Two-Gun & Sun (27 page)

Reporting on it, I said, though it's no secret that he sided with unions.

Mr. Bones paused, tapping his fingers on the counter. Your uncle, he finally said. He was the one who told me about the agitator. He was neither for a union nor against one. He didn't like their attitude about the Lousetowners. For obvious reasons.

By then he had turned to leave and paused, the door ajar, his face tilted.

The two groups clashed, he said, with boards and pipes and whatever they could find. Fists flying, too. What a sound, wet, like mother pounding dough for
roti.
The sheriff and his deputies came in with bats swinging to break it up. When the two sides drew back your uncle was found lying on the ground.

Air out my lungs like a head butt from Pete.

I was told it was a heart attack, I said.

It was. Brought on by the riot. He collapsed and then got trampled. Each side felt bad. Each side blamed the other. Still do. He was liked by many, though his choice of, ah, company, did not agree with all. Some have felt that your coming here would stir things up, again. That you would point fingers.

You knew him well.

Not as well as some. But yes.

*

I thought about his words during and after a long soak in the tub, and my near-success at removing ink stains from my knuckles and nails. Trampled. No one mentioned it. Not here. Not back home.

It took two attempts to gather my hair into a French roll. In the end I decided that a loose sweep of strands actually hid the shaved edges nicely. I checked the sides in the closet mirror, and pushed the hairpin in place.

I tossed the box onto my bed and walked around it, still thinking. For obvious reasons, he said. What did that mean? I stopped pacing and leaned over, pulled the bow, lifted the lid and parted the layers of tissue.

Oh-h. I said it softly though there was no one to hear. Vincent had been by to pick up his clothes, and to run the inside pages and slice them from the roll of newsprint with his knife, but I had missed the event, missed him. I had been at Meena's for last-minute fittings for this very gown.

I lifted the dress by the shoulders, and the frothy hem tumbled down. I laid it out on the bed and looked at it, trying to imagine myself in anything so fine.

She had thought of everything. Gloves, chemise, garters. Even heels that I had carried home myself that last day.

I left my plaid housecoat in a puddle at my feet, slipped into the silks and then sat on the bed to pull on my stockings, snapping their tops into the garters. The sheath slipped over my head and fell into place when I stood. My stockinged heels slid into the pale shoes, the fit snug, perfect. I climbed onto the chair. In the closet mirror I saw a woman of style from Paris who fastened the side hooks and smoothed the skirt with the palms of her hands.

Carefully, I climbed down. I wriggled my fingers into the gloves, dark as the deep blue of the dress. I took up a rectangle of sheer material in the same blue-black, wrapped it around my shoulders. My mother's beaded bag on my wrist, just large enough to contain keys, invitation, notebook and pencil, I descended the steps.

*

At six o'clock a motorcycle and sidecar pulled up, a two-seater. It would be dark at evening's end and my escort and I would have to walk back, but for now my gown would remain pristine. Even so, I insisted that I ride in front, risking the wind and dust in my face. The driver revved the engine and we tore around the newspaper building and back onto the road. Two blocks of high speed exhilaration. The wind forced my mouth open, blasting down my throat. Morris clapped a hand onto my shoulder and shouted, That's my girl! I twisted my head around, beaming at his words. I didn't even mind the grit, though I almost lost my silver hairpin.

We arrived just as the musicians were jostling for room in their orchestra pit behind the bar. Sweet strains of the violin floated over the heads of the gathering. Tables were set with linen and silver. Guests sipped from glasses of champagne and chatted.

My gown rustled pleasantly as I walked among the guests. I was a flawed Parisian, but the drape of the hem covered my stitched leg, and about my ears the curls of hair that I could feel had sprung loose from the hairpin would help to further mask the shaved edges.

I felt the scratch of the razor, still, as we sat on his bed, felt as well the prickling of new growth that would soon disguise all evidence of that day.

