IGMS - Issue 17 Read online

  "Frankie, you're my only love," he whispered to her.

  "You're my man, Johnny," she said. "You are my man."

  I found this public display of affection moving, but also -- to be honest -- annoying. What did he see in this troll, hiding behind smoked glasses? I also thought I'd never heard such music, being accustomed to tinny pianos and the occasional accordion.

  "Here's how it is," I told him. "Last night, at the Ascending Angel, there was a disagreement over too many aces, and the aggrieved person hurled his beer mug, but the cheater ducked, and the mug beaned the Ascending Angel's elderly piano player on the forehead, and he dropped dead, face-down on the keys, so there's a job opening."

  "Lead the way, gorgeous," he said.

  Frankie and Johnny got settled in their room, a few doors down from mine and across the hall from Nellie Bly's, and that evening there was an ill-starred encounter as Nellie and I left her room so I could show her Duster's nighttime dangers, which resulted from the miners' grumpiness over their virtual enslavement, plus lots of them were on the run, anyway, from sheriffs in other states, and -- being naturally hot-tempered, and willful -- they tended to settle their disputes with fists or bullets, although bludgeoning also was popular, and I did once see a man murdered, quite completely, by the tossing of a lit dynamite stick.

  Nellie meant to take notes on all that, from safe vantage points I would show her. But just as we left her room, the opposite door opened and Johnny stepped out, smoking a cheroot. I saw his sky-blue eyes fasten right on Nellie Bly, who looked away and started to walk along with me toward the stairs.

  "Say, Miss," Johnny said to Nellie, stepping fast so he could walk beside her. "You inspire me, and I mean to compose a song just for you, downstairs in the cabaret."

  "Cabaret?" Nellie said. "That's a saloon."

  "Sweet music," he said. "Either way."

  All the way down the stairs he talked to Nellie, clearly taken with her, understandably, especially since his own Frankie was such a donkey. However, I did not find it edifying. Also, considering I was right there, given our previous involvement, he might at least have said hello. Besides, I caught Nellie looking at him out of the corner of her eye, which disappointed me.

  Outside on the streets, Nellie and I saw no shooting that evening. But we did, at least, witness five fistfights, and an instance of one drunk accusing another of wearing a "cess-pool-smelling bandana around his chicken neck," causing the slandered man to snatch up a stray tomcat to hurl at his opponent's face, claws out, with results gratifying to the tosser.

  Finally we returned to the Ascending Angel, passing through the saloon, where Johnny Duncan stood on the little stage, strumming his air guitar and tapping his foot and singing, while the hotel's women employees -- it being too early for their business to pick up -- stood in back in a row, clapping in time and laughing, among them my mother, Marigold. I was glad to see her having enjoyment, since I knew her current work mostly made her melancholy. She had taught school in Ohio, but -- because of events leading to my existence in this world, involving the school's cad of a principal -- she lost that profession and drifted until she finally found the only way to support herself and me, and I have never reviled her in my heart, although I did often wish her life took a different road. However, I disliked the way Johnny, even while he sang, grinned at the various ladies, including Marigold, and winked at them.

  As soon as Johnny saw us come into the saloon, he ended that song and started another, now gazing soulfully at Nellie Bly. It had a lilting tune, and it told of an irresistible stranger who set a fire smoldering in his heart, and so on, quite nauseating. Nellie pretended not to hear, but I could see her peeking sideways at Johnny and looking amused. Just then, Frankie came down the stairs and stopped, taking it all in, but showing no expression. I was glad Nellie did not stop in the saloon but walked directly upstairs past Frankie, whose smoked glasses hid her eyes and whatever they might have revealed.

  "I'll say goodnight, Susanna, and thank you for being my guide," Nellie said at her door. "I have to transcribe my notes."

  "I plan to be an ace reporter myself," I confided. "It will, I'm sure, be a thoroughly stimulating career."

  She looked at me, and sadness came over her features.

  "Yes, it is stimulating, Susanna," she said. "But it is lonely."

  "Do you find Johnny Duncan attractive?" I blurted out.

  She stopped, with her door open, and looked at me.

