The room was sliced by window light and the wooden beams creaked under their feet and no one looked up. A barman lifted himself up weary from a stool and they took to a corner where the light had receded and was cool. They lined two ales in front of them and two shots of whiskey and they crossed the beer through the other’s arms and put the glasses to their lips and drained them. The beer beaded their chins and they washed their whiskeys down on the second breath and Coyle ordered another round. The barman winced at him through eyes shot with red lightning and he took the money and shuffled to their drinks.

They slouched on wooden chairs the way of old men with bones tired from too much living. Coyle picked at the calluses on his hands and he watched a bluebottle flit their glasses of beer. A man groped a woman in a corner and she giggled at his touch and The Cutter watched them and then he stood with a dirty grin. Back in a bit.

Coyle supped his beer and looked at the others, men with stone faces and powerful arms tattooed an elaborate dark green, and a gangly kid came from a back door carrying a block of sweating ice. The barman nodded to the kid and took a pick and began chipping at it. The door creaked open and The Cutter beamed in ushering two women ahead of him. The women nodded to the barkeeper and the barkeeper nodded back and the women smiled at Coyle and The Cutter sat them down at the table.

This here’s Daisy and this here’s June. Or is it the other way round?

They each wore a calico dress one red and one black and they wore satin hats and June the taller of them had painted her lips garish and he watched her and saw through her forced smile.

This man here’s looking forward to meetin you, The Cutter said.

Coyle smiled. Surely.

The Cutter stood to the bar and ordered a round for all four and the door opened and two men walked in. The Cutter sat down and began to talk to the women when he heard an Irish accent behind him. He turned around and then he saw who it was. He turned back quick and then snuck another look and he leaned over to Coyle and whispered. There’s a dead man standing at that bar.

Coyle looked up and saw the backs of two men and he shrugged in disappointment. The Cutter turned around and saw the men standing with their drinks. One of them spun a coin with a grubby thumb on the counter and he was chatting to the barman. The other then turned and he locked eyes with Coyle. The Mute. The eyes of the man gave a startle and then they went mean and he held his stare with Coyle till he put down his drink and walked out.

Coyle stood up. How the fuck?

It wasn’t surely.

It was.

He must have swam for it.

But I thought—

They looked towards the man keeping the company of The Mute but he turned too and went out.

Well huppidy hah, Coyle said.

They drank their whiskey and they ordered two more beers and the women slouched and fanned their faces and one of them passed a vanity mirror to the other and the men told them stories to which only they laughed and the women smiled and when they had finished their drinks they looked at each other and asked the men if they were ready. They stood up for outside. At the end of the street a dark-lit hotel, the paint peeling and a sign for vacancies on the door and the man at the counter just nodded.

Their clothes were black and stuck to their skin and they peeled them off and stood black-toed in front of each other laughing.

You look like one of them nigger fellas.

You’re as black as the divil’s cock.

The women steered them to a basin and pitcher and they too began to undress.

C
RAWLING SHADOWS
on the streets. The Mute walked with his shoulders hunched and he heard steps coming behind him. He drew a knife and turned quick for confrontation and then he saw it was his friend. He scowled and turned back and walked on ignoring the chasing steps of the man. The friend caught up, chin-bearded and breathless, and he pulled at The Mute in protest, asked him with cobalt eyes shining what was going on but The Mute just shook him off and pointed. They crossed a network of cramped side streets and stepped out onto a boulevard. The Mute threaded the hackney cabs and coaches and he found the steps of the Walnut House Hotel on the other side of the street. The building three stories in white and The Mute walked up to the front doors and he turned and waited for his companion and then they went in.

Shadows leaned on the street like vagrants waiting for the night. Lamps flared and a piano pealed and a gray cat prowled and stretched. The doors of the hotel opened and The Mute and his friend walked out. They stood on the steps with their hands awkward in their pockets. The companion pulled the hair on his chin and he looked to The Mute who shrugged his shoulders and turned and watched the front door. He walked onto the street and scuffed the pavement with the toe of his boot and then the door opened. The single eye of Macken and the man buttoning a long coat and behind him striding through the doors came the great height of Faller. He looked down at the young man and then turned to Macken.

