“And how do you know this?” Junger asked.
“I went with someone who knows Phil and he said, ‘Watch this.’ My buddy put a tenner on the bar, and Claren put it into his pocket and we were drinking for an hour straight on that.”
Junger’s face darkened and he fished in his pocket. He thanked the man and handed him three bills, then reconsidered it and took one back. “This is for the drinks you stole. You’re lucky that’s all I’m taking and not some skin off your hide.”
Less than ten minutes later, Sheriff Junger sat down on the edge of a bed above the Proud Lady, tapping a sleeping Phillip Claren on the cheek. He curled his nose at the stench of stale alcohol in the room. “Wake up, Phil.”
“Sheriff?” Claren said, swiping his eyes. “The hell you doing here?”
Junger put his hat over his knee and tapped the brim with his finger. “Got a problem, Phil. Seems you’ve been mishandling your responsibilities downstairs. The register is short, and you’ve been passing out free liquor to those no-good bums you call friends.” Claren rubbed his nose on his sleeve and tried to sit up, but the Sheriff laid his hand on Claren’s chest and shook his head. “This ain’t a you-sit-up kind of conversation, Phil.”
“What kind of conversation is it, Sheriff?”
Junger removed a small hammer from his pocket that he twirled by the handle. “Now, I realize it is kind of a common practice to skim a little from most of the bars in this town. Hell, the owners factor it into their liquor sales, and turn a blind eye, figuring that if it keeps you little maggots scurrying around trying to steal a coin here or there, you won’t ever get around to taking something important. But the owners of the Proud Lady are a little different, Phil. They take personal offense if so much as a thumbtack is stolen.”
“I had no idea you and the owners were so close, Sheriff. I promise on my mother that will never happen again. I will be like your personal guard in there. If anybody tries anything I’ll come straight to you.”
“That’s good, Phil. That’s real good.” Junger lifted the hammer up and inspected its quarter-sized steel head. “However, I’ve found that people often require what’s called a visual aid. So before I go, I need to ask you a question. Do you have a preferred hand?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, someday when you manage to scare yourself up a woman and she’s lying next to you in this bed, and you’re stroking her body from end to end, running it all across her curves and divides, what hand do you see yourself doing that with?”
“Both?” Claren squeaked.
Junger showed him the hammer and said, “Pick a hand, stupid.”
Claren moaned, “Please, I’m begging you, Sheriff. Don’t. I’ll never do it again, I swear!”
Junger shrugged and picked the hand for him.
8. Fathers
Jem Clayton awoke between both Alvarez sisters. One was nestled in the crook of his left arm and the other stretched out along his right. Their bodies pressed close to his, and legs wrapped around him like serpents trying to shuffle up a pole. Neither woman stirred as he untangled himself from them. Jem buttoned his shirt and slid on his pants, watching the sisters slide closer to intertwine themselves with one another. “I’m starting to wonder if you two are even related at all.”
His boots were next to the bed and his coat sat folded neatly on the dresser. In the sister’s hospitable arranging of his belongings, they’d doubtlessly checked for compartments containing hidden valuables. Jem Clayton turned the heel of both boots and found them still packed tight with severian. He smirked, knowing that if his hiding place could withstand the scrutiny of women as scandalous as the Alvarez sisters, no road agent had a prayer of finding it.
Jem strapped on his belt and tied both holsters to his thighs. He drew both Colt Defeaters and checked their battery levels, cartridges, and action. They were pristine. He withdrew and re-sheathed the knife hidden in the center of his back, and then the ones stored inside either boot. Finally, he removed the small Mantis two-shot revolver from his coat pocket and tucked it into his shirt, just behind the buttons.
One of the sisters looked at him from the bed. He put on his hat and unfolded several bills from his wallet, then laid them on the dresser underneath a makeup case. The woman reached toward him and brushed her fingers against his waist, “Why are you leaving so soon, Mr. Howard?”
“I ran into an old friend last night. That means it’s time to move.”
Her fingers traveled lower. “Will you come back soon?”
“Eventually,” he said. She pouted and stuck out her lower lip before attempting to raise his interest enough to coerce him back into bed. He swept her hand away. “I left you girls a little something to remember me by while I’m gone.”
He left the room and wound down the stairs toward the saloon which was already full at such an early hour. The sun roared through the cracked shuttered windows and Jem found himself tilting the brim of his hat to keep his eyes shaded. His gut was sour from the drinks he’d downed the night before. Everything was cloudy.
A street vendor on the corner sold greasy eggs and meat on a roll. Jem ordered two and walked over to a lamp post with a hanging sign that read: CARRIAGE TRANSPORT. Underneath that sign was a smaller, hand-written one that said: DESTINATION TRADESVILLE. The wind rose and kicked dust across his sandwich. Jem crushed his hat onto his head to keep it from blowing away and tossed the rest of his food into an alley.
Jem could have easily afforded to travel by air. It was safer and faster, but it carried the scrutiny of Customs Officers, or even worse, the PNDA. Jem preferred travel of the less intrusive variety.
Two men approached the staging area. The older one extended his hand to Jem and said, “Hello, friend. Name’s Harlan Wells. This is my son, Adam.” Harlan was bent slightly at the shoulders and his glasses were thicker than the bottom of a shot glass.
Adam wore the expression of a bemused child. His hair was cut short and uneven and he rocked back and forth at the waist. He stared at the carriages passing in the street with a wide grin and clapped his hands excitedly. A destrier flew past them so fast it made their jackets ripple, and Adam shouted.
“Fast, ain’t they?” Harlan said, patting his son on the back. “Just make sure you don’t lean too close to the street. Danger. Understand?”
Adam nodded, staring down at his hands while flicking his fingers back and forth.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wells,” Jem said. “I’m Thomas Howard.” He saw Harlan looking down at the guns on his belt and said, “Aw, they’re just for show, really. I heard some bad things about travelling in these parts. Doubt I’d hit the rear end of a barn if I tried.”
“I’m just glad to see somebody brought along a little protection. I heard there’s bandits crawling all over the place out there.”
“That’s hogwash. Ain’t no bandits,” a man said as he came up behind them. He was scrawny with a long, curling mustache that twitched when he spoke. “It’s the damn sky flyers trying to scare everyone from affordable transportation. It’s perfectly safe out there. I’m Charlie Boles and you all will be ridin’ with me today. You ready?” They said that they were, and Boles cocked his thumb over his shoulder at the carriage waiting down the street.
The group moved toward the coach and Boles said, “Even if we do run into trouble, I’ve made modifications to my rig to keep your possessions protected. There’s a hideaway lock box in the back for valuables. Anybody carrying anything they want to secure just in case there’s trouble?”
“I thought you said there weren’t any bandits,” Harlan said.
“Can’t hurt to be too careful.”