The Crack in the Lens

by Steve Hockensmith

  “My, what big cockroaches y’all have around here,” I said instead.

  “Leave him alone,” Bales snapped.

  He still didn’t strike me as imposing physically—with his tidy clothes and soft features, he would’ve been right at home behind a sales counter with Coggins—but the rage in his eyes was a warning not to push him any further.

  A warning I didn’t heed. There was something about the naked loathing on his full moon of a face, the impression that he was about to pop, that spurred me on.

  What can I say? Give a little boy a box of matches and a stick of dynamite and just see what happens.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Why take it out on poor little Coggins? It ain’t always a feller’s fault who he has to take orders from. I mean, just look at you and them two law-abidin’ taxpayers back there.”

  Bales eyed me warily, torn between disbelief and disgust. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  I shrugged. “If you have to ask, I must not be doin’ it very well. Tell you what: I’ll try harder next time. We don’t wanna detain you any longer here, though. You got important work to do. Why, at this very moment, there might be fearsome desperadoes like ourselves terrorizin’ defenseless pimps all over town. So you just toddle along and do your duty, and we’ll promise not to inconvenience any more of your constituents today.”

  That was it—Bales finally exploded. Only not in the way I’d expected.

  It was an explosion of laughter that erupted out of him, one big burst of bitter amusement, too short-lived and barky to be what you’d call a guffaw. Maybe just a guff.

  He looked me up and down again, sour gaze lingering on the flaming red hair that’s such a perfect match for my brother’s. “You must be Otto.”

  I went pop-eyed with amazement. “Yessir, that’s right.”

  Bales shook his head. “You’re an even bigger pain in the ass than I’d imagined.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to see that my legend precedes me,” I said, and I shot a cocked eyebrow at Old Red—my standard (and oft-employed) “What the…?” look.

  “Milford here’s a fr—” Gustav cut himself off with an awkward cough, then started over. “Mr. Bales and I were acquainted when I lived down here.”

  “Oh, you don’t say,” I said with a solemn nod.

  And my brother likes to accuse me of stating the obvious.

  Old Red turned to Bales. “I never pegged you for a lawman.”

  “Yeah, well…people will surprise you, won’t they?” the marshal snarled, his hostility flaring up hot again in an instant. “I just decided there were things that needed changing around here. Things that needed to be stopped. Enough people agreed to get me elected.”

  Bales sucked in a quick breath that puffed him up like a hissing cat—and his left hand slid toward the black grip of his Lightning.

  “I don’t intend to let those people down, Amlingmeyer. So let me be clear about this: Cowboy bullshit is no longer tolerated in this town. Nowadays, men who play rough get played even rougher. So the first chance I get, you’re going to see just what kind of lawman I am—and believe me, you’re not going to like it. You understand me?”

  Gustav nodded. “I understand.”

  Bales gave us an extra moment’s glare, then turned and stomped out of sight.

  “Well, you gotta give him this much,” I said. “That was the best don’t-mess-around-in-my-town speech we’ve heard in a right long while. Maybe a tad too much of the stage about it, though. And didja notice?”

  “What do you think?” Old Red snipped.

  Translation: Of course he’d noticed.

  Bales’s left hand—the one hovering over his gun—had been trembling so bad you could hear the fingertips rattle-tapping against the holster leather.

  “Don’t let that fool you,” my brother said, staring off the way Bales had just gone. “My experience, a man with the shakes is more likely to draw than one without.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I stepped in front of Old Red so he’d have to look at me instead of gawping off at nothing. “So…what’d you do to piss the man off, anyway?”

  Gustav rubbed his chin, still brooding. “I honestly don’t know. I mean…I think I threw a punch at him the last time I saw him, but I didn’t think he’d hold that against me.”

  “You think you threw a punch at him?”

  Old Red nodded.

  “But that shouldn’t have bothered him?”

  My brother nodded again.

  “That settles it,” I said. “Come on.”

