Two-Gun & Sun (22 page)

*

In the five minutes I was away Morris had gathered a crowd. I returned to find him sitting with his back against the counter, thumbs under his suspenders, talking thickly. The diva had departed with one of the men, leaving me the only woman.

I was in Saskatchewan, Morris was telling the gathering, sipping whisky in the kitchen of the local bordello. Madame Zed, she called herself, short for Zelda. An old-timer for that business, but a magnificent head of dark hair on the woman. As seasoned as her newest was not, but they both spoke the same lingo.

We have a new girl, she says to me, and she calls out, Get your can in here and meet our favourite guest!

The girl makes her appearance. A pretty thing with a head of blonde curls. As we say in Montreal, she has
un grand balcon
, gentlemen,
un grand balcon
.

And he held his hands out as though he were holding up an armload of firewood.

Yes, eh?
Oui?
I can see that she'll be popular with the customers. Madame Zed turns to me. Cold-Ass Marie, she says, meet Two-Gun Cohen.

Well, I tip my hat and she curtsies and then Madame Zed says, Cold-Ass, get this gentleman another shot. Which she does, and when she pours my drink I ask her, Why do they call you Cold-Ass?

Feel, she says.

The men guffawed and then Morris saw me and jackknifed to his feet.

There you are, we were just talking about mining claims. Here now, have a seat, my dear.

Wolf was still at the stove, tea towel at his waist, dishing up dinner.

Three fingers, Morris asked him, raising his mug. And for my lady friend as well.

They were the same mugs that had held our tea.

Wolf took up a bottle and slammed it down. Help yourself, he said. But don't forget. I know exactly how much is in it.

Morris dipped his head in acknowledgment. Every customer I could see had a metal mug, perhaps because glass was breakable. Certainly they were not an attempt to disguise illicit contents. The shelf with its glittering bottles made that plain enough.

Two fingers, I told him.

Over a platter of hoisin bird with crisp greens, and mugs of whisky, I asked him, You just made that up, didn't you? About being called Two-Gun Cohen.

Made it up? I'm wounded. I'm certain I told you when we first met.

You referred to yourself as a two-gun something. You didn't introduce yourself by that name. It's the first I've heard of it.

Like a Chinese, I have many names. Here, let me pour you another. In my previous life I was Morris from Montreal. I loved that city. The red brick and the cafés and the Saint Lawrence. It was almost like London and the Thames. But one big difference. In Montreal, you don't have to be an Englishman. Some would even say it's preferable if you aren't. In London, it seemed to me, no matter where I walked, a hollow sound followed me, like a low, howling wind.

He puffed up his cheeks and said, Joo-oo-oo.

Outrageous, I said.

We clinked mugs.

I don't hear it so much anymore, not unless I try to lunch in the clubs, or step onto a golf course. Well, who in blazes wants to golf anyway? What woman would want me, working up a sweat like that in those ugly checkered pantaloons? Jesus Christ I haven't dressed like that since I was twelve. And checkers. I'd look like a table cloth. You go ahead and laugh, Lila. I would, too. God almighty. No, you'd better not be Jewish, not on a golf course.

More? he asked.

I held up my metal mug.

See, in Montreal, he explained, I was like everyone else. I wasn't Morris the Jew. I was Morris from Montreal,
Maurice de Montréal
.

The drink was making him even more talkative than usual, and me, less so.

I was in the dry goods business for a while, he continued. That's where I developed a passion for suits. The cut of the fabric, the weave that determines the drape of a cloth. The suit makes the man, I believe that. Makes the woman, too. Take your camouflage. Your preferred look and colour—

I wear more than this.

Indeed you do. But of the same hue. The outfit you wore the other day. Charcoal.

Black, I corrected.

Though the town would have coated it in dust, lightening it. He had me there.

And the very first time I saw you, he said.

My lavender-grey travel suit.

You see? Lavender-
grey
.

Almost a light plum, I said, forcing myself to speak in order to slow him down.