My date was by my side only briefly, elbowing his way over to a table to shake hands and talk. I greeted those around me: the Scot, San Francisco, Silver. My stomach lurched and every nerve in me twitched at the expectation of that deputy appearing by his side. He would have to wash up for the occasion and maybe that was too much for him because no amount of scanning the room produced him. My eyes had found Drummond, though, standing by a wall, observing. I had words for him, too. In time. By then I saw where my escort was headed: to Vincent's leader, the famous man I have been desperate to interview.

I whipped my head around to see if Drummond had noticed. He had. He stared intently at Sun while Silver moved over to his side and they whispered.

So this was to be a stand-off. Sun and his people were untouchable here. This was no illegal gathering of Lousetowners but a dinner and opera for the residents of both Lousetown and Black Mountain. Miners at work right now could attend the matinee tomorrow. Anyone else who could afford a ticket was here tonight. Wolf lifted his chin when he saw me, and folded his arms. Parker seemed oblivious but maybe he didn't recognize me in such an outfit. Doctor/Mr. Bones, who was there in the capacity of neither healer nor stitcher but audience member, flashed his glasses appreciatively at my gown, his creation. The women of
The Saloon
, in every lewd colour from tropical pink to bright orange, had indeed taken the evening off—why not, their customers were here as well—and were already settled into a table by the stage. Dee half-rose and dipped her head at me in greeting. I had once held unkind thoughts about her and the others and their boudoir-smelling roses. I had been a cow, really. But I had come to terms with those feelings. I had been ill-treated by the very deputy I had warned her about, and all because I had been abandoned by the very man I had been jealous about. My anger had been used up on them. I raised my glass to her and she raised hers, wincing as she did so. I recalled now that she hadn't joined the other women of
The Saloon
after the mine explosion. One of them said she wasn't well. Was she still ill? I didn't see how. Not only was she drinking, but she downed hers in one go. She was joined by a couple of miners, then, clean and dressed but with the visible residue of coal about their hands and necks, and they bent their heads in conversation. Good. I had other business tonight.

I took up my skirts and, trying not to expose my stitches, hurried over to Morris. I was certain he would have already introduced himself as Two-Gun.

A horrible tragedy, he was saying as I approached. I saw the crash from a nearby window. Trains, he continued. I agree with you wholeheartedly. A rail line running right into the heartland, a ribbon of iron that will form the backbone of an industrialized nation. You'll need guards on the trains, experienced gunmen to fight off the train robbers. We've had our share of those scoundrels in the west.

Two-Gun's bulk was blocking my view of the leader. All I could see was one thin shoulder and then skeletal fingers tracing a map of China in the air, or so it seemed. I could imagine a scalpel in his hand. Not a labourer, this one. I could hear his voice, the measured pace and rounded vowels next to Morris' harsh Cockney gallop. A man such as yourself, he said, and then something about a valued addition.

He couldn't know that this Two-Gun had no right to even mouth the word scoundrel in reference to anyone but himself, who had his charms, yes, but what about getting into fights and lying and consorting with someone named Cold-Ass Marie? It would have been tempting to mention the posse and his time in jail, too, but I was after an introduction.

I wedged myself beside Two-Gun at last, only to hear the dinner bells chime. He tore himself away from the cluster, amazingly swift when food was the draw.

The shit. This had been the deal: an introduction to Sun in exchange for partial ownership of my newspaper.

Morris! I called out, sharply. Two-Gun! But already he was back at the table.

I decided I would introduce myself. The leader, however, had melted into the circle of aides who folded their arms and would not let me through.

I told them who I was but they wouldn't budge. How, I asked them, is he supposed to get his word to the people when you won't let him talk to the press?

They stood their ground in silence.

As I neared my date I heard gasps from surrounding tables, and I enjoyed them. An
ooo
sound that could be simply in appreciation:
soup
, but more likely,
Jew
. There seemed to be some chatter about diamonds, too, and exploration. Not surprising, given the mining interests in the crowd. I heard
The Bullet
named, as well. So they were reading it. Good.

Silver shook his head as I passed by. Him! he said.

Silver might have expected me to ask him to be my guest, instead. I smiled as sweet a smile as I could muster before thoughts of his deputy took hold.

