Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“How’s my favorite cuz tonight?”

Buddy’s grin made Dropsy flinch.

“Not yer cousin, Buddy. Just a plain old brother-in-law.”

“Such a stickler for detail, cuz. Impressive talk coming from an idjit.”

Dropsy knew good and well Buddy awarded no favoritism in this world whether brother, cousin, or casual acquaintance. “Doin’ just fine, Buddy. Yerself?”

“Looks like you boys gotcher selves a little tat on, eh?”

“Tryin’ to keep low here, Buddy” It’s hard to be invisible when the bandleader is chatting you up. “If you don’t mind.”

“Ah, no, I don’t mind a’tall, Dropsy.” Of course Buddy not minding was no indicator as to whether he might do a fellow a favor by shutting up and moving on. “How’s that pretty little sister of your’n, cuz?”

“Got two pretty sisters, Buddy,” Dropsy said with a sniff and a glance in Malaria’s direction, not liking the direction of Buddy’s banter, smelling the whiskey on his breath and knowing how whiskey made him ugly.

“You know the one I’m talking about, cuz. Not the barmaid. The whore. The one I married. The one bore me a son.”

Before Dropsy’s brain could formulate a response, two attractive working gals-both light-skinned but only one with light-skinned features-surrounded Buddy from either side.

“Well, ladies!” Buddy’s patented lady-killer glow poked sparkling pinpricks through the red of his eyes.

“Hi, Buddy!” the two chirped in giggly unison.

“Such beauty in this ugly world. Almost makes life worth livin’, knowin’ such creatures as your fine selves exist.” Café au lait cheeks flushed rosy pink, giggles fluttering onward and upward with rising pitch.

Giggling whore #1: “Want I should hold yer horn fer ya, Buddy?”

Giggling whore #2: “Want sumpin’ ta drink, Buddy?”

“Well, you ladies shore are kind to a working man. I’ll just hang onto my little baby,” stroking his horn, “but I admit to bein’ mighty dry. My usual, if you please.”

The girls scampered off competitively for the right to retrieve Buddy’s famous poison of choice, a double shot of Raleigh Rye. Dropsy’s eyes rolled-Raleigh was also Jim’s drink, as a direct result of Buddy’s example.

“Yer little cracker pal seems to be giving those gents a mighty good show, cuz. If they don’t pay out on the tat, they oughta pay him for sheer entertainment value.”

Dropsy was fully aware that Jim’s adulation for Buddy failed to dilute the musician’s contempt for him.

“I ’spect there’s still a little bit of that devil left in him yet.”

“Jim’s the smoothest tat operator ever was,” Dropsy monotoned in proud defense of his friend.

“Still ain’t answered mah first question, boy.” Buddy’s lips had flattened, the red of his eyes regaining control. It could chill a person’s blood when Buddy’s mood dropped like that-and Dropsy gave a shiver to prove it.

“Diphtheria just fine, Buddy. Just fine.”

“Look me in the eye when you talk to me, boy.”

Dropsy kept his gaze in place. “Watching for a signal, Buddy. You know that. Gotta keep lookin’ at Jim. Got a tat on.”

Buddy grabbed him by the bicep and spun him around till Dropsy’s eyes left Jim and locked with his own.

“You lippin’ me, boy?” Buddy low-toned through clenched teeth.

“Nah, Buddy. I’s just workin’. You know that.” Buddy bore into Dropsy’s eyes five seconds more before releasing his grip and coughing up a particularly ugly laugh. Dropsy brushed his arm as if ridding himself of ants before directing the compass of his nose back to the night’s True North. He wasn’t completely sure he hadn’t missed the signal. Dropsy felt his heart thump with worry: Damn that drunken, horn-blowing fool.

Buddy whinnied some more at the sight of Dropsy’s newly flared nostrils, “Just funnin’ with ya, cuz. Don’t get all excited now.”

“I ain’t excited, Buddy,” Still steaming, but in control.

“I tell ya, cuz,” Buddy switched gears from plainly mean to transparently tender, “If you see that pretty sister of your’n? The whore, I mean.” Grinning like a Cheshire cat now. “You tell her I’m pinin’ hard. Tell her I long for her sweet touch. Tell her I can’t rightly live without her. Tell her I could use a good fuck .”

Dropsy struggled to keep his rage in check. There was business at hand; he had to keep a cool head and an eye on his partner.

“You need to get yerself a sense of humor, cuz! Lord o’me you do, indeedy-do. Ha! ”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Buddy.”

“Looks like my lucky night, cuz.” The two pretty octoroon hookers were making their way back to Buddy, each holding a double shot. Buddy placed a hand on Dropsy’s shoulder, noting its tremble. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, cuz. These fine ladies require my immediate and undivided attention.” With a girl on each arm, Buddy crossed the hall, past Black Benny, and down the stairs to the Eagle Saloon-presumably to go around the block for some quick crib-time before the next set. Dropsy silently conceded that, all things considered, it really wasn’t hard to see why Jim looked up to Buddy.

Newly undistracted, Dropsy re-sharpened his focus on the business at hand-just as Malaria reached Jim’s table with a small circular tray balanced expertly on three fingers.

“Sir?” she addressed Walter, avoiding eye contact with Jim.

“Yes…um, another round of your fine red ale for my companions and I. And a shot of scotch for the youngster. And clean up this mess if you would, pretty darlin’.”

“Rye, if you please,” corrected Jim weakly. “Raleigh Rye if you got some.”

The Samaritan seemed unfazed by the youngster’s specific taste in liquor, saying only, “Raleigh Rye it is then.”

Malaria’s eyebrows narrowed in Jim’s direction, her expression causing Walter to add, with measured indignance: “It’s for medicinal purposes only, young lady. So don’t give me no huff about his age. As you can see, our young guest has suffered injury and is in great pain.”

“Of course, sir. Pardon.” Malaria gave the table a quick wipe with a rag before disappearing back into the crowd.

One of the marks, a large bellied man with an unkempt black beard, peeled several alcohol-soaked playing cards from the floor. “Well, Walter, it looks like we’re done with cards for the night.”

Good Samaritan Walter shot the fat man a scolding glance: “I just bought you another round, Tommy. All you got is complaints? Well, ain’t that just fine.”

Cautious laughter crept up the throats of the other three but was swallowed back, leaving residual twinkles in six bleary eyes. “Sorry, Walter. Thank you, Walter,” said Fat Tommy, with a sudden rosiness at the cheeks. Jim noted that Walter held some authority over the others. This was useful information, as it indicated they might have a tendency to follow Walter’s lead.

After a few minutes Malaria returned, bending down to expose maximum cleavage as she laid out drinks. Walter paid, then tipped a nickel. She thanked him with a gracious smile then spun around quickly, her shoulder accidentally connecting hard with the bony chest of an old man with white hair and no nose.

“I got my eye on you, devil.” Marcus Nobody Special stood on trembling legs, extending his right index finger in the direction of Jim Jam Jump. “Sent here by that Voodoo witch to make my life a hell. I know you.” The noise level around the table dropped to a murmur. “Listen, devil. I got my eye on you. Don’t think I don’t. I watch yer every move.” Jim stared at him blankly.

“What in the name of Pete…” Walter looked at Jim suspiciously. “Do you know this man, son?”