In the Traveller's Welcome, Lieder stood beneath the big oil lamp, his eyes lost in the shadow of his brows. He searched the faces of the silent deacons, seeking the slightest sign of amusement at his having been obliged to duck the bottle. There was none. "Everybody sing! Pump that goddamned piano, Curly! Fill up those glasses, Peggy!" He punctuated his orders by pulling out his pistol and firing into the ceiling, which caused Mr. Delanny to twitch and crimp the card he was laying out. Notes gushed from the player piano, lush and syrupy, and everyone sang, heads thrown back, mouths open wide… for her love was so-o-o-old, for an o-o-old man's go-o-o-old….
After obliging them to down two more glasses of rye "for the road," Lieder escorted his guests out. "And mind you get plenty of sleep, 'cause we'll be fetching you tomorrow night for more jollity and fellowship. Whoa, there, Professor. I want you to stoke up your boiler and fill us three tubs. Up to the brim and steaming!"
"Tonight?" The bleary-eyed, nauseated barber looked wistfully after his fellow deacons, who were stumbling home along the moonlit street.
"Yes, tonight! We ain't none of us had an all-over bath since I don't know when. And do you wonder if we're going to have a wallow? We're going to have a long, long wallow. And I want that water hot enough to melt the marrow out of our bones!" He told Tiny to collect their "arsenal" and take it over to the barbershop, so they could keep an eye on it while they were soaking in their tubs. "We mustn't leave temptation in the way of these good people. They're too weak to fight against it. Ain't that right, Mr. Delanny?"
Delanny did not look at him.
"Of course we all know the urge to do something brave and dangerous isn't very strong amongst pimps, but just to be on the safe side… Peggy, you go cut some of that clothesline in the kitchen and tie Mr. Delanny into his chair." He walked to the table on which Mr. Delanny was laying out solitaire with ostentatious lassitude. "I don't think Mr. Tone-of-Voice would mind being tied into his chair… just to help strengthen his resolve to be a coward. What do you say, Peggy?"
"No, sir. I mean… yes, sir." To cover his confusion, Jeff Calder went quickly into the kitchen, where he snatched down the wet underwear and cut off a length of clothesline.
"And I'd cinch that rope down real tight if I was you, Peggy," Lieder said, "because if I come back from my bath and find this pimp's got away…" He let the bartender imagine the consequences.
Calder snatched the rope tight and tied it off. Delanny smiled thinly to cover the pain in his skinned wrists.
As she looked from the window to Lieder's face, Frenchy's glance fell to Delanny's right boot. If the chance came to get at his gun…
Tiny returned from carrying the "arsenal" over to the barbershop, where he left Bobby-My-Boy guarding it. "You know what I saw?" he asked Lieder.
"What?"
"That kid was helping the old whore into his place, the one who tried to bash you with that bottle."
"Let him be. He's just what you call your good Samaritan. Generous to a fault. He's like me in that way. Now, I want you ladies to take off your shoes and give them to Tiny. That's so you won't take it into your heads to run off up to the mine or down to Destiny." Frenchy kicked off her shoes as Tiny approached her, but he had to twist the shoes off Chinky's unresisting feet.
"Go upstairs and collect all the shoes," Lieder said. "We'll stuff 'em into the barber's boiler to help heat up our bathwater. That way they'll serve a useful purpose."
As Tiny disappeared up the stairs, Lieder looked at Frenchy, who returned his gaze with her eyebrows arched over half-closed eyes. "What do they call you, girl?"
When she didn't answer, Jeff Calder volunteered, "Frenchy's her name."
"Frenchy, eh? I suppose that means you used to sell ass down New Orleans way, right?" Frenchy didn't answer. Lieder smiled and shook his head. "You have got real sassy eyes, girl. Real sassy. But I'll get you. Don't worry, Frenchy. I'll get you. That's a promise." He grinned, then he turned, to Jeff Calder. "Peggy, I'm putting you in charge of these good people. You can handle that responsibility, can't you?"
Calder squared his narrow shoulders. "Yes, sir."
"And to show how much I trust you, I'm going to leave your army rifle and one round… so you can enforce your will on these folk. But…" He held up his finger. "But if anything goes wrong while I'm off enjoying my nice long bath, guess who I'm going to gut-shoot first."
Jeff Calder swallowed.
Lieder nodded, "That's right." He left the barroom.
A moment later, Tiny came clumping down the stairs carrying a pillow slip lumpy with shoes.
The bat-winged doors were still oscillating behind him when Frenchy stepped toward Mr. Delanny to get…
Lieder pushed the doors open again and stood on the threshold, smiling and shaking his head. "Did you really think I was just going to leave like that, girl? Come on now! I've known all along that Delanny probably had some sort of sneak-gun up his sleeve or in his boot. His kind usually do. I've been watching him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he'd go for it. But I was pretty sure he wouldn't have the guts to draw down on me. But you, girl…? O-o-oh, you're a different kettle of fish. Peggy, go find Mr. Delanny's gun. Feel around until you come up with it. Yes indeed, you are a different kettle of fish altogether. You're the sort that could do a man real harm-and I don't just mean by giving him the clap or scaring him to death with that ugly face of yours. " He accepted the over-and-under derringer that Calder had found in a small holster stitched into the lining of Mr. Delanny's boot. "Well now, look at this. A. 41 Remington double. Isn't that just the kind of shooter you'd expect a pimp to pack? A healthy man can piss further'n that thing can shoot, but its slug starts tumbling as soon as it leaves that dinky barrel, so it can tear an awful hole in a fella. Tell me the truth, Frenchy. When you thought I'd left you within reach of your pimp's gun, didn't a little thrill of hope tingle down deep in that black heart of yours? Come on, fess up! And when you saw me walk back in here, didn't that black heart just shrivel up? Admit it! Your hopes were lifted, then they were crushed. That's what they call the Torture of Hope, and it's the worst torture of all, because tantalizing hope keeps you from taking the easy way out and killing yourself. It's hope that holds your face down in the mud. It's hope that keeps you nailed to the cross. It's hope that turns the knife in the wound." He shook a finger at her and said in a singsong tone, "I told you I'd get you, Frenchy. I told you." He left to have his bath.
MATTHEW JOLTED AWAKE, HIS heart beating, the base of his spine sore from the hard chair. The whiskey stench coming from Queeny had filtered into his nightmare about some spongy red stuff… no, it was about his pa's face, all bloated with anger… no, about a roaring gun and… no, something about damaged boys and apostles and… no, he couldn't remember. The dream elements were rapidly dispersing and disguising themselves.
From out in the street came the sounds of laughter and splashing and shouting and…
… Splashing?
He heard a loud whoop and another splash, then a snort, then a high-pitched yap. Someone had poured cold water on someone. Those men must be having baths in the wooden tubs behind the barbershop. And there was something repugnant about the thought of those men sitting up to their necks in wooden tubs of skin-scummy bathwater, splashing and horseplaying like kids in a swimming hole.
Matthew decided to read until the clinging fragments of his nightmare withered and dropped from his mind. So as not to waken Queeny, he drew the lucifer slowly along the bottom of his table until it hissed into a flat, puffing flame, then he lit his lamp.
Just before dawn, his chin dropped into the collar of his jacket, and The Ringo Kid Plays His Last Ace slipped from his numb fingers into the pool of lamplight on the floor.