The Heavenly Table (47 page)

“Yeah, but…what about…”

“It won’t be for long,” Cane said. “I promise.” Then he reached into the bag for Cob’s pistol. “Here, take this with ye.”

“No,” Cob said. “I don’t want no more to do with them things.”

“But what if the law—”

“No,” Cob repeated.

“All right then,” said Cane, putting the gun back in the money bag. Then he looked at Jasper. “There’s some clothes in that bag and some stuff to dress his leg. Cob will forget, so you’ll have to keep on him about it. And the way I see it, it’d be best to keep him hid here in the house a couple days before you try to move him out there. But don’t try walkin’ it. It’s a long ways.”

“Maybe I could rent a horse and wagon, cover him up with something.”

Cane nodded with approval. “That should work. Just don’t rush it. Wait till things have cooled down a little.”

“We ought to be okay,” Jasper said. “Ain’t nobody ever comes around here.”

Wiping some sweat from his forehead, Cane continued, “Now, when you get there, you give Cob’s half to Mr. Fiddler, and go ahead and explain what happened. No sense lying to him. Tell him I’ll be comin’ as soon as I can. And as far as your share of the money goes, I wouldn’t go spendin’ it all at once. People will start wondering where it came from. You got all that?”

“I think so,” Jasper said.

They all stood up then and Cane stepped over to Cob. He could see his eyes watering up. “Have Jasper buy you a big ol’ ham and a bottle of whiskey for Ellsworth to take with ye. He’ll like that.” He grabbed hold of his brother and hugged him tightly, felt his fear, smelled the lobster on his breath. As close as they’d lived together all their lives, this was the first time he’d ever had his arms around him. Damn, he hated to do this. “Don’t worry,” he said, “everything’s gonna work out fine.” His voice came close to breaking as he remembered the promise he’d made his mother all those years ago. He’d let her down, but maybe this would help right things. And if they were lucky, maybe they’d both get out of this alive. Turning loose of Cob, he picked up his pistol and the saddlebag with the money. He shook Jasper’s hand and started toward the door, then stopped and looked back at him. “Don’t let me come back here and find out ye fucked us over. Understand?”

“I won’t,” Jasper said. “If’n something bad does happen, we’ll go down together. I give you my solemn word as a sanitation inspector.”

71

T
HEY PULLED THE
Ford up to the infirmary door and one of the soldiers ran to get a stretcher. As they unloaded Bovard from the backseat and carried him in, Malone yelled at the nurse to call a doctor. Then he and two privates escorted Chimney over to the brig and took his manacles off, locked him in a cell. “Anything I can get you?” the sergeant said.

“Yeah,” Chimney said, tossing his derby onto the iron bunk. “I want to see my girlfriend.” Back at the Blind Owl, he’d held firm until a second or two before he sensed they were going to fill him full of holes, and then he’d held his hands up high. To look at Matilda one more time, he had decided in the end, would be worth any number of trips to the gallows.

“What?”

“My girlfriend. Her name’s Matilda. She works out at the Whore Barn.”

Malone shook his head. “If I was you, Mr. Jewett, I’d be worried about other things right now.”

“Why should I be worried? I done told ye a dozen fuckin’ times, my name’s Hollis Stubbs. Shit, you should be pinnin’ a medal on me instead of puttin’ me in jail. I saved your buddy’s ass.”

“Bullshit,” Malone said, “you’re Chimney Jewett.” He held up a wanted poster. “I’ll eat my hat if this ain’t you. Now where’s the other two?”

Chimney sat down on the bunk and leaned his back against the brick wall. He had seen Cane out of the corner of his eye as the soldiers were pulling him and the Ford through town like trophies, and he was wondering that himself. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to fantasize that somehow his brother might save him, could almost see him slipping up behind this fucker and putting one through his brainpan. But before he let it go any further, he shook it off. There was no sense in hoping for a fucking miracle; even Bloody Bill would have had a hard time busting someone out of an army base. Still, he’d be goddamned if he was going to admit to anything. He looked over at the sergeant. “Like I said, I want to see my girlfriend.”

