A Hanging at Cinder Bottom

by Glenn Taylor

Harold took out his tobacco and a paper and made a cigarette.

  Abe said, “Why don’t we speak on your purchase of this land.”

  “This boy has always been full up on the finest ideas,” Rufus Beavers said.

  Al stood and walked toward the sound of the children.

  “You’ll have to excuse Daddy,” Abe said. “He’s not yet come to peace with the transaction.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. He explained to the Beavers brothers the finer points of the transaction’s timeline, which he and Henry Trent had been speaking on for weeks, alone in Trent’s office, Rutherford having been excused each time. The price had already been negotiated. The closing date was set for Monday, July the fourth, the only day that both Mr. Hood and his lawyer could travel to Kimball for the transfer of deed. The name on the contract would be Rufus Beavers, and on the sixth day of July, a crew of builders would break ground. They’d stand alongside Harold Beavers and have their picture made for the paper, and the headline would proclaim that two things were coming: the Westward Addition and the ascending sixth district delegate-elect.

  “It will be a fine affair,” Harold said. He was getting itchy for town.

  “Indeed.” Rufus eyed the second house and imagined it as campaign headquarters. He looked beyond it to the bones of a madman’s chapel and imagined its foundation laid across with dynamite and lit by a lengthy wick. Boom, he wished to intone aloud, but he refrained. He shut his eyes and saw the Westward Addition in full swing. He saw switchbacked roads, paved, leading to terraced homes, redbrick foursquares with milk-skinned children playing out front. The children made gleeful sounds. None were colored. None had crossed an ocean to end up in the Westward Addition.

  Trent said, “It will all come together nicely,” though he wondered at the very sound of the words if it was so.

  Al strode back toward the table, his weight on his cane.

  Harold Beavers wrote dates in his ledger book and slammed it shut. “Why in the hell ain’t we signing papers today?” he asked.

  Al sat down stiff. “The lawyer of Mr. Hood finds mistake on surveyor’s plat,” he said. “You will have ten acres more than was known, to the east.” He pointed up the mountain. The men looked where he pointed.

  Abe could scarcely keep back a smile. His daddy had told the lie they’d rehearsed, and he’d done it convincingly. The truth was that the lawyer had already gotten the papers in order, and the sale had already been made. The buyer was never to have been Rufus Beavers. The buyer was in fact a newly retired politician. He was a prohibitionist preacher and friend of Mr. Hood. The owner of the land on which they now sat and dined was a man who’d never set foot there, a man with unquestioning faith in his son’s written word. He was Oswald Ladd Sr., smiling signer of power-of-attorney forms, father of the frail boarder Abe had seen off to Virginia the very day before, deed and documents in hand, telling him, “Just give us two weeks to clear off and it’s yours.” Abe had groomed the junior Ladd for a month, and the man had boarded the train grinning, content in the knowledge that his daddy was the next owner of Hood House and its acreage, that together they would draw up plans for a prohibitionist temple of godly converters who would settle on the mountain, look down upon Sodom, and configure their cleansing of the three thousand lost.

  Up the ridge, a turkey vulture soared. The Beavers brothers watched it, happy at the thought of more land.

  Harold imagined the bird exploding midflight.

  Rufus wondered about the status of the chocolate cake.

  The children could be heard in the trees at yard’s edge. Baby Ben made a squirrel call and Agnes answered.

  Harold Beavers said, “When do we get to sit and turn over some cards?” He’d been playing more as of late, and he was looking to separate somebody from his bankroll, preferably Abe Baach or the big city marks he’d roped.

  “Abe and I have worked all that out,” Trent said. He resented having to repeat what he’d already told Harold the night before, but he was accustomed to the man’s lack of memory. “Chicago Phil is due back in Keystone either today or tomorrow.” He eyed Abe for confirmation and was given such in a nod. “Abe has kept him on the line by way of enticement.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Harold Beavers said.

  “Means he’s in love with Rose Cantu,” Abe told him. “Goldie’s best-looking girl. He couldn’t stay gone less you castrated him.”

  They laughed a little.

  “It isn’t only that,” Abe said. “I’ve been in his ear about who plays the Oak Slab. I told him Little Donnie is the best there is, and he already thinks he can beat the boy.”

