Wolves (37 page)

Chapter 11

He is a small man, sitting in the corner of the tavern. Small, but in an odd way that makes him appear larger than he is. His body seems to be an optical illusion—stretched and thin to give the appearance of height, but if an average man were to stand next to him, they would find him a head-and-a-half shorter than themselves. Sitting down, the illusion remains unseen.

The man is simply called Niner. That is what everyone in Nathaniel Cartwright's gang has called him since the day he joined them five years ago. No one he's ever introduced himself to has batted an eye at the name—the missing index finger on his left hand is obvious at a glance and offers sufficient explanation.

Rain hammers the roof of the tavern.

For now.

In a few moments, it will abate, and then start again, as it has been doing for the past few hours. It came in on the dusk, riding the tails of a strong wind that shook the eaves and made the man slightly uncomfortable about the structural integrity of the tavern. But the wind left and the rain followed, and now it slams the roof, drips through weathered cedar shingles, and plops on the dirty plank floors in several places.

This tavern is the only drinking establishment in a little settlement that sits on the outskirts of an abandoned city. They call the city abandoned, but it is not really abandoned, as nothing ever truly is. It is rife with gangs and outlaws, as so many “abandoned” places are. What they should call it is
uncivilized
. That would be closer to the truth.

The settlement shares its name with that of the former city: Monroe. It is less of a settlement and more of a town, Niner supposes. And it is not really separate. It is simply new growth. Like a shoot coming off of an old, dead stump. The old Monroe is referred to as Old Town, by the locals, and it is generally avoided. It is a place for desperate ones. The sick and the damned, and the fugitives from the Black Hats.

But here in the new version of Monroe, everyone feels just so safe and secure. This is a slavers' town, the third in the string of cities leading to Vicksburg, known as the Slavers' Trail. Sometimes it surprises the man how peaceful these slavers' towns can be. Their trade, their livelihood, it exists out of violence and pillaging. But these towns are where the money is to be made, and so they remain peaceful, and they prosper.

You don't shit where you eat. Every slaver knows that.

Except for Wild Nate. He seems to shit where he pleases.

Niner sips from the clay tankard that has been placed in front of him.
Little beer
, they call it. Just enough grain to create just enough alcohol to make it sanitary. It costs a quarter of the price of regular ale, and mostly just tastes like water with some sort of sour bread in it. But it makes the tavern keeper happy that Niner is at least paying for something while he sits there in the dark corner, day after day. And sipping slowly from the little beer keeps his head clear, which is important.

From the little spot he has claimed for himself, he can see the entire tavern. Which is not much. No extravagant filigrees or brass chandeliers or girls painted in dazzling makeup with their breasts pouring out of corsets. Nothing like he remembers from the old Western movies. This place has none of that wild charm to it. This is all made of weathered wood and metal sheeting. The main source of decorations is old hubcaps. The bar is just a box. The bottles of spirits are mismatched and labeled with grease pencils to differentiate the types, though there are only a few. The ales are stored in big, blue plastic drums. The smell of the place is stale and abysmal. The only whore that hangs around is a sad little creature with two hungry mouths to feed back in some hovel a block from the tavern. She used to be some mistress of a councilman, a slave, but then freed in exchange for her silence. But she'd been a slave for the better part of her life. Niner isn't sure if her attempts to live free had simply failed miserably, or if prostitution was as far as her imagination could take her.

The tavern keeper is young. Eddie is his name. It had been an old man that kept the tavern up until a year ago when he died after a bad flu swept through the town. The young man is his son. He is a good guy. Little antsy about payment, where his father had been a bit more forgiving. But that is why Niner always has his tankard of little beer. The tavern keeper stands at his post, drinking a glass of his own abominable cider wine. He occupies himself by reading old paperback books that are barely held together with twine. He looks up at the ceiling every time the rain begins to pour again, he mumbles something at it under his breath, and then returns to his reading.

