by Len Levinson
“Nearly eighteen.”
“That's not a boy!”
“He's an orphan, and was raised by Catholic brothers. He has nobody in the world, Edgar, and it would be wonderful if you found him a position at your ranch. I heard you say the other day that you were looking for more good cowboys.”
“Are you sure you didn't go to bed with him?”
“Regardless of what you think of me, Edgar, I'm not insane, and I wouldn't gamble everything I have for a few hours with a boy that age.”
Edgar walked to the liquor cabinet, poured whiskey, and splashed some water to take the edge off the incendiary local product. Then he sipped slowly and considered her last statement. She was many things, but not a fool. “I apologize for my bad manners, but the whole town is talking about it. Evidently some people saw him leave around noon today. What did you say his name is?”
“Duane Braddock. You can dispense with the whole problem by giving him a job at your ranch. Then he'll have someplace to sleep, and the gossip will end. He appears strong and healthy, especially if he gets a few more decent meals in him, and I'm sure he'll be able to pull his own weight.”
The more the businessman thought of it, the more reasonable the solution became. “Tell him to report to my foreman first thing Monday morning.”
Vanessa kissed his cheek. “Thank you, but there's just one minor problem. You see . . . well . . . through no fault of his own—he doesn't know how to ride a horse.”
Edgar threw up his hands in despair. “I'm going to hire a cowboy who doesn't know how to ride a horse? It looks like I'm going to be the laughingstock of this town for a second day in a row.”
“But he can learn, and you'll save him from starvation or even worse, because he's probably more sensitive than most young men his age. I mean, he was raised in a monastery, and doesn't know much about the real world. Don't ranches have apprentice cowboys?”
Edgar sighed in defeat. “I'll tell my foreman to hire him regardless of his lack of experience.”
She placed her hands on his waist, and rested her cheek on his breast. “Thank you, Edgar. You won't regret it, I promise.”
A jumble of squat, flat-roofed huts could be seen at the edge of town, with dim lights burning in windows. It was on the far side of a stream, and Duane and Boggs had to cross a crude log bridge, as the sage echoed with auditions of a million insects. Light danced on swirling waters, and a few cowboys sat with bottles at the bank, having slurred conversations while waiting for friends to return from the twinkling region of sin and degeneracy stretched before them. Two cowboys approached on the path, and one of them said: “I remember a whore I screwed once in Dodge. She had a face like a moose, but . . .”
Duane strained to hear the rest of the story, but the bubbling stream swallowed it up. Someone fired a gun, then a woman yelped with laughter. A hodgepodge of rough-hewn planked shacks with crooked roofs and leaning walls was affixed like a pustule to the side of the incline, and looked like the nether regions of hell.
“The cribs closest to the stream is usually the busiest,” Boggs said. “We'll go on a ways, to get the fresher meat, if you knows what I mean.”
Duane realized that Boggs was teaching him arcane facts about the real world, and was, in fact, a tenured professor of crib lore. At least I'm in good hands, Duane thought, trying to see the educational side of his painful predicament. He was terrified of being embarrassed with a woman, yet couldn't imagine how he could perform with one he didn't love. Duane was becoming increasingly skeptical of the great romantic experience looming before him.
“This looks like a good one,” Boggs replied, angling his head toward a nondescript hut jammed among the others.
Duane wondered which warped plank of wood or crooked nail caught the experienced cowboy's eye, as they headed toward the door. A cry of pain, or was it joy, pierced the night, and someone stroked an off-key fiddle. Boggs knocked on the door, two eyes appeared through a square opening, and moments later the door opened. Boggs stepped forward confidently, and Duane followed him into a small, boxy room with whitewashed walls and several heavily painted women in all sizes, colors, and shapes, dressed in short revealing dresses. A wave of cheap perfume mixed with sweat struck Duane's sensitive ecclesiastical nostrils, and he felt sick to his stomach.
He turned, and saw two heavily armed men at the door. They looked at him with grins, and he couldn't simply run away like a frightened child. This is going to be an extremely difficult night, he realized.
Boggs pulled Duane's sleeve, dragging him farther into the room. “Which one you like?”
