“No, sir, not over here, but I imagine they’ll make it rough on him for a while, then send him home with a dishonorable.”
“I suppose I better go see him this afternoon, write up a report,” Bovard said. He started to turn away toward the dining hall. He hated to think what that obnoxious loudmouth Waller would say about this. Ever since Lucas’s name had come up during lunch that day, the sonofabitch had been needling him in pissy little ways. Bovard had been thinking a lot about a story Malone had told him that involved some soldiers who had murdered their commanding officer and made it look like he had stepped on a land mine. Five months ago he would have never dreamed of doing such a thing, but if Waller kept it up, well, who knew what might happen once they got to France? “Sir, you still need a groom,” he heard the sergeant say.
Bovard stopped. From where he stood he could see the hospital, and, beyond it, the stables. Oh, well, he thought, if he couldn’t have his pick, what did it matter who it turned out to be? Maybe the pain of Wesley’s absence at his side would make death at the Front even sweeter. “You were right,” he said over his shoulder to Malone. “I should have listened to you in the first place.”
“Sir?”
“About Cooper. He’s by far the best man for the job.”
49
AT NINE O’CLOCK, Cane left his brothers sitting on the south bank of Paint Creek and rode into Meade to look around. Within a few minutes, he was satisfied that the town was big enough that they wouldn’t attract attention. The sidewalks were overflowing with people of all sorts, and the streets crowded with every type of horse and mule and car and wagon imaginable. A hundred different sounds filled the sour, slightly chemical air. He returned two hours later and printed in block letters on a piece of paper the name of the livery and the hotel that he wanted Chimney to use, told him where they could be found. “Me and Cob will go first,” Cane said. “Give us half an hour. Then ride in and stable the horse and rent yourself a room. Buy some clothes and get cleaned up, then go find out what you can about buying that automobile.”
“Jesus, anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s a park at the north end of the street you’ll be going in on. We’ll meet you there by the pond this evening at six o’clock. Better buy yourself a watch.”
“Did ye see any whores?” Chimney said.
“No, but don’t worry about that right now. From the looks of things, I expect there’s plenty around.” Cane counted out five hundred dollars and placed it in Chimney’s hand. “That should buy the car and keep you going for a while.”
Crossing over the bridge on South Paint Street, he and Cob passed the paper mill. They veered off into the east end of town a ways and left their horses at Jonson’s Livery, slipping an extra dollar to a stable bum named Chester Higgenbotham to make sure they got some grain. Then they walked uptown to the Hotel McCarthy. Inside the two saddlebags they carried nearly $35,000 and three pistols, along with their mother’s Bible and the dictionary. Cane asked the clerk, a man named Harlan Dix, for a room with two beds and a bathtub. Dix cast a glance at them, noted their shaggy, unkempt appearance. Though he himself deplored the growing emphasis on personal hygiene as another reason why the country was turning soft, the McCarthy had a reputation for being the premier hotel in town, and his boss kept rates high to discourage clients such as this motley pair. “Five dollars a night,” he said. “In advance.” Just as he was getting ready to suggest the Warner down the street, Cane handed him twenty dollars for four days. He stared for a moment at the money, then shrugged and gave them two keys. “Second floor,” he said, pointing at the stairway. “Number eight.”