“Only thing you got on your mind is shithouses.”
“You don’t know me,” Jasper said. “You don’t know nothing about me.”
“I know you like to watch women takin’ a whiz. That’s what I know.”
Because Jasper spent so many sleepless hours walking the streets late at night, he knew more about the cop than the cop would ever know about him, including the fact that he almost always ended up at Lucas Charles’s little room above the Majestic whenever he closed down the Mecca Bar. Jasper was right on the cusp of asking Lester if his father knew about his relationship with the theater manager when he realized such information might be put to a better use later. Instead, he pretended to storm away, but then stopped and waited at the corner. As soon as the cop disappeared, he hurried back to the billboard and tore the poster off, stuck it inside his jacket. Making his way to the park, he sat down on a rock near the pond to study it. The Jewett Gang? Surely there had to be a mistake. But then how could there be another person walking around who looked identical to Junior? Or Cob, or whatever his name was. And where was the third brother? Had he gotten killed or run off? He thought back for a minute, trying to recall everything Junior had told him about himself, and then he realized that he didn’t know anything. Hell, he had done almost all the talking; Junior just nodded his head once in a while and ate doughnuts.
Jasper folded the poster carefully and put it in his pocket. He watched a small flock of geese glide in and land on the water with a flapping of wings. Before you knew it, the snow would be falling, and another year would have passed without him having his own indoor facilities. But then he thought about what had been on his mind when he opened his eyes this morning. Not the usual, not porcelain commodes or claw-foot bathtubs or running Sandy Saunders out of town or the mass of hair between Mrs. Arnold’s legs. No, he had been thinking about meeting up with Junior, having him to talk to while he did his job. Bagshaw, the dump keeper, as nutty as he might be with his doll baby and rotten produce, was right. Jasper was looking forward to it, to seeing his friend. His friend. He said it aloud. “He’s my friend.” Except for Itchy, he had never had anyone he could call that, unless you counted his uncle the broom maker, and he wasn’t all that sure a blood relative counted. True, a man could have a mighty fine water closet with $5,500—Christ Almighty, he could have one in every room of the house and still have money left over—but how much was a friend worth? You couldn’t put a price on that, no matter how hard people tried. He got up and started out of the park, his measuring wand balanced on his shoulder. Sure, lots of people would give up a buddy for a lot less than indoor plumbing, or the chance to run a comb through Mrs. Arnold’s pubic hair. Sure, they would. But Jasper wasn’t one of them. No, sir, he wasn’t. He stopped and took the poster out of his pocket, looked at it one more time. Then he balled it up and threw it in the pond, watched two of the geese start swimming toward it.
60
BOVARD WOKE UP to find himself lying flat on his back in a dark room with a rag stuffed in his mouth. No matter how hard he tried, all he could move was his head, and he finally realized that he was chained to a floor. He was confused. The last thing he could recall was listening to a couple of drunks bickering in the Blind Owl. The man kept telling the woman she had the face of a bulldog, and she kept comparing his cock to a green bean. Then they’d give each other a big, sloppy kiss—he could still almost hear their puckered lips smacking—before starting their vile insults all over again. But that was all he remembered.