“You fess up to who you really are, and I’ll see what I can do,” Malone replied. Then he walked back to the hospital and had a couple of soldiers pull the car off to the side and unhitch the horses, take them to the stables. After waiting until Bovard was wheeled into the operating room, he sent another private to fetch Captain Fisher. He was standing outside drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee when the man bounded around the corner of the building. Though it was the middle of October and the night air had a nip to it, the captain was dressed in nothing but house slippers and a pair of brown jodhpurs. A set of binoculars hung from a cord around his neck. He glanced over at the car. “So you found Bovard?”

“Yes, sir,” Malone said. “He’s inside gettin’ patched up.”

“What the hell happened?”

After the sergeant related the details of how they came upon the lieutenant mutilated in the back room of the Blind Owl, Fisher said, “A jar of teeth? Did ye bring ’em with ye?”

“No, sir, I didn’t think of that.”

“Shame,” Fisher said. “I would have liked to have seen ’em. Was the bartender a Mex?”

“Uh, no, sir. He was a white man.”

Digging a wad of tobacco out of his pouch, Fisher smiled contentedly. It had become a habit with him, ever since returning to the States, to spend time with the moon on clear nights, partly because its craters and barren plains reminded him of the Mexican landscape, but mostly because it seemed to be the most honest thing he could find to confide in anymore; and tonight he’d had a long talk with that white orb and decided that he would move to the Sierra Madre after his current commission was over with. No matter how much he cursed and ridiculed Mexico, he’d realized over the last few days that he’d never been as happy as he had been there. He’d give his wife the house in Connecticut and his pension. What did it matter? He could live on beans and frijoles and whatever he could kill. “So you think the one you hauled in is one of those Jewetts?”

“Yes, sir. Though he won’t admit. Keeps sayin’ he’s someone else, but he’s the spittin’ image of one of ’em on the poster.”

“Have ye tried to beat it out of him?”

“Sir?”

“The truth. I don’t care how tough he thinks he is, get you a pair of brass knuckles and work him over for a while. He’ll talk.”

“Well, I don’t think—”

“Of course, there’s other ways to make a man squeal, too. If you don’t like blood, take him over to that goddamn Majestic Theater and make him sit through an hour of that goddamn Lewis Family and their monkey. He’d probably rat out the whole goddamn bunch of them then.”

“Sir?” Malone said. “The Majestic? I’m not sure I’m following.”

“My wife’s in town this week and insisted on going there last night. I’ll tell you what, Sergeant, I’m still not recovered from it. The worst excuse for entertainment I ever saw in my life.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you don’t think this Jewett had anything to do with what happened to Bovard?”

“No, I think the barkeep tried to pull something on him like he did with the lieutenant, but the boy got the jump on him.”

“And no sign of the other two?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it’s late,” Fisher said. “Maybe we better let someone else figure out how to proceed. From what I’ve read about them in the papers, he’s sure to hang regardless, isn’t he?”

“I expect so.”

Fisher yawned and stretched. “Good work, Sergeant. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Malone said. He waited until the captain left, then went inside the infirmary and sat down in the hallway to wait and see how things turned out with the lieutenant. The man had damn near cried when he heard they might not get to the war for another five or six months, and then this morning, contrary to the rumors that had been circulating, Malone had found out that the 343rd would be shipping out for France sometime in November. Now the poor sonofabitch would never know what war felt like. Then again, maybe he already did; the day or so he spent chained in that maniac’s back room was probably as close to being horrific as anything he would have ever seen at the Front. The sergeant took another sip of the cold coffee, thought about all the men who’d voluntarily shot off their fingers and toes trying to get out of it.

An hour later, an orderly pushed Bovard out of the operating theater on a gurney and down the hall to a room. Eisner, the clap doctor, came out a minute or two later, and Malone asked him about the lieutenant’s condition. “Well, he’s suffered a serious shock, and there wasn’t anything to be done about the hand or the ear, but from what I’ve heard, it could have been a lot worse. My biggest concern is the risk of infection. A tavern is one of the worst places in the world for germs. Which reminds me, have you and your men washed up since you left that filthy hole?”

“Uh, well, we haven’t had—”

“I don’t understand you people,” Eisner said angrily. “Good hygiene is one of the most important keys to a long and happy life, and yet you refuse to embrace it.” Then he turned and stomped out of the building.

Malone walked down to the room where they’d taken Bovard. He stood in the doorway and looked in. A soft light burned in the far corner. Wesley Franks was sitting in a metal chair beside the lieutenant’s bed. He was talking softly to him and dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. “Has he said anything?” Malone asked.