Duane shuffled his feet nervously. “Don't know yet.”
“It ain't like buyin’ a horse, kid, so relax. Ah . . . by the way, pard, you'll have to give me fifty cents.”
Duane dropped coins onto Boggs's hand, and the cowboy sped toward the most corpulent woman in the room, with thighs like watermelons beneath her short pink skirt. She appeared demure, as she arose to take his hand. Like lovers, they headed toward the canvas flap that covered the doorway at the edge of the room.
The remaining whores grinned at Duane, pushing out their bosoms, spreading their legs lewdly. Duane felt like fleeing, but knew that his future as a cowboy lay on the line. He had to go through with it somehow, but there were no pretty girls in the room. I'll just pick one of them, he thought. What difference does it make? One prostitute grasped her breasts and showed him her tongue. Another lifted a leg and performed an act so horrific that Duane had to turn his eyes away.
“Un niño,” murmured one of the women.
They laughed, and Duane blushed. He spoke Spanish fluently, and he'd just been called a baby. I'll pick one of them, and to hell with it, he decided. Just as he was about to point, the back door flap opened, and a younger woman with the hefty build of a farmer's daughter limped into the room. Her left leg twisted outward strangely, and her arm perched in the air like the broken wing of a bird. She was a cripple, but considerably better-looking than the others.
He pointed toward her in desperation. “I want you.”
He took her by surprise, and she regarded him warily. “What's yer name?”
“Duane. How about you?”
“Sally Mae.” Then she smiled sweetly. “I'll show you a real good time, Duane.”
She hooked her arm in his, and hobbled toward the door. He followed her into a labyrinth of small rooms covered with canvas doors, and heard beds creaking, sighs, moans, curses, grunts, oaths, and other peculiar semihuman and quasi-animal sounds. “Oooohhhhh,” a man cried in the darkness, as though dying from a wonderful new disease.
She entered one of the rooms, lit the oil lamp, and beckoned for him to follow. She had a narrow cot, a dresser covered with tiny bottles, and a wooden chair. This is where she lives, like an animal in a stall, he thought sadly.
“You all right?” she asked.
Duane nodded nervously, wishing he could run out the door, but they'd laugh him out of Titusville.
“Yer first time, huh?”
“No,” he lied, “I did it lots of times before.”
She held out her hand. “Fifty cents.”
He reached into his pocket, handed her a dollar. “That's okay,” he said embarrassedly.
“Take yer clothes off, and I'll be right back.”
She limped into the corridor, but Duane didn't feel like removing his new clothes. He was afraid someone would steal them, and he'd never been naked with a woman before. I can't go through with this, but what'll I say when she comes back? he asked himself.
Honesty is the best policy, Brother Paolo had told him. Duane sat on the edge of the bed, pushed his hat on the back of his head, and waited for Sally Mae to return. He'd always dreamed that his first love would be a beautiful, passionate sacrament, but instead he was in the cribs with a poor cripple whom he didn't even know.
The curtain was pushed to the side, and she returned to the small enclosed area. He placed one finger in front of his lips, then moved toward her
. “I lied before,” he whispered in her ear. “I've never done this before. Please don't be mad at me, and I don't want my money back, but could I just walk out of here, and nobody has to know?”
Her eyes went soft on him. “If you leave so soon, everyone will know what happened. Why don't you lie down for a few minutes, and we can talk.”
Duane sighed in gratitude. “You're very kind.”
He placed another dollar in her palm, she dropped it into her bosom, and then kicked off her shoes. She lay down sideways with her back to the wall, and made room for him. “C'mon.”
He took off his hat, pulled off his boots, and stretched beside her in the darkness. Their bodies touched, and somehow, despite embarrassing circumstances, he was forced to conclude that she felt rather nice, and didn't seem crippled when lying down. Her perfume was harsher than Vanessa's, but the effect was the same. He realized that she was probably no older than Vanessa.
“You really never done it afore?” she whispered into his ear, as her warm breath wafted through him, weakening his fortifications. “Yer just funnin’ me, ain't you?”