  I started off up the sidewalk with my brother in tow. He wasn’t accustomed to following my lead, so the only way to be sure he’d come along was grab an arm and drag him again.

  “Come on where?” he grumbled.

  “Seems to me you’ve got another story needs tellin’,” I said, “and the place to tell it also happens to be the best place to dig us up some gossip on Ragsdale and Bock and your ol’ pal the marshal. All you gotta do is point the way.”

  Old Red jerked his arm free—and said, “Turn here.”

  For all our tramping around town that day, I’d seen little that truly seemed seamy. In fact, the most sordid den of iniquity I’d spied was a billiard hall.

  But left and then left again and there it was: a sleazy little saloon, dark and dank and fit only for the dregs of society. Which, to judge by our experience with the local law, now included us.

  So in we went.

  4

  A Fountain Filled with Blood

  Or, Old Red and I Fish for Gossip and Catch Hell

  The name of the saloon was, apparently, Saloon, as that was the only word on the dingy sign out front. Along the same line, the solitary bartender inside could have been named Mr. Bartender, so standard a dive barman was he: dirty-shirted, stubble-faced, slump-shouldered, sallow.

  As for the clientele, you’d have to label them “non ex is tent.” Gustav and I were the only two patrons—and only one of us was welcome.

  In Saloon, it seemed, the social order of San Marcos was turned on its head. Now it was my brother receiving the (snaggle-toothed) smile, while I was judged unworthy of more than a curled lip.

  It was irritating, but hardly surprising. The place was tucked away on a dusty side street across from the railroad stockyard—which made it a cowboy joint. In such establishments as that, a respectably dressed fellow like myself would get no respect at all.

  Once Old Red and I had our beers (mine already half-emptied thanks to the slamming-sloshing way Mr. B slapped the glass down before me), we claimed a table in the corner.

  “So…” I tried to take a sip but got nothing but suds. “Tell me about Bales.”

  My brother took a long, long pull on his beer before speaking. He usually doesn’t do more in a saloon than wet his whistle, but now he was really giving the thing a good soaking.

  “Man’s a barber. Was a barber, anyhow. The local postmaster, too. That’s how I got to know him. Used to help me fill out the money orders I sent up to y’all on the farm. So he knew I was…unschooled. After a time, it got so’s he’d help me with other things, too. Like the notes you used to send me.”

  I chuckled, thinking back on my dispatches about flying-ship trips to the moon and President Cleveland’s latest visit to beg our dear old Mutter to marry him. When you’re a crazy-bored farmboy, the excitement you put into a bullshit tall tale’s about the only kind you’re likely to get.

  “So that’s how Bales knew of me,” I said.

  Gustav nodded. “He ended up knowin’ a lot about me. I think you could even say he was a friend.”

  “So naturally you tried to knock his block off.”

  “Yeah…I reckon I did.” Old Red foamed up his mustache with another glugging swig. “After I found out about Adeline, I went on a real tear, and Milford ended up in my path one night.”

  “A tear? You?”

  Not only had I never seen my brother drunk, I’d never even seen him truly tipsy. />
  “Yeah, me,” he said miserably. “If I’d had the slightest clue what to do, if I’d had me any method, it wouldn’t have happened. But Mr. Holmes was a long ways off for me still…so I just went and got stinkin’ drunk. Made a big scene at the Golden Eagle, stumbled around town ragin’. Somewhere in there, me and Milford tangled—though I can’t recall over what. That was the last I seen of him till today.”

  “Well, looks like your ol’ pal can hold a grudge.”

  “So it would seem.” Old Red polished off his drink, finishing in the manner prescribed by cowboy etiquette—by dragging his shirt-sleeve across his face. “Just don’t fit him, though.”

  “Neither does a badge.”

  My brother stared down into his empty mug and made a neutral, thoughtful sort of sound—“mmmm.” Then he pushed the glass across the table with his fingertips, putting it as far from his reach as possible.

  “What do you make of the man?” he said, and he turned toward the bar.

  Mr. B looked up with wide, innocent eyes. “Huh? You talkin’ to me?”

