Seeing them together, Cutter said to Bone, “American Gothic sans pitchfork.” And Bone could only agree. They were middle-aged and bored, and equally gave off the same air of dour and aggrieved authority. Bone assumed that they were the owners, husband and wife, dead souls responsible for the soulless character of their establishment.
At the bar Bone followed Cutter’s lead and ordered scotch, a double, because he did not intend to drink very long. Even though it was Saturday night, the place was almost empty, with just two old men at the bar and three young cowboys sitting around a table drinking beer straight from the bottle. Two of them could have been movie extras, burlesque bad-guy types with booted feet propped up on chairs and their heads thrown back so they could see out from under low-slung cowboy hats with eyes properly squinted against the smoke rising from nonfilter cigarettes raffishly dangled at their lips. But it was the other one, the third cowboy, who prompted Bone to forgo the stool between Cutter and one of the old men and instead take the stool at the corner of the bar, on the other side of Cutter. That way, as Alex did his usual barroom number, Bone would not have to sit with his back to the cowboys and wonder how they were taking it, and especially this third one, who for some reason struck Bone as a man who bore watching, possibly because he was not hoking it up like the others but just sat there hatless, cool, almost mannerly—except for his gaze, which was that of a bull rider assessing his next mount.
When the bartender served their drinks, Cutter gave him a big hick grin. “Uptown Saturday night, uh?” he said.
The man nodded primly. “Yep, it’s Saturday, all right.”
“Yep, so it is.” Cutter turned to Bone. “You hear that? I was right—it’s Saturday here.”
The bartender was looking wary now, his eyes skittering between Cutter’s eyepatch and the empty sleeve, the knot.
“What’s your name, Pal?” Cutter asked him.
“Mister Morgan.”
Cutter smiled as if he had just received some very good news. “Well, I’ll be damned—Mister Morgan, uh? You probably remember us from the front desk. I’m Mister Cutter and my friend here is Mister Bone. We’re here to do bidness.”
Morgan’s response to this was to turn away and busy himself washing beer glasses. But Cutter sailed on, undaunted.
“What county is this, Mister Morgan?”
“Rock.”
“County seat is Rockhill?”
“Yep. A mile back, half mile off the highway.”
“Ah, that’s why we missed it, then.”
Actually they had driven through it in the rain, around the small square with its old brick stores and covered sidewalks facing a modest, rundown courthouse. Everything had been festooned with bunting and signs welcoming visitors to Bank Day. On a street leading from the square a traveling carnival had sat shuttered in the rain.
“We didn’t see any other bars driving through.” Cutter said to Morgan. “You got a monopoly?”
“Nope. There’s two beer taverns and another motel this side the state line. They got a bar too.”
“Not a very wet county, then.”
“It ain’t dry.”
“But the people do most of their lushing at home, uh?”
Morgan muttered that he wouldn’t know what that was, so Cutter showed him, tipping up his hand as though he were taking a drink. But the bartender had had enough. He turned away, still holding his rag, and began to polish the cash register. At the same time the old man nearest Cutter leaned toward him.
“Folks around here mostly goes to church,” he said. “Wednesday nighters, we call ’em.”
“I take it you’re not one of them,” Cutter said.
“Me? Oh, hell no. And not old Charley here neither,” the old man said, indicating Morgan behind the bar. “Not anymore. Not since he added on this here ginmill of his.”
“They cast him out of their midst, did they?”
“Yep, they told old Satan here to get his ass behind ’em!” The old man whooped with laughter, and Morgan strode out of the barroom, probably heading for the front desk to restore his sense of dignity.
While he was gone, Bone told Cutter that it would be a good idea if he shut his mouth and drank up. Instead Alex patted him on the hand.
“Now, don’t you fret, moms,” he said. “One more belt and we’ll turn in. We’ll flip a coin to see who gets to rape little Monk tonight.”
Looking past him, Bone saw that all three of the cowboys were watching them, but with a difference. While the movie extras were busy giving each other elbow digs and looks of droll stupefaction, the third one sat as before, his expression unchanged. And Bone took another drink, lit a cigarette, wished he believed in prayer.
A few minutes later Morgan made a dignified reentry and resumed his post behind the bar. Cutter promptly shoved his empty glass at him.
“One more, my good man,” he said.
As Morgan took his glass, Cutter asked him if he knew a J. J. Wolfe, and the bartender nodded grudgingly.
“Big man, huh?” Cutter pressed.
“You could say that.”
“He spend much time around here? Or does he just fly in and out.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“Well, I would,” the old man at the bar put in. “What’d you want to see him for, young fella?”
“Oh, we just want to buy some cattle,” Cutter said. “Thought maybe we’d drop by his place tomorrow and look over some of them fancy critters of his.”
The old man laughed. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, boy! And Bank Day on top of that.”
“Bit time, huh?”
“Our annual wingding, that’s what. A parade, picnics, and a carnival the next two nights. Should’ve been last night and tonight, but we got rained out. Churches don’t like it, I hear—carnival on the sabbath—but I guess they holdin’ still for it. Probably gettin’ a piece of the action, if the truth was knowed.”
