Beginner's Luck (10 page)

Mayor Lonsdale winked at Edgar. “I guess we'll be a-gittin' a new singer at the Round-Up, eh?”

The table exploded with mirth, and Edgar once more pushed down his discomfort. But on the surface he raised an eyebrow and asked innocently, “Whatever can you be talking about?”

Judge Jenks leaned forward, his lips wet. “You mean you ain't gonna kick her ass out've town?”

“Who?”

“Miss Vanessa—who else?”

Edgar smiled, and showed the palms of his hands. “Gentleman, I think you're letting your imaginations run away with you. I understand that a beggar visited her home this morning, but you're making it sound like a cheap bedroom comedy.”

Banker Holcomb snorted. “Visited? Is that what they call it these days?”

The foremost citizens roared, and Petigru's ears
became warm. They've never accepted me, and never will, he realized. But I don't care, because I'm going home once I've made my bundle in this filthy little corner of the world.

Lester Boggs chewed the steak bone until it was whiter than an ivory key of a piano. He chucked the bone over his shoulder, and it sailed through the air, but before it touched the floor, a fat, black mongrel dog scuttled from beneath a table and clamped it in his jaws. Then the animal retreated to the murky depths of the saloon, to suck out the marrow.

Boggs polished off his mug of beer, burped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and asked: “How much money we got left?”

“About thirteen dollars,” Duane replied.

“Why don't we go to the cribs?”

Duane stared at him. “Well . . . I . . . I've never been to the cribs before.”

“How come?”

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Boggs. I was raised by Catholic priests until two weeks ago.”

“You mean you never been greased? So
that's
what's wrong with you. Listen, kid—you can't be a real cowboy till you been to the cribs. It's practically a rule in this part of Texas.”

Duane shook his head stubbornly. “I don't want to go to bed with a woman I don't even know, and have to
pay
for love.”

“Every man pays for love, one way or t'other. Let's git movin', ‘cause Saturday night's a-comin on, and we want to beat the crowd.”

“What's so great about the cribs? Why don't you get married and settle down like a normal person, Boggs?”

“I'd rather buy the milk, than buy the cow. Listen, kid, no ranch'll have anythin' to do with you, when the word gets around that you won't go to the cribs. What the hell're you afraid of? Fer only a dollar, both of us can have a good time, and some of them gals're real pretty.”

“Pretty?” Duane asked, perking up his ears. “Really?”

“Blonde, brunette, fat, skinny—anything you want.” Boggs spat in the cuspidor, then leaned forward and gazed into Duane's eyes. “If you want to be an angel—go back to the priests, but if you want to be a real man, it ain't good to go without a woman fer long. You'll get a little loco, and if you ask me, I think you're at that point ‘bout now.”

Maybe that's what's wrong with me, Duane thought. I need a woman. “Do you think they might have a tall, slim blonde?”

Boggs smiled, held out both his hands, and whispered: “Anything you want, kid.”

He'll tell any lie, to get me to take him to the cribs, Duane realized, but for fifty cents I could get naked with a pretty girl? “Are you sure it's just a dollar for both of us?” Duane asked.

Boggs leaned back, tilted his hat low over his eyes, and rolled a cigarette with quick, sure movements. “You can't get greased any cheaper'n the cribs. What's it gonna be?”

“Will you teach me how to roll a cigarette like that?”

“I'll teach you how to roll a cigarette, ride a horse, drink whiskey—anything you want.”

They headed for the door, and Duane tried to imitate the insolent roll of Boggs's shoulders. He knows what this world's about, Duane thought. Everything happens for a reason, and maybe this cowpoke is my new spiritual advisor.

They walked down the planked sidewalk, and Duane puffed out his chest proudly. If anybody looked at us right now, they'd think I was a cowboy, too, he thought proudly. He felt as though he were fulfilling himself for the first time, but something was missing, as if he were trying to climb on a horse, but the saddle kept slipping.

Boggs slapped the back of his hand against Duane's leg. “You see this galoot a-comin'? They say he was one of the meanest gunfighters that ever was.”

Duane perceived Clyde Butterfield, the fancy gentleman who'd advised him to buy a gun after he had been robbed by street urchins. Butterfield appeared not to notice Duane as he strolled along with thumbs hooked in his suspenders, hat slanted low over his eyes, cheroot sticking out of his teeth.

