CHAPTER NINE

   Calamaro was enjoying Stacklee’s company. The man was kind without being feminine, tough without being an asshole.

   “You headed somewhere in particular?” Stacklee said, downing another whiskey shot. “Or are you just drifting through this wonderful desert of ours?”

   “I had to get as far away from home as possible,” Calamaro said.

   “Where’s home?”

   “New Jersey.”

   Stacklee said, “So it’s bad back east? I always hear people talking about how great it is.”

   Calamaro put the shot glass to his lips but then put it down. “Not that great.”

   “I guess all sorts of shit happens everywhere. Can’t escape it, eh?”

   “Nope.”

   Stacklee could see that the topic of conversation had changed Calamaro’s mood. He went from happily drunk to drunkenly sullen. “Sorry I brought it up.”

   “My fault,” Calamaro said. “I guess I never expect for the past to come up in conversation even though it always does. One memory can crush my peace of mind in a second.”

   Stacklee screwed the top back on the whiskey. “Something happened to you, huh? Something bad?”

   “Yeah,” Calamaro said. The color drained from his face.

   “I need to keep my big mouth shut.”

   “No, don’t worry about it,” Calamaro said. “I think about it anyway so there’s no use in hiding it. I had a family once. Wife and daughter. They were killed.”

   Stacklee dropped his head and looked at the floor. “Sorry to hear that. I really am.”

   “I know things like that happen all the time but it wasn’t from a sickness or accident. A bunch of Union soldiers killed them both. Thought my wife was a spy for the Confederates since she had family in Kentucky.”

   “Shit,” Stacklee said. “I don’t know what to say.”

   “You don’t have to say anything but now you know why I’m exploring this wonderful desert.” Calamaro forced a somber smile.

   “I was you, I wouldn’t tell Betty about it. That’s the kind of thing makes her cry. She’s tough and all but she’s still a woman.”

   Calamaro nodded. “I think I’ll head back to my room. Need to rest, get my head right.”

   “I understand. You take care,” Stacklee said.

   Calamaro left the brothel and walked back to the hotel. He had enjoyed spending time with Stacklee. Though he had never known a black man personally, Calamaro never had anything against Negroes. The ones he did come in contact with had been no different than the white people he knew. They might not have been as well-dressed or well-educated but they had the same virtues and vices as anyone else. For that reason, Calamaro never understood why people gave Negroes so much trouble.

   Nix Morrow and his two friends were a different story. Calamaro had known people like that his whole life. They were bullies, plain and simple. It was satisfying to see them intimidated.

   Then Calamaro thought about the gold.

   There were rumors that a renegade Confederate soldier named Bert Cavanaugh stole a cache of gold and hid it in Screwhorse. Cavanaugh disappeared and now the gold was up for grabs. Calamaro thought it might be nice to find that gold and move on to California where he could start a new life.

   Once he was in his hotel room, Calamaro laid on the bed without even taking his boots off. He stared at the water stains on the ceiling. The stains were in the shape of a woman’s shoe. Then there was the sound of high heels on a hardwood floor and soon, the smell of the worn leather of a woman’s shoe mixed with perfume.

   His eyes were focused on the stain until his eyelids fluttered and he fell into drunken sleep while being lulled by the clip-clopping of the heels. Memories bombarded him and he fell back into the dream full of naked, tattooed women and a bank vault full of corpses.

   Calamaro awoke to the sound of someone screaming in the next room.

   “What the hell?” he said, sliding off his bed. He stood by his door and listened.

   The scream moved from the room next door into the hallway. A woman’s voice screamed, “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!”

   There was another scream but this time it was a man shouting, “You nigger bitch! Get your ass back here!” Calamaro opened his door and peered out. He saw the woman and was confused. The woman was white.

   The man walked into the hallway. He was large man with a thick purple beard that ended in grotesque curls. He grabbed the woman by the throat. “Get back in there and take your lickings!” Again the woman fought but quickly gave in.

   Calamaro stepped out into the hallway. He said, “Problem?”

   Both the man and woman looked at him strangely. They both said, “What?”

   Calamaro took a step closer. “Is there a problem here? Looks like you’re giving the woman some trouble.”

   The woman said, “Mind your business, will you?” She took the man by the arm and pulled him into her room. She shouted over her shoulder. “Cocksucker!”

   As the door swung closed, Calamaro saw the man with the purple beard punch the woman in the side of the head. The door shut.

   Calamaro put his hand on the knob and turned. It was locked. He knocked softly with his knuckles. “Hey,” he said.

   The woman inside shouted and then the door opened. Standing there naked and bruised, the woman said, “What the fuck do you want now, asshole?”

   Calamaro said, “Move.”

   Behind her, the man with the purple beard grabbed a gun from his holster which was lying on a chair. As he brought it up, Calamaro pulled the woman into the hallway and pulled his own gun.

   A bullet whizzed by Calamaro’s head. He brought his weapon up. His pistol burped and sent a bullet into the room, hitting the man in the neck. The blast singed some curls of the purple beard.

   From behind him, a fist hit Calamaro in the back. He shoved the woman back and said, “Go.”

   “Asshole! You killed him!” she screamed, running down the stairs