She gagged down the whiskey. Then a second glass. And a third.
While the fourth glass was being filled, she suddenly rose and stumbled out through the kitchen into the back yard, where she vomited onto the railroad tracks. The deacons' bench rocked with laughter; the loudest was Reverend Hibbard, who had by then thoroughly drowned the demon within him.
When Chinky returned, pale and fragile, her vulnerability must have touched some cord of feeling within Bobby-My-Boy, for he grasped her wrist and led her back into the kitchen, where he bent her over the drain board and used her, as she twisted her neck to keep her face out of the dirty water. When he was done, he called for Tiny, who came and took his turn.
They brought her back into the bar, and she slumped into her chair, where she sat shivering, her eyes riveted to the tabletop, while beside her Queeny smiled with dazed, slack-lipped benevolence upon the world.
Eager to provide fun for his guests, Lieder's eyes next settled on Frenchy, who glared back with narrowed menace. He snorted derisively, but nevertheless he decided to choose Queeny for their further amusement. "Does that player piano yonder work?" he asked.
"Sure does!" Jeff Calder said eagerly. "But somebody's got to pump the pedals. I'd be glad to do it, but what with me having only one leg, the piano only plays every other note!" He cackled at his oft-repeated joke and looked around for appreciation.
"Then you pump the pedals for us, Professor. Unless being bald hampers a man's pumping, too."
Murphy sat at the ornate if battered player piano. "What do you want to hear?"
"What you offering?"
"Well… " He reached into one of the storage slots. "… ah… what about 'Silver Threads Among the Gold'?"
"Well now, ain't that a coincidence? Silver! Like the silver that comes down your railroad track every week. I take that to be a good omen. But it's a rotten song all the same. What else you got?"
"Ah… here's There'll Be a Hot Time in the Ol' Town Tonight. ' The Rough Riders' song. No? Well, let's see… ah… here's 'She's Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.' "
"There you go! Something sentimental to soften our hearts and mist our eyes. You thread that on and start pumping. And you, old woman! You'll sing for us. Together we shall make a joyful noise unto the Lord… as Paul enjoined us to do in Seminoles: 7: 13."
"Me?" Queeny pressed splayed fingers against her chest. "You want me to sing? Well, I ain't no Jenny Lind, but when I was a young girl on the stage-"
"That must have been a fair piece back," Lieder interrupted. "Judging from appearances, I'd guess you were already well past your prime when you were selling ass to the pharaoh's soldiers! Now start singing! And, deacons? I want you to accompany her!"
The choir members struggled to find a compromise key. She's only a bird… beautiful sight… gilded bird… in a gilded cage, a byoo-tee-fill sight to see-e-e-e… Their combined volume was topped by Queeny's wobbly soprano…. for her love was so-o-o-o-old! For an o-o-o-ol' man's go-o-o-old, she's a bird in a gilded- "Whoa!" Lieder shouted, and there was sudden silence. "Now that, ladies and gentlemen." He shook his head and laughed helplessly. "That, folks, is what I would call… terrible! And I can't permit myself to embarrass an old woman any further by making her sing when she's got a voice that would shatter a spittoon at fifty yards. So instead, I'll tell you what. You can dance for us, grandma. Tiny, give her some more whiskey. And to make it more interesting, grandma, I think I'm going to have you dance… naked. I cannot wait to see all that tallow a-wobbling and a-jiggling! A sight to make a man swear off woman-meat forever! Gentlemen of the choir! Give this little lady a big welcoming hand! Professor Murphy? Music, if you please."
The choir applauded, and Jeff Calder put two fingers into his mouth and whistled an ear-splitting note.
"Take it off!"
"Let's see what you got!"
Queeny's pudgy fingers hesitated at the ties of her wrap. Drunk though she was, she was loath to reveal the not-excessively-clean underwear she wore during the week, when there were no customers. But Tiny overcame her show of reluctance by ripping the wrap off her, snatching her drawers down, and pushing her out onto the dance floor. Her feet got tangled in her drawers, and she stumbled against Bobby-My-Boy, who pushed her back into the center of the room, where she stood beneath the big overhead oil lamp, her crossed arms scooping in her breasts, her drawers puddled around one ankle. Professor Murphy pumped away at the player piano, his head glistening with sweat, and she began to shuffle from foot to foot, at first awkwardly, miserably, ashamed of her age and weight. But… but every eye was on her! She was the focus of all attention! She was on stage again! A sultry grimace creased her cheeks as the whiskey transported her back to happier times. Responding to her public's whistles and slurred suggestions, she began a grotesque imitation of her old Dance of the Seven Veils, using her hands to conceal, then coyly reveal, tantalizing glimpses of her bulbous nipples and her shaggy pudenda. Rivulets of sweat lacquered the rolls of fat beneath her underarms. Her pendulous breasts swayed and jiggled. Each time a pelvic bump made her audience hoot and whistle, she shook a finger at them, and her mouth made an o-o-o of naughty admonition.
Show business!
Only slowly… and with growing bewilderment… did she become aware that they weren't cheering. They were saying cruel, wounding things about her body. Why, they were passing personal remarks!
Queeny stopped jiggling from foot to foot and stood beneath the big kerosene lamp, sobbing into the hands that now concealed only her face. The ballad ended with a crescendo of chords; the piano roll flapped within the mechanism; and the room was silent.
Suddenly Queeny's head snapped up, and her eyes flashed within their tear-smeared sockets. A string of snarled abuse poured out of her. She called them every nasty thing that came to mind, while tears worked their way down her cheeks to the corners of her mouth, and the overhead light caught patches of slippery wet on her naked flesh.
Lieder laughed and told Tiny to pour the old gal a drink. She'd earned it! But Queeny snatched the bottle from Tiny and hurled it at Lieder, who ducked as it shattered against the wall near his head. His eyes suddenly emptied, and his lips curled back from his teeth. "Get your fat ass out of here before I kill you," he snarled. "Get out!" Then his voice dropped to a tense, breathy timbre. "And if you come back, old lady, I'll arrange a little romantic encounter between you and a broken bottle. It'll be a night of love you'll never forget. Bobby-My-Boy, stop grinning and show the lady out."
Bobby-My-Boy grabbed Queeny by her hair, slapped her face, and propelled her through the bar doors, which flapped against the walls as she stumbled out into the darkness and fell to her knees, skinning them on the rough boardwalk. She tried to stand, but whiskey sloshed through her senses, and she sprawled across the steps.
Across the street in the darkened Mercantile, Mr. Kane crossed to the window and looked down the street to where lamplight spilled from the door of the Traveller's Welcome. "My God, she's-" He returned to the table and sat heavily. "They've stripped her naked and thrown her out into the street."