“Open your mouth,” Jones said.

He opened his ragged hole, and Jones smelled a latrine of dead shrimp and whiskey and garbage. Jones pulled the broken watch from his breast pocket and set it on the man’s fat tongue. He sucker punched him in the gut, dropping the bastard to his ass, hitting him again in the mouth, breaking the timepiece into shards of glass and busted gears.

“All is forgiven,” Jones said.

8

Kathryn didn’t get up till almost eleven, worn out from the drive back and forth to Coleman and Paradise. She made a pot of coffee, grabbed her cigarette case, and took old Ching-A-Wee out for a doo-doo on her front lawn. How Kathryn loved that little dog. Lots of folks-including George-didn’t realize Ching-A-Wee was royalty. That’s God’s truth. When she and George had just gotten hitched in Saint Paul and lived in that awful apartment building with Verne Miller and Vi, there’d been an old maid who’d sold Pekingese on the second floor. Kathryn loved Chingy from the start. You could tell he was royal from the way he stood, begged for food, and, hell, even took a dump, legs sprawled and looking you dead in the eye, daring you to tell him it don’t smell sweet.

He skittered up the porch steps and, as she settled into a chair, onto her lap, nearly spilling coffee on the robe’s monkey-fur trim. She smoked for a while, stood and checked the mail slot-loaded down with nothing but bills and more bills. The department stores were the worst, always addressing you like this was something personal and not a business transaction, calling her “Mrs. Kelly” and telling her how “unfortunate” it was they hadn’t received a payment. The hell of it was, there was nothing unfortunate about it. She and George had blown through that Tupelo money damn-near Christmas, and if Mr. Urschel’s family didn’t come through she’d be back to making fifty cents an hour cutting men’s nails, complimenting fat old duddys on their style just to make a dollar tip or get an invite back to their hotels to make twenty bucks a throw.

“Hey, watch it,” she told Chingy. “Settle down. Settle down, little man.”

She raked her nails over the nape of his neck and felt for the diamond collar, wondering how much she could pawn it for if things got really rough. Her bags were packed and plans made. She knew every step by heart. She would meet George in Oklahoma City, bring the new Cadillac, telegram to Saint Paul… Hot damn, he’d done it. She didn’t think he could, but George Kelly had done it.

She’d nearly counted off the list for the second time when the gray Chevrolet rolled into her drive and killed the motor, Ed Weatherford stepping from the cab and taking off his hat. “Mornin’.”

“What do you want?”

“That ain’t no way to greet a gentleman caller.”

“What if George was here?”

“I’d sit down and chaw the fat with him,” he said. “George knows we’re buddies.”

“Some buddy.”

“What are you sore at, darlin’?” He gave that crooked, two-dollar grin. “Did you want moonlight and roses? I can look in my pocket.”

“I know what’s in your pocket.”

She stood and opened the screen door to let Chingy in. Ed followed the walkway, and Kathryn turned, pulling arms across her chest, the cigarette still burning in her fingers. “If you came here for a throw, I ain’t in the mood.”

“You are mighty mistrustful this morning.”

“Well, did you or didn’t you?”

“Aw, well.”

“Nerts.”

“Listen, doll,” Ed said, standing at the foot of the steps and mawing at his hat.

Kathryn stayed flat-footed on the porch and let him stammer.

“There’s been some rumors and questions, and I thought I’d be coming out here personal-like and see if there was any truth to them.”

“Please.”

“Darlin’, just listen to me. Isn’t that what you wanted from me the other night? Keep an ear open? Well, here I am. So don’t throw water in my face. I just wanted to know if George was involved with that oilman business.”

“What oilman business?”

“Shoot,” Ed said. He looked down at his pointed boots and let out a deep breath. “Hadn’t we all had a good time? Me, you, and George-hadn’t we shared some laughs? And now you won’t even be straight with me for me to help you.”

“I’ve been to visit my mother, Mrs. Ora Shannon.”

“I didn’t ask where you been, baby. I asked what about George.”

“George had business.”

“Selling Bibles?”

“Good-bye.”

Kathryn picked up her stack of bills, leaving her coffee, cigarette, and morning paper on the porch, and turned to the house. The screen door almost thwacked shut before Ed stuck his big fat foot in the threshold and grinned at her through the screen.

She waited.

He reached down and picked up the Daily Oklahoman from the porch floor by her coffee that continued to steam, red-lipped cigarette on the saucer.

“Good likeness of him,” Ed said. “I seen him speak one time at the Texas Oilmen’s Association. Seems like somebody would’ve seen them two fellas with machine guns. Say, does George still got-”

“Take it up with him.”

Ed made a real jackass show of folding up the newspaper all nice and neat and tucking it back near the coffee cup, saucer, and cigarette. “I can tell your nerves are a bit jangled this morning, and I can see you don’t have any sugar to give. I understand. But what you got to know, Mrs. Kelly, is that I knowed this is George’s work and I knowed why you were asking me about back doors and legal questions the other night. I didn’t figure it was for my good looks.”

Kathryn poked out her hip and placed a hand to it, thinking Mae West in She Done Him Wrong. “Are we finished?”

“Don’t think you need me now the deal is done,” he said. “The world can go sour on you anytime. You remember that, baby.”

She just looked through the screen at Ed Weatherford and waited for the goddamn, unfunny punch line coming from that goddamn, crooked mouth.

“I want a cut, Mrs. Kelly,” Ed said. “And this ain’t a request.”

“‘A-TRACTIONS OF THE ASTOUNDING NATURE, THE BI-ZARRE, THE start-ling and new in entertainment have been gathered from all parts of the universe to make The Midway-City of a Million Lights the z-z-zenith of amusement for all thrill seekers,’” the boy said. “Mr. Urschel, what does that word mean? ‘Zenith’?”

“Means ‘the highest point,’ son.”

“Holy smokes,” the boy said. “This must be somethin’ else. You want me to keep goin’?”

“You have plans to make the Fair?”

“Do I?” he asked. “Hold on a sec, and I’ll keep on readin’. ‘Located centrally on the World’s Fair grounds in Chicago, just south of Twenty-third Street, the many features of this outlay will satisfy even the oldest youngster that visits the Exposition.’ You know, they’re calling this thing ‘Century of Progress.’ That’s a heck of a thing, ain’t it? A whole dang century in one place? I got to see this. You want me to keep going or you want me to read them Ladies’ Home Journals to you? They got a story in there about Will Rogers that tickled me plenty. He sure is a pistol.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Mr. Urschel,” the boy said. “You know I don’t mean nothin’ by chainin’ you up and makin’ you eat beans out of a can. I don’t get no pleasure out of it.”

“You could let me go.”

The boy laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“They’d kill me.”

“Who would?”

“You just messin’ with my mind now,” he said. “I was told I can read to you but better not talk. So let me go on… ‘Among the mul-multitudinous features are the many breathtaking rides, an Oriental village with exotic and colorful presentations of the life, rites, and customs of the Far East, a reproduction of African jungles and deserts, its queer villages, its ancient art and weird ceremonies, and “Bozo.”’ I think Bozo is some kind of monkey. A relation of mine just got back from Chicago and said they got some foreign dancers who don’t wear a stitch of clothes. The women’s titties jumpin’ up and down got to be worth the price of a ticket.”