A Congregation of Jackals

by S. Craig Zahler

  A door painted with the tableau of two half-nude women lying on an oversized water lily, eating grapes and sipping ambrosia, swung wide; three women filed into the den, each wearing an elaborately laced purple and black corset and silk slippers that looked as if they had been procured in the Orient. The sound of their smooth strides across the lush carpet reminded Dicky of a sluice. The women looked at the customer and were not at all unhappy.

  “He’s a bit more handsome than those marshals,” Queenie said to the women; they nodded in unison.

  Queenie sat beside Dicky, put an arm around his shoulders, motioned to the three ladies with her free hand and said, “They are all friendly and skilled in the arts of lovemaking. That is Dolores, that is Rebecca and that is Viola. If none of them are to your particular taste, you may wait and have a look at Alice and Mina—they are both working right now. I usually do not proffer myself, but in this case will make an exception if you are inclined toward the company of a more experienced woman.” She placed her hand upon his left leg and squeezed.

  “Please give me a moment to consider the many fine options.”

  “Certainly,” she said, her fingertips playing up and down his left thigh like the tongue of a cat cleaning its dirty paw.

  Dicky assessed the three woman standing before him. Dolores was without question the prettiest. Her face looked like a painting, but her hips were narrow and her bosom—even bolstered by the corset—was small. Rebecca was older (he presumed closer to thirty than twenty) and her figure was fuller, but perhaps because of her additional years as a whore, she looked unhealthy around her eyes and chin. Dicky surveyed Viola, who wore garters and lace stockings with her corset and slippers. She was just north of twenty, had a pleasant (if somewhat plain) broad face and a healthy complexion; her wavy brown hair still shone with the luster of youth. Her bosom nearly spilled from the top of her corset and her hips were wide and fleshy.

  “I would like to get to know Viola better.”

  Viola’s eyes lit up; Queenie and Dolores were surprised by the choice; Rebecca was openly disappointed.

  Viola said, “Truly?”

  “Indeed.” He looked at Queenie and asked, “Do I negotiate a price with you?”

  “There is a two-dollar rental fee for the room. The remainder you work out with Viola in private.” Dicky assumed that Queenie would also claim a percentage of that fee.

  He handed the madam four dollars and said, “I intend to take my time and I do not wish to be disturbed. If anybody comes looking for me, I am not here.”

  “A lot of married men come here, Mr. Dicky. They know that Queenie’s is a safe and private place.”

  Dicky stood up walked toward Viola, who stood looking at him with a big grin. Dolores, the gorgeous favored girl, pulled a robe over her corset, sat upon a divan and opened a small book with illustrations of birds in it.

  Rebecca looked at Dicky and said, “If you change your mind or want something different, I promise you won’t never forget the things I can do.”

  Queenie said, “Rebecca. Be respectful. Mr. Dicky has already chosen his companion for this evening.” The admonished woman sat upon the other divan and sulked.

  Viola pressed her chest into Dicky’s shoulder, slid her right arm around the small of his back and walked him to the door painted with the nymph fresco. She drew it wide, took his right hand and led him into a small hallway lit lavender by a lantern. She shut the den door behind them and calmly ushered her client past four closed rooms, to the final chamber on the left side of the passage.

  “Viola is a pretty name.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dicky.”

  She twisted a brass handle sculpted to resemble a bird’s wing and pushed open the door; amber light and the smell of lilacs and cinnamon spilled out into the hall. Viola pulled him into her chamber.

  An oil lantern hung behind an amber sleeve, radiating soft light that illuminated a large bed, a tall mahogany wardrobe painted with frolicking nymphs, a low bureau and a porcelain washbasin embossed with flowers. The wallpaper was brown with copper stripes and the curtains over the lone window were gold-colored lace. Viola shut the door.

  “This room is very nice,” he said.

  “Thank you. We each take care of our own.”

  “Would you please lock the door?”

