Glenn Taylor - A Hanging at Cinder Bottom

Goldie squeezed his fingers. “Samuel belongs with your mother and daddy,” she said.

He nodded again. From his jacket pocket he took out a paper sleeve. He unfolded its little triangles and tipped back his head and poured the powder on the back of his tongue. He swallowed and made a face.

“Go down easier with a little milk,” Goldie said.

He only smiled. The bitterness on his tongue nearly gagged him, but he’d found that Tony’s headache powders worked fastest when administered in such a dry fashion. The old man had added a new ingredient, a thing called curare he’d procured in Guyana. He said it might numb the pain Abe suffered.

The mantel clock under the Lincoln lithograph read quarter past one.

“We’d better get ready,” Abe said.

When they kissed, their eyes were open.

A knock came at the locked saloon door.

Abe cracked it open to find a tall Chinese man in a tan fedora and three-piece suit. “Abe Baach?” the man said, and he was taken aback. He recognized the face inside the saloon.

Abe didn’t answer. He moved his hand to the small of his back.

“My name is Ah Tong,” the man said. “My cousin is Gene Wan. I’ve come for the short-run puppet show.”

“You’re about three weeks too late.” Abe looked beyond him, where men bunched in front of the restaurant and whistled at the ladies going by.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” Ah Tong said. “I got in a little trouble the night I wired you my acceptance.” His chin was squared and his eyes genuine. “Had to pass a little time in the pokey,” he said. He’d cut and run during a prisoner transfer on Friday.

The cook across the lane threw his cigar in the dirt and tore off the undershirt he wore. He took a boxer’s stance and called out, “Jack Johnson going to whip ole Jeff tonight boys!” and they cheered him hearty and loud.

Abe ignored them and took note of the Chinese man’s silver watch chain. “It’s too late,” he said. “You don’t want to be around here anyhow.” He nodded and pushed on the door.

Ah Tong stuck his foot in the channel. “Wait,” he said. He took out his billfold. He held forth two ten-dollar notes. “The booking fee you paid,” he said.

Abe cocked his head. “Keep it. Cost of travel.”

Tong put the money back and nodded. He said he was obliged. He thought a moment before he pulled back his shoe. He was on the lam and predisposed to keep things private, and he’d even thought on hiding out a few months in his cousin’s laundry storeroom. But as he stood there, it struck him how he knew the man behind the cracked saloon door, and it seemed too odd to let go. He swallowed before he spoke. “I saw you play cards once in the Bowery, back in April.” He’d taken note of the play that night, for even then he’d recognized the player. “You bottom-decked a fat rich man and cleaned him out, and I remember thinking I’d never seen mechanics like yours before. Smooth,” he said. “Like Canada Bill Jones.”

“Wasn’t me,” Abe said. “Got the wrong fella.” He wondered at the man’s angle.

“Professor Goodblood?” Tong said.

But when he pulled back his shoe, Abe shut the door in his face.

Tong turned and watched a woman dance in her underclothes behind the big front window of Fat Ruth Malindy’s. He struck a match and lit a cigarette and stepped past the empty spool table. He regarded the black men bunched across the street. The sign above their heads read Food Good and Cheap .

The cook put his undershirt back on. “What you lookin for Chinaman?” he said.

Tong didn’t answer, but walked on to his cousin’s laundry.

Cinder Bottom recalled the streets of his boyhood in Los Angeles. It recalled to him Calle de los Negros and the railyards where he once played hide-and-seek.

Jim Fort had not ever perspired before stage lights the way he perspired now at the Oak Slab. You are Chicago Phil , he repeated in his mind, eyes shut, cards on the table before him. He wished he’d played more poker on his free time, wished he’d drunk a little more courage that afternoon.

He’d been fine on the way in, introducing the other men to Trent and Rufus Beavers as he’d rehearsed. “This is Mr. Boony Runyon from Cincinnati,” he’d said, “and this is Mr. Woodrow Peek and this is Bob Hill,” and so on. All was smooth, even the handing over of his locked metal case. “I trust your safe will be secure housing for what’s in here?” he’d said, and Trent had assured him that neither raging fire nor blast of dynamite could split his big steel bank.

Now Jim Fort mucked his cards. He wiped his sweat and thought, This is the sweat of Chicago Phil .

Across the dark room, Rufus Beavers whispered in the ear of Henry Trent. “Old man Tony Sharpley just came by the bar.” He showed Trent the telegram Tony had given him.

RECEIVED at 1 RAILROAD AVE 413 PM.

New York NY Jul 4 — 10

Missed the first train. Will arrive Keystone on the 7 PM

B says tell H. Trent sorry. Looks forward to meet.

Max

Trent felt young for the shortest of moments, seeing her B in line with his name. Were he physically capable, he’d have sprouted a hard-on.

Rufus regarded the card players. He leaned into Trent and said, “That old man’s monkey stared at me funny.” He took out his hanky and blew his nose. “I don’t particularly care for that monkey,” he said.

Abe felt the calm he’d always felt at a card table. He smiled. He looked at the faces around the Wobbler. Taffy Reed. Harold Beavers. Tiny Rutherford. Those who had always longed to sit and play against him. Those who’d practiced sufficient to clean out most professional men.

Still, by any account, it was an odd four-man game.

Taffy Reed had folded every hand.

Rutherford played a more conservative style than he had as a younger man.

Harold Beavers played loose as a goose.

Abe had asked them already, “How do you find the cards?” They were playing with Big Sun Devil Backs.

Taffy Reed said he liked the varnish. The other two said not a word.

Now Taffy studied his hand and folded again.

Rutherford pulled his chips and drank from the tall rye that Goldie had refilled a half hour prior. He stifled a belch.

Harold Beavers yawned and asked once again, “When’s that whore comin back around with more?”

Abe smiled. He said, “A madam is no man’s five-dollar chippy.”

“Say again?”

“She’ll be back presently I’d imagine,” Abe said.

Rutherford was winning. His chip stack was plenty high, but still he was uneasy. He knew there was no reason to be — after Abe had frisked them, he’d returned the favor and searched every inch to be had on the body of the Keystone Kid. After that, he’d checked the table and chairs himself, running his hand along their undersides and legs. Nothing was hidden inside the little brick room.

Harold Beavers lit a cigar and Abe shuffled before his own deal.

Rutherford could wait no longer. “I’ve got to drain it,” he said. He stood and walked to the door and unlocked it. “That the piss hole I seen across the way?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Abe answered. “Bucket’s in the back.” He thought a moment. “Watch out for the snakes,” he said.

Rutherford’s neck skin pricked. He swung open the door and stepped through.

“Leave that open,” Abe said.

“Why?”

“I’ve got to keep my eye on you.”

“You want to shake it off when I’m done too?” Rutherford said. He shook his head and left open the door and walked to the pantry.