  "Yes, he's handsome," she said. "But he has a wicked wandering eye, Susanna, and attractiveness, in itself, including long-leggedness, doesn't mean a man isn't a baboon."

  Usually in the evening I roamed Duster, to absorb information and insights. Tonight, though, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling and pondered: if I dwell on yellow hair and long legs, am I shallow and feckless? I decided, finally, to put myself under observation and, if necessary, to institute a program of character strengthening. With that resolved, I thought about how things in general were trending, which was toward extreme violence.

  I had not yet told Nellie Bly that my mother's sole patron these days was Placido Hieronymus, younger brother of Sweetie, a revolting sniveler, who constantly whined that Sweetie stole his share of the family business, and that Sweetie was their mother's favorite, although you'd think Placido would exult she nicknamed his brother Sweetie and not him! But I kept mum, just a big ear, which is how I got my sensational scoop: Placido had sent out word for the notorious spell-slinger J.F. Payne to come to Duster and cut down Sheriff Fitzpatrick Duprey and his deputies. Then, with Sweetie defanged, Placido would get back his "fair share," meaning he'd get to do all the rotten stuff Sweetie did.

  Of course, when Johnny Duncan stepped off that train, I assumed he must be the spellslinger J.F. Payne, because he looked so dashing. You, no doubt, figured it correctly.

  Noon, the following day, in the Ascending Angel's saloon, Nellie Bly and I sat at a table, lunching on terrapin stew. Across the room, Frankie and Johnny sat at a table of their own, not talking. I could see Johnny looking across the room at us, and Nellie avoiding his eye, and Frankie watching, expressionless. Then my mother walked into the saloon, to pick up some lunch to bring upstairs, and I saw Johnnie wink at her. I believe I mentioned my lack of enthusiasm for the male gender.

  "That man currently gives me gallstones!" I told Nellie.

  But just then the saloon's conversational hum stopped because the doors swung open and in walked Duster's three deputies followed by Sheriff Fitzpatrick Duprey, all four stepping back against the wall, two on one side of the door and two on the other. After that, Sweetie Hieronymus slithered in, darting out his forked tongue and hissing, which is a metaphor expressing his character with precision. He probably meant to calculate the lunch-hour take, but he saw Nellie Bly right off, she being a stranger, and came to our table and made a show of doffing the porkpie hat he always wore to hide his scalp, bald as a white egg, with the red hair on his head's sides clipped so short you could see white skin through it.

  "Who might you be, Miss?" he said.

  "Why that matters to whoever you are, I don't know," Nellie told him. "Incidentally, that is the greenest suit I've ever seen on a man."

  Sweetie stared at her, but she didn't look away.

  "I'm proprietor here," he finally said. "I noticed your pad and pen, and wondered what you might be jotting down, here on my premises?"

  "It is my pastime to study local attractions, as I travel, and Susanna is being so kind as to tell me about Duster's phosphate mines, which I find fascinating," Nellie said. "Perhaps you and I could talk about that subject, at your convenience?"

  Again he regarded her, and I could almost see gears in Sweetie's head turning.

  "Alas, business presses," he said. "In any event, I expect you'll be traveling on directly because . . ."

  He never finished that thought, probably what is termed a "veiled threat," because just then his brother, Placido Hieronymus, came in through the swinging do
ors and, seeing Sweetie, let out a sort of bleat. His face turned as red as his messy hair and his raggedy mustache, and he waddled over -- he and Sweetie shared red hair, but nothing else, Sweetie's proportions snakelike, Placido a lard bag.

  "You'll be sorry!" Placido said, putting his red face close to Sweetie's and trying to glower.

  Sweetie regarded his brother as if he were a fly in the soup.

  "There's your lovey-dovey," Sweetie sneered, pointing at my mother, just then starting up the stairs with her bagged lunch. "Go sit in her lap and don't trouble yourself with big-boy things."