The whore—Jocelyn—sits impatiently at a table on the opposite side of the tavern, watching the door and waiting for the next customer, probably cursing the rain herself. Sometimes it drives people into the tavern. Sometimes it keeps them away. Tonight looks like a night when business is going to be slow. Jocelyn ignores Niner for the most part. She has tried three times to accost him, but he has neither words nor money for her. He won't even buy her a drink. She has pretty features, in a mousy sort of way, but her breath was unusually foul from a set of rotting teeth somewhere in the back of her mouth. Besides, the man had never been fond of whores. He'd known plenty of men who'd suffered rotten dicks after displaying a lack of self-control.

So, Eddie the tavern keeper stands behind his box of a bar, and he reads his tattered manuscripts, and occasionally curses the rain.

And Jocelyn the whore fidgets at her table on the opposite side of the tavern and stares at the doors.

And Niner sits quietly, hour after hour, taking small, measured sips of his little beer.

Sometime around what he estimates to be eight o'clock in the evening, during a lull in the pounding rain, he hears the sound of men's boots slapping the planks outside and the growl of their voices as they work their way up out of the mud and shake off their wet clothes. He looks at the doors as they swing open, curious, but he recognizes the two figures that enter.

So does Jocelyn.

She comes up out of her chair and sashays over with a broad smile of her rotting teeth. “Hey, baby. Didn't wanna stay home tonight?”

The first man shucks off his sodden leather overcoat and tosses it over a chair. Then he hooks an arm around Jocelyn's waist and pulls her close. “Oh, you know I couldn't stay away. Not on a shitty night like tonight. Eddie! Where are your customers?”

Eddie already has two small glass cups on the top of his bar. He smiles. “Guess it's too wet for them.”

The second man edges past the first. He also takes his overcoat off and tosses it on top of the other man's. The first man—the one with his arm around Jocelyn—casts his glance to the dark corner of the room. “Well, hi there, Niner!” his voice is filled with a cheerful sort of sarcasm. “What brings you here today?” He laughs.

He is well aware of why Niner is here.

Niner holds up his tankard. “Philly. Staying dry?”

“Trying to,” Philly says, guiding himself and Jocelyn to the bar. “Failing miserably. What a shitty night. Ain't nobody comin' to call in this weather. I'm guessin' the next few caravans scheduled for this week are gonna be delayed. Roads are gonna be nasty. I sure as hell wouldn't want to travel on them. And I been hearin' shit about some band of outlaws knockin' over my caravans. Ridiculous,” he sighs, exasperated. “Whole world's gone to shit.”

The second man—Slope, as Niner recalls, though he has no idea why—gives Niner a cool glance as he follows Philly and Jocelyn to the bar. Slope doesn't talk much. Niner gives him a nod and receives one back. Slope isn't hostile toward him—he treats everyone with that same chilliness.

Philly and Slope take seats at the bar. Jocelyn stays standing, attached to Philly.

Eddie holds up a bottle. “Whiskey, gentlemen?”

“Ayup,” Philly nods, then looks at Jocelyn. “What about you, darling?”

“That sounds just fine for me.”

“Three, then,” Philly says with a smile.

He either doesn't notice or doesn't care about Jocelyn's rotting mouth.

Eddie pours the drinks. One, two, three, careful not to spill any. The spirit is precious.

Outside, the rain has all but stopped. For the moment. The two leaks in the roof continue on, though, slowing as they dry out. Fat drops plopping onto wet wooden planks with a surprisingly sharp
slap
. Niner watches the leak closest to him. Watches the big silver drops catching the light of lanterns and fire, then crashing into the ground like fine china.

Philly takes a sip of his whiskey, then turns, glass still in hand. “So how long you gotta stick around this place? Not that I'm tryin' to get rid of you. Just seems like you're gonna end up being bored out of your mind.”

Niner runs his still-existing index finger over the rim of his tankard. “No offense, Philly. Loose lips sink ships.”

Philly, an outgoing person by nature, has trouble letting go of conversations sometimes. “If Nate wants to know which Black Hat's after him, I'd be more'n happy to keep an eye out myself. They know he's a slaver, so chances are I'll be the one they come questioning. I'll tell 'em he went north and send word along.” Philly is smiling brightly. “Black Hats ain't got no friends around here.”