No, plum is a mix of red and blue, darkened with black. It has little of the white needed to grey up the black. Plum is more like burgundy. Which is redder. Wine, redder still. I made fabric and colour my business. Now, wine or puce, the difference is a matter of personal preference.

The apple nudged against my thigh, reminding me of its redness, and of my printer.

Does Vincent ever come here? I asked.

Sometimes he works here.

As well as the garden?

That's his recipe, he said, pointing at our platter with his chopsticks. I told you he could cook. How else do you think a Cowichan like Wolf got to cooking hoisin crow? He's industrious, our dear Vincent. Always looking for ways to make money. He'd make a good Jew.

And Morris laughed at his own joke.

Their paper used to have some incomprehensible Chinese name until he came along. The Bing Bang Boom or some damn thing. He said
The Chinese Times
would be both English and Chinese at the same time, and sell more copies because of it. He was right.

In a moment of self-pity—I blame the whisky—I told him about my run-in with the deputy with the greasy hair.

He calls the Chinese fish. He says they smell like fish.

I've never heard such rubbish.

Someone left a dead fish by my back door, and then my front door, too. I think it's that filthy deputy. It's a message to me. He doesn't like it that I include Chinese concerns in my news.

Such as the leader coming here, he said. And because you hired Vincent.

I nodded, his understanding forcing me to consider again how much of it I had brought on myself with that one little news announcement. Even so, I had thought that this man, famous for throwing another out the door for trying to rob a Chinese, might muster up a few more words of sympathy, especially for someone like me who was being tormented for similar alliances. But he offered nothing more.

It was hard to focus on what Morris said after that. It seemed he had returned to our previous topic, but each time the door opened I expected to see Vincent.

I know my colours, Morris was saying, just as I know my fabrics. I would have stayed there, I would have. But –

Stayed where? I asked.

My girl, I don't believe you've heard a word I've said. I must be tiring you.

Not at all, I lied. It's the drink.

My head was swimming, my thoughts fuzzy, so that much was true.

He raised the bottle. Another?

I shook my head.

Now where was I? It was Montreal, he continued. One day I was looking at a bolt of white linen and I said, I want to get me a few suits of this. I want to see the tropics.

He stopped to drain his mug.

I doubted he had more than two white suits but in this town even ten wouldn't be enough. This was the first meal I'd eaten that hadn't come out of a can, and after a while I didn't mind how much he talked, I was enjoying myself. I alternated between fork and chopsticks, the latter to simply slow me down. The sticks slid through my fingers, allowing half of each mouthful to drop back onto my plate. I moved my grip further down, pinching the sticks near their tips.

Why not black for the road? I asked.

He leaned forward, took my left hand in his as though he had something to confess. I pulled it free.

I'm getting to that, he said. But my, oh my, you have an appetite, one to match my own. I might just have to marry you, Lila Sinclair.

I put utensils and mug beside my plate and sat back.

He sat back in his chair, too, and roared. My dear, don't you worry! I'd have to rob banks to feed the two of us. Another drink? Still no? Had enough? Well, to get to the tropics I had to travel west. Westward ho. I felt like a cowboy. That was my turning point, he said. I could be a tailor. Or I could be me. And so, I got me some boots.

He stuck his foot out and I noticed for the first time a pair of well-tooled, leather cowboy boots.

And I got myself a hat, he said. A pair of Levi's, Jewish name, Lee-vi, a branch of our family from Chicago pronounced it Lee-vee, but they weren't in the dungaree business. What was I saying? Boots? Shirts, that was it. Then I set out, sending the white suits ahead in a trunk.

You went by horse?

I recalled the black beast that arrived kicking and squealing. Why had I forgotten it? And something else—but Morris had roared ahead with his story and I scrambled to catch up.

By train. It was in Manitoba that I bought my belt and holster and my guns. I bought myself a dark grey suit, too, for sitting in the dining car. But when I was out on the land, it was the dungarees I wore. A little bandana here.

He touched his neck where a white collar, unbuttoned, revealed a roll of flesh.

