Balum's Harem

by Orrin Russell

  He walked up an alley and stopped at the end where it opened onto the main drag. Twice he’d seen it, but he’d never taken a close look. He leaned a shoulder against the building beside him and there he remained several minutes moving nothing but his eyes. He read the handpainted signs hanging over entryways. Blacksmiths, tinkers, a lean-to dedicated to the sale of stoves. He paused at an adobe house at the far end of town. For as close as it stood to the other buildings it seemed somehow apart from them. A placard nailed to a post beside the door read Doctor Friedman, Medicines . Balum watched and waited, but when no one came or left he let his attention wander up the street. Buildings everywhere. He knew where the girlie show was, and he remembered the hotel he’d stayed at on his first visit. That hotel wasn’t so bad. It offered bath service.

  He stepped around the corner and walked under the shadows of awnings. The majority were saloons, a good deal of them assayers, silver buyers, hardware stores. And whorehouses. How a boomtown attracted such business so quickly, Balum had no idea. It was no easy thing getting to Tin City; desert surrounded it on all sides, yet here the town was, big and getting bigger. Buildings stood at odd angles, no sense of order. Drunks in the street, packmules hitched at the rails. Unshaved unbathed miners, men of business, men of desperation, thieves and pickpockets and gamblers, and of course whores aplenty to strip them of their money. They spilled from the saloons and balconies, dressed in transparent silks and calling out to the men in sultry voices filled with lurid details of the pleasures they could provide. They called to Balum. He forced himself to keep his eyes down, not to look, for he knew his weaknesses. He was not a man built to resist the vices on which Tin City had been built.

  He kept his hat brim low at the reception counter and signed in under a false name. He inquired on a bath. The boy attending the desk shouted through a door for water to be drawn, then delivered up a key and plopped back onto his stool while Balum marched off to his room with the saddlebags swinging heavy from his shoulder.

  First thing he did was slide his wares beneath the bedframe. Then he sat. Took off his hat. His boots. Waited for the bath to be drawn.

  He breathed.

  Best case scenario was that Joe was somewhere in town lying low and keeping quiet. But for a man as lovesick as Joe, such good sense was uncommonly scarce. Odds were, he’d found trouble. Just how much trouble, Balum didn’t know. He did know that the worst way to find out was to start asking questions. The thing to do was to listen.

  When his bath was drawn he carried the suit and pants he’d bought in San Antonio down the hall to the washroom and hung them over the sink along with his gunbelt, then stripped his clothes off and sunk down into the tub one leg at a time. The hot water made his head go light. He dunked himself fully under and scratched his scalp, his face. Hair everywhere.

  That was it; go to the barber. The two places that seemed the most obvious — the saloons and the girlie show — also seemed the worst. The idea of hanging out in a saloon in a town like this gave Balum pause. Let alone the girlie show. He wasn’t sure how long he could resist the sound of poker chips falling at the tables, whiskey shooters slamming onto bartops, the moan of women luring him behind velvet curtains. No. The barber was a wealth of gossip, and he needed a shave and a haircut something bad.

  The barbershop was nothing more than an alleyway floored with rough-cut boards not nailed down to anything and a canvas sheet strung overhead as roof. It had no windows, but light seeped through the sheet well enough for the barber not to err with the razor. A wagonload of stacked adobe bricks served for a bench, and on it sat two men smoking cigars and exhaling great swirling plumes that hung like stormclouds just below the canvas.

  Conversation died when Balum crossed through the flap. He removed his hat and took a seat beside the two smokers. They wore no guns. They dropped their heads and held the burning cigars at their knees and said nothing.

  The shop had one working chair. A great big wooden thing in which sat a man slathered in shaving foam with his head tilted back and his throat exposed to the barber. He craned up to look at Balum then let his head fall back against the headrest. The barber paused also in his work. He stropped the blade on a wad of leather and walked around the chair, taking in Balum but making no obvious show of it.

  Some unspoken assessment occurred there in the silent space of a minute, and by an accord no way obvious, a verdict was reached. The men resumed their conversation.

