IN THE MEANTIME, Chimney had settled his horse at Kirk’s Stables, four blocks over from Jonson’s, and given the livery man an extra two dollars to keep his Enfield safe for him. In the saddlebag he slung over his shoulder were two Smith & Wessons and a box of shells. One of the Remington .22s was stuck inside his grimy overalls. He watched the man lock the rifle in a cabinet, then walked uptown to the Warner, the hotel Cane had written on the piece of paper.
The desk clerk was reading a book when Chimney walked in. “Can I help you?” he asked. His name was Roland Blevins, and, with the exception of the black ink stains on his fingers, he was what his mother proudly called “the most fastidious and upright young man in southern Ohio” whenever she sensed that she might be talking to someone with an unwed daughter or sister. He brushed his woven black suit three or four times a shift, and not a single strand of hair on his rather pointy head was out of place thanks to the creamy gobs of Fussell’s Hair Restorer he applied every morning. Everything about Roland pointed to clean and careful living. He wished he worked at a better establishment, one that didn’t cater to riffraff like the boy standing before him, but so far he hadn’t been able to get his foot in the door at any of the other hotels. Someday, though, he’d be the day manager over at the McCarthy. His mother was sure of it.
“Need a room,” Chimney said.
“That would be two dollars a night,” Roland replied.
“You got one with a bathtub?”
“Those are three dollars a night.”
“I’ll take one of them.” Chimney pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece and laid it on the counter.
“How many days do you plan to stay?”
“Not for sure yet. At least a couple.”
The clerk opened the guest registry and told Chimney to sign his name. His stomach roiled just a little when he saw the new guest make two sloppy X’s. Since he was a small child, Roland’s hobby had been penmanship, and though he should have been hardened to it by now, encountering someone this early in the day who couldn’t even print his name was almost too much to take. Just last week, a group of wealthy widows had asked him if he’d give a talk about the Palmer Method at one of their monthly soirées. By the end of the current century, he had predicted during the question and answer session that followed, typewriters and other gadgetry would make artful handwriting obsolete. His pronouncement practically sucked all the oxygen out of the room, and two of the oldest ladies had to be revived with smelling salts and tiny dabs of sweet sherry on their dry, crinkled lips. Mrs. Grady, the hostess, had gently admonished him for his negativity, but what he’d said was true all the same. Why, he doubted if even the bare rudiments of cursive would be taught in the classroom in another fifty years or so. He handed the boy his change and a key. “Room thirty-one, on the third floor.”
Chimney started for the stairway, then came back to the desk. “Any idy where I might find me a whore?” he asked.
Roland already had his nose buried in the book again, an introduction to French grammar. He looked up with a startled expression on his face, as if he had been caught in some embarrassing act, which was nearly the case. If the old widows who had practically swooned over his talent with pen and ink had known to what depths he had recently sunk, he wouldn’t have been allowed on their property, let alone to sit with them and sip tea from a dainty cup all afternoon. Though his wages at the Warner barely kept him afloat, he had taken out what was for him a substantial loan and visited the Whore Barn several times over the past few weeks to lay with a young trollop who spoke French. Peaches had taken his virginity away from him while whispering “très bien” over and over into his ear, and now he was infatuated with her. He covered the book with his hand and quickly said to Chimney, “I don’t know anything about that.” That was the bad thing about falling in love with a whore; anyone with four bits in their pocket was a potential rival. It was driving him crazy, the number of men he imagined rubbing their rough beards and dirty paws over that pale, beautiful body. His plan to win her over by mastering the language of love had seemed brilliant at first, but it was proving more difficult than he’d expected. He had tossed and turned all last night worrying about it, finally deciding, just before his mother called him down to breakfast, that if he hoped to make sense out of the verb conjugations, he was going to have to hire a tutor. It didn’t occur to him until later that morning that if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to afford to fuck Peaches anymore—that is, unless maybe he got another loan. To be in love, he was beginning to realize, meant being mired in one goddamn mess after another.
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Roland said. He looked around nervously, then offered Chimney a handbill from a stack on the counter. “Here, if you need something to do, go over to the Majestic and see the Lewis Family.”
“What’s the Majestic?”
“Only one of the finest theaters in the Midwest,” Roland said. “Right up the street and around the corner.”