Lost as he was in his own thoughts, Bovard didn’t hear the squabbling couple get up and leave, nor notice Pollard walk over and lock the front door. He picked up his beer mug to take a drink, and that’s when he saw in the mirror the barkeep standing close behind him. He didn’t even have time to blink before he was hit squarely in the temple with a fist twice the size of a normal man’s. A bright blast of light filled his head as he tumbled off the bar stool, and he vaguely felt his shoulder smack the wood floor. Then nothing.
“How do you like them apples, you sonofabitch?” Pollard said in a low, taunting voice. “Let’s hear ye laugh at me now.” He turned out the lamps and grabbed hold of the lieutenant’s boots and dragged him through the door that led to the back room. He went through his pockets and found some identification papers and a set of keys and thirty-four dollars in his wallet, along with two cigars in a leather case. Then he chained his arms and legs to the floor and stuffed a filthy rag in his mouth that he had used to wipe up some stains left by the late carpenter. Sitting down in a straight-backed chair, he lit one of the cigars and studied his latest victim. The soldier was tall, slim, and handsome. To Pollard, he looked like a ladies’ man, something he had never had a chance to be. Never had he been to a sweethearts’ dance, or had sexy words whispered in his ear, or slipped his finger up some panting girl’s hot gash. Hell, he’d never even been kissed by anyone other than his mother. He thought about the only time in his life that he’d ever dared to ask a woman out, some stupid shopgirl in Jackson. He was eighteen years old, and so scared he thought for sure he’d piss his pants. But he told himself she’d be crazy to turn him down; after all, she wasn’t any prize catch herself, with her double chin and the muddy brown birthmark on her forehead and the way her nose was squashed to one side. He had stood in the back of the shop on a Saturday evening for over an hour, sopped with nervous sweat and pretending to look at little trinkets while waiting on the place to empty out, and when it finally did, he marched to the counter on rubbery legs, feeling as if he was going to faint. Eager to seal the deal and get it over with, he blurted it all out in a rush, his invitation to go with him to a horseshoe-pitching tournament over in McArthur. Oh, how she had howled. Laughed so hard she choked on some sick, spat it in a wastebasket right in front of him. He’d run out the door and down an alley, knocked over an old bum who was picking through somebody’s trash. With the girl’s shrill laughter still ringing in his head, he had kicked the fucker’s ribs in, and it had felt so damn good just to hurt somebody else. Like this did. Then he leaned over and ground the stogie out on the palm of Bovard’s right hand.
58
CHIMNEY AWAKENED THE next morning with his arm around Matilda. It was the first time he’d ever woken up beside a woman, and he figured he’d remember this moment for the rest of his life, no matter how many more times it happened. He lay there for a minute, then got out of the bed. He put his clothes on and peeked through the flap, saw to his chagrin that the pimp and his man were sitting by the campfire drinking coffee and chuckling about something. To hell with them, he thought. Besides, he didn’t need to feel embarrassed; he had paid for it. Forty dollars for all night. The last time he had left the tent, to take a leak in the latrine out back, everything was shut down. It must have been four in the morning. The pimp was wrapped in a blanket in the front seat of his car, and the bodyguard lay snoring in the bed of the wagon. The other two tents were dark, and as he walked by the one the French model slept in, he heard her mutter something about a rubber man. When he got back to Matilda’s tent, he saw to his disappointment that she had put on a nightgown. He tried to think of something to say, but he didn’t know anything about love talk, and so he asked her how she started whoring.
“It’s a long story,” she said, “and it’s late.”
“How about if I give you ten dollars?” Chimney said. “Would you tell me then?”
Raising up on one elbow, she looked at him. “Why would you want to know anything about me?” she asked.