Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

Matter of fact, I did, he said. He fought down a belch and sat down on the edge of the bed. He motioned for Lucy to sit next to him but she remained standing.

I’ve thought it over, he said, and I’ve decided that I am unhappy with our current arrangement.

He kept watching Lucy’s face.

After all, it is my man, my instrument, my show. This very night I can go out on the road and earn twice what I’ll take in here.

You’re joking, Lucy said.

I can part with thirty percent. Thirty percent, you’ll agree, is an act of generosity.

Lucy rolled her eyes and folded her arms.

I’m not running a dance hall, Mr. Duke. People don’t come here to listen to music. Time they spend with your box is time they’re not upstairs with my girls. So you tell me, who’s taking the real loss? Sixty-forty as agreed.

Duke nodded slowly. They could hear the music coming from downstairs. It was both eerie and soulful, coming up through the floorboards, charging the air. Eli must have started practicing. Duke looked at Lucy, her face turned toward the door, her look faraway.

That old boy can play, can’t he?

Yes, Lucy said. She closed her eyes. Yes, he can certainly do that.

He was in prison when I found him. Doing fifteen years for killing a girl. Did you know that?

I didn’t, Lucy said. Why are you telling me this?

Duke set the flask down on the bed. The two soft orbs inside his skull peered out at her, red and glassy, the right lid twitching.

All right. As you say. Sixty-forty. What can I say, you’ve called my bluff.

Duke stood up from the bed and shrugged deeply.

I’m sure there’s another way for us to settle this. After all, he said, you are a beautiful woman. And I am a man.

He was surprisingly fast, given his bulk. Before Lucy could react, he had grabbed her and pinned her body against the door. She struggled against him and he forced his tongue into her mouth and tasted the rush of iron.

She pushed him away.

Mr. Duke! What’s the matter with you!

She sneered, wiping her mouth.

He could not help but laugh. His tongue was bright and stinging.

Come on, Lucy. Just a little luck for tonight?

Lucy spat. Her jaws tensed.

You will not speak like that to me, she said.

Oh, does the whore have pretenses?

Duke came at her again. There was a flash of dull light and Duke seized her wrist, twisting it until the stiletto dropped from her grip. She let out a cry and raked her hand across his face. The shock sent Duke stumbling backward. There was a crash, and then a thud as he tripped on the empty jug. A horrible sucking noise escaped from his chest. He rolled over onto his knees and started hacking for air.

Lucy readjusted her clothes.

Don’t you forget yourself, Mr. Duke.

She bent down and picked up her knife. Fifty-fifty. If that don’t suit you, you can find your own way out.

Duke gripped his face. His hands were shaking.

He called out after her.

So that’s your choice, is it?

She ignored him and walked out to the hall.

BEFORE SHOWTIME, ELI DREW HIMSELF a bath and scrubbed his body down. When he’d finished, he went to the mirror, swept back his hair with a fine-tooth comb. He put on the cleanest shirt he could find and took an early supper of chitlins and rice alone in his room. All around him, the house was humming. He could hear the girls, running back and forth, stealing each other’s makeup and powdering up their parts.

When it was time, he went downstairs to find the parlor had already filled up. They made way for him as he entered.

He passed by Lucy, who had staked a position near the door. She looked distracted. He winked at her, hoping to get her attention, but her arms were folded and if she saw him, she did not show it.

Duke was waiting by the harmonium. He did not look well. There was a series of gashes across his face, and his skin had turned an angry plum. He puckered at his cigar. Eli took his place at the bench and Duke leaned into his ear.

You’re late, he said.

Sorry, boss.

Never mind that. Just get ready.

Duke cleared his throat and rapped twice on the wood top.

Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.

Duke scooped off his hat.

My name is Augustus Duke. Thank you for joining us for this evening’s entertainment. Before we begin, perhaps a small token to show your appreciation of God’s work on this earth.

He handed his hat to one of the guests.

Don’t be shy. Just a coin or two to wind up our precious music box.

When the hat came back around, Duke bowed deeply before the crowd and shoved the money into his pockets.

Ladies and gentlemen, the man who sits before you tonight is an interesting specimen — a native to your parts. He has walked amongst you, eaten what you have eaten. Drunken what you have drunk. And yet, who of you truly knows Eli Cutter? Oh, his is a long and varied story, and I have traveled far and wide to make record of it.

Who would guess that this gentle, simple man, is — point of fact — a beast among lambs! He stands here before you accused of idolatry and devil worship! A murderer and rapist of children!

Duke turned to Eli.

Mr. Cutter, are there laws yet, either of man or of God, that you have not broken? Ah! And here you are, gifted with a talent of such grace, of such stupefying beauty — it boggles the mind.

But enough of that — I believe I have done you justice. If you would, pleasure us with one of your tunes.

Eli gaped at Duke.

We… we didn’t talk about… I’m not sure—

Duke hissed at him.

You do what you’re told, Eli. The rest you leave to me.

He looked out into the crowd. The guests seemed unsure of themselves. They murmured nervously to one another.

Now, Mr. Cutter. A song.

Eli started playing “My Creole Sue.” It was slow and pretty, but he was only a few bars in before Duke cuffed him hard across the neck.

No, goddamn it. None of that.

He leaned in close and held the burning tip of his cigar above Eli’s knuckles.

You’ll play what I goddamn tell you.

Duke smoothed out the front of his shirt. He cleared his throat and smiled at the crowd.

As I was saying, Mr. Cutter is going to play us a blues.

Eli looked out at the room.

Go on, Duke said.

Nervous laughter rippled across the room.

Eli adjusted himself on his seat and he took a deep breath. The air stretched out in his lungs and pressed against the ache. The keys started to blur. Eli shut his eyes. He stretched out his fingers and tensed the cords of his neck and hands. From behind, he looked like a buzzard, arms spanned wide and high above his shoulders, his head bent forward. For a moment he hung, coasting along some invisible thermal. Then Boom! He beat against the keys. Boom!

Eli threw his head back, and the hands surged down again. Boom! Boom!

He stood up and punched hard at the notes. The box hummed beneath his fingers. He could feel the audience behind him, their hearts rattling in their throats, the piss swelling in their groins. They wanted a blues. So he let them have it. Boom. Boom. Like a hammer at their skulls. Boom. Boom. Boom.

He opened his mouth and powered violently through the noise.

My baby’s gone, my baby’s gone.

DUKE SNUCK OUT OF THE parlor and made his way to the supply room. The key was missing so he forced the door open, tearing the bolt from the jamb. It seemed the stores had been replenished for the evening’s performances. There were jugs upon jugs laid out before him and he gathered what he could into his arms. He uncorked one with his teeth and began there first, spilling the contents in long chemical trails. Then he went out into the hallway and, traveling up and down its length, drenched the curtains and the furniture. When he’d emptied one jug, he returned to the supply room for another and started again, staggering from room to room.