  “We’re not supposed to do that. Queenie don’t like it.”

  “I am a nervous fellow.”

  “I noticed you got a gun tucked in your belt.”

  Dicky removed the gun and set it upon the bed.

  “You may put that away if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

  Viola pinched the barrel as if it were the tail of a dead rat, raised and carried the revolver over to her bureau; she opened the bottom drawer, placed the weapon inside and slid the compartment closed. She walked over to the door and twisted the brass key that sat within the lock; the tumblers clicked.

  The woman turned back to face Dicky, a grin on her face. She walked toward him, plunging one foot and then the other into the lush carpet; her slippers’ susurrations were lascivious. She pressed the palms of her hands to Dicky’s jacket and effortlessly slid the garment off of his back and down his arms, somehow also unbuttoning and removing his vest in the process. She set the apparel upon a wooden coatrack, kissed his lips, grinned (revealing a dimple on each of her cheeks) and applied her long fingers to the maroon bow tie at his neck. The ribbon came loose and dangled from his collar; her fingertips slid the buttons of his shirt through the eyelets one after another, like a sewing machine in reverse.

  “May we talk for a moment?” Dicky asked.

  Her hands continued down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt.

  She said, “You want to tell me about your wife?” Her fingers began to unhook the bronze buckle of his belt.

  “I am not married.”

  She looked up at him, concern in her wide hazel eyes.

  “You ain’t married?”

  “No.”

  She looked at her hands clasped firmly to his belt buckle and said, “Is there . . . do you have some sort of . . . problem?” Before he could reply, she knelt before him and placed her cheek against the crotch of his pants; she rubbed her smooth face back and forth, humming deeply. He became stiff. “It works,” she said, pleased. She arose and clapped her hands back onto his belt buckle.

  “May we talk for a moment, please?”

  “You want me to be naked for this discussion?”

  “It would be easier if you remained clothed.”

  She ran the palm of her right hand along his engorged phallus and nodded, “Okay. But let’s not do too much talking.”

  Dicky sat on the edge of the bed; Viola sat beside him, put her hands in her lap and interlaced her fingers as if she were in school.

  He asked, “Do you like this line of work?”

  “Sometimes. When a man like you comes in, I do. Most fellows, I need to imagine other stuff or close my eyes when it’s happenin’.” She looked at her hands, ruminated for a moment and then added, “There are some nice folks in Trailspur, I suppose. I can’t do much else, and men think I am good in here, so this is what I do.”

  Dicky felt a bit of melancholy creep into him.

  She looked at his somber face and said, “Do you want me to tell you about other men? What I do with them? Or maybe . . . maybe you want to know what they look like when it’s happenin’? Some men like to hear about that stuff. It’s okay.”

  “How much money do you make in a year?”

  She looked at him, surprised by the question.

  “I’m not sure—I didn’t do good in arithmetic. I usually make nineteen dollars a week, though sometimes more. Once I made thirty. Dolores usually gets twice that.”

  Dicky tabulated and said, “You make about a thousand dollars a year.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I would like to show you something.” Dicky fished into his slacks and drew out a thick billfold. “These are all one-hundred-doll
ar bills, legal tender.”

  “How many you got there?”

  Dicky handed it to her and said, “Count them.”

  She looked at the money in her tremulous hands and said, “I ain’t good with arithmetic, I told you.”

  “There are fifty such bills.”

  “How much does that make altogether?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  She said, “That’s a fortune.” She scrutinized the bills and added, “I never held this much money all at once, not ever. And my uncle in New Orleans was a tycoon, though he’s rotten mean.”

  Dicky put his right hand on Viola’s cheek, turned her face toward his and said, “I think you are a very special woman. You are beautiful, sweet and honest.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dicky. Men say nice things to me when it’s happenin’ or ’cause they want something extra, but it’s nice to hear compliments this way.”

  “I would like to have a child and I would like for you to be the mother of this child.”