  “Why does he think such a thing?” Harold was getting irritable. Thirsty. He smacked his throat where a mosquito fed.

  Trent put his hands at table’s edge. “I told you all this last night,” he said. “They partnered at Baach’s table and the boy pretended to lose while Abe won.” Trent had begun to worry that Harold’s reckless ways might corrupt their plan. It was best to keep him in the dark on finer points.

  “I’m going to rope him for a week back at our table,” Abe said, “let him go up a grand or so, and then send him and the others to the Oak Slab on Independence Day.”

  Trent nodded. “I’ve got their invites pressed and a row of third-floor rooms on reserve. Tickets to Mercurio’s opening night too.”

  “Phil’s a magic enthusiast,” Abe said.

  Harold shook his head. He said, “And you going to treat ole magic enthusiast like a king, are you?”

  Rufus grew tired of it. “We’ll treat him like the goddamned hero of San Juan Hill if we have to Harold,” he said. “The man’s carrying in property that will bankroll your sorry run and then some.”

  Harold held up his hands in compliance and said, “Simmer down brother.” He pointed at Abe. “It’s him who I want to play anyhow.”

  Abe looked straight at him. “Soon as Phil and the others push off,” he said, “you can come on over and sit at the Wobbler.”

  “The what now?”

  “It’s the name of Abe’s table,” Trent said. “Rutherford aims to play too.”

  The screen door on the main house slapped hard against the jamb and Sallie came on with the cake. Beyond thank-yous, they were quiet as she doled out wedges the size of axe heads.

  They ate and grunted to express their pleasure at the dark ambrosial icing.

  Harold wondered if it would be improper to ask for a little brandy in his after-supper coffee. She was gone before he could. “What about this championship fight?” he said.

  “What about it?” Rufus did not care to speak on Jack Johnson, a man he despised. He’d let his money talk for him. He planned to bet upwards of five hundred dollars on Jim Jeffries.

  “Just more money to be made,” Trent said.

  “I hear Fred Reed is having a big ole party at the Union Club.” Harold’s teeth were smeared brown. Black crumbs fell from his lips.

  “He’s running a special telegraph wire for it,” Trent said. “Hauling in French wine.”

  Rufus scoffed. “Thinks foamy wine’ll win him a council seat does he?”

  Harold finished his cake and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “July fourth shapin up to be one busy day. Best be sure your police is ready to put down any sore-loser niggers when Jeffries lays Johnson on the canvas.”

  “No need for that,” Trent said. “They’ll have their money on Jeffries.”

  “Who will?”

  “All of em. Most anyway. They ain’t fools when it comes to a smart bet. No colored man can beat Jim Jeffries.” Trent looked at his associates. They’d been in Florida too long. He said, “Fred Reed plans to put two hundred dollars on white.”

  The children hollered and laughed in the woods. The hider had been sought and found.

  Little Ben waddled quick across the cut weed lawn toward the house. Agnes followed. “Well, hide the whiskey and bend the knee boys,” Harold Beavers said. “God’s children comin this way.”


  They paid him no mind. Children had no use of men like those at the table. Agnes leapt from grass to back stone step. She glanced in their direction and let the door settle quiet behind her.

  Each man aimed his ear then at the sound of an approaching automobile. Its engine roared louder than the Oldsmobiles that had struggled up the same rough path that morning.

  “I believe that might be Phil now,” Abe said. He stood.

  The other men did not, though they turned their heads to see a top-down vehicle of Persian red cresting the hill. It was piloted by a slick-haired man in a gray lounge suit. Beside him was Tony Thumbs, monkey Baz in his lap. They picked up speed on the flat and tore a straight line at the lawn’s big table.

  Now the men stood, for they sensed they might be run over otherwise.

  Ten yards off, the driver cut his wheel and mashed his brake pedal. The white spokes of his wheels seemed nearly to bend. The gold-gilded headlamps and grill flashed like a smile, and cut grass spat on the tablecloth.

  “Good Lord in Heaven,” Trent said. He’d tripped on his chair and hit the ground.