  Placido's eyes swam, maybe because of his allergies, but also because eyes reveal the inner person, and Placido's insides consisted of whiny self-pity mixed with petulance, along with a sense of grievance, and it all made him prone to tear up. I'd certainly heard enough of it all to know what I'm talking about. At any rate, his face got redder and redder, because he wanted to say something to cut Sweetie to the core, but he couldn't think of anything. So he partially showed his hand.

  "I've got a party coming who'll fry your beans!" he finally sputtered.

  Sweetie's cobra eyes chilled, and I could see he was considering what sort of nuisance Placido had planned. Then his face turned even meaner than usual, because he did not like being crossed.

  He pointed across the room at my mother. On her way upstairs, she had stopped on the landing to view the fraternal argument.

  "I'll be visiting you later, Dearie," Sweetie hissed at her, loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear him.

  That dropped Placido's jaw, since he paid my mother to be his personal companion, and he stood gulping at Sweetie. I was upset, too. Actually I was so sick in my stomach that I shouted at Sweetie: "Do you ever do one decent thing?" That was a mistake on my part, because Sweetie, as I mentioned, didn't like being crossed or defied. He stared at me with those snake eyes, which seemed to have fumes inside them.

  "Higher fees -- that's what young ones bring," he hissed, looking me up and down. "Not quite ripe yet, but next year? And I'll be first, Missy."

  I did not cry. What I did was Divert, which is a technique I invented for dealing with woe: you simply forget the woe exists by focusing on Precise Observation. For instance, I noted that Frankie had turned her smoked glasses toward Sweetie, but also past Sweetie, at the sheriff and deputies standing on either side of the door. Johnny leaned back in his chair, enjoying the show. He even got in a wink at Nellie Bly, but she hardly noticed because she had her pad in her lap, hidden under the tabletop, and she rapidly jotted notes, suppressing jubilation over her windfall of excellent grist.

  I posed this question to myself, to ponder later: does a journalist's participation in life consist solely in reporting on it?

  Placido finally spoke.

  "You'll be sorry!" he told Sweetie, returning to his original theme, and he poked Sweetie's skinny chest with his fat finger.

  Sweetie looked down at the finger with revulsion. Then he glanced over at Fitzpatrick Duprey, leaning against the wall, and barely nodded.

  Without hurrying, the sheriff straightened and walked toward Placido, who had his back turned and did not see him coming. Fitzpatrick Duprey had a wiry black mustache and always wore a black suit, today over a red vest embroidered in gold. He habitually sneered, one side of his mouth drawn up, and right now his sneer looked more awful than usual. But all he did, at first, was rest one long-fingered hand on Placido Hieronymus's shoulder.

  Placido turned, and his red face whitened.

  "Call him off," he told Sweetie.

  But his brother only smiled and said: "You've been naughty again, Placido -- remember how that irritated Mother so profoundly?"

  Then he nodded at Sheriff Duprey. I saw Duprey raise his eyebrows, a silent question. Sweetie considered. Then he shook his head.

  "Just a little discipline," he told the sheriff. "No more."

  Duprey grinned. He stepped back, regarding Placido, deciding what to do to him, and I actually felt almost badly for that sorry sniveler, because I saw his legs shake. He tried to leave, but Fitzpatrick Duprey put his hand back on his shoulder and held him. Now the sheriff began to mumble silently to himself, pointing his free hand's long, bony index finger.

  Placido, suddenly, stood in the middle of the saloon wearing only his shoes and argyle socks, held up with garters. Otherwise, he was starkers, looking like a fat groundhog with its pelt shaved off.

  Placido bleated, then ran up the stairs with his huge buttocks jiggling. Most everybody in the saloon laughed, except for Sweetie, who already was on his way out, and Nellie Bly -- who jotted notes furiously -- and Fitzpatrick Duprey, who stood staring across the room, looking at the table where Frankie and Johnny sat, as if he were sniffing the air, catching a scent.

  Johnny, seeing the sheriff looking at him, straightened up and clasped his hands, like a good little boy in school. Frankie, expressionless, seemed to look everywhere and nowhere from behind her smoked glasses.

  Abruptly, frowning, the sheriff strode out of the saloon, jerking his chin at his three deputies to follow. Once they were gone, the saloon hummed again, everybody chortling over how humiliated Placido had looked.