“No, sir,” Wesley said. “They got him knocked out.”

Malone stepped into the room, moved up closer to the bed. The stub of Bovard’s left hand was wrapped with gauze, and another bandage covered his ear hole. A bit of bloody cotton was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Well, at least it wasn’t his right.”

“Sir?” Wesley said, squinting at the sergeant with his good eye.

“His hand. He’s right-handed, from what I remember.”

“Oh,” Wesley said. He dipped the cloth in a pan of water, then squeezed the excess out of it. “Do you think he’ll still be able to stay in the army, sir?”

Malone shook his head. “It’s doubtful.”

“That’s a shame,” Wesley said.

“Maybe,” Malone said, “maybe not. What if he went over there and got himself killed? At least this way he’s still walkin’ around on top of the ground.”

“Well…”

“Just like you, Franks. That Dear John letter you got may have saved your life in the long run.”

Wesley shook his head. He had been thinking a lot about what his shameful return home was going to be like; and he’d spent all day wishing he could just stay here in the infirmary forever. “I don’t know, sir,” he said to the sergeant. “I guess that all depends on what you think it’s worth.”

72

C
HESTER
H
IGGENBOTHAM HEARD
the noise and sat up. It sounded as if someone was trying to jimmy the front door. The news that the stable would soon be converted into a garage still had him down, and this afternoon, as soon as Hog handed him his week’s pay, he had headed for the Mecca Bar to drown his sorrows. He had passed out in the straw before sundown, and though it was now past midnight, he still felt a little drunk. He heard the noise again. “Shit,” he said under his breath. In return for his six dollars a week and somewhere to sleep, he took care of the animals and cleaned out the stalls and kept an eye on the place at night. He picked up his squirrel rifle. As he stepped out the back door, he heard clamoring coming from uptown, men shouting and car engines roaring and a gunshot or two. Lord, some fools must be having a high ol’ time tonight, he thought. Maybe everybody in the goddamn county’s losing their job.

Slipping quietly around the side of the building, Chester saw a dark shape at the door, obviously prying on the lock. He called out, and when the man turned and started to run, he lifted his rifle and fired once without really aiming, regretting it as soon as he pulled the trigger. You dumb bastard, he berated himself. He’d been on a toot when he committed the stupid crimes that got him sent to Mansfield, and now here he was again, half drunk and shooting at somebody. Although prison was where he had learned to take care of horses, he’d vowed the day of his release that he’d kill himself before he ever went back. That’s what worried him most about the stable shutting down. It was all he’d done for the past thirty years, but the job had kept him out of trouble. True, it hadn’t been much of a life, but he’d seen the last time he was locked up what the young ones did to men his age, forcing them to kneel down like a supplicant beside some hoodlum’s bunk and gently knead his wang and blow little kisses on the head of it while the sonofabitch dreamed of some woman on the outside. No, he had it damn good compared to that. And, hell, you never knew, maybe Hog would change his mind about working on automobiles. So when he saw the man keep going, Chester breathed a sigh of relief and wished him luck, then went back inside the barn to finish sleeping off his debacle.

The bullet, however, didn’t just fly into the air aimlessly, as the stable bum thought. Getting hold of his horse had been the only plan Cane could think of when he left Jasper’s house. With the gangs of men roaming the streets, fired up on liquor and rumors and false sightings and the chance at reward money, it had taken him over an hour to sneak and dodge and crawl to the stables where he and Cob had left their rides three days ago. He was still trying to pry the hasp off the door with the barrel of Cob’s pistol when he heard Chester yell; and he didn’t get more than a few feet before the bullet knocked him sideways, tearing the hell out of his right kidney before lodging in his stomach wall. Stifling a cry, he kept going.

He ran on until he came to the iron railway trestle extending over the Scioto. He stumbled across it in the dark, then jogged north a mile or so along the tracks with his hand pressed against the rip in his side. By then, his new shirt and coat were soaked with blood. He stopped and pulled some paper currency out of the saddlebag and tried to staunch the wound with it. Then he walked on, panting raggedly. Three miles out of town, a freight train barreled past him; and he would have gladly given all the money he had ever stolen for one third-class ticket away from here. He managed to go a few more yards before he collapsed in a heap.