“Howdy, Mister Butterfield,” Duane called out.

The tall man with the ruffled shirt slowed his pace, his eyes widened in surprise, and then he smiled warmly. “Well, I'll be goddamned. Didn't recognize you for a moment, in your new clothes. Looks like you're doing okay. Where you headed?”

“The cribs.”

Butterfield touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat. “Give ‘er one fer me.”

The ex-gunfighter stepped out, chin high, hat brim
low, spurs jangling every time his heels came down, as he made his way toward the Black Cat Saloon. Duane watched him in wonderment and admiration. “He was a real gunfighter?”

“That's what they say, but now he plays cards fer his supper.”

Duane thought of his father lying somewhere beneath six feet of Texas, probably without a decent tombstone. I should ask Butterfield if he ever heard of my father, he thought. Boggs grabbed Duane's sleeve, and pulled him toward the outskirts of town. “Let me tell you about the cribs, so you won't act like a greenhorn onc't we git thar. Now, the cribs ain't fancy, so don't go expecting no palace. And there ain't a hell of a lot of privacy. As fer the gals theirselves, well—some of ‘em ain't so young. In fact, to tell you the God's honest truth, the gals in the cribs are usually the bottom of the barrel. But it's the cheapest place to get greased.”

“I thought you said the girls were young and pretty.”

“Kid, I been lookin' at cows so long, anything in skirts looks young and pretty to me.”

There was a knock on the door, and Vanessa stirred on her pillow. She lay on her bedspread, attired in a pale purple silk dressing gown gathered at the waist with a matching belt. “What is it?”

The bedroom door opened, and Annabelle stood there, a distraught expression on her moon-shaped face. “Miss Vanessa, there's . . .”

She was pushed out of the way, and Edgar Petigru
stood in the doorway, wide-brimmed hat in hand. Vanessa shot to a sitting position, her heart racing wildly. “What are you doing here!”

Edgar closed the door behind him, then bowed mockingly low. “I thought I'd thank you personally for making me the laughingstock of the town, Vanessa. It's not every day that such an honor is bestowed upon me.”

She rubbed her eyes with the backs of her fingers. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Don't play innocent with me, young lady. This is Edgar, remember? Who was the young man you spent the night with?”

“Is this your idea of a jealous rage?” she asked, smiling haughtily. “I don't believe I've ever seen you in such a state. Would you like some of my smelling salts?”

“Who was he?”

“You're being absurd, and this isn't funny anymore. First of all, he spent the night in the guest room. He's a poor, pathetic, homeless boy. I fed him, gave him a roof for the night, and sent him on his way.”

“Where did you meet this poor, pathetic boy?”

“In the living room of my home. He'd broken in to steal some food, but he just needed a helping hand, so I gave it to him in the spirit of Christian charity.”

“Is he here now?”

“He left for town early this morning, and I haven't seen him since. Why don't you give him a job on your ranch?”

Edgar was taken aback, his self-assurance shaken by her careless jocular manner. “How old is this so-called boy?”

“Nearly eighteen.”

“That's not a boy!”

“He's an orphan, and was raised by Catholic brothers. He has nobody in the world, Edgar, and it would be wonderful if you found him a position at your ranch. I heard you say the other day that you were looking for more good cowboys.”

“Are you sure you didn't go to bed with him?”

“Regardless of what you think of me, Edgar, I'm not insane, and I wouldn't gamble everything I have for a few hours with a boy that age.”

Edgar walked to the liquor cabinet, poured whiskey, and splashed some water to take the edge off the incendiary local product. Then he sipped slowly and considered her last statement. She was many things, but not a fool. “I apologize for my bad manners, but the whole town is talking about it. Evidently some people saw him leave around noon today. What did you say his name is?”

“Duane Braddock. You can dispense with the whole problem by giving him a job at your ranch. Then he'll have someplace to sleep, and the gossip will end. He appears strong and healthy, especially if he gets a few more decent meals in him, and I'm sure he'll be able to pull his own weight.”

The more the businessman thought of it, the more reasonable the solution became. “Tell him to report to my foreman first thing Monday morning.”

