Mr. Delanny's neck muscles twitched with each shout, but he did not turn toward Lieder. Frenchy shuddered and lifted her head from her arms, blinking as though uncertain of where she was. Then she saw Mr. Delanny tied to his chair, and she knew that her bad dreams had not been dreams.
Lieder went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up in the taunting, brassy tones of a sergeant who enjoys tearing men from the temporary haven of sleep. "All right, men, get down here! Breakfast! Breakfast! The last one down gets nothing to eat!"
Jeff Calder crawled stiffly out from behind the bar, where he had bedded down on the floor, dead drunk. He was suffering from a hangover so bad that the roots of his hair hurt.
When Matthew came in from the kitchen carrying the coffee pot, its hot handle swathed in a rag, and a bouquet of tin cups threaded through the fingers of his other hand, Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy were coming down the stairs, their eyelids raw and sticky and their slept-in clothes smelling of sweat, whiskey, and sex. Tiny drew Chinky behind him by her wrist, like a pull toy. She followed numbly, barefooted and shivering in her chemisette and pantaloons. Her face was ashen and her mouth puffy and bruised. They had used her often and roughly during the night.
"Well, looky there!" Lieder said. "The blushing bride and her two tuckered-out bridegrooms. Now, ain't that a picture?"
After refilling Lieder's cup, Matthew served the table where Chinky sat between Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy. She didn't lift her eyes when he set her cup before her, so he pushed it toward her and said, "Here you go, Miss Chinky. It'll do you good." She didn't respond. Dropping Jeff Calder's cup off on the counter, he served Frenchy, who drew a long, thirsty sip off the surface of the coffee, despite its heat. It was not until he turned to serve Mr. Delanny that he saw what a terrible state he was in. Because his arms were tied to the arms of his chair he had been unable to use his handkerchief throughout the night, and there were crusts of blood on his chin and down his usually snow-white frilled shirtfront. His fingers were fat and purple because, in his eagerness to show himself obedient and willing, Jeff Calder had cinched the rope up as tightly as he could. Matthew could feel how those blood-bloated fingers must have throbbed with pain before they became numb, and he empathetically splayed his own fingers wide apart as he said, "I could hold the cup for you, Mr. Delanny. Or maybe you'd like a glass of water?"
"No, Mr. Pimp here won't be having any coffee this morning," Lieder said from his chair tipped back against the wall. "He's doing penance for having overindulged himself last night. Not with whiskey like my choir members did. Drunk as pigs, they were! A disgrace to the good name of Twenty-Mile! No, Mr. Delanny overindulged himself in sassy uppityness and snotty-nosed finer-than-thou-ness. But I'll grant him one thing. He sure can hold his piss. Lord-love-us, his bladder must be stretched tighter'n a virgin's hole! I am impressed. Mr. Delanny. Truly impressed."
Matthew couldn't help glancing down. In fact, Mr. Delanny had not been able to hold his piss. When he looked up, Mr. Delanny's eyes caught his and held them in an intense glare that dared him to say a word.
Matthew gave Mr. Delanny a little helpless shrug and went back into the kitchen. After he had distributed plates of bacon and biscuits, he returned to Mr. Delanny's chair and used a wet cloth from his tray to wipe away the scabs of blood on his mouth and chin. The muscles of Mr. Delanny's chin worked, and his mouth tightened to a thin line. He stared at Matthew, his eyes almost spitting hate at this witness to his helplessness and humiliation. He started to say something, but he coughed and began to raise blood, so Matthew held the rag to his lips, looking away so as not to embarrass him. His glance intersected Frenchy's. Her yellow eyes were brittle, and her jaw was set tight. Matthew wondered if she had seen the dark stain of piss. He hoped not.
"Hey! Hey! What do you think you're doing there, boy?" Lieder asked.
"I'm tending to Mr. Delanny," Matthew said quietly.
"Did I say you could do that?"
"No, sir, you didn't." He continued wiping away the water-softened scabs of blood.
Lieder scowled at Matthew. Tiny nudged Bobby-My-Boy in anticipation. After a silence charged with menace, Lieder said, "Well… you just get on with it, boy. You have my permission to follow your Christian impulses. Caring about other people is one of the differences between natural-born Americans and these immigrants that don't give a frog's fart about nobody but themselves and their own spawn. But be careful, boy, less'n they take advantage of your kindness."
Bobby-My-Boy and Tiny were disappointed… and jealous.
Lieder turned to them and spoke with mock gruffness. "Now I hope you two treated your bride with the same Christian charity that this boy is showing toward our sassy-mouthed pimp."
They blinked in confusion.
"What I mean is, I hope you gave her plenty of opportunities to turn her other cheek."
After a moment of baffled incomprehension, they both spluttered with biscuit-clogged laughter. Turn her other cheek!
His eyes glittering with pleasure at the effect of his wit, Lieder dipped a biscuit into the bowl of corn syrup and turned it back and forth adroitly until the syrup had coated most of the surface before putting it whole into his mouth. Chewing and swallowing around his words, he explained for Matthew's benefit, "Now me? I seldom require the pleasures of the flesh. I save my strength for the crusade I have been chosen to lead. But I am a mere mortal, a son of man, and I admit that I sometimes feel a powerful urge for that spiritual relief that only a chunk of poontang can bring. But I would never, never permit myself to use that Chinee or that nigger gal." He washed down the biscuit with the last of his coffee and held out his cup for Matthew to refill. "I could never be a party to the mongrel mixing of the races. Did you ever see a dog mount a cat? Of course not! And why? 'Cause the mixing of races is both unnatural and unholy. Don't you agree, Mr. Delanny?"
The gambler didn't respond.
"No, boy," Lieder continued, "I would never let my good American seed fall upon alien ground, but pretty soon I'm going to have to let it fall somewhere. What I'm looking for is a beautiful young virgin to serve as a vessel for my seed. Upon her body I shall produce a manchild to complete my work on this earth, and she will be accounted blessed among women. But in the meantime… " He cocked a mischievous eye and grinned as Matthew felt a wave of relief that Ruth Lillian was safely out of town. "… while I'm waiting for my virgin vessel, I sure could use a piece of standard, all-purpose poontang. It's been a long, long time! And it ain't healthy for a man to go dry too long 'cause all that pent-up sap clogs his mind and messes up his thinking. I've been considering that Swede girl that brings the food from the boardinghouse. Now, she ain't no oil painting, that's for damn sure, but she's got nice thick hair to get your fingers into, and big udders to rest your weary head on. All in all, I believe she'd make pretty fair utility-grade poontang. Tell me, boy, have you ever stuck that Swede girl? What's she like?"