Pay him, he said. But if you’re lying to me Mute you know that I’m going to take more than my money back.

T
HE MUTE AND HIS FRIEND
led the men to the dram house and they stood on the opposite corner and watched. Faller and Macken crossed the street and unbuttoned their coats and stood outside the bar and then went inside. The Mute swallowed and he hitched up his collar and he looked to his friend. The mewling of a child down the street and they heard a man approach and they watched him go past. He stopped when he saw them, a wild-eyed idiot of a man and stinking. He held out a hand gnarled and brown and he smiled sweetly like a child to the men. The Mute leaned out and kicked the air in front of him and the bum made a quick retreat and scampered around the corner. Across from them the door of the dram house opened. Yellow light leaned out onto the street and Faller and Macken emerged. The barkeeper came with them and he hung on the jambs and pointed to a hotel down the street. The Mute watched Faller tip his hat in thanks and begin to walk towards it.

F
ALLER STEPPED INTO
the hotel with Macken behind him and he saw the administrator’s desk and a man behind it. The man was bald with sagging jowls and he licked his lips with a lazy gray tongue. Faller smiled and tipped his stovepipe hat.

I believe you have a man inside paying time to be with a woman whom I really must see.

The man looked at Faller and arched an eyebrow.

The man or the woman?

The man.

I’m afraid I can’t.

Faller smiled and leaned over the desk interrupting. Right now.

He leaned back and fluttered his jacket to reveal the silver of his gun. The man looked at the weapon and his breath held still and he surveyed Macken behind.

I don’t want no shooting in my hotel, he said. Top floor. Room number fifteen. No dirty business mind. You can take it outside.

Faller tipped his hat and smiled. Macken already on the stairs. They approached the landing on the third floor and looked left then stepped right and went quietly down the corridor. Their breaths held and the tock of a grandfather clock all there was to be heard but for the faint creak of the wooden slats and then further still a faint moaning. A door with the number fifteen peeling off it and they stood and listened. Macken looked at him and questioned with his eyebrow and Faller nodded him towards the door. Macken leaned back and kicked it and the lock shuddered but held and he kicked it quickly again. Wood fractured and the door swung open and he charged in with his gun pointed ahead of him, the bed behind the door, and he saw a man portly and middle-aged rolling away naked. A woman on her knees with her wrists tied to the brass and she looked up and began to scream and the man saw the intruder’s gun and his hand was already under the pillow and upon a revolver which he cocked in fluid motion. He swung up and around, his chest a swirl of matted gray hair and the legs of the woman kicking, and he lifted his gun and fired at the stranger. The door splintered by Macken’s head and he ducked and returned a shot. When he looked up he saw the man was on the floor, the bullet passed clean through his neck to sit snug in the wall. Faller stepped in and he looked at the man on the floor slumped with a hand to his throat and heard the sound of the man gurgling.

A connecting door between the two rooms and Coyle bent down to the keyhole. He came back up his face bleached white and he jabbed his finger in the air towards the window.

Run.

The two women sat up on the beds with alarm wild in their eyes and in the adjoining room the woman was still screaming. Faller went to her and smacked her on the ass and when she did not stop he leaned down to her and lifted her by the hair and told her to be quiet and the whimpering stopped. He turned towards the window, the light crepuscular, and he witnessed Coyle, the man hanging in a blue-skinned suit of nakedness from a low roof and then dropping onto the street and another man handing him a bundle and Faller straightened and leaned back and he kicked open the window. He was too big to climb out of it and by then the men were gone and he glared at Macken and went into the next room cursing.

F
ALLER LIFTED A WORN
wooden chair resting by the wall and he put it down by the beds. The chair creaked when he sat on it and he leaned back and drew his double-barreled gun. He put it on his lap then reached into his shirt pocket and he took out his pipe. He told the two women to put on their clothes and they stood off the beds unashamed and began to dress. Faller watched them, filling his pipe with tobacco from a tin and then he lit it and told the women to sit down. They looked at each other nervously and sat together on the bed and Macken fidgeted by the door. He swung his neck out upon the hall and looked back in. We’d better get going, he said.