Vanessa kissed his cheek. “Thank you, but there's just one minor problem. You see . . . well . . . through no fault of his own—he doesn't know how to ride a horse.”

Edgar threw up his hands in despair. “I'm going to
hire a cowboy who doesn't know how to ride a horse? It looks like I'm going to be the laughingstock of this town for a second day in a row.”

“But he can learn, and you'll save him from starvation or even worse, because he's probably more sensitive than most young men his age. I mean, he was raised in a monastery, and doesn't know much about the real world. Don't ranches have apprentice cowboys?”

Edgar sighed in defeat. “I'll tell my foreman to hire him regardless of his lack of experience.”

She placed her hands on his waist, and rested her cheek on his breast. “Thank you, Edgar. You won't regret it, I promise.”

A jumble of squat, flat-roofed huts could be seen at the edge of town, with dim lights burning in windows. It was on the far side of a stream, and Duane and Boggs had to cross a crude log bridge, as the sage echoed with auditions of a million insects. Light danced on swirling waters, and a few cowboys sat with bottles at the bank, having slurred conversations while waiting for friends to return from the twinkling region of sin and degeneracy stretched before them. Two cowboys approached on the path, and one of them said: “I remember a whore I screwed once in Dodge. She had a face like a moose, but . . .”

Duane strained to hear the rest of the story, but the bubbling stream swallowed it up. Someone fired a gun, then a woman yelped with laughter. A hodgepodge of rough-hewn planked shacks with crooked roofs and leaning walls was affixed like a pustule to
the side of the incline, and looked like the nether regions of hell.

“The cribs closest to the stream is usually the busiest,” Boggs said. “We'll go on a ways, to get the fresher meat, if you knows what I mean.”

Duane realized that Boggs was teaching him arcane facts about the real world, and was, in fact, a tenured professor of crib lore. At least I'm in good hands, Duane thought, trying to see the educational side of his painful predicament. He was terrified of being embarrassed with a woman, yet couldn't imagine how he could perform with one he didn't love. Duane was becoming increasingly skeptical of the great romantic experience looming before him.

“This looks like a good one,” Boggs replied, angling his head toward a nondescript hut jammed among the others.

Duane wondered which warped plank of wood or crooked nail caught the experienced cowboy's eye, as they headed toward the door. A cry of pain, or was it joy, pierced the night, and someone stroked an off-key fiddle. Boggs knocked on the door, two eyes appeared through a square opening, and moments later the door opened. Boggs stepped forward confidently, and Duane followed him into a small, boxy room with whitewashed walls and several heavily painted women in all sizes, colors, and shapes, dressed in short revealing dresses. A wave of cheap perfume mixed with sweat struck Duane's sensitive ecclesiastical nostrils, and he felt sick to his stomach.

He turned, and saw two heavily armed men at the door. They looked at him with grins, and he couldn't simply run away like a frightened child. This is going
to be an extremely difficult night, he realized.

Boggs pulled Duane's sleeve, dragging him farther into the room. “Which one you like?”

Duane shuffled his feet nervously. “Don't know yet.”

“It ain't like buyin' a horse, kid, so relax. Ah . . . by the way, pard, you'll have to give me fifty cents.”

Duane dropped coins onto Boggs's hand, and the cowboy sped toward the most corpulent woman in the room, with thighs like watermelons beneath her short pink skirt. She appeared demure, as she arose to take his hand. Like lovers, they headed toward the canvas flap that covered the doorway at the edge of the room.

The remaining whores grinned at Duane, pushing out their bosoms, spreading their legs lewdly. Duane felt like fleeing, but knew that his future as a cowboy lay on the line. He had to go through with it somehow, but there were no pretty girls in the room. I'll just pick one of them, he thought. What difference does it make? One prostitute grasped her breasts and showed him her tongue. Another lifted a leg and performed an act so horrific that Duane had to turn his eyes away.

“
Un niño,
” murmured one of the women.

They laughed, and Duane blushed. He spoke Spanish fluently, and he'd just been called a baby. I'll pick one of them, and to hell with it, he decided. Just as he was about to point, the back door flap opened, and a younger woman with the hefty build of a farmer's daughter limped into the room. Her left leg twisted outward strangely, and her arm perched in the air like the broken wing of a bird. She was a cripple, but considerably better-looking than the others.