  ‘He could have fared worse,’ said the man beneath the razor.

  ‘Fared worse?’ the cigar beside Balum spoke. ‘Who — Earl or Big Tom? Because Earl’s face looks like shepherd's pie.’

  ‘Could have had his horses stolen. You got to admit that’s the damndest thing of it all. One horse? No way in hell they’re gonna make it.’

  The cigar burned red and faded. A cloud floated into the canvas. ‘Depends on where they’re going.’

  ‘Ain’t nowhere to go.’

  ‘Hiding in the mines is the word around town.’

  ‘He ain’t took her to no mine. He’s a goddamn indian. Probably took her west into the mountains. That’s his best bet.’

  ‘Don’t Earl know?’ asked the second cigar smoker. ‘He’d have seen which way they went.’

  ‘If Earl knows he won’t say nothing. Look at the beating he took already. He’ll know to keep his mouth shut.’

  The men smoked and considered this while the barber leaned up and stropped the razor.

  Balum broke the silence. ‘When did all this happen?’ he asked.

  All eyes turned to him. The razor came to a stop against the leather.

  ‘You got a name, mister?’ the barber asked.

  Balum took a breath. If he said his name the news would spread around town. It was not a name that went unnoticed, not anymore. Not after Lance Cain, Ned Witney, the Farro brothers, the list long, and all of the names on it etched into tombstones.

  The hell with it.

  ‘The name’s Balum.’

  The barbershop was already silent, and this silence did not change. Smoke curled up, the man covered in shaving foam shifted his foot.

  The answer took its time coming, but eventually it did. The cigar at the far end of the room gave it. ‘Two nights ago,’ he said. He planted the cigar back in his mouth. Done speaking.

  The barber scowled. He studied the floor, seemed to consider something, then bent over his customer and resumed the shave. The blade picked up foam. He dipped it in water, shook it, stropped it, worked at the hairs under the customer’s nose. He straightened suddenly to his full height and glared at the cigar beside Balum. ‘One question is where they took off to,’ he said, ‘but the better one is how many days will it take Big Tom to catch that poor bastard.’

  ‘How many men he take with him?’ asked the cigar.

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Don’t leave many around, does it?’

  The comment stopped conversation. The customer in the barber’s chair tilted his neck up and looked through the smoke at the men on the bench. The barber stropped the razor, though it didn’t need it. Balum kept his eyes down.

  ‘I’m just saying, is all. Ain’t many around. Three. Four if you count Bucky.’

  ‘And what the hell are you going to do about it?’ The barber whirled around with the blade pointed at the bench. ‘Are you going to face them down? And say you do — what happens when Big Tom returns?’

  ‘Don’t you point that thing at me.’

  ‘Then quit with your fool ideas.’

  ‘I ain’t the only one sick of him. The whole town’s sick of him, but there ain’t a man around with the balls to do anything about it.’

  ‘That includes you,’ shot the barber.

  ‘I didn’t say it doesn’t. But if there was ever a chance to take this town back, it’s now. Them boys ain’t no match for us all. All us store owners, I mean. And maybe that indian will cut the rest of them down, maybe he’ll even put a bullet in Big Tom…’

  ‘Goddam
nit man,’ the barber raised his hands. ‘Stop your fool talk. That indian is a deadman, and every man jack of us knows it.’

  11

  Balum stood just outside the barbershop and ran a hand over his clean-shaven face and watched the town fade to velvet in the sunset. He considered briefly re-entering the canvas flap and grabbing the tight-lipped barber by his lapels and shaking answers out of the man — how long ago had the two escaped town, precisely — but the barber had clammed up after his argument and had shown no desire to talk. Balum might get his answer, but at the expense of creating a scene. He’d gotten a decent shave and a straight haircut, and it was all he was going to get.

  He ran his eyes down the main drag and considered his next steps. Two pieces of information he lacked; where had they gone, and how long ago had they fled. Earl the liveryman, though he might know in which direction they’d run, likely wouldn’t talk. Some hotel clerk might know, but it was doubtful. Saloons offered plenty of conjecture, mostly hearsay, nearly all of it fouled by alcohol. Fact was, he didn’t know a soul in town.