  Viola’s eyes widened; she stared at him in breathless silence. He could not tell whether the look upon her broad face was of pure joy or pure terror, though he presumed it was a mixture of both.

  “You’re going to pay me to be your wife? You don’t even know me. And I’m a whore. And I don’t know you at all.”

  “My name is Richard Sterling. I live in New York. I have been a card sharp and a gambler and an outlaw. I have likely been with as many women as you have men.”

  “That’s why you ain’t got no wife? You runnin’ around so much you can’t pick one good enough to keep?”

  “Precisely. But tonight I feel different. My life seems thin . . . and sheer.” Dicky wished that this confession were a ruse.

  “Any girl would want a man that looks like you, and you’re smart and rich too. I don’t know why you come to me with this notion.”

  “There is a good chance that I am going to be killed tomorrow.”

  Viola’s eyes sparkled with concern, “You’re gonna get killed?”

  “I do not know for certain, but it is likely.”

  “So you want a baby?”

  “Yes. If I survive, I will take you back to New York and marry you, I promise. If I am killed—” Dicky pointed to the money she still clutched. “That will cover your living expenses throughout the pregnancy and many years afterward if you are careful with how you spend it. If you do not want the baby, you may give him or her up for adoption. The important thing to me is that a child of mine will be born into this world—that I leave behind something other than just mistakes.”

  “I would keep my baby, no matter what.”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Viola, still in shock over the proposition, nodded her head.

  “I won’t put in my diaphragm. Let me hide the money so Queenie don’t descry it.” Viola took the bills and walked over to her bureau. She opened a large drawer and from a sea of lingerie withdrew a framed daguerreotype of a family standing outside a house abutting a swamp. With trembling fingers, she slid the glass and the picture from the frame, exposing the wood beneath and twenty dollars legal tender that she had hidden there previously. She unfolded Dicky’s bills, laid them flat in the niche, and then covered them over. Viola interred the daguerreotype beneath her lingerie, shut the drawer and returned to the New Yorker.

  Dicky set a smaller bill upon the nightstand and said, “You can tell Queenie I paid you ten for your services.” Viola nodded, pulled off Dicky’s unbuttoned shirt, draped it on the coatrack, slid off his belt like it was a serpent, pulled off his boots and socks and then slid off his pants so that he wore only his maroon union suit.

  She pressed herself against him, pushed him onto his back and said, “I hope this isn’t a dream.”

  Her tongue surged into his mouth; her warm breath filled his lungs. He untied the side of her corset, slid his hands underneath the stiff fabric, teased her nipples with his fingertips and then pressed his palms firmly to her plush breasts. Her midsection began to sway. She pressed her clothed nexus against his phallus, long and stiff beneath his union suit. Her movements were serpentine and hypnotic. There were reasons beyond hard luck that this woman had become a whore, Dicky thought.

  He playfully flung her off of himself, onto the far side of the bed. He came down on top of her, slid between her legs and pulled away the corset. Her freed breasts stared up at him like enormous eyes, the nipples pink pupils. He slid her underpants from her rounded hips; she withdrew his phallus from his union suit, caressed it with both hands, fingering its lines and ridges. He pressed its tip to the dampened hair between her legs and rubbed her gently. She bit her lower lip. He pulled off his union suit.

  Viola opened her thighs; Dicky entered her; the woman’s silken insides soothed his heated phallus. Her bare skin was hot against his. She clamped her legs around his lower back; they found a rhythm together, even and forceful.

  Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes when he shot his seed, hard and searing as if the head of his phallus had erupted. He fell asleep between her loins, still lodged deep within her.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Patience, My Dear

  Beatrice sat on a wooden chair beside Jim. He handed her a cup.

  The titan precluded her inquiry when he said, “It’s the fruit punch.” She drank the juice while he dabbed a damp cloth on her warm forehead. “I think we showed ’em all who the best dancers in Trailspur are.”

