Wolves (30 page)

Ol' Reggie's voice calls out, stopping Huxley in his tracks.

“Full moon tonight,” the blind man says, loudly.

Huxley turns and looks over his shoulder.

Again, the blind eyes seem to be staring right back at him.

For some unknown reason, he feels his heart hammering in his chest. Not the anger this time. But a nervousness with no clear subject, no clear focus. Just a cloud of apprehension hovering there in the back of his mind, vaporous and unsubstantiated.

“What did you say?” Huxley asks, though he heard the words clearly enough.

A big, two-toothed grin spreads across Reggie's mouth. Rather than answer, he lifts his face to the sky and lets out a long, mournful howl: “Ah-
whoooooooooooooooooo
.” And then Ol' Reggie dips his head back down and looks out into the crowd, his face blank, his eyes blank, as though Huxley is already forgotten. “Infuhmation,” the old man cries to the passing throngs. “Infuhmation for trade. Whatchoo need to know? Ol' Reggie sees e'rything. Ol' Reggie
knows
e'rything.”

Then the crowd seems to catch them like a current, and they drift away down the road, Huxley and Jay, until they cannot see the strange old blind man anymore.

Down the street, two blocks.

They hunch their shoulders against a brisk wind that Huxley wishes would scour away the smell of Shreveport that is turning his stomach. Or maybe it is the unsettling feeling he has growing inside of him. Maybe that's what is making him queasy. He just keeps thinking about those blind, bloodshot eyes. Those bony fingers. Those two brown teeth.

My, what big teeth you have … 

Down the street, two blocks, and then a right-hand turn.

Another street, just like the previous one.

The first door on the left is nondescript, just a wooden ensemble pushed in about twenty feet from the corner of the building that houses it. The building is an old brick construction. The top windows are broken, some of them boarded over with rotting boards that look ready to fall from the nails that keep them in place. Four stories down and onto someone's head. A bunch of tiny widow makers just waiting to drop.

The first story and second story are alive, where the upper stories are dead. The glass is still broken and boarded in many of these lower windows, but behind them there is lamplight glowing, and the ground floor looks busy. It is midday, and the tavern—if it is indeed Big Josie's tavern—still receives a steady stream of in-and-out traffic.

Huxley and Jay watch it for a while, wondering who is going in, and who is coming out. The big front door creaks open and bangs on its stopper. A drunken man steps out, bleary-eyed, into the world of Shreveport. Another customer steps in, swinging the door wide. It is in these little glimpses that Huxley can see inside.

The interior looks poorly lit. A good place to sit and drink and forget your miserable life. There is noise, but it isn't raucous. Just a steady bubble of conversation, and every once in a while a loud laugh. Busy barmaids and lazy patrons that only move to bring their drinks to their mouths.

“Nice, quiet, dark place,” Jay observes. “Maybe we won't be noticed too much.”

“I'd assume a lot of travelers come through here,” Huxley says, without the confidence he'd hoped to display. “I'm sure new faces aren't that big of a deal.”

“New faces asking questions, though …”

“Well.” Huxley steps out into the street and begins crossing. “We'll just step carefully.”

“Hux,” Jay calls.

Huxley stops and turns. Jay is still standing on the sidewalk. The other man looks around a little cautiously, then nods his head toward the tavern. “Go ahead. I'll stay here. Watch the outside. That way we both don't get trapped in there.”

Huxley rubs his nose. “You seem pretty sure that something bad is going to happen.”

Jay shrugs. Looks away.

Huxley turns back toward the tavern and puts one step in front of the other. There's not much else he can do. He doesn't enjoy the idea of being alone in this strange place.

Huxley allows the cloth over his face to drop as he steps up to the sidewalk in front of the tavern. He does not think whoever is in charge of it will appreciate him coming through with his face covered like a bandit. The smells of the street hadn't been blocked out anyway—only muted and mixed with the smell of his own stale breath under the cloth. But now they resurge, strong and assertive, making his nose curl.