She kissed his lips, and she tasted like ambrosia in the darkness. Meanwhile, the man in the next stall, only inches away, bellowed like a buffalo in heat. She touched her cheek to Duane's, and more fortresses crumbled inside him. He felt her breasts against his shirt, the first breasts of his life, and his final reserves were devastated. He placed his hand on her silk gown, and discovered that she was wearing nothing beneath it, producing a sensation unlike anything he'd ever known. A strange new artery pounded insistently in his throat, as she breathed into his ear: “It's warm here. I think I'll take me clothes off.”
She arose beside him, pulled the sash of her gown, and it opened like curtains, revealing a landscape of breasts and stomach. In an instant, she was back on the bed, wrapping her arms around him, licking his lips.
He thought the top of his head would blow off, as he clutched her toward him. It was his first flesh-and-blood encounter with feminine energy, and felt like she were swallowing him alive.
“Yer awful good-looking,” she murmured. “When I saw you out there in the parlor, I hoped you'd pick me.”
His male vanity rocketed through the roof, but then he reminded himself that he was in the cribs, and she probably said it to every cowboy who walked through that door. His hands roved up her naked back, as she unbuttoned his shirt.
She pressed her lips against his chest. “You take them clothes off,” she murmured, “and I'll make a man of you.”
Duane's blood thundered, and he felt on fire. Far be it from me to violate this fine old cowboy tradition, he admitted to himself. He rolled out of bed, untied his bandanna, hung it over the chair, and wondered how many other articles of male clothing had lain on that rickety wreck of furniture. He pulled off his shirt, jumped out of his pants, and dove on top of her.
“You're a wild horse,” she whispered, and then her lips became covered with his hungry mouth, as he clasped her in his strong arms. It was his first time naked with a woman, and the reality exceeded even his most lurid dreams.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
She touched him in a certain delicate spot, and he had to admit that this woman, whom he'd never seen before, had made him more excited than he'd ever thought possible. He wrapped his arms around her, and rolled her onto her back. Duane felt strong enough to run all the way to San Francisco, when something new and entirely unexpected happened, as if he'd been struck by lightning. My God, he realized jubilantly. I'm doing it!
The bed squeaked noisily, joining the vast chorus of other abused and overworked mattresses in the area, augmented by hushed whispers, godawful moans, whimpers, sighs, and burps. What was I so worried about? Duane wondered, as he undulated frenziedly in the dark. This is the best goddamned thing I ever did!
CHAPTER 4
DUANE DRESSED IN THE FLICKERING LAMP-light, as mattresses twisted and tossed all around him. Sally Mae touched her lips to his, then pushed him toward the door. “Time's up.”
She led him down the corridor, and somehow he felt taller, stronger, and brand new. Now he understood why men came to the cribs, and expected to return on his own someday. At least I'll have something interesting to confess next time I see a priest, he thought jokingly. They came to the parlor, where a new group of burly cowboys were engrossed in the selection process.
Duane leaned toward Sally Mae. “How's about one last kiss?”
Even as the words left his mouth, Duane knew he'd said something ridiculous. The room became still, and everyone was looking at him. But it was too late to take it back.
“Ain't that sweet!” ridiculed a voice nearby. “He thinks the whore's in love with ‘im! Hey, kid—you give me fifty cents, I'll never fergit you. I'll even kiss yer pointy little head fer a dollar.”
The cowboys chuckled derisively, and Duane could see that they were in advanced states of inebriation. The cowboy who'd spoken wore a black bandanna, was Duane's height, but weighed thirty pounds more. The cowboy elevated his voice a few octaves. “How's about one last kiss, Sally Mae,” he mimicked, rolling his eyes with mock delight.
The cowboys laughed, and a few whores chimed in. Sally Mae looked Duane in the eye. “He can say what he wants, but I had a real good time with you, Duane, and you know it.”
“Sure she did,” hollered the obnoxious cowboy who had a blunt nose with a scar on his chin. “She has a real good time with every waddie who walks in here. Hell, I'll give her fifty cents, she can say it to me, too.” The cowboy pulled coins from his pocket, and he held the change to Sally Mae, and said: “Tell me you love me, darlin’. Say how much you care.”
