Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

“I’ll give you a tip,” he said. “Stay out of Butte.”

Everyone laughed and he bought more flowers. The wide-shouldered man Joe had seen earlier ordered a round of drinks for a dozen people. He handed Joe a full shot glass.

“Thanks,” Joe said. He pointed to the photographs on the walls, several of which had gold stars affixed to a corner. “Who’re they?”

“Patrons,” the man said.

“What’s the stars for?”

“They died,”

The man lifted his glass in a silent toast to the dead. Joe drained the small glass, wincing at the taste.

“You from here?”

“El Paso,” the man said, “How about you?”

“Ken—” Joe began, then stopped. He forced himself to shrug. “Around,” he said.

The man nodded as if the answer was common, Joe pushed his way to the door, stepping over the legs of a man sitting on the floor. He was furious with himself. Outside a dog was chained to a rack of bicycles. Two pickups raced down the street, driven by teenagers in western hats, and Joe thought of Boyd drag-racing his big Chevelle on the straight stretch of road below their hill. He stopped and looked into the shadowy reflection of a store window. Fuck you, Boyd, he thought.

He walked until he felt calmer, passing new stores with pastel awnings and coffee places that didn’t serve a straight cup of coffee. A shiny shop was devoted to upscale bathroom gear. Coming toward him at a rapid pace was an Indian man wearing an army jacket. Beneath his arm was a stuffed teddy bear. His eyes looked as lost as Joe felt.

The bright orange sign of the Wolf protruded at an angle from the building’s corner, but Joe continued past the front door and down an alley. Like a porno shop or a speakeasy, the Wolf had a side entrance for the poker players. A seat was open and the dealer gave Joe a hand before he sat down. Joe raised without looking at his cards, and the dealer held the flop until Joe threw money on the table. Someone bet. Joe raised as he removed his coat. The dealer burned a card and turned one face up and Joe raised the bet again. He made the final bet before the river card, and three players called. Joe flipped his cards. He had a pair of tens and there was one on the board.

“Three tens,” the dealer said. “Takes the pot.”

He pulled the chips in a heap and used one arm to sweep them to Joe.

“You should cash out,” a player said. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

Joe laughed. At the table’s end was a man dozing between hands, his shirt risen high to expose his belly. One of the dancers played cards while waiting to go onstage in the next room. A young kid sat at the mini-bar, asking people to lend him a gambling stake. The green felt of the low table was smooth, and the chair molded to Joe’s body. He felt good.

He settled into the intricate web of the game. Players came and left, tapping out, buying in, complaining about the dealer, demanding a new deck, filling the air with smoke, and covering the table with fine ash. Joe’s stack of chips continued to grow. He played as if under a hypnotic spell, adding chips to the pot with a flick of his wrist, playing as Boyd had taught him. He was hitting overpairs and big kickers on every flop. His good hands received callers. If a flush bet out, he’d last-card a boat. When facing a full house, he’d hit quads on the river. He flopped sets again and again, slow-playing until the turn, then hammering the bet. The cards were running over him and he was running over the game.

At one in the morning the game broke. They were down to three players and the dealer’s rake was pounding them with chip removal. Joe cashed out with seven hundred dollars. He was tense and hungry but didn’t know what to eat.

He stepped into the dim confines of the strip club and was blasted by the sound of music, the smell of sweat and beer. Two bikers shot pool. A woman in boots strolled a small stage with a slick floor and a mirrored wall Off-duty dancers carried drinks on small trays. He’d never been in a strip club before.

The dancer squatted before a cowboy who held a rolled dollar bill between his teeth. She removed his hat, leaned close to his face, pressed her breasts together and used them, to take the dollar. She backstepped quickly, her face angry. “Fucking asshole,” she said. “Don’t lick.”

She moved down the line like a nurse ministering to patients. No one touched her. She laughed with a few men, and gave the older ones special attention. Joe pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket. When she squatted before him, he wanted to ask her name and how she wound up with, the occupation. Perfume surrounded her like a cocoon. He looked in her eyes and gave her the five.

“Here you go,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Back at you,” she said.

She leaned to kiss his cheek and he smelled her hair and lipstick. Sweat glistened on her breasts as they pressed against him. He reached for her without thinking, but she was gone, had pulled back as if anticipating his movement. Joe watched her walk away. He felt as if she were twitching her hips for him alone.

The man on the stool beside him elbowed Joe. “Wish I had that swing on my back porch.”

The lights were dim, the music loud. The woman prowled the tiny stage until a man waved a dollar and she leaned over him, bending from the waist with her back to Joe. He had never seen a woman stand in such a way and he felt a tingling below his belly, the first desire in months. Her legs were strong, the muscles of her thighs taut. Joe imagined standing behind her. He wondered when she got off work, and if she had a boyfriend.

A woman tapped him on the shoulder. She was wearing a halter top and denim shorts cut high above each hip. She asked if he wanted a drink. He nodded, unable to speak. He felt like he had as a child when he came off a ride at the county fair, overwhelmed by sensation, wanting more.

“What can I get you?” the waitress said.

He continued to nod and she turned away. The dancer was kicking crumpled dollar bills toward the rear of the stage. The music ended. Another dancer stood in the wings, holding a cassette tape, waiting her turn. She removed gum from her mouth and pressed it against the rung of a chair.

Joe waited for the dancer to come out of the dressing room, and after a few minutes she joined the bikers playing pool. Joe watched, feeling as rejected and ignored as he had in high school. He left the bar and hurried through the diner to the street.

just outside the door, two men struggled on the pavement. A short guy clung to the other man’s long hair, beating at his face. The tall man rolled on his back to pin the short one beneath him. A city patrol car arrived and two cops approached the fighters.

“Get him off me,” the tall guy said.

“It looks like you’re on him,” the cop said. He bent over the men. “Come on, Jim Buck, turn loose of his hair.”

The two men rose and stared at each other while the cops stood between them. The car’s toplights flashed red and blue across the concrete.

“Jim Buck, you start walking south,” the cop said. “And you, what’s your name?”

“Nick.”

“He come up and grab your hair from behind?”

“How’d you know?”

The cop shrugged. “He’s from Bozeman. Got a car?”

“Around back.”

“Go on home.”

“I Just got here.”

“You got an ear problem?”

“I’m going, I’m going. It just don’t seem right.”

“Stay away from here tonight.”

Joe headed for his cabin. At the edge of town, the red sign of a motel was partially lit by flickering neon. Joe impulsively pulled into the lot. A bleary-eyed desk clerk gave him a key. In the room was a single bed and a television. Joe lay on the bed. The ugliest picture he’d ever seen was fastened to the wall by six screws. A phone sat on a table and he felt an intense urge to call Abigail He couldn’t remember if the time in Kentucky was earlier or later than Montana.