  He’d been busying himself as all barmen will when killing time. Swiping at the counter with a rag. Spit-polishing shot glasses.

  Eavesdropping.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Old Red said, impatiently waving off the man’s phony confusion. “Bales—what kinda marshal is he?”

  “The do-gooder kind,” the barkeep growled, scowling. He was obviously one of those fellows who consider the doing of good un-manly and more than mildly repugnant. “All the holier-than-thous got together to throw out the old marshal and put Bales in his place.”

  “So he’s some kinda reformer, is he?” I asked.

  “Worse than that! The bastard’s honest! First day in office, he actually starts enforcin’ the damned laws!”

  I shook my head and clucked my tongue. “Scandalous!”

  “Marched right into the Golden Eagle with a bunch of deputized busybodies and closed the place down,” Mr. B went on, ignoring me (which, I grant you, is often for the best). “Did the same to the Bull’s Head and the Bon Ton, and now there ain’t nowhere in town a man can get himself a piece of ass with his head held high. Can you imagine? I mean, this is Texas, dammit! That’s supposed to stand for something! Am I right or am I right?”

  “Both,” I said, and I saluted him with my mug.

  “If Bales is such a crusader, why’s he put up with Ragsdale and Bock?” Gustav asked. “Not half an hour ago, we saw the three of ’em together, and it looked like Bales was at their beck and call.”

  The bartender shook his head and snickered as some will when admiring the audacity of particularly naughty boys. “Bales is at their beck and call…though no more than for anyone else in town. You see, Ragsdale and Bock had to close the Eagle, sure, but they still owned the building fair and square. So what did they open there a couple weeks later but a wallpaper store! Nothing illegal about that. Meanwhile, at the very same time, them two rascals was puttin’ up a whole new cathouse—only this one’s half an inch over the city line, out where the law’s not beholden to no bluenoses. So if Marshal Bales so much as sets foot in the place, Ragsdale and Bock could have the sheriff arrest the meddlin’ SOB for trespassin’! Ever since then, they’ve been rubbin’ the town’s face in it, struttin’ around in top hats like a couple Vanderbilts on their way to the opera!”

  Mr. B laughed. I joined in out of common courtesy.

  My brother, being uncommonly uncourteous, frowned.

  “Sounds like Ike Rucker’s still county sheriff,” he said.

  The barkeeper nodded. “Will be till the day he dies, so long as the cattlemen and cowboys have the votes. Ol’ Ike’s never come between a man and his fun. Hell, he’s too busy havin’ fun himself!”

  Old Red’s already sour expression curdled even further. “This new bawdy house…how would we get there?”

  Mr. B cocked his head to one side and said nothing. Then he sighed, reached under the counter, and produced an ancient carbine that looked like it was already rusted out when it saw service at Gettysburg.

  I put up my hands. “You’d rather we bought a map?”

  The barkeep snorted, then laid the rifle on top of the bar. “This ain’t for you. It’s for them.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Sometimes I have to remind ’em to stay outside.”

  “Remind who?”

  Gustav shushed me, and I finally heard it, too.

  The sound of distant singing.

  “Them?” Old Red said.

  The barman nodded. “If you’re wonderin’ how your old buddy Bales got elected—and why my tavern’s empty—just look outside and you’ll find your answers.”

  As the singing grew louder, a feeling of familiar dread draped over me. Even before I could make out any words, I knew it was a hymn I was hearing—the drony, groany moans of the choir told me that.

  Why is it, I wonder, that so many songs meant to lift up praise to heaven sound so much like the wailings of the damned in hell? You’d think folks on their way to paradise would sound a mite more cheerful.

  Certainly there was little cheer to be found in the hymn we were being subjected to: that peppy little ditty known as “There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood.”

  There is a fountain filled with blood

  Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins.

  And sinners plunged beneath that flood

  Lose all their guilty stains.

  Lose all their guilty stains.

  Lose all their guilty stains.

