cards and drinks of Jim’s chosen party took the intended tumble, causing ten droopy, alcohol-fogged eyes to widen with surprise.
To Dropsy, the five out-of-towners looked like a postcard straight out of the Wild, Wild West: a crew of red-faced, hardened outlaws dressed in their Sunday best. As drinks splashed into laps and glasses chimed then tinkled musically to the floor, two of the men cursed and jumped up, while two others just sat looking confused. The fifth man looked only mildly startled-and somewhat concerned. This least perturbed member of the party stood up soberly, giving Jim a hand up from the ground and offering him his chair.
“You all right, boy?” said the man, crouching down to meet Jim’s eyes.
“Thank you,
The two who’d remained seated-one as fat as the other was skinny-got to their feet just long enough to right the table, then quickly reseated themselves with narrowing eyes. The two who’d jumped up wore put-out expressions-but were already on a slow cool, both standing with hands on hips as if awaiting formal invitation to rejoin their own party. The Good Samaritan who’d given up his seat had already full-out taken the bait, now placing an arm around Jim’s shoulder while the boy responded with meek, artificial gratitude; trembling and fighting to hold back fake tears.
“There now, you’ll be okay, son,” said the Good Samaritan. Then to Dropsy, “Well, don’t just stand there, ya stupid nigger, go find a doctor!” Dropsy scrambled off, hardly able to conceal his relief.
“I’ll pay fer them drinks I done knocked over, sir. I got some money…” But the act of reaching into his own pocket caused Jim a freshly imagined stab of pain. “Aahhhh…
“Nonsense,” said the Good Samaritan. “Don’t you worry ’bout that, son. Tell me yer name, now.”
“Nick Clay, sir.” Jim’s spur of the moment identity for the night.
“Well, Nick, you can call me Walter. Now, tell me what happened.”
“Well, Mr. Walter…this rabid dog roamin’ the street done cornered me. I tried ta git away, but he came up fast and bit me on the leg-wouldn’t let go, just shakin’ and growlin’. That niggra came out of nowhere and kilt that dog with his bare hands. Bravest thing I ever seen.”
“Well, I’ll be damned, is that a fact?” Then, after a beat: “What happened to the niggra’s face? He get bit too?” The question revealed an angle Jim had neglected to work out in advance. Walter’s question was a trap-Dropsy’s head injuries bore no resemblance whatsoever to a dog bite, and Jim knew it.
“No, sir,” Jim improvised. “In the struggle…ya see, uh…the dog tripped him up and knocked him on his head. Hit the ground hard but kept on fightin’. That niggra saved my life, I tell ya!”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the Samaritan repeated with apparent satisfaction, as he pulled a clean white hanky from his breast pocket to wrap around Jim’s bleeding calf. “Anything I can do for you, son?”
Jim hesitated expertly. “Well…ah, nevermind. You already been way too kind, sir…” Jim squinted in actual pain as Walter wrapped the hanky too tight.
“Out with it, son. This ain’t no time fer shyness.”
“Well, maybe if I could get a little snort…for the pain, I mean.”
“Well, of course! Sure thing, little fella!” Walter was clearly delighted at the prospect of reintroducing liquor to the table. “You betcha!
Dropsy had already shoved his way through the crowd to the far end of the bar, beyond easy visibility of Jim’s table of marks. From across the bar he made brief eye contact with Malaria, who gave him a scolding glance but hurried herself in the direction of Jim’s table of marks just the same. She didn’t approve of the boys’ thieving shenanigans, but neither did she wish them harm and so intended to keep a close eye. Dropsy wedged himself against the wall near the back end of the stage in just the right way, finding a good vantage point from which he could catch Jim’s eventual signal indicating the commencement of phase two.
Buddy’s horn was awfully harsh at such close range, but Dropsy decided it would be rude to jam a finger in for relief so close to the stage where people could see. And just then, with a quick motion of Buddy’s hand, the band stopped all at once-the sudden absence of sound leaving a tinny whine in Dropsy’s ears. Buddy took the opportunity to berate the crowd, imploring them to “not be so dern cheap and how about a tip for the band and nevermind the dern waitresses, they make good enough money around the block when they whorin’.” Finally stepping down from the low platform, Buddy took two quick strides before throwing an arm around Dropsy’s shoulder.
“How’s my favorite cuz tonight?”
Buddy’s grin made Dropsy flinch.
“Not yer cousin, Buddy. Just a plain old brother-in-law.”
“Such a stickler for detail, cuz. Impressive talk coming from an idjit.”
Dropsy knew good and well Buddy awarded no favoritism in this world whether brother, cousin, or casual acquaintance. “Doin’ just fine, Buddy. Yerself?”
“Looks like you boys gotcher selves a little tat on, eh?”
“Tryin’ to keep low here, Buddy” It’s hard to be invisible when the bandleader is chatting you up. “If you don’t mind.”
“Ah, no, I don’t mind a’tall, Dropsy.” Of course Buddy not minding was no indicator as to whether he might do a fellow a favor by shutting up and moving on. “How’s that pretty little sister of your’n, cuz?”
“Got two pretty sisters, Buddy,” Dropsy said with a sniff and a glance in Malaria’s direction, not liking the direction of Buddy’s banter, smelling the whiskey on his breath and knowing how whiskey made him ugly.
“You know the one I’m talking about, cuz. Not the barmaid. The whore. The one I married. The one bore me a son.”
Before Dropsy’s brain could formulate a response, two attractive working gals-both light- skinned but only one with light-skinned features-surrounded Buddy from either side.
“Well, ladies!” Buddy’s patented lady-killer glow poked sparkling pinpricks through the red of his eyes.
“Hi, Buddy!” the two chirped in giggly unison.
“Such beauty in this ugly world. Almost makes life worth livin’, knowin’ such creatures as your fine selves exist.”
Giggling whore #1: “Want I should hold yer horn fer ya, Buddy?”
Giggling whore #2: “Want sumpin’ ta drink, Buddy?”
“Well, you ladies shore are kind to a working man. I’ll just hang onto my little baby,” stroking his horn, “but I admit to bein’ mighty dry. My usual, if you please.”
The girls scampered off competitively for the right to retrieve Buddy’s famous poison of choice, a double shot of Raleigh Rye. Dropsy’s eyes rolled-Raleigh was also Jim’s drink, as a direct result of Buddy’s example.
“Yer little cracker pal seems to be giving those gents a mighty good show, cuz. If they don’t pay out on the tat, they oughta pay him for sheer entertainment value.”
Dropsy was fully aware that Jim’s adulation for Buddy failed to dilute the musician’s contempt for him.
“I ’spect there’s still a little bit of that devil left in him yet.”
“Jim’s the smoothest tat operator ever was,” Dropsy monotoned in proud defense of his friend.
“Still ain’t answered mah first question, boy.” Buddy’s lips had flattened, the red of his eyes regaining control. It could chill a person’s blood when Buddy’s mood dropped like that-and Dropsy gave a shiver to prove it.