  The slick-haired man cut the engine and stepped from his seat. He was sixty years old but had the frame of a man much younger. He wore no hat. He smiled and breathed in deep through his nose. “Ah,” he said. “That is real air.”

  Tony Thumbs emerged slow, his old joints sticking. He made a beeline for the evergreens to relieve his troubled bladder. Baz rode on his shoulder bone.

  When he’d finished his dramatic inhalations, the driver stepped toward the stunned lot of standing men. He thrust out his big hand. “Phil,” he said. “Pleasure.” He shook the hand of Rufus first, then Harold, then Al.

  Last was Henry Trent, who rubbed at his newly injured hip. He narrowed his eyes. He said, “You’re the man we’ve heard so much on but never yet seen.”

  “Well, here I am,” the man said, “and Master John Goodfellow has already found lodging in the parlor of sweet Rose Cantu.” He situated his groin. “And she is still bright as sunshine and as pure as dew.”

  Harold Beavers only frowned.

  It was quiet for only a moment before Phil made a declaration. “I’ve got a case of rye whiskey in the rumble trunk.” He turned and walked brisk to procure it. He was having the time of his life already. Playing Chicago Phil on a West Virginia mountain was a welcome departure for him, a man who’d spent most of his acting life soliloquizing Shakespeare in the decrepit Old Drury. “Who’s thirsty?” he shouted.

  Abe smiled. Tony Thumbs had been right again. The man introducing himself as Chicago Phil was a veritable ham. Jim Fort was his true name. Telling big-money lies was his momentary game.

  Harold Beavers liked rye. He watched the man procure it from the rack. He regarded the vehicle. “That is some automobile,” he said.

  “Chambers-Detroit,” Phil said. “Touring.”

  “What’s your top speed?”

  “Thirty-eight miles per hour.” His smile widened. He set the case on the table. He pried it open with a bowie knife he wore on his hip.

  “You have a last name?” Rufus asked.

  Phil gave no reply, but instead uncorked the rye. He drank from the bottle and handed it to Harold. “Yes,” he said, “there is ample legroom in the touring. I won that pretty thing at a basement game in Cincinnati. She’s worth thirty-five hundred new.”

  Now Tony Thumbs stepped from the trees and went to each man, his hand extended in greeting. “Not to worry,” he said. “Didn’t spill a drop on it.” Baz bobbed his head and offered his own little hand for the shaking.

  Harold did not accept. “Hell zounds,” he said. “Carnival come to town.” He took a second snort from the bottle and passed it to Abe.

  Tony Thumbs looked square at Trent as he shook his hand and said, “Pleasure. I’ve met your chief of police and admired his gumption.”

  Trent nodded.

  “Wonderful town you’ve got here. Wide open.” Tony was careful not to lay it on too thick. “Couldn’t stay away. Those Cinder Bottom girls can stiffen up even the shriveled old-stagers like me.” He winked at Harold Beavers, who gave no expression in return. Tony went on. “Max and Beatrice are all lined up. I’ve just finalized their arrangements on Tuesday. They’ll arrive on the fourth, five PM train.”

  “Good,” Trent said.

  The rye made its way around with all but Al imbibing. He’d limped off to fetch two more chairs.

  “You say you won that vehicle?” Harold was fond of the particular burn of this strange rye whiskey. He poured it in his coffee mug generously.

  Phil smiled. “I had kings full of fours,” he said. He noted the children as they peeked from behind a window curtain. He cleared his throat. “I gather from Abe that all of you gentlemen are aces at the table.” He looked to Rufus. Then Trent. “I gather too that the Oak Slab is the finest and most-established game in a hundred miles or more.”

  Trent said, “Thirteen years that game has run without stoppage.”

  Phil whistled his admiration and clasped his hands on the table. “I’d sure like to sit and play when I finish at the Baaches.”

  “You ever play any cards in south Florida?” Harold asked.

  “Well, sure. And on top of it, I won my first clean grand in Bay Biscayne.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes sir. That was back when I still kept my monies in a bank, fool as I was.” He laughed. He noted the Beavers’ nod of approval. “Anyway, back then I’d been depositing my table winnings at this fancy bank on Flagler Street, a hundred or more dollars a day, every day, for a number of months, and one particular Friday, as I was leaving, the bank president asked for a word. He was a small, sickly man, but his office was beautiful. Had a chandelier in there I’d still like to get my hands on.”

