The Sound of Building Coffins

“Diphtheria just fine, Buddy. Just fine.”

“Look me in the eye when you talk to me, boy.”

Dropsy kept his gaze in place. “Watching for a signal, Buddy. You know that. Gotta keep lookin’ at Jim. Got a tat on.”

Buddy grabbed him by the bicep and spun him around till Dropsy’s eyes left Jim and locked with his own.

“You lippin’ me, boy?” Buddy low-toned through clenched teeth.

“Nah, Buddy. I’s just workin’. You know that.” Buddy bore into Dropsy’s eyes five seconds more before releasing his grip and coughing up a particularly ugly laugh. Dropsy brushed his arm as if ridding himself of ants before directing the compass of his nose back to the night’s True North. He wasn’t completely sure he hadn’t missed the signal. Dropsy felt his heart thump with worry: Damn that drunken, horn-blowing fool.

Buddy whinnied some more at the sight of Dropsy’s newly flared nostrils, “Just funnin’ with ya, cuz. Don’t get all excited now.”

“I ain’t excited, Buddy,” Still steaming, but in control.

“I tell ya, cuz,” Buddy switched gears from plainly mean to transparently tender, “If you see that pretty sister of your’n? The whore, I mean.” Grinning like a Cheshire cat now. “You tell her I’m pinin’ hard. Tell her I long for her sweet touch. Tell her I can’t rightly live without her. Tell her I could use a good fuck.”

Dropsy struggled to keep his rage in check. There was business at hand; he had to keep a cool head and an eye on his partner.

“You need to get yerself a sense of humor, cuz! Lord o’me you do, indeedy-do. Ha!”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Buddy.”

“Looks like my lucky night, cuz.” The two pretty octoroon hookers were making their way back to Buddy, each holding a double shot. Buddy placed a hand on Dropsy’s shoulder, noting its tremble. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, cuz. These fine ladies require my immediate and undivided attention.” With a girl on each arm, Buddy crossed the hall, past Black Benny, and down the stairs to the Eagle Saloon-presumably to go around the block for some quick crib-time before the next set. Dropsy silently conceded that, all things considered, it really wasn’t hard to see why Jim looked up to Buddy.

Newly undistracted, Dropsy re-sharpened his focus on the business at hand-just as Malaria reached Jim’s table with a small circular tray balanced expertly on three fingers.

“Sir?” she addressed Walter, avoiding eye contact with Jim.

“Yes…um, another round of your fine red ale for my companions and I. And a shot of scotch for the youngster. And clean up this mess if you would, pretty darlin’.”

“Rye, if you please,” corrected Jim weakly. “Raleigh Rye if you got some.”

The Samaritan seemed unfazed by the youngster’s specific taste in liquor, saying only, “Raleigh Rye it is then.”

Malaria’s eyebrows narrowed in Jim’s direction, her expression causing Walter to add, with measured indignance: “It’s for medicinal purposes only, young lady. So don’t give me no huff about his age. As you can see, our young guest has suffered injury and is in great pain.”

“Of course, sir. Pardon.” Malaria gave the table a quick wipe with a rag before disappearing back into the crowd.

One of the marks, a large bellied man with an unkempt black beard, peeled several alcohol-soaked playing cards from the floor. “Well, Walter, it looks like we’re done with cards for the night.”

Good Samaritan Walter shot the fat man a scolding glance: “I just bought you another round, Tommy. All you got is complaints? Well, ain’t that just fine.”

Cautious laughter crept up the throats of the other three but was swallowed back, leaving residual twinkles in six bleary eyes. “Sorry, Walter. Thank you, Walter,” said Fat Tommy, with a sudden rosiness at the cheeks. Jim noted that Walter held some authority over the others. This was useful information, as it indicated they might have a tendency to follow Walter’s lead.

After a few minutes Malaria returned, bending down to expose maximum cleavage as she laid out drinks. Walter paid, then tipped a nickel. She thanked him with a gracious smile then spun around quickly, her shoulder accidentally connecting hard with the bony chest of an old man with white hair and no nose.

“I got my eye on you, devil.” Marcus Nobody Special stood on trembling legs, extending his right index finger in the direction of Jim Jam Jump. “Sent here by that Voodoo witch to make my life a hell. I know you.” The noise level around the table dropped to a murmur. “Listen, devil. I got my eye on you. Don’t think I don’t. I watch yer every move.” Jim stared at him blankly.

“What in the name of Pete…” Walter looked at Jim suspiciously. “Do you know this man, son?”

“No sir, never seen him. Sure is giving me the willies, though.”

“Clear out, old timer,” said Walter, clearly rattled. “Take yer drunken nonsense elsewhere.”

“Look at his eyes,” Marcus went on. “Don’t you see? Red as summer cherries!”

“Look blue enough to me,” Fat Tommy offered after a cursory examination of Jim’s eyes.

Malaria put a hand on Marcus’ shoulder but addressed Walter and Tommy. “Don’t mind Mr. Marcus. He’s just been drinking more than his share tonight. C’mon now, Mr. Marcus. Let’s take us a little walk and get some fresh air.”

“Ain’t drunk,” Marcus protested weakly. “Not too drunk, anyways.”

Malaria gently took Marcus by the arm and guided him towards the door, whispering something in his ear as they went.

Jim scooped up the small glass of rye and downed it in a gulp, anxious to erase Marcus’ disruptive performance from the minds of the marks.

“Goshamighty!” he coughed.

“Easy, son,” said Walter with suspect concern.

“No, it’s all right,” Jim assured him. “Feeling better already.” His chin dropped to his chest as if to relieve the weight that his head suffered upon his neck. Jim’s eyes widened dramatically upon meeting the floor. “Sir, perhaps you lost a charm from your watch chain.”

“Come again, son?”

“Down there. On the floor.”

Walter the Samaritan bent down in the direction of Jim’s pointing finger and picked something up from a conspicuously dry spot on the alcohol-muddy floor. “Ain’t mine,” said the Samaritan, eying each side of the dice carefully. “Sugar cube dice. Lost from someone’s game, I suspect.”

Fat Tommy’s eyes brightened. “Well, the cards are soaked through, but that dice looks all right to me, Walter. Have ourselves a little game?”

“Well, why don’t we just take it easy a spell, Tommy.” Walter offered a discreet nod of concern in Jim’s direction.

“No sirree, Mr. Walter,” Jim piped up with heroic fortitude. “I done wrecked yer card game and I sure as spit ain’t gonna keep you fine gentlemen from having a go with that little sugar dice. Y’all don’t mind me at all. Maybe watching you fellas play will take my mind offa this pain in my leg. That and another shot of Raleigh Rye, mayhap.”

“Waitress!” Walter barked with a wink. Jim smiled feebly in return.

Fat Tommy snatched the sugar dice from Walter’s paw, eyeing it as carefully as had Walter. The dice was as straight as a ruler. “So what’ll it be, gentlemen? Craps?”

“Need two dice for that, Tommy,” reminded Walter, the other men nodding in affirmation.

Jim looked up. “You fellas ain’t from ’round here, are ya?”

“Why, no, sonny,” the skinny fellow to Fat Tommy’s left answered with a dopey smile.