Cutter asked him what a bank day was, and the old man laughed again. He was obviously feeling good. “Well, ourn was a robbery,” he said. “Back in ninety-seven, it was, even before my time. These three gunslingers got caught inside the bank, with the townsfolk surroundin’ ’em on all sides. And everybody armed and ornery. Well, sir, by the time it was over, they was five dead—two of us, three of them. Almost as bad as up in Coffeyville with the Daltons. Yessir, biggest thing ever happen in Rockhill.”
“Hell, I thought. J. J. Wolfe was,” Cutter observed.
“Naw, he’s only second. No parades in his honor, far as I know. Though he does lead ’em, come to think of it.”
Cutter asked if Wolfe would be leading the parade tomorrow.
“Like as not, if he’s home.”
“Well, we’d better try to see him early then. Before the parade.”
Bone had noticed that every time Cutter mentioned Wolfe, Morgan’s eyes had swiveled uneasily to the cowboy table, to the third man, the bull rider.
“Shit, you don’t have to see Wolfe hisself just to buy some of his cattle,” the old man was saying. “Why, he’s got so many hands workin’ that spread of his, they steppin’ on each other half the time. Fack, we got three of ’em here right now, includin’ his foreman. Jist ast him.”
But Cutter apparently was not listening to the old man, and instead asked now how to get to the ranch from the motel. At that point the bull rider finally moved, uncrossing his legs and edging a cigarette into his mouth.
“Jist who is it wants to know?” he drawled, lighting the cigarette.
Cutter scanned the ceiling, as if he had heard a celestial voice. “Hark,” he said to Bone. “Did you hear something?”
The cowboy patiently repeated his question. “Jist who is it wants to know?”
And Cutter, grinning, found him now. “Jist who is it,” he said, “wants to know jist who is it wants to know?”
One of the other cowboys was already on his feet, pushing back his chair, getting ready for combat. But the third one called him off with a look. “Cool it, S
am,” he said. “Man’s jist trying to be funny, that’s all. His way of being friendly, I guess. So maybe we ought to be friendly back.” He smiled at Cutter and Bone. “My name’s Billy,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Humperdinck,” Cutter told him. “Engelbert Humperdinck.”
The one named Sam faked a laugh. “Why, he’s a card, Billy.”
“He shore is,” Billy concurred. “A cattle-buying card is what he is. Tell me, Humperdinck—which of Mister Wolfe’s exotics you interested in?”
“Exotic what?” Cutter asked.
“Exotic what!” Grinning now, Billy turned to his friends. “By gawd, fellas, that do sound like Mister Humperdinck don’t know cattle from Shinola.”
Cutter looked at Bone and shrugged. “I think I have erred.”
“Big surprise,” Bone said.
Billy was explaining: “What I mean is, do you want to buy Limousin or Simmental or Charolais, or jist one of the traditional English beef breeds?”
To counter all the high-toned words, Billy had hoked up their pronunciation, playing the rube. But Bone was not taken in, could see simply in the man’s clear intelligent gaze that he was not a rube and never had been, that Cutter did not bewilder him or scare him or fill him with rage.
“I was thinking more along the lines of weimaraner,” Cutter said. “Wolfe got any of those?”
“Nope. Too small a breed. Their weaning ratio is poor, real poor.”
“What about auto-da-fés?” Cutter asked. “Your boss in that line at all?”
“Nope. Though we do have barbecues. Afraid you came to the wrong place, friend.”
Cutter turned to Bone. “Folks around here shore is friendly, ain’t they?”
Bone told him to shut up, and Cutter pretended to pout.
“Never trust a friend,” he said.
Billy was on his feet now, getting his cowboy hat off a rack near the door. Morgan asked him if he didn’t want another round and Billy shook his head.
“No, reckon we’ve had enough, Charley,” he said.
And Cutter jumped on that. “Reckon it’s about time to mosey on back to the spread, uh, Billy Boy?”
The one named Sam told Cutter not to push his luck. But Billy, paying at the bar, gestured for Sam to let it go.
Cutter would not let them, however. “Yep, time to get back to the old corral and bed down with old Bessie. Each cowboy gets a hole. Billy gets the biggest.”
Billy shook his head sadly. Picking up his change, he came down the bar. He stopped at the vacant stool next to Cutter and stood there for a few moments, giving the stool a spin.
“Humperdinck,” he said finally, “could I give you a few words of advice?”
“Why shore, Billy Boy.”
And Billy went on, unexcited. “Well, the main thing is you look like you’ve caught enough shit in your time—I wouldn’t go around looking for more. Especially I wouldn’t go into bars around here and make fun of the locals.”
“Never crossed my mind.”
“Good. ’Cause, let me tell you—most of the guys around here are good old boys, which means they feel kinda naked without a bunch of guns in their pickups. And most of ’em don’t drink any better’n you do. So you could get in trouble, Humperdinck. Real trouble.”
Bone was feeling not only relief but downright pleasure. He could see Cutter’s frustration. Honest friendly advice was not what he had been looking for, not what he could handle.
Nevertheless he tried now, turning to Bone and lisping, “My, isn’t he the nicest person.”