No, the Black Hats don't have many friends. But it's no secret that you'll take a piece of gold over your own goddamn mother.

Niner keeps the thought to himself. He forces a smile. “I trust you, Philly. But you know how Nate is. If I caught up with him and told him that I delegated my job to you … hell, he'd probably cut me open on the spot.”

Philly laughs. “Yeah, he just might. Well … here's to Wild Nate. Hope he makes it. Wherever he's going.”

Niner raises his tankard marginally and takes a sip.

Eddie gives him a look of consternation. “You've been nursing that thing for a goddamn hour. You done with it yet?”

Philly turns back around, emptying his whiskey glass. “Come on, Eddie. Give the guy a break. It's not like you got a line of paying customers waiting to get in.”

Niner looks into his tankard. “Almost done, Eddie. Almost done.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and refills Philly's whiskey.

Another half hour rolls by. Philly is in his cups, draining the whiskey faster now. He is getting handsy with Jocelyn who giggles girlishly as he paws at her breasts, nuzzles her neck, and squeezes her ass. Niner wonders to himself if Philly can hear how contrived Jocelyn's laughter is, or if, much like her breath, he just doesn't care.

Slope doesn't drink as much. He's only on his third whiskey. He sits with his back to the bar, eyes on the door most of the time, though he glances in Niner's direction every once in a while, like all the years of good business between them doesn't mean anything, and that he suspects Niner might be up to something. Which, if Niner is honest with himself, is probably a good way to approach the slave trade. A good way to survive. People could be quite treacherous, but it was always for money.

It's not personal, it's business.

That old phrase. A carryover. That sentiment will never die.

The rain starts up again. Gradually at first, and then hard and insistent. The steady dripping of the leaks in the roof speed up, and then turn into steady little waterfalls.

Eddie looks at the leaks with extreme annoyance. Then at the roof itself. “Motherfuck,” he gripes at the roof.

Philly follows his glare. “Shit, man. When you gonna get your roof fixed? No wonder you ain't got no customers.”

Eddie just mumbles something under his breath.

Philly laughs.

Jocelyn giggles.

Slope doesn't seem to care.

Niner doesn't register the presence of new guests until the door swings open. The rain is loud and thunderous now, and it hid the sound of their boots in the mud outside, and on the planks of the doorstep. At first the swinging door hides who is there, and Niner wonders who the hell comes out in a deluge like this just for some shitty whiskey?

A drunk, that's who.

Or a Black Hat.

All four people at the bar raise their eyes to the door, smiles on their lips—all except Slope. Eddie is hopeful to make some money. So is Jocelyn. And Philly sees every new customer as a potential drinking buddy.

The door closes with a slam.

There are two men standing there.

One is very tall, though Niner can see nothing of his features because of how his body is angled. He is wearing a leather poncho and hood. The other man is short. Dark skinned. He turns first to the right, scanning the room, then to the left, and he catches sight of Niner. He also wears a hood, which shades his face, but Niner can see that he is Latino. Mexican, by Niner's guess.

The two stand there at the entryway, dripping.

The smiles of those at the bar don't disappear, but they are tempered by the sudden strangeness that follows a few long moments of awkward stillness.

Philly spreads his arms. “Jesus Christ, gents! Don't just stand there dripping on the floor! Come on in and grab some fucking whiskey!”

Neither of the men move.

The Mexican leans into the tall man just slightly and murmurs something. The tall man turns his head to look over his left shoulder at the corner where Niner is sitting. Niner sees only a sliver of the man's face—gaunt cheeks, a sharp nose, a scraggly beard. A single eye that looks Niner up and down and gauges him coldly.

That's no Black Hat.

Still, Niner doesn't feel relieved. He can feel his gut winding up.

He notices that neither of the newcomers' hands are visible. They are both hidden in their ponchos.

Now, the smiles at the bar begin to falter.

Eddie: “Can I help you with something? You guys need …” he swallows, obviously uncomfortable. “Need a room or anything?”