“Guess he ain’t in the mood,” the dealer frowned.
“Ain’t he bein’ paid to play?” growled Danny.
The dealer opted to ignore the question with a sigh, hoping the topic would be dropped. It would be better if Tom would start playing, but that didn’t look likely.
Juanita came by to lean on the side of the piano. “She left on the train,” she said.
“I know,” Tom acknowledged in a soft, wounded voice. He didn’t look up from the keys.
“I didn’t think she’d leave before she had the money.”
“She got it from me.”
“Oh? I thought you were hoping to leave with her?”
Tom just shrugged. “Was. She didn’t have enough money to get back to Ireland. I didn’t have enough money to go with her. I was close. Showed her the other night. Then we had that fight.”
“Ay. Heard some of that. You shouldn’t have said those things,” said the Royale’s senior female “entertainer.” Compassion could be heard in her tone, but it was jaded. Matter-of-fact. Juanita called things as she saw them.
“I was hurt. I was stupid. I knew her better than that.”
“Gone now, though. You gave it to her to make up for the fight?”
“She took all my money from my room,” Tom mumbled. “With what she had, it’s enough to get her back to Ireland.” After a moment, he said, “I shouldn’t have called her a whore.”
“She is a whore. We’re all whores.”
“I shouldn’t have said it like it’s an insult,” he corrected.
At that, Juanita inclined her head, nodding like a teacher satisfied with her student. “Not as much fun getting by on your back as people like to make it sound.”
“It’s gotta be a hard way to live.”
“And to lose your husband out here so far from home? Have to turn to whoring to get by? Yes. Awful. She thought she had something special with you.”
“I thought so, too. I knew what she had to do. I just…couldn’t stand it anymore. Having to wait. Having to be around while she worked. I just snapped. But I didn’t think it was such a bad fight.”
Juanita shrugged, about to say something else. She never got it out.
“Aw, y’all talkin’ about Siobhan?” asked Danny Ambrose. He came over to the piano, his speech only slightly slurred by drinking and his posture only a little stooped. “Yeah, she’s a beauty. All that curly red hair. Screams nice, too.”
Tom just stared at the piano keys. Juanita turned away to hide her scowl.
“I was hopin’ to fuck her again tonight,” Danny mused, “but I guess that ain’t gonna happen. ‘s too bad. I figured she’d be a little nicer to me after the lesson I gave her last time. Anyway, hey. Piano player. Play something, for fuck’s sake. Somethin’ cheery. Me an’ my boys’re gonna clean out that mess of redskins north of here tomorrow. Wanna have a good party tonight before we hit the trail.” He reached out to shove a pair of bills into the breast pocket of Tom’s vest. Tom didn’t look up.
“Yes, sir,” Tom mumbled. He reached without looking for some sheet music.
“Y’all need t’ read music?” Danny asked. “Heard you before. Never saw you need sheets. Hell, ev’ryone says you’re the best piano player west of the Mississippi.”
“I might be a bit out of sorts tonight, sir,” Tom answered.
“Gotcha. Everyone’s got a bad night now and again. Guess you’re broken up about our favorite whore leavin’, too, huh? Well, I hear ya. It’s sad for me, too. I wanted that tight little asshole again. Maybe I’ll just take Juanita’s tonight instead. Huh, Juanita?”
Juanita turned away. “Hhh. Anyway, buck up,” Danny said, lightly smacking his hand against Tom’s face a couple times. “Play somethin’ nice, for fuck’s sake.” With that, he roamed back to his table, where his back was to the piano.
Tom stopped shuffling the music. He couldn’t play anything in a mood like this.
It was over. He’d never find Siobhan, not now. Not without any money to follow her, nor any clue where in Ireland she was headed. Surely Siobhan wasn’t even her real name. She was smarter than that.
But after listening to Danny ramble, Tom forgave her. He understood the pain in her eyes. His jealousy had gotten the better of him. She couldn’t make him understand why she had to act the way she did with other men. Danny made him understand, though.
Danny also made Tom understand why she stole all of Tom’s savings and ran. Tom got it now. He couldn’t blame her. Couldn’t blame anyone for running away from that. As Juanita said, there wasn’t all that much fun in making a living on your back. Tom never figured otherwise, but there was thinking and then there was understanding.
He forgave Siobhan completely, as if there were ever anything to forgive. But he couldn’t forgive himself.
His feelings all sorted out, Tom rose from the bench. He walked over the poker table, where Danny and Whitney sat side by side. Tom stood between them. They didn’t notice him until he snatched the revolvers from each man’s holster-Danny was right-handed, Whitney was a lefty-and, without looking, hurled the guns to either side of the saloon. Danny’s fell beside the piano. Whitney’s crashed into the rack of bottles behind the bar.
Tom quickly overturned Danny’s chair, sending him tumbling off to his left. Whitney jumped up with that right-handed knife that Tom knew would be coming. Tom grabbed Whitney’s wrist, twisted it and shoved the blade up into Whitney’s stomach. He let Whitney collapse with a gasp.
Disbelief overrode the alarm in Danny’s eyes as he rose. “I am the best piano player in the west,” Tom said simply. “I’ve also been in more bar fights than you’ve been in bars.”
After a few of his punches struck only air, Danny understood that it was no idle boast. Whitney screamed in alarm, calling out for Oscar as Tom dodged one swing after another. Tom stepped over Whitney, backing away from Danny’s fists until Danny stumbled over his fallen cousin.
Tom caught hold of Danny’s collar as he fell. A single punch crushed Danny’s nose. He punched relentlessly, pounding blood and teeth out of the face of the notorious gunman. He didn’t stop until he had to help Danny stay up. Tom let the outlaw fall back against a chair.
Then he went to work with his booted foot on Danny’s crotch. He stomped once for every prostitute at the Royale. A bloody stain began to spread at Danny’s groin.
Satisfied with that, Tom turned Danny’s twisted right arm over onto the table next to him. He grabbed the nearest bottle, smashed it over Danny’s hand and then stabbed the jagged, broken remains just below the bottle’s broken neck into Danny’s palm.
The guests and workers of the Royale watched in stunned silence. The only sounds were Danny and Whitney Ambrose’s gurgling, anguished screams.
“Hold on, Whitney!” someone yelled from upstairs. “I’m comin’! I’m comin’!”
Tom watched the top of the staircase. He grabbed another bottle and waited. When Oscar Jameson appeared in his long johns, rifle in hand, Tom hurled the bottle with enough force and accuracy to smash it straight in Oscar’s face. The drunk, surprised gunman lost his balance and came tumbling down the stairs.
Oscar lay there for only a second before Tom’s booted heel came down on Oscar’s right hand with a resounding crunch. The piano player waited out Oscar’s howl of pain. “Done now?” he asked. “Alright. Take your pick of your friends here to Poppa Ambrose. I’ll stay with the other.”