But Billy was unflappable. “Far as that goes, Humperdinck, maybe you ought to ask yourself why make fun in the first place? What’s the purpose? I mean it’s not like it could change anything, make you all one piece again. Ain’t nothin’ gonna do that, ever.”
And finally Cutter had no comeback. He just sat there staring, not drinking, while Billy made a gesture of goodbye, first to him and then to Morgan and the two old men at the bar. Then he left, with the other cowboys trailing respectfully behind.
For a time the bar was like a wax museum. The two old men sat staring at their drinks, while Morgan contentedly contemplated a row of beer glasses he had just washed and dried. Cutter was equally silent. And Bone could not think of one thing to say, no glib lie with which to counter the cowboy’s brutal truth. Finally Cutter finished his drink. He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and told Morgan that he wanted a bottle of Red Label “to go.”
“Something to see me through the sabbath,” he mumbled.
Morgan gave him the bottle, took the bill and brought back his change, all without once looking at him. And Cutter left, not waiting for Bone.
By the time he returned to his room, Bone’s feelings of anxiety and dread had withered into resignation. Cutter obviously could not control his recklessness. He was going to get the two of them killed or maimed or thrown in jail, and there was not one thing Bone could do about it except run out on the man, and that he knew he wouldn’t do. He was caught. Trapped. He felt about as he imagined a soldier felt the night before storming some lousy bloody beach somewhere, almost that kind of impotence and outrage.
So he was not feeling very sociable or communicative as he got ready for bed. Cutter kept offering him a nip from the bottle of scotch he had bought, and Bone kept refusing. All he wanted was sleep, he said, and maybe a little silence, if Cutter thought he could manage such a tall order. Frowning, Alex said he would work on it, he always enjoyed a challenge.
But he did not work very hard. As Bone turned out the lights and got into bed, Cutter promptly drew open the drapes on the window wall at the front of the room. Then, dropping into a plastic chair there, he began to hum Brahms’ Lullaby. And Bone wished he had had some small modicum of lightheartedness left in order to appreciate the comic absurdity of the moment, but all he felt was weariness, a weariness that very soon awarded him with sleep.
He had no idea how long that first sleep lasted—probably no more than an hour—for it seemed that almost immediately he began to hear this strange sound, this soft inhuman keening, like the cry of an animal caught somewhere, wounded, dying. As sleep-drugged as he was, it took a while for him to determine the source of the sound: Cutter, still dressed, standing at the window his face pressed against the glass while outside the rain was still coming down, drumming on the cars parked beyond the sidewalk. Only as Bone struggled to a sitting position in his bed did he notice the drawing on the window, where Cutter’s breath had clouded the glass: a tick-tack-toe form filled with zeros.
Swinging his legs out of the bed, Bone groped for his cigarettes. “What’s up, old-timer?” he said. “You got a bellyache?”
Cutter moved unsteadily from the window, sagged into the chair again. “I’m drunk, I guess,” he admitted.
“I guess.”
“But you right, Rich—I ache. Yeah, I do ache.”
“Why not go to bed?”
“If it would help, I do it.”
“But it won’t, huh?”
Cutter shook his head and looked over at the bottle next to him on the table. It was one-third empty now. He started to reach for it and then gave up, let his hand fall. And again he shook his head back and forth, like an animal contemplating the bars of its cage.
“You ever feel divided?” he asked finally. “I mean, like you was split, like some goddamn worm cut in two, and the two parts of you keep crawling around looking for the other, for the whole of you?”
Bone said nothing. He wanted to respond, but the right words would not come, and he was afraid of the wrong ones.
“I’m scared, Rich,” Cutter went on. “I’m way out here, and I don’t think I can get back this time.”
“Back from where?”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s the problem. I’m out here, and I’m alone. And I don’t think I can get back.”
Bone seized the opportunity. “We could leave tonight, Alex. Right now. Try some bigger town, with the right kind of doctors. The r
ight kind of hospital.”
“Why not aspirin? Or a Band-Aid?”
“All right—no doctors or hospitals. But what then? What else is there?”
Cutter tried to grin. “There could be God.”
“Could be.”
“Then again, there could not be.”
Bone dragged on his cigarette, exhaled. He was trying not to look at Cutter, not to stare, for he had the feeling that in some subtle and irreversible way the man had changed in this last long unknown hour while Bone had slept, and gone over some ultimate edge into an area that was somehow totally other, beyond Bone’s ken and reach, and both of them knew it.
“Tell me what to do,” Bone said. “Anything. I’ll do it.”
Cutter had reached out for the bottle and now he took a drink. Finished, he set it between his legs. “There’s nothing,” he said. “Ain’t nothing you can do, old buddy.”
“I could take the bottle away.”
Alex shook his head. “Wouldn’t do any good. I’d still be here. And you’d still be there.”
“We could get some sleep.”
Cutter tried the grin again. “Why, you got problems you don’t even know about, you poor sap.”
“Like what?”
“Like you trusted me. You believed me.”
“Believed what?”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s better you don’t know.”
Cutter and Bone Page 26