There you are, I said tartly, and took my seat next to my date. You were supposed to introduce me. Remember?

He leaned over and admitted, Yes. But I didn't want to scare him off by saying you were with the press.

Oh, I said, realizing I had done just that.

There, there, he said, patting my gloved hand. There'll be another opportunity. We got along famously, as I knew we would.

Meena arrived late and was seated at our table, joined shortly after by her escort who had been supervising operations in the kitchen, and was now free. I was both pleased and startled. It was Marcel. I tensed, wondering how this throng would respond. But he didn't inspire the hoots that Two-Gun had. He was our chef, and men rose from their seats when he passed, women fluttered and gushed. Even Bugle Boy, too drunk to stand, tipped his head and smiled.

Mademoiselle
, Marcel said, and kissed my hand.

Chère,
he said to Meena.

He drew out his chair and sat next to her, whispering something in her ear that had her laughing.

From here I had a good view of the side table and the leader, Sun. Surrounding him was his entourage and beneath their jackets I spied the bulky outlines of what were certainly pistols.

A figure darted behind the backdrop of Paris. The sharp voices told me he wasn't one of the players, and wasn't wanted back there where they were dressing and putting on make-up. It was the only reason for the painted background. There was no Eiffel Tower in a story set in the West.

I shot a glance at Drummond and noted how his eyes flicked from Sun to where the figure had been, and then back to Sun.

At the table on the other side of us was the Scot, who half-rose in his seat and blasted, Cook boy! This soup is cold.

Cook Boy trotted out from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of soup on a tray.

I gasped so loudly that everyone at my table turned to look. Only my date guessed what was wrong.

Is he—

I tried to look away. But Vincent saw me. Of course he saw me. I was sitting there in plain view.

His expression seemed to ask the question I had not even considered until that moment: Why Morris? Two-Gun was pure business, my business partner in fact, which he knew very well. But this was one place where Vincent and I could have shown up together, just as Meena and Marcel had. Is that what his look meant? I had spent days, weeks, working next to him, telling stories, eating lunch, talking about opera, this very opera, and yes, even sitting in his room, his razor tracing my temples . . . but no, not long after that he had fled with his leader. So why not Morris? And I had to admit that his queue, his most handsome attribute in the intimacy of my shop and his room, looked suddenly out-of-place here, out-of-time.

He had stood for too long. Now everyone was staring where he stared. At me. My only consolation was that he didn't look at the man who made the speeches. Not once.

Moonlighting! Two-Gun cried. By Christ it's your fucking printer! Vincenzo, my man!

Attention from the surrounding diners switched in an instant from my printer and me to my escort and his language. A drone of disapproval.

Two-Gun half-stood to apologize, somewhat off balance in his haste to right the situation, backside tipping his chair onto its rear legs and belly shoving the table forward.

Humblest, humblest apologies, he offered, then fell back into his chair, which slammed loudly onto its front legs. By the time I raised my hot face, Vincent was gone, a steaming bowl placed before the Scot.

A roast pig with an apple in its mouth was carried out and placed on the bar. I didn't need to wonder where either had come from.

Two-Gun whispered coarsely in my ear that it was a lot of bacon even for him.

My dear girl, has no one considered hunting in the back hills for game? There's a story for you.

I had thought the same but it was better coming from him. I could quote him.

Marcel got up from our table and stepped forward to carve up the cooked beast with great flourishes of a large fork and knife. Waiters, none of them Vincent, bustled around him serving plates of sliced pork with tinned peas and Yorkshire pudding. Women first. Dessert was baked apple with tinned cream. The locals must have thought Marcel special-ordered a crate of apples just for this dinner.

After the meal, which I pushed around my plate, the tables were cleared and dancing began. I wasn't in the mood but relented, Two-Gun insisting rightfully that it was a waste of a pretty frock if I didn't.

It's your colour, he whispered hoarsely.

It is not.

I thought of the burnt orange I was supposed to be wearing, what a jolt of colour that would have been.