  I bolted from the table and ran upstairs to tell my mother: we'll pack and go! Even if we have to walk all the way to Tampa or Jacksonville!

  But when I got to the top floor -- where Marigold had her quarters, along with the hotel's other working women -- and I pushed open the door, there sat Placido on a hassock, a bath towel wrapped around his blubbery belly and hippopotamus behind, sniveling. My mother sat beside him in her chair, stroking his hair.

  Woe overcame me, and I meant to hurry away. But somebody knocked on the door. It's Johnny Duncan, I thought. He's come to announce his true identity and begin his mission of bringing down Sweetie Hieronymus. Of course, it was not Johnny.

  "I'm Payne," she told Placido.

  He looked at her stupidly.

  "I thought . . ."

  "Juno Frankie Payne," she said. "A thousand each for the three deputies, and two-thousand for Duprey."

  "Too much!" Placido said. "I couldn't . . ."

  Frankie shrugged and started out the door. She had it opened when Placido cried out: "I'll pay -- out of the pittance my mother left me!"

  "Go do it now," he told her, "and then we'll force Sweetie to make me his vice president."

  "A thousand more for that," Frankie said.

  I thought Placido might faint. But he nodded, with his eyes shut against the fiscal trauma, and Frankie shrugged again and walked out the door.

  After that, I shot out of my mother's room and down the stairs, to see the action.

  In the saloon, Johnny had now moved to Nellie Bly's table, leaning towards her to talk, making moony eyes. Nellie ignored him, still furiously jotting notes.

  Johnny suddenly hushed and looked up. On the landing stood Frankie, staring at him.

  She still wore her smoked glasses. But now she had on black leather trousers and a leather jacket, also black. She took in Johnny and Nellie Bly, her blank face scary.

  "Hey there," Johnny said, with a canary feathers look. "I was just asking Miss Bly if she knew. . ."

  But he trailed off, as if Frankie's stare wilted him.

  "Go to the sheriff's office," Frankie told him. "Tell them they can live if they leave Duster right now. Say I said so."

  Johnny probably didn't want to cross Frankie just then. I could see him biting his lip, with those sky-blue eyes darting around, as if her were looking for an exit.

  "Frankie, you know they'll just shoot me or something," he said. "Why give them an out anyway?"

  "It's the code," Frankie said. "Like being true, you know?"

  Johnny sat looking down at the table, miserable. It was disgusting.

  "I'll go," I told Frankie. "They won't shoot a little girl."

  So I went.

  When I got there, the three deputies were playing poker and Fitzpatrick Duprey sat with his shoes up on his
desk watching them, but looking distracted.

  "Get out of Duster right now," I told them. "J. F. Payne says she'll kill you all."

  Those deputies laughed.

  I called them Big, Medium, and Small, because of their different proportions. But, to a man, they were mad-dog nasty. Small unholstered his revolver and aimed it at me, pretending to shoot, after which he blew away imaginary smoke from the barrel. They argued over what to do with me, such as fricasseeing me like a capon and sending me back to J. F. Payne on a crockery platter.

  "Shut up," Fitzpatrick Duprey told them.

  He stood up and looked out the window.

  "You don't know what we're up against," he said.

  J.F. Payne, he told them, had taken out top gunslingers all the way from Evansville, Indiana, to Santa Fe. No spellslinger ever survived her, either. In Chicago, she even turned the O'Ditherty gang's powerful Hiram Glott into ashes and smoke before he got past his strongest spell's second syllable.

  Big, Medium, and Small took that in. Big finally snorted.

  "We're four, she's one," he said. "And we're quick -- while she's muttering her spell, bang, bang, bang!"

  Fitzpatrick Duprey looked at the ceiling and silently sighed.

  "Besides, you can take her, can't you, Fitz?" said Medium. "You ain't afraid of her, are you?"

  Sheriff Duprey looked out the window. But then he turned, grinning, the evilest grin I'll ever see. He opened his desk's drawer and pulled out a long wooden case.

  "This cost me plenty in Macao," he said. "I've saved it for something like this."