  After that, the lyrics get really depressing. “Camptown Ladies” it is not.

  “The new brothel—where is it?” Old Red asked again. The choir was right outside now, and he practically had to shout to be heard above the dreary din.

  “Just follow San Antonio Street west till it turns into a trail. You’ll hit the place soon enough. The Phoenix, it’s called.”

  Old Red nodded and stood up. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  And off he went.

  Mr. B didn’t seem particularly sad to see us go—though I think he would’ve preferred it had more of our money stayed behind.

  Night was falling, and we found maybe twenty people, men and women alike, crooning away in the dusky gloom outside the saloon. All of them were draped in flowing robes that glowed faintly gold in the dim light.

  As we walked past, a tallish fellow separated himself from the rest of the choir, one arm stretched out before him. His robes and hair—even, it seemed, his eyes—were coal black, and as he moved closer I could see a frown chiseled so deep into his square face it might as well have been chipped from a block of granite. Had he not spoken a word, it still would’ve been obvious to me: Here was a preacher of the sort who dined on brimstone and breathed fire.

  “The stench of death is upon you,” he boomed as his heavenly host went on wailing behind him. “The putrescence of sin and damnation! Only the blood of the Lamb can wash it away! Only the blood of the Lamb can save you!”

  He was pointing a finger at us that seemed as long and straight and sharp as the spear that pierced Christ’s side. But when Old Red and I drew even with him, he suddenly flipped his palm up, and the Finger of Doom became an outstretched hand.

  “Come join us in prayer before it’s too late. Come join us and be cleansed!”

  “Can we take a rain check on that?” I said. “Saturday’s my usual bath night, and anyway we gotta run on out to the Phoenix tonight.”

  The preacher gave us the Finger again as Gustav and I walked away.

  “Hellfire awaits you!” he roared. “You will burn! You will both burn!”

  And it’s kind of strange to reflect on, me not being a religious fellow or prone to fright at bad omens or spooks—but that preacher’s prophecy?

  It came true.

  5

  The Phoenix

  Or, I Discover That Clothes Do Indeed Make the Man…a Target

  I wasn’t just guying that sky pilot about heading out to the cathouse. It was obvious that was
where my brother intended to take us next. First, though, there was an errand to run: We returned to the Star long enough for me to strap on my gun belt. The wrinkles in my fine trousers would be an annoyance, yes—but not nearly so much as a bullet through my liver.

  “You’re gonna keep your iron holstered ’less we really need it, ain’t you?” I asked Old Red as we trudged off toward the edge of town.

  “What the hell kinda question is that?”

  “A mighty simple one.”

  “Well, the answer’s yes. You know I ain’t one to throw slugs around willy-nilly.”

  “Usually, yeah, but you got a little hot when you laid eyes on Ragsdale and Bock. A lot hot, actually. In fact, I’d say you didn’t handle the whole thing very…uhhh…Holmesily.”

  My brother picked up his pace.

  “I ain’t feelin’ very goddamn Holmesy,” I heard him mutter before he hustled out of range.

  I let him have his distance again. There was enough crowding him already without me treading on his toes.

  Full-on darkness had fallen by now, yet for the first half mile or so we had plenty of light to see by: On each corner was that shining beacon of civilization, the electric streetlight. Some of the businesses and even homes were strung up for electricity, too.

  The twentieth century might be all of seven years off, but San Marcos—at least some of it—seemed to be getting there early.

  The Phoenix, on the other hand, was the 1880s encased in amber. Yes, barbed wire and railroads have put an end to the big cattle drives. Yet the heyday of the drover had never passed, to judge by the hullabaloo out at that brothel.

  From a distance, the Phoenix looked like nothing more than a big, newly raised barn just off the road—albeit one where the animals were obliged to stay outside rather than in. There must have been forty ponies ringing the place, and from their lean yet sturdy builds, the way they were tied, and the saddles they wore, it was obvious who the Phoenix catered to. And if all that didn’t make it plain enough, all you had to do was stop and take a listen.