He reaches the door behind a group of three that enters the tavern loudly, slamming the door on its rusty hinges and calling out to the barmaids as soon as they step foot through the door. Huxley slides in behind them, close to the last man, like he is a part of their group, and then he slips to the side.

The inside smells better than the outside. The odors here are just as strong, and some have an unpleasant aspect to them, but none of them are raw sewage so that is an improvement. Inside, it is wood smoke and tobacco smoke and burning tallow and lard-fueled lamps. Stale sweat and the rank stench of unwashed men. Old ales that have been spilled and dried on the floors and on the tabletops. But also better things, like rosewater blooming in the wake of the barmaids as they hurry past.

He stares after them, pausing for a moment as he slides along the back wall. Watching the way their hips move under their dresses—simple things, though colorfully spun, and belted at the waist to hint at those things the shapeless fabric hid. Low slits in the front to reveal smallish breasts on all but the oldest barmaid, also the shortest and thickest built, whose enormous breasts bulge out proudly from the open top.

Huxley's brain is sparking with primal thoughts. He's been so long in the company of stinking men and misery that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to look at a woman, to see the way her body moves, the soft scent of them underneath everything else. It's been so long since he's seen them without fear in their eyes. He is a stranger to them. They do not know what he's done. They don't fear him.

It's nice.

He chooses a table and sits.

The table is small, and situated on the back wall of the place, near to a burning fireplace. The fireplace pours out sweltering heat, large logs simmering and smoking on the ends, their centers burning hot. The seat is a small stool with no back. The table is big enough for two, but it is only Huxley.

There are several others inside of the tavern that are sitting at tables, either alone, or with one or two companions. But it appears that the majority of the in-and-out traffic has been for the brief use of rooms, and the barmaids, who apparently also serve as a brothel.

The short, thick barmaid with the enormous breasts swings up to his table, hand on her hip, the air immediately smelling of rosewater. She is pretty, her face shining and pleasant, though her eyes scheme and that cannot be hidden. Plump, but still well formed. An inviting figure. She smiles for him, revealing some white teeth, and a few silver ones on the side.

“How is it, fella?” she says. Her voice is strong, but sweet in a way. “I'm Josie. Haven't seen you around here before.”

“Big Josie?” Huxley asks.

“I look big to you?” She lays a hand to her chest and bats her eyes in shock. It is a well-practiced response to a common question.

Huxley smiles, just slightly. “You look nice.”

As he says it he pictures her, with her skirts hiked up to the belt at her waist and her top ripped violently down to expose her breasts, and himself behind her, pinning her down onto the table … 

Can you hear the truth inside of me, Josie? Does it ring clear for you like a bell?

If she hears it, she gives no response to it.

Still smiling, she touches his shoulder. “We've got dark ale and light ale, and shine for a price. Meat pies if you're hungry. Or, if you're in the mood for something a little more lively, we have some rooms in the back.” She leans in close and says in a conspiratorial tone, “But I warn you, I'm not on the menu.”

Huxley just keeps smiling back at her.

Pinned down to the table … 

But she's not on the “menu.”

The “menu,” she says. So aptly put.

Huxley reaches into the pouch at his side and discreetly withdraws two gold pieces, which he sets on the table. “Just a drink. Dark ale. Please.”

Josie swipes up the gold pieces and eyes them suspiciously. Huxley doesn't know the going rate for a drink, but he imagines that two gold pieces is far beyond the asking price. “You want me to keep them coming all night?” she asks.

“Just one, please.” Huxley folds his hands on the tabletop. “The rest is for your discretion.”

Josie eyes him for several breaths. Then looks at the gold pieces in her hands. Probably worth a meal and a room for the night, if Huxley were to take a guess. Finally, she pockets it with a look on her face that seems to say,
what's the worst that could happen?

She leans over, close to him, her substantial chest swinging and almost touching the tabletop. Huxley doesn't try to hide his gaze. He locks his fingers together on the table, as though to restrain himself. Then he sniffs and finds her eyes, which seem amused by his self-control.