  Just as he thought it, his eyes landed on the doctor’s signpost.

  No , he said aloud. A passing miner glanced at him, and Balum dropped his head and adjusted his hat. No way was he going to deal with that woman any more. And what were the odds she knew anything? The best she could do was give him the town gossip.

  No. There was another place. From the moment he had arrived he had told himself he had no business going there. That it was only a poor excuse to enjoy himself. But he was wrong. Fact was, it was the only place. Valeria would have friends there. They might talk.

  He stole a final look at the doctor’s office, unsure why he did so, yet angry at himself that he did, and ambled up the street past the stove seller and around a mule team twenty strong, past open saloon doors and beneath balconies filled with women cooing at him and insulting him when he declined to respond.

  The saloon he entered bore no distinctive marks other than the calligraphed sign that read ACROPOLIS nailed above the doorway, but Balum knew it well. He took in the few loafing patrons with a glance, sizing them up for trouble should it appear. A habit formed long ago. The curtain leading to the backroom was closed. Silence beyond it. The hired tough absent.

  The barkeep had little to do. He leaned over the counter and watched Balum cross through the tables to the bar.

  ‘Is the show open?’ said Balum.

  ‘Fifty cents,’ the barkeep slid an open palm across the bartop.

  The room beyond the curtain held three stages ringed in small tables on which rested highballs filled with brandy. Men of all classes sat drinking, eyes mostly glued to the stages where women writhed and twisted half-naked under hanging chandeliers. Those not watching the stages had good reason, for slinking through the tables were girls of all stripes; slender, buxom, sharp or round, some pouring brandy into highballs and others perched on men's laps and snuggling against them, allowing hands to grope and wander, giggling all the while. All around, the smell of unwashed men and cheap perfume.

  Before he sat he determined he would drink nothing. At the first highball offered he accepted. The girl slinging drinks held the tray with one edge sunk into her waist just above the hip bone.

  Balum dug out the coinage and tossed it on the tray. She turned promptly and continued her rounds. Skin and bones in a limp cotton shift.

  The girl on stage nearest Balum waltzed off, another replaced her. She came out without a stitch of clothing to cover herself, sat down, leaned back, lifted her legs and ran her fingers over her thighs.

  He sipped brandy. Watched as she slowly let her legs fall to the sides, fingertips caressing, nipples aimed at the chandeliers. He watched her finger herself, her pussy glistening wet in the soft light. She brought a hand up to the underside of her breasts and hugged them together. Full and soft.

  He set the empty highball on the table and turned from the stage and surveilled the room. The faces of the men, but more importantly, the women. It came as some surprise that he could tear his eyes so easily from the dancer lying on her back not ten feet away stroking herself and moaning each time her finger disappeared inside her. He’d entered the show half-expecting to lose himself in flesh, his face smothered between soft breasts, intoxicated by the smell. Instead he was alert. Focused on his task.

  The first sweep aimed to hunt out danger, and he found none. The men took no interest in him. Several wore guns at their hips, others surely had weapons tucked into waistcoats or vestpockets, but none had come for trouble. Next the women. The dancers on stage, the plump woman lounging against a silent piano in back. Three girls with brandy trays, a tall lanky brunette working over two young miners at a table near the door, a trio of girls sitting on the laps of what Balum guessed were bankers. He searched for one face in particular but did not see it. When the brandy-slinger came by again he reached out and tugged at her shift and she stopped and reached for his glass.

  He laid a hand over her wrist and said, ‘I’m looking for someone in particular.’

  ‘You got a name?’

  ‘Kiki.’

  The brandy-slinger glanced around. ‘She’s in back getting ready. She’s going on stage soon.’

  ‘Tell her to skip the stage. Bring her over.’

  ‘Girls got rules to follow, mister. Everybody needs to dance — them’s Big Tom’s orders.’

  ‘No one’s here to enforce them though, are they?’ he said. ‘Not with Big Tom gone.’

