The late afternoon shadows cast cooling shade along the west side of the street as Ike Silver walked from the Hassayampa Hotel toward Belinda’s Emporium, where he had been directed upon inquiring as to the whereabouts of Scotty Simpson.
Belinda’s Emporium, formerly Brady’s Bar, was one of the better-class saloons on Whiskey Row. The worst of the lot was the Golondrina on the far end of the street, whose customers were almost exclusively Mexicans, Breeds and some Indians who had abandoned the blanket and come closer to the white man’s dominion, but not close enough to frequent the other saloons on Whiskey Row.
Occasionally some Anglos would duck into the Golondrina and make straight for the cribs out back, where females of varying hues would provide services of varying fillips.
None of the other saloons had cribs, but all had rooms upstairs, which served the same purpose but with more comfort and cleanliness—and higher fees.
In spite of the early hour, Francine, Alma and Marisa had already made several ascents and descents to and from the second level. Currently, as Ike Silver entered, Francine and Alma were drifting among the customers and card games on the main floor.
Big Ike was barely through the bat wings when greeted by the Major Domo.
“What ho, apothecary!”
“What ho yourself, Binky.”
And not far behind, the proprietor herself. “This is an unexpected pleasure, Mister Silver.”
“Thank you, but not for long, Miss Millay. I was told that Scotty Simpson might be here.”
Belinda nodded. “Yeah, but I’m afraid you’re too late to rescue him.”
“From what?”
“That poker game.”
She pointed to one of the tables, where Scotty sat with three other players, including Rupert Lessur, who had most of the money in front of him.
“Scotty Simpson,” Belinda said, “is the worst damn poker player I ever saw.”
“Why didn’t you sit in and rescue him?” Ike asked.
“A long time ago I made me a rule to never sit in on a poker game unless I’m invited.”
“Good rule.”
Ike moved toward the table, where Lessur was dealing.
“Good day, gentlemen. How’re you doing, Scotty?”
“Just lost my poke, includin’ stage fare to Albuquerque.”
“Sorry to hear that, Scotty, but I was just going to ask you to stay on at the store for a while. We need more help than I thought with the inventory and . . . things.”
Scotty pointed at the pile of money in front of Lessur.
“Looks like I got no choice. Old soljer’s home’ll have to wait.”
“Oh, just a minute, Scotty.” Lessur smiled. “I had no idea this was your retirement money. I’ll be glad to give it back, old soldier, so you can be on your way.”
Scotty Simpson rose.
“I don’t play that way. Never have and never will. I’ll take that job, Mister Silver.”
“Good. You want to come over for supper?”
“Nope.” He nodded toward the cold cuts on the counter. “See you in the mornin’.”
“Fine. Good night, gentlemen. Mister Lessur.”
“Oh, Mister Silver,”—Rupert Lessur tapped the deck of cards on the table—“it might be interesting if you and I played a game sometime.”
“I thought we already were.”
Ike turned and walked toward the bat wings. As he approached, Binky tipped his bowler.
“Touché.”
Sister Bonney had just set a platter of cooked vegetables on the long wooden table, already adorned with three fat roasted chickens and several other platters of worthy culinary accompaniments.
Melena was still at the stove.
Big Ike, Jake and Obie entered and were astounded by the sight and fragrance of the repast.
“Isaac, my brother,”—Jake extended both arms—“upon what oasis have we stumbled? Is this the palace of some mighty potentate? Maybe the banquet hall of the Caliph of Baghdad?”
Jake picked up a plate with a small chip out of it. He ignored the defect.
“Never have these eyes beheld such splendor!”
He set the plate back onto the table and inhaled deeply.
“Never has this nose—and what a nose—inhaled such appetizing aromas!”
Ike winked at Sister Bonney.
“I don’t see any pastrami.”
“Pastrami is for peasants.” Jake lifted a platter containing a chicken. “Isaac, milad, gaze upon this royal bird.”
The back door opened and in came Jed, followed by Ben and Benjie.
“Aah-hah! As my brother, the card player, once said, ‘a full house.’ ”
Ben stood by the door with his hand on Benjie’s shoulder and looked at Ike.
“Jed said you wanted to see us.”
Ike nodded.
“Time for supper. Sit down, everybody.”
Ben didn’t move. He still held on to his son, not budging. Melena tried not to, but her eyes flitted to, then away from her husband.
Ben stared straight ahead.
“We’ll eat later, Mister Silver.”
It was not an easy moment as Ike finally spoke, the tone in his voice stronger than most of them had ever heard before. “Sit down, Mister Brown.” And then with a difference that seemed to adjure, “cut out all this nonsense and sit down,” he added: “Please.”
Ben’s eyes locked onto his wife’s. His grip tightened on the boy’s shoulder, then relaxed. “Sit down, Benjie,” he said softly.
Everyone else in the room seemed to take a deep breath as Jake reached into his pocket, produced a yarmulke, placed it on his head and looked around.
“An old custom,” he shot a glance at Ike, “on some occasions I can’t break, or want to.”
“Who’s gonna say a prayer?” Obie asked.
Jed’s eyes circumvolved the diners.
“Well,” he remarked, “this ought to be interesting.”
Sister Bonney bowed her head.
“Why doesn’t each of us say a prayer . . . to himself?”
“A decision, Sister,” Jake said, “worthy of Solomon.”
They all bowed their heads, each in a private, silent prayer.
After that moment, Melena looked at her husband, then started to rise. Sister Mary Boniface restrained her and rose.
“You cooked. I’ll serve.”
“I’ll carve.” Ike picked up a knife.
“And,” Jake volunteered, “you know who’ll do the dishes?”
He pointed to Jed, Obie and Benjie.
“You three!”
During the darkest part of that night there was heard, above the heart of the desert along the sawtooth peaks of the Mogallons, the ominous rumble of thunder and the promise of a gathering storm.