“I'm looking for a man that frequents your establishment.”

“For drink … or women?” she asks, her lips hanging open on the last word, her tongue glistening right behind them.

Huxley shakes his head. “Don't know.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He's a slaver,” Huxley says, meting out the information slowly, and judging Josie's reaction after each piece. If she is loyal to the slavers at all, she doesn't show it, just keeps waiting for the next piece of description. “And he's got a scorpion tattoo on his neck.”

Josie raises an eyebrow at him. She leans away, like she's suddenly been put off. “Well, isn't that a goddamned coincidence,” she remarks with a hand on her hip. “Looks like one of your buddies beat you to the punch. Maybe you should just talk to him.”

She turns away and starts toward the bar on the other side of the room.

Huxley sits frozen, though he has the sudden urge to jump out of his seat. He is still trying to sort through what she has just said, trying to make sense of it, when he hears her grumble under her breath, halfway to the bar now, “Goddamn Black Hats.”

Another couple of heartbeats …

Black Hats. Black Hats here … 

He wants to make a run for the door, but suddenly, he wonders if it will only call attention to him. He stares at the men gathered at the bar, as Josie sidles behind it. There are three of them. None of them are wearing black hats.

You should get out. You should get out now.

Stupid whore!

He rises from his table as calmly as he dares. His hand slides to the revolver at his side. A fresh load in each chamber, he'd made sure of that before he left the slave barge.

At the bar, Josie leans close to one of the men and whispers something to him.

Huxley watches the man perk up a bit.

Get out. Get out now.

He starts moving for the door.

The man at the bar twists in his seat. He is hunched over the bar, and it is only his eyes that Huxley can see, peeking over his own shoulder. Huxley looks away, trying not to hold eye contact. Eye contact could make you look guilty. He had to pretend that he wasn't worried about this man.

Just get out.

The man rises from his seat at the bar.

Huxley slides his hand to his waistband and closes his fingers around the grip of one of his revolvers, his finger finding the trigger, his thumb finding the hammer. The man at the bar is lean, weathered. Older.
Don't make me kill you, old man, just go back to your drink.

Where's Jay when I need him?

Huxley faces the door, the light around the door, the way out of this shithole. He wants to run, but for some reason, it doesn't feel right. He keeps walking for it. It's close, just a few paces away. He keeps his right hand on his revolver, his left coming up to push the door open.

“Huxley.” The voice is calm and cold and right behind him.

And Huxley stops.

In that split second, he thinks about turning and shooting, but then he pictures a weapon leveled at his head. A wrong move could get him a lead ball through his skull.

What do you do? What do you do right now?

Huxley doesn't turn, but he glances over his shoulder.

He sees no big bore pointed at his head. Just the man, standing there about a pace away.

The others at the bar are watching. The conversation has died down to a sudden silence.

A little closer, Huxley can see more detail about the man.

Not so much old as
worn
. His skin sallow, marked by years of hard use.

Turn and shoot him. Gun him down and then run.

“I see you got your hand on your weapon,” the quiet voice says. It is confident, as though this man knows the beginning from the end. He already has seen how this plays out. “But I ain't got nothing in my hands.”

Doesn't matter. Kill him anyway.

How do you know he's even a Black Hat?

“You aren't wearing a black hat,” Huxley says, his voice coming out hoarse.

But of course he's a Black Hat. How else would he know Huxley's name? How else would he recognize him in this land where Huxley has never been?

The man just stands there, stock-still, his lips a thin, grim line on his face. The shadows from the lantern at the door make his cheeks and eyes look sunken. Cruel.

“Sit back down at the table and we talk,” the man says. “Or you can walk through that door. And you won't leave Shreveport alive.”

Huxley turns now to face the man. His hand still lingering on his revolver. Every nerve in his body firing.
Goddamnit, Jay. Where are you when I need you?
To the man with the weathered face, he says, “You think I'm here alone?”