He tried a whorehouse, but just standing downstairs in the vestibule convinced him. Whores couldn’t help him tonight.
He did the second-best thing. He started at one end of a long city block and drank his way, beer-and-shot, beer-and-shot, to the other end of the block. There were nine saloons on that block. Nine of them.
In the morning when he awakened in the hotel, he found a plain white envelope on the stand next to the bed. The envelope depressed him. Not knowing where it had come from or what it contained reminded him that he’d been pretty bad last night. He did not drink liquor that often or that much, but when he did, and did so indulgently, the hangover always brought on memories of the little girl he’d shot and killed. Now he saw her six-year-old face and her patched gingham dress as she moved from the shadows of her cabin. By then it had been too late. He had already fired.
He looked at the way the dust motes glinted gold in the sunlight. He stared out the window at the hard blue sky until the little girl’s face vanished. His bladder was full and his mouth was dry. His head pounded. Jesus, was he stupid.
He had just returned from the bathroom down the hall ten minutes later when the knock came.
He was dressed and already packing. He wanted to get out of this town. He had come here to try to earn some money, but instead he’d only met Stoddard and been beaten for his troubles. His bones still ached from the beating, but the hangover ached more.
He opened the door on the fifth knock. He jerked it open with some aggravation. He was not good at hangovers and tended to take them out on other people.
“You found the envelope, Mr. Guild?” Stephen Stoddard asked.
“How the hell did it get here?”
“I had the clerk bring it up last night.”
“What is it?”
“You mean you haven’t looked inside?”
“I’m too goddamned hung over for games, kid. What’s in the envelope?”
“A hundred and fifty dollars.”
“For what?”
“My father’s money needs protection.”
“You want to know what I think of your father, kid?”
“I’m willing to make it two hundred, Mr. Guild. For two days’ work.”
Even dehydrated and somewhat shaky, Guild thought the idea of two hundred dollars for two days’ work sounded good.
“I need some breakfast,” Guild said.
“They serve a very fine one here. I ate here yesterday. Toast and scrambled eggs and ham.”
Guild smiled. “You sound like an ad in the newspaper.” His stomach made noises. He’d done a lot of drinking last night but not enough eating. He went back, leaving Stephen Stoddard in the doorway, picked up the envelope, and said, “Let’s go get some breakfast.”
* * *
“I finally had to grab the shotgun and put it right to his face. I’ve seen Victor pretty mad before, but nothing like last night. Not even close, Mr. Guild.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Stop calling me Mr. Guild.”
“Oh. Sure.”
“Leo will do fine.”
For the next few minutes Guild went back to his eggs over easy and his American fries and his two thick slices of ham.
Stephen Stoddard knew enough to just let him eat.
As he sipped his coffee, Guild said, “You really think Victor wanted to kill him?”
“Yes, he did.”
“He just barged into your hotel room?”
“Just barged in.”
“And ran over to your father and started hitting him?”
“Yes. And that’s when I grabbed the rifle.” He shook his head. “I put it right up against his cheek. I would have killed him, too, the way he was beating Dad.”
Guild frowned and looked around the restaurant. It was beautifully decorated with flocked red wallpaper and gathered white drapes and mahogany appointments. Sunlight came in golden and warm through the front windows. Fancy men in three-piece suits sat talking to each other with great amounts of self-confidence. Women in big picture hats spoke more quietly.
“I believe Victor,” Guild said, looking back at Stephen Stoddard.
“About what?”
“About your father cheating him.”
Stephen Stoddard dropped his eyes. “My father doesn’t cheat people.”
“Sure he does, kid, and you know it.” Guild realized how harsh he sounded. “I’m sorry I had to say that, but in case I decide to take your two hundred dollars I want you to know where I stand.”
“I don’t suppose it’s important that you respect Dad, as long as you protect him.”
Guild grinned. “I couldn’t protect myself from Victor yesterday. What makes you think I can protect your father?”
“You’d kill Victor if he tried anything. I know you would. The sheriff told my dad all about you.”
Whenever people said that to Guild, he wondered if they knew about the little girl. There were a lot of lies told about Guild in and out of the territory. Most of them had started over the death of the little girl.
Guild said, in a softer tone, “Why do you stay with him, kid? The way he treats you and all.”
“You don’t know anything about him.” For the first time Stephen Stoddard sounded angry. For the first time Guild felt a little respect for the kid.
“Such as what?”
“Such as how he had to raise me after my mother ran off with a drummer ten years ago. Or how he was raised in the worst white slum in New York. Or how he was taken prisoner in the war and tortured by three Confederates.
Guild sighed. You could make a case for anybody. You could even make a case for Guild, a man who’d killed a six-year-old girl.
“I guess I was getting a little pompous there,” Guild said.
Stephen Stoddard calmed down. “He really is a decent man. After all is said and done, I mean.”
“He shouldn’t have sent me over to Victor’s.”
“He really thought Victor would take the money and come back.”
Guild asked him a question he’d been curious about since yesterday. “If Victor’s so hot on the idea your father is cheating him, why doesn’t he go to some other boxing promoter?”
In the strong sunlight, Stephen Stoddard blushed. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re lying, kid. Your father’s got something on him, doesn’t he?”
“Please don’t ask me any more about that, Mr. Guild.”
Guild stared down at the envelope between them. He could live four or five months on the money in there.
He told himself he had no right to judge John T. Stoddard. He couldn’t figure out if he was just saying that to allow himself to take the money. As for Victor—Victor didn’t scare him anymore. The kid was right. If Guild signed on, he’d be prepared to shoot the boxer. That was the only way he could be sure he’d survive the two days.
“So you’re not going to tell me what your father’s got on him?”
“No,” Stephen Stoddard said softly. “No, I’m not.”