Duane glanced at Sally Mae, who appeared embarrassed by the attention she was attracting.
“Wouldn't you gimme a kiss fer five cents?”
An expression of hurt came over her face, and Duane caught a glimpse of the crippled girl who was unable to fend for herself, couldn't get a husband, and wound up in the cribs. Only a fiend could take pleasure in humiliating such a creature, Duane thought.
“Whore—come here! I got somethin’ fer you!”
The cowboy gripped his groin, and Duane felt rage come on like a tornado. “Leave her alone!”
Black Bandanna angled to one side, then the other, as he regarded Duane. “Mind yer business, Sonny Jim. I've squashed gnats bigger'n you.” The cowboy lunged forward, grabbed Sally Mae's arm, and pulled her abruptly toward the canvas door. She lost her balance, and was on her way to the floor, when Duane steadied her. Black Bandanna stepped backward, to see what had happened, and before he could get set, something crashed into his forehead. The room went black for a moment, and then he took a step backward, the tints brightened.
Duane stood in the middle of the floor, legs spread, cowboy hat low over his eyes. Black Bandanna touched his fingers to his mouth. A trickle of blood appeared.
“Go git him, Dave,” said one of the cowboys.
“Kick his ass,” added another.
The Mexican madam waved her frail arms. “If you want to fight—go outside!”
Two cowboys lifted her off her feet and carried her out of the way as though she were a tadpole. She responded with an ear-splitting screech, kicked her matchstick legs, and another cowboy covered her mouth with his hand, as Dave spat a gob of blood into the nearby cuspidor. Dave's eyes went mean as he glared at Duane. “Boy, I'm a-gonna beat the piss out of you.”
He lowered his head and charged, hurling a left jab to Duane's face, but Duane danced out of the way at the last moment, and put all his weight behind a right cross to Dave's temple. The blow landed solidly, and Dave staggered to the side, his eyes closing.
Dave's shoulder bounced off the wall, and Duane followed with a left hook to the ear. Dave's head spun around, and a fist was rammed into his stomach, doubling him up. Duane took one step to the side, and threw an uppercut. It landed underneath Dave's chin, snapped his head, and sent him sprawling across the room. Dave sat on the floo
r for a few moments, blinking in astonishment, trying to figure out which horse had run into him.
Duane had reacted in a sudden flash of anger, without thinking, but now realized that three other cowboys were eyeing him with increasing hostility, and each carried a gun in a holster. They advanced toward him, and he raised his fists for the final round.
“Don't nobody move, or I'll shoot yer durned head off.” The voice came from the door, where the two guards stood, guns in their hands. “You want to fight—go outside.”
Sally Mae whispered into Duane's ear. “Let the others go, but you stay here for a while. Otherwise they'll kill you.”
Duane appreciated the logic of her suggestion, but felt jumpy and wild. Dave picked himself up off the floor, and touched his fingers to his pulped lips. “I'd like to get a piece of you outside, Sonny Jim. How's about it?”
“After you.”
The cowboy strolled toward the door, throwing punches into the air. “Gimme some room, and I'll clean the town with that li'l son of a bitch.”
Dave stepped outside, and Duane moved to follow him, but Sally Mae grabbed his sleeve. “Come back to my room for a while. Please?”
My father died in a fight, Duane thought, and maybe I will, too, but if you don't stand up to them, how can you call yourself a man? He recalled Sally Mae cringing beneath Dave's heedless remark, and removed her hand from his shoulder. He followed the cowboys out the door, and the cowboys waited in the alley.
“I think we orter shoot him,” one said.
“Naw,” replied Dave. “I'll take care of ‘im myself.”
He raised his fists and advanced toward Duane, while another bunch of cowboys emerged from a nearby hut. “Looks like a fracas over thar.”
Dave smiled confidently as he decreased the distance between him and Duane, but Duane kept shifting position, dancing lightly on his feet, bobbing his head. Brother Paolo had been a pugilist during brief vacations from his undistinguished career as a bandito, and had taught Duane that you defeat a bigger man by constantly moving, making him miss, and making him pay.