Donald Pollock - The Heavenly Table

“Boy, you have been busy, haven’t ye?” Cane said.

“So I’m thinkin’ we go out tonight and get us some.”

“Me, too?” Cob said.

“Ah, I don’t think you’d care for it, Junior,” Cane said. “Besides, we can’t all be seen together.”

“But what am I gonna do then?”

“How about I buy you some ice cream at that place we passed and then walk you back to the hotel? You got that ham to eat on and there’s still some doughnuts left.”

“I reckon,” Cob said.

“I’ll wait for ye at the corner right down from where I’m staying,” Chimney said, as he stood up. “You’ll see the taxis settin’ there. And don’t take too long, either.”

Forty minutes later, Cane finally showed up at the cab stand. “Jesus Christ,” Chimney said, “I was about ready to take off by myself.”

“Ah, you know how Cob is. He got started on that ice cream and didn’t want to stop.”

Just then a taxi pulled up and two soldiers hopped out of the backseat. They were in a heated argument about something. They paid the driver and walked around the corner still going at it.

“What was that about?” Chimney asked the cabbie as they climbed in the car.

“Ah, they been out to the Whore Barn,” the cabbie said. “The one with the glasses, he had trouble getting it up, and the other kept ridin’ him about it. I expect they’ll be a fight before they get back to camp. You can tell the red-faced fucker’s one of those guys that likes to start shit.” He turned in the seat and looked back at them. “Is that where you wanting to go, to the Whore Barn?”

“Yeah,” Chimney said.

“This your first time?”

“Hell, no,” Chimney said, “I’ve had plenty of women.” He pulled a pint of whiskey from his duster pocket, twisted the cap off, and took a sip.

“No, I mean your first time to the Whore Barn.”

“We just got into town,” Cane said.

“Well, my advice is if Blackie tries to stick the fat one off on you, tell him you’ll just wait for one of the others. Just between us, she’s full of gonorrhea.” Ever since the cabbie had paid Esther to take a leak on his chest and she’d accidently drenched his new toupee instead, he had been informing everyone that she was wracked with various loathsome and incurable diseases. Not only had she ruined the hairpiece, but she’d made a wisecrack about it, as well, saying it looked so much like a muskrat, it should have been waterproof; and if there was anything he hated worse than a woman with poor bladder control, it was one with a smart mouth. Chimney passed him the pint, and he took a pull and handed it back.

“Who’s Blackie?”

“He’s their pimp.”

“What’s that?” Chimney asked.

“Why, he’s the one you pay.”

“Oh, like their madam,” Chimney said, recalling Miss Ashley, the red-haired, ivory-skinned woman who ran Bloody Bill’s favorite whorehouse back in Denver, Colorado.

“Madam? Uh, yeah. Only he’s a man.”

“How much they charge for a piece?” Chimney said as the cabbie pulled out and headed the car south down Paint Street.

“Oh, it’s cheap enough,” the cabbie said. “You can get a shot of pussy and two drinks for less than five bucks. Course it depends on what you want, too. Some things cost a little more.”

“What do ye mean?” Chimney said.

“Well, say you want to get pissed on or have your balls blistered with a candle. That’d be extra.”

“Pissed on?” Chimney said. “What kind of sick fucker would want something like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the cabbie said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m just tellin’ you what I’ve heard.”

“Well, we just want some of the regular,” Chimney said. “The freaks can have all that other shit.”

The cabbie took them out on the Huntington Pike a quarter of a mile and drove down a lane, pulling up and stopping in front of a long open shed. “This is it?” Chimney said, sounding a little disappointed. He’d been imagining something grand, like the House of Love, a bordello that Bloody Bill once shot up in Kansas City, all stained-glass windows and mahogany woodwork with a string quartet playing on the stone terrace.

“Yep,” the cabbie said. “But don’t let the looks of it discourage you none. And if you’re anything like me, I’d say you’ve laid with women in places a lot worse than this. Why, one of the best fucks I’ve ever had was in a coal bin.” In front of the shed a man in a white shirt and paisley vest sat alone at a campfire with a tin coffee cup in his hand. Off to the right, an older-model car and a huge wagon were parked alongside a wire pen that held some horses eating from a mound of hay. Three tents were pitched in a row inside the shed. Several soldiers were drinking at a bar made from boards set across two barrels and talking to another man with a holstered pistol on his side. Half a dozen lanterns hung from beams inside the shed, but they weren’t lit yet and the place looked more like a camp for migrant workers than a cathouse. “Who do we talk to?” Chimney asked as they got out.

“The man a-sittin’ at the fire,” the cabbie said. “He’ll fix you up.”

When Blackie saw them approaching, he stood up and smiled at them with the biggest, whitest teeth they had ever seen. His thick, dark hair was slicked back in a high pompadour that reminded Cane of a rooster’s crest. “You boys lookin’ for some fun?”

“Yeah,” Chimney said.

“Well, you came to the right place,” Blackie said. “I got one named Matilda who’s free at the moment.”

“She ain’t the fat one, is she?”

“No, that’s Esther. You want her, you’ll have to wait in line. Those boys standing at the bar are next. Matilda’s a little on the lean side, but she’s a wildcat in the sack.”

“How much?”

“Matilda’s a high-quality four-dollar piece.”

“She’ll do,” Chimney said, pulling out some money. “Maybe I’ll try the big one later.”

“Last tent down,” the pimp said. “Go ahead. She’ll be waiting on ye.” Then he turned to Cane and looked at his suit. “Now you look like a man who likes something a little more refined. I got a real lady who speaks French. She’s with another customer right now, but they should be about finished.”

“How much does she cost?” Cane asked, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. He watched his brother disappear inside the brown canvas tent.

“Peaches is the same as Matilda.”

Cane had just handed the man his money when a wheezing old-timer with brown, leathery skin came out of the second tent dragging one leg behind him. He stopped and bent over, hacked a throat-full of yellowish phlegm onto the ground, then continued on until he disappeared into the line of trees beyond the horse pen. “There ye go,” Blackie said, “right on time.”

As he walked past the soldiers, Cane heard them talking among themselves about Esther. “She’ll do anything you want and you don’t have to pay extra for it, either. Me and ol’ Dugan double-teamed her the other night, worked her over from the front and the back till we damn near met in the middle.” With a little trepidation, he pulled back the flap on the tent and stooped down a little as he entered. A woman with long blond tresses and a pretty face was squatted down over a bucket in the corner, but when she saw him, she sprung up and pulled her white slip down. She reached over and picked up a cigarette from a little wooden box on the table, then said with a frown, “Just give me a couple minutes, okay? I need a smoke.”

“Take your time,” Cane said. “I’m not in any hurry.” He was a little surprised at how comfortable the tent looked, almost like a regular room. A padded chair sat in the corner, and on a polished nightstand beside the small bed was a lit candle and some slightly wilted wildflowers in a blue vase.