It was rather that each quarter he stole weighed a bit more than the one stolen just before. The sample case was lighter after all.
‘How many them phonies you got left, Tex?’
Dove handed Luke the last of the batch. Luke took a count. Thirteen. ‘I know a place where we can get shet of these in one stop,’ he promised.
On South Rampart Dove waited out front while Luke ducked around the rear of a Negro shanty and returned with a pint of Bottled-in-the-Barn.
They drank it down to the half-pint mark. ‘That stuff is so good a feller can’t hardly bite it off,’ Dove told Luke.
‘It’s the pure quill,’ Luke agreed, ‘you can smell the feet of the boys who plowed the corn.’
Dove took another just to see if Luke were right about that.
‘It sure aint gravy,’ he reported.
‘Care to see the girls, boys?’ a little man in a flame-yellow shirt and cowboy boots asked from a doorway so wide it must once have been an entrance to a pretentious bar.
‘They givin’ it away today?’ Luke asked innocently.
The little blond man had sideburns past his cheekbones, he might have been twenty-two or forty.
‘To a couple good-looking fellows like you I wouldn’t be surprised if they did,’ he conned Luke right back.
‘Reason I suggested that,’ Luke explained, ‘is that we’re giving things away.’ He drew forth a green-margined certificate. ‘Free finger waves at Madame Dewberry’s. Reckon the little ladies might be interested?’
‘Why, this is the very deal they’ve been wondering how they can get it,’ the little man pretended, ‘they’ll take your whole load off your hands.’
By the time the two pitchmen realized they’d been out-pitched they were inside one of those high old-fashioned parlors where a ceiling fan whirrs so leisurely in a big twilit gloom that you can’t tell whether anyone else is in the room.
Gradually the forms of half a dozen men sitting as men sit in a barber shop, collars open and Sunday’s funnies on their laps, one or two with cigars in hand, emerged from the dimness.
Something brushed Dove’s hair and he touched a spider made of metal, suspended upon so slender a wire it was not discernible until a wave from the ceiling fan swung it; then a burnished glint wound right, wound left in the soundlessly woven air.
The woven air so softly spun by spiders red, by spiders green, some low-hung and some high; some gold and others rose. Spinning webs so fine on thread unseen in a long twilit gloom.
Dove picked up one magazine, pretending to read as other men did. Till suddenly wishing somehow to outdo them all, and spying a book on a divan, he picked it up boldly and returned to his chair. He flipped its pages carelessly, as though the light were too poor for a man to strain his eyes. He had flipped almost through, then gave one more flip, and his hand trembled on the page.
For there his steadfast tin soldier stood, his musket clasped under his grenadier’s hat, and behind him waited the same platoon of two-legged soldiers. The one-legged one was still the most steadfast.
In his simple-minded amazement he thought it must be Terasina’s book.
‘The girls will be down directly, boys,’ a bespectacled mulatto woman wearing black crepe chiffon, in which she had pinned velvet flowers, came bouncing to announce.
‘Ask them do they want free marcels, Lucille,’ Luke asked her.
‘It’s been many years since anyone called me “Lucille”,’ she told Luke.
‘Many years,’ Luke agreed wistfully, ‘many, many years.’
She peered at him but the years really had been too many. Faces of others had come like waves of the sea one fast upon another. Now there was no longer any recalling what shore, what summer nor what night hour their eyes had met in love or lust or simple bargaining.
‘They call me Mama now,’ she explained, ‘I’m just the housekeeper here.’
Then she caught sight of Dove clutching the parlor’s one book.
‘That’s our Hallie’s,’ she told him.
Dove looked at the name scribbled in the front. So that was how to write ‘Hallie’s.’ And kept his finger on that name though he closed the book.
An old man in a high-backed chair hoping to make the price of a pint, and the boy beside him longing for love so hard that a name in a book was already beloved. While others waited like window-dummies, anonymous men waiting to stay anonymous. They sighed, they spat, they snored now and then, but were careful not to begin idle talk that might lead to discovery of mutual friends.
A little black boy in a shirt that reached no farther than his navel studied each client in turn. Some smiled, some looked the other way. He would look till he had his fill of each, then move onto the next. If offered a penny he would pocket it yet never crack a smile.
A feminine scent, as of incense mixed with cologne, stirred the portieres. Dove gripped the book tighter.
This would be Hallie.
But it was only the fan overhead that had stirred the curtain. Now the metal spiders hung more still, now the barber shop boredom grew yet heavier. Across the street a man in a black stetson was offering a bag of something to a girl in the corner door. Dove saw her look both ways down Rampart and look both ways down Perdido. Then reached swiftly into the bag and dodged as swiftly back. A moment later she reopened the door just long enough to spit a peanut shell into the street. Any transaction, even for peanuts, made with one party still on the walk could mean a pinch for the girl.
But the risk she’d taken paid off, for the stetson girded up his loins and entered clutching his bag big enough to provide a peanut for every girl in the place and still leave two for himself.
The first street lamp came on, looked both ways down Rampart then both ways down old Perdido; then steadied itself for the long night ahead. When God alone knew what peanutless monster, what penniless stray, might come there seeking rest.
A moon-faced blonde with her hair in a bun sauntered in, her face dead-white and her brows pitch-black. Dove gave a start, then relaxed: no, this one never could be Hallie.
‘Reba, these boys got marcel waves to give away,’ Mama told her.
‘You got insurance?’ Reba demanded.
‘We got insurance to keep your hair from getting nappy,’ Luke stepped right in. Reba held out her baby hand and he clapped a certificate right in it.
‘That’ll be a quarter, miss.’
‘You said it was free.’
‘The quarter is just by way of a courtesy,’ Luke told her.
‘Keep it. I aint courteous,’ and gave him back his gift.
‘She’s from Chicago,’ Mama explained.
But a girl with a face made up to look like a death mask of Joan Crawford, a real plastic mask of a face, began to plead for one.
‘Mama sweet, give the man a quarter for one for me.’
‘For God’s sake, she don’t even know what the guy is sellin’ ’n she’s buyin’,’ Chicago shook her head in disbelief at the ways of Southern hustlers.
‘Meet Frenchy,’ Mama introduced the mask, ‘and this is my grandson, Warren Gameliel. Pledge allegiance, Warren G.’
The little black boy wasn’t pledging a thing. He wasn’t even saying hello. ‘I do it back,’ he warned everyone. No one knew what he meant by that.
‘—and this is our Fort Worth girl,’ Mama introduced a blonde twice the size of the first, with breasts that could better have hung on a cow. No, this never could be Hallie.
Mama handed Luke a quarter for Frenchy, the girl received her paper, gave it one bored glance and handed it to Fort Worth – ‘You use it, honey, I never go downtown.’
She had bought like a child, for the sake of the transaction, and like a child had made a gift of it to the nearest friend. Dove saw that there was nothing easier than selling to hustling women. Reba was the only one who wouldn’t buy just for the sake of buying.