  She surveyed the crowd, one-third the size it was four hours ago. The throng largely ignored the solicitations of Wilfreda’s playing, preferring to eat the seed and funnel cakes, drink punch or smoke cigars.

  “They all danced out,” Jim remarked with grammar she would not allow him to pass on to their children. She kissed him on the forehead and leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “Tonight has been divine. Everyone whom I wanted to see showed up and enjoyed themselves. I hope that the ceremony and the banquet are just as wonderful.”

  “Yeah,” was Jim’s response. She looked up at his face, but it was turned away from her and darkened by shadow. He took her right hand in one of his titanic carpenter hands and gently pressed his other atop it, as if he were making a sandwich with too little meat for the bread.

  “I think we should leave soon,” she said. “It is fine for guests to come to our wedding tired and bedraggled, but we must be well rested. My father rented a rolling daguerreotype saloon for the banquet.” Jim nodded. She added, “This is the last night that we will sleep apart from one another.” Beatrice pursed her lips and gave voice to none of the twining images that raced through her mind and made her chest and nexus ache.

  “Let me tell my pals when to get to church with that ledger.” He leaned over and kissed her; she felt the heat of his face and tasted sweat upon his lips.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” the titan said. He stood up, squeezed her shoulder and walked into the cigar-smoke haze in which luminous butts glowed like the eyes of wary cats.

  She watched Jim and the Danfords congregate in a dark corner and converse.

  “You are running out of time to change your mind.”

  Beatrice looked to her left and saw Deputy Goodstead, ablaze in red clothing.

  “I believe I am going to stay the course with Jim.”

  “Worse things have happened. The Civil War. The Alamo. Those plagues.”

  “Thank you for your blessing, Deputy.”

  “If I could give blessings, I’d be a minister—and then I’d accidentally marry the two of us.”

  Despite herself, Beatrice grinned at Goodstead’s blunt and tireless approach.

  “You will stop pestering me for my hand once I am married, I suppose?’

  “I wasn’t just going for the hand.”

  Beatrice was startled by the bold remark.

  “Sorry,” Goodstead said. “I had some of the rum punch. Thought it was fruit punch, deceived by all the fruit floatin’ in it.”

  He turne
d his blank gaze from her over to Jim and the Danfords.

  “Did Jim say where the other one went?”

  “Dicky?”

  “I thought his name was Richard. The swarthy one that looks like the sort of fella no girl’s father wants to give a handshake.”

  “That is Dicky. No, Jim did not remark upon his absence.”

  “Funnel cake is real good,” Goodstead said, unfolding a kerchief and pulling off a piece from the rather large section he had purloined.

  Beatrice had noticed Goodstead and her father monitoring Dicky and the Danfords throughout the shindy.

  She asked, “Are you and my father concerned about Jim’s friends?”

  The jaw housed in the basement of the blank facade masticated funnel cake, while the head itself shook twice in denial. She looked over at her husband-to-be and watched him part from the Danfords. The titan strode past weary dancers, cake eaters and producers of gray clouds.

  Goodstead thrust his right hand at Jim and said, “You must be James’s father?”

  “Nope. It’s me.”

  “Hard to tell—old folks look so alike.”

  “Forty-six is not that old,” Beatrice defended.

  Jim asked Goodstead, “You tryin’ to convince Bea to call off the weddin’?”

  “Certainly not. It’s nice she’s want to marry someone so advanced. It’s like a charity.”

  Jim smiled at the remark. He was never threatened by Goodstead’s advances and jibes, and (like her father) he found the blank-faced Texan a great source of amusement.

  The titan leaned over, scooped her up in both of his arms (she gulped the remainder of her punch so that she would not spill it), nodded to the deputy and said, “See you at the weddin’.”

  “I make japes and all, but I wish you two the best. Honest. And if she becomes a widow, don’t you worry about who’s gonna take care of her: Mayor Goodstead will provide.”