"I never sit with my back to a door," Books added. "And I will not sign anything I do not believe in."
Frowning, the minister bit at a fingernail. "I can't believe you understand the consequences of refusal, Mr. Books. I have offered you a last chance to attest to the glory of God, to be an instrument of His will. To give your imminent death meaning."
"Meaning." Books grimaced. "The last two weeks every son of a bitch who walked into this room wanted something different out of my death. I am sick and tired of it."
"Ah, but you cannot ignore it!" countered the minister. "With every passing hour it becomes more prudent of you to lift your eyes unto the hills. Should you reconsider, and sign, I can practically guarantee your ultimate redemption."
Books's agony overwhelmed him. The last dose of the drug he had taken only a half hour earlier, and he was damned if he would exhibit his need for another, no matter how dire, before this bunkum artist.
"On the other hand," New warned, "should you persist in refusal, I tremble to predict the outcome. I caution you, sir —the fate of your very soul may be at stake. For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.'"
Books could scarcely sit still. His spine cracked. The poison in his system suffused his limbs with heat. He wanted to whimper, to howl, or to take the piss-ant parson over his lap and spank the sanctimony out of him. His fingers tugged at the pillow tassels between his legs. "I will take my chances," he choked. "At least I will see my cards sooner than you—and I will bet my hand is as good as yours."
The Reverend New tucked away his statement and ascended from his seat. "Sir, I did not come here to be insulted by a man of your ilk."
"No—you came here to comfort me—like hell you did! You came here full of opportunity and crap!"
New proceeded to the door. He turned. To his astonishment, to his almost sensual pleasure, Books's cheeks were wet. The minister permitted himself a tremor of self-esteem.
If he had not beaten the assassin at his own game of bluff and threat, if he had not cast this Devil Incarnate into the pit of contrition, he had at least reduced him to tears.
"You are lost, Mr. Books," he sniffed. "I wash my hands of you."
"Oh, Preacher," cried his archenemy, "if I had my strength, wouldn't I boot your hypocritical ass out of here!"
"Piffle." New adjusted his tie, regarding with infinite contempt the shambles of a man who sat playing with the tassels of a pillow. "Good morning, sir. I leave you to your alcohol and opium."
"And my death!" Books sobbed. "You leave my death to me!"
He sobbed to himself. Henry New had gone.
He thought: Tomorrow.
It had taken him two hours and two long pulls at the laudanum bottle and two chasers of whiskey to recover from the minister's visit. He knew now that he was very near the bottom of the well, both physically and emotionally. The disease, the pain, the confinement, the loneliness, had finally undone him. He could no longer trust that steel self upon whom he had relied, in a pinch, for so many haphazard years. It must be tomorrow. And in the early afternoon he sent for Gillom Rogers.
"Close the door."
Gillom closed it, staring at the man on the bed. He had not seen Books for days. He had never seen such a face.
"Tell me. Which is the best saloon in El Paso? I mean, the one with the most class."
"That's easy. The Connie."
"Connie?"
"The Constantinople. It's brand new. Oh, it's jim dandy. They really spent the spondulix on that one."
"All right. Now tell me something else. Do you know a man named Pulford?"
"Sure. Runs the faro layout at Keating's.. They say he's sent a couple to Kingdom Come. Is he slick, is he fast. Wouldn't I like to see him and Jay Cobb go to it, though."
"What about Cobb?"
"Jay? He's a pal of mine. He's hiding out now, but I know where."
"Hiding out?"
"I'll say. Thibido let him out of the juzgado the other night. He went to Tillie Howard's and got drunk and hurt one of her girls and got thrown out and then tried to gun down the rest of the girls. Thibido's looking for him. He won't bring him in on his feet, though, not Jay." Gillom's ears itched now. "Why?"
"Is there somebody named Serrano?"
"Cross-eye? What a plug-ugly he must be. Rustles cattle. I've never set eyes on him, but I think he hangs out across the river. Say, what's this all about?"
"I want you to do something for me. Pulford, Cobb, Serrano. Find them. Go to each one and tell him I will be in the Constantinople at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"Hey." Gillom sat down on the edge of the straight chair. "Hey."
"Just don't mention to any of them I have invited the others. And don't tell anybody else."
"Oh my God." Gillom hugged himself with excitement. "I get it. Oh Jesus."
"Four o'clock. Do they know about me?"
"That you're a goner? Everybody in town does. Jesus!" Gillom jumped up, tangled his large feet, and fell happily against the chiffonier. "I get it! They save you the trouble of doing yourself in! They do it for you! Oh, that's a peach!"
"The Constantinople."
Gillom propped an elbow on the chest. "O.K. I'll do it. Might not be easy tracking Cross-eye down, but I will, you bet. Say, what do I get for this?"
"What do you want?"
"You know."
"Well?"
Gillom licked his lips rather than chewing them. He liked the taste of himself much better now. "I want your guns."
"No."
"No? Then send somebody else. Send Thibido. Send my ma. You've got no choice."
"Don't ask for my guns."
"I ain't asking, I'm telling. I could take 'em right this minute, and you couldn't lift a finger. So it's the guns or go to hell, Mister J. B. Books. Or lay here and die by yourself. Or go over to the Connie and scare those hard cases to death. With your face, you could."
Books closed his eyes. "All right. They're yours. Later."
"Damn right they are. About five minutes past four tomorrow. Maybe not even that long."
"Hop to it, then," Books said. "And don't job me, boy."
Gillom grinned. "I won't. I wouldn't miss the looks on their faces. Oh Jesus."
The day warmed.
That afternoon he opened the windows and let warm wind blow the curtains and heard again the wheels of the streetcar as it passed the corner.
Two sweating men in dungarees delivered the headstone from Beckum, the undertaker. It was covered by a canvas, and Books was careful that Bond Rogers admitted the men and left the room before he uncovered it. The marble seemed to be of good quality, and the inscription had been cut as specified: "John Bernard Books 1849-1901." He had the draymen place it against the wall and when they had gone draped it with his Prince Albert coat so that she would not see it.
He then brought his Remingtons and bullets from the closet and, lying on the bed, cleaned the guns and reloaded, filling the sixth chamber in each.
Gillom entered, without knocking, just before suppertime, and found him asleep, Remingtons beside him. He tiptoed to the bed but no sooner had the youth picked up one of the guns than Books awoke. He put out a hand. Gillom gave him the weapon.
"Not yet," Books said.
"Not long," Gillom said.
Books pushed a pillow upright behind his shoulders. "Well?"
"I told them."
"What did they say?"
"Pulford nothing. Jay nothing. I had to go across the river to Juárez to find Serrano. He's got a wife and a whole litter of kids—they were crawling all over the place. I told him the Connie, four o'clock tomorrow. Then I got out of there fast." Gillom frowned. "The thing is, none of 'em said a word. I don't know if they'll really show."
"They'll show."