  ‘He left Bucky in charge,’ her eyes flashed to a table where a man soaked in alcohol sat with his face hovering over a pair of large breasts, his eyes mostly shut, a bottle of brandy hanging precariously from his fingers. ‘Besides,’ said the girl, ‘we’re not supposed to talk about that.’

  ‘Go get her,’ he said. His voice was hard and short, and the girl backed away a step and turned and made a line through the tables to a back door. She disappeared inside and when she came out a minute later she was followed by a strawberry-blonde with curly hair and high-sitting breasts that for their voluptuousness seemed to defy gravity the way they sat in their blue strapless bra. Her face was round and everything in it soft of feature. An upturned nose, full round lips that did not meet together even when her mouth was closed.

  She approached with a saunter that forced Balum’s eyes to her hips. They rocked back and forth like the tick of a clock. A succubus hunting its prey.

  Or so she advanced until close enough to see the candlelight play across his face. Her feet halted and her hand covered her mouth, but before she could commit any further betrayal of Balum’s identity, he took her sharply by the arm and pulled her in.

  ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Sit.’

  She obeyed. Not without first darting her eyes around the room as if the very act of sitting might merit punishment should anyone spy it.

  ‘Don’t look around,’ he said. ‘Look at me. Act natural.’

  She closed her eyes a moment. Collected herself.

  ‘You remember me,’ he said.

  She took her hand from her mouth. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then you know why I’m here.’

  ‘I have no idea why you’re here. Shouldn’t you be out helping your friend? Helping Valeria?’

  ‘They left before I arrived. That’s why I came here — to find out where they went.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know ?’

  It was not a question, it was admonishment, and Balum did not answer.

  Kiki’s eyes widened. Her mouth parted further. She was beautiful there in the orange light so close to him. She studied him a moment like she might study a tool, and bit her lower lip. When the brandy-slinger circled close to eavesdrop, Kiki waved her over.

  ‘Tell Chloe to come here,’ she said.

  The skinny girl nodded and disappeared. The drunk named Bucky rubbed his eyes and looked their way. Kiki saw it. She turned and wrapped an arm around Balum’s neck and slid onto his lap facing him.

  ‘What are you do
ing?’

  ‘You told me to act natural. Is this natural enough?’ She pulled his head into her chest and smothered his face in her cleavage.

  Balum put up no resistance. He closed his eyes and sank into her flesh, his hands along her backside, up her waist, up to the clasp of her bra which he unhooked and let fall into his lap. Her breasts poured out and she giggled and squeezed them against his freshly-shaven jaw. When he took a nipple in his mouth she moaned and ran her fingers through his hair.

  A rush not unlike the punch of whiskey ran over him. He felt his body go light. His ears only halfway made out the voice that spoke beside him.

  ‘Hello cowboy,’ said Chloe. ‘Is Kiki not enough for you?’

  Kiki pulled away just as Chloe knelt onto the chair beside them. ‘Is Bucky still watching?’ she asked.

  ‘Bucky’s drunk,’ said Chloe. She leaned over and stuck her tongue out and ran it in a circle around Kiki’s nipple. She twisted her neck with her tongue dripping saliva and licked Balum’s jaw, his chin, dipped her tongue into his mouth. Her lips were painted red, her cheeks the color of copper.

  Balum’s cock swole in his britches. He let go of Kiki and reached out for this newcomer in an urgent grope that found full hot thighs, a tight waist, heavy breasts. A body that differed not much from Kiki’s except for the hue of her skin.

  ‘Chloe, listen,’ said Kiki. She tugged at her friend's shoulder. ‘Do you know who this is?’

  Chloe’s hand went to Balum’s crotch. She grabbed hold of his cock where it bulged against his trousers. ‘A cowboy with a big gun?’ She giggled at her own joke.

  ‘This is Joe’s friend. You know… Valeria’s Joe.’

  Chloe’s spine jerked straight. She looked over her shoulder at Bucky, then back again.

  ‘The name’s Balum. I need to find out where they went and get on after them, and quick...as tempting as your company is.’