  The men listened.

  “So we sit down and he asks me how it is I’m able to deposit like I do—wants to know what line of work I’m in. So I tell him. I’m a professional gambler. He says to me, ‘Don’t gamblers lose now and then?’ I said they didn’t if they knew their business. He said, ‘No man knows his business that well.’ I said I’d prove to him that I never lost a bet. I said I’d bet him right then and there two hundred dollars that at noon the next day, I’d come back to his beautiful banker’s office, and his balls would be spiked all over, like sweetgum seeds.”

  Each man laughed then. Abe especially enjoyed the tale, as he’d been the one who told a version of it originally on a late saloon night. Jim Fort had been tickled by the story, asked if he might use it in his role as Chicago Phil. “By all means,” Abe had told him.

  Phil went on. “So the banker, a real square paper, he can’t pass up what he knows is impossible, so he says, ‘You’re on,’ and shakes my hand.” Now he had them hooked. He was talking fast enough to keep them on the line and slow enough not to lose them. “Next day, I go back. Accompanying me is the richest son of a bitch in Miami at that time, a man who’d just as soon gamble on cockroach races and back-alley nickel pitches as he would a title fight. We step in the office and close the door and I tell the bank president to drop his trousers. He does so, red-faced, but content in the knowledge that his balls are round as they’d ever been. Still, he’s got to prove it, so I step over to where he’s standing half-naked under that big gleaming chandelier, and I reach over there between his puny thighs and cup those nuts in my hand, and the banker turns redder still, and across the room, the richest son of a bitch in Miami drops his head to his chest and takes out his billfold.”

  The Beavers brothers just sat there a moment. Henry Trent too.

  “I’d bet that rich son of a bitch twelve hundred dollars that on Saturday at noon, I’d have a bank president’s balls in my hand.”

  They slapped the table and roared, Harold especially. It was one of the finest tales he’d heard.

  They emptied the bottle and uncorked another.

  At two o’clock, Tony laid on the table a bottle of beer, a cigarette, and a match.
He said he’d bet any takers his monkey could open the beer, drink it down, light the match, and smoke the cigarette in less than two minutes. The Beavers brothers inspected the bottle, and indeed it was tight-sealed with the new variety of crown cap. They each laid down ten.

  At the sound of Tony’s whistle, Baz leapt from his shoulder and bared his yellow teeth at the bottle. The men were startled by the length of his canines. His movements were newly quick. He used his middle incisors like a vice, tore off the cap and spat it in the grass, and, sealing his lips around the bottle’s neck, he pointed its bottom at the sky. His swallows were fast and consistent. It was empty in forty-nine seconds. He lit the match on his big toenail whilst already drawing on the butt. They’d not ever seen a body puff so swift, and when he’d finished he dropped it in the bottleneck hole.

  Hiss.

  The Beavers said it was the best ten dollars they’d spent.

  Tony held Baz like a baby then, and the monkey went right to sleep. Tony took him to the car and held him there still, humming a made-up tune. He didn’t like to see his little friend do the trick they’d dubbed the bottle-and-smoke, but Baz had long since known it by the time he came to Tony, and it had always proven stellar in the making of friends.

  The men spoke on the rarity of the ladies of Fat Ruth Malindy’s. They spoke on the Reno title fight and the current price of coal per short ton.

  At half past four, the two men and a monkey departed, trailing dust. Phil shouted a verse as they rolled on: “Let’s drink to our next meeting lads, nor think on what’s atwixt!”

  The other men leaned and slumped and watched them go. Rufus said, “Those fellas is somethin else.”

  “Climb in your chariot Rufus,” Harold answered. “Let’s us see who can lay off the brake longest into town.”

  Goldie was on her way up the hill as the Beavers came careening down. She hid herself behind a poplar tree and cringed at the sound of their vehicles.

  When they’d passed, she went on.

  She’d put Rebecca Staples and little Bob on the four o’clock to Princeton. She didn’t know why, but she’d nearly cried as the train pulled away.