I bought a hat, too. Not just any city hat, but a real cowboy hat. Turns out I love being out on the land. But I love the cities even more. Not so lonely. I was gambling in Moose Jaw when I lost my shirt.

He laughed, looking around him to see who else was listening.

And my denims and my hat, he added, his voice louder. Almost lost my boots, too, but I won them back.

My eyes shot to the side, away from the vision of him in nothing but his underwear and boots.

That was in my friend Al's place, in Moose Jaw. A bigger shyster than me. Smart man, he tunnelled under the border so he could run booze across. But he wasn't smart enough to win my boots. I was going to have to shoot my way out, but he acquiesced, the fucker. 'Scuse my anglais.

Acquiesced. There are some words that beg to be recorded. They are beautiful, full or round or long, their sounds shaping their meaning, this one, a stream fizzing over rocks.

I gave my head a shake. I was drunk. And what about your grey suit? I asked. It would be ideal, here.

His face twitched and he said, Well that's a detail I'll have to expand upon later.

I drew circles in the sauce with the tip of a chopstick, considering. This isn't at all the story that Vincent told me.

Morris from Montreal, I remarked.

Maurice de Montréal
, he growled.

As well as Two-Gun.

Another flicker of memory, then. The horse again.

But once more he seized the conversation and in a lowered voice, leaning forward, said, I can't show you here, but. Outside. He stood, then, and after much jerking and twisting of his head to indicate that I should stand as well, he said, in a loud voice, A fine meal,
mon ami
. We are off now for our evening constitutional.

I whispered to Morris that we should pay, but he said it was taken care of.

I was reminded then that he had not yet come up with the money to seal our partnership, or to pay the remainder owing for his advertisement in my paper. Another time. I didn't trust my tongue to pronounce the many and complicated syllables required for such a query.

We left the cantina and Lousetown behind us, walking the path that I had cycled the day of my accident, through the tall grass and around the other side of Black Mountain. Ahead, a black tree branch clawing its way out of a lead sky, the moon, burning a silver rim through shreds of black cloud, a barely perceptible outline of itself.

I took Morris' arm, which he purposely misunderstood.

My darling, he began.

Wild pigs, I explained. We could be in danger.

He let go of my arm and turned to me. Clutching the hem of his jacket on both sides, as though he were about to curtsy, he lifted it to reveal a leather belt and two pistols, their pearl handles glowing whitely above the holsters. I should have noticed the pair sooner, but I could forgive myself, given that they were hidden beneath a jacket the size of Saskatchewan.

You got them back.

—yes.

Damnit, I'd fed him the answer, again. Quickly, I asked, How?

But he ignored my question and said, They call me Two-Gun because of these.

He grabbed the handles and drew: one, two.

Are those loaded? You'll need them if we go much further. The pigs, remember.

He had frightened my tongue into sobriety.

We're stopping right here, he said.

A row of bottles had been set up earlier and winked at me from a ledge of stone. Behind them, shattered glass. Maybe someone else had been practising, because he fired, and missed.

I folded my arms. Shit almighty, he couldn't hit a pig if it was sitting in front of him.

The darkness, he offered. Hard to see straight let alone shoot straight.

Besides, you can't go off firing guns at night. It isn't safe.

In truth I was worried he'd use up all the bullets, and maybe awaken the pigs. And then what?

Perhaps you're right, he said. I'll wait until daylight. He waved one pistol carelessly above his head, indicating the sky.

Stop that.

He grinned and slid both pistols into their holsters.

Some lady friends, he elaborated, were calling me Two-Gun when I had just the one gun.

I had to press my lips into a tight line to stop from laughing. However, it was good to have company, even his.

At last I said to him, You could have simply shown me that get-up back there.

A cantina calls for a different approach. Any of them back there get a glimpse of these matching pistols and they'd be challenging me.

The opera crew? Marcel?

But Morris wasn't listening. He said, I save these for important matters. I can be doubly effective as a bodyguard.

For who? I asked.

Our leader. He's coming here, don't forget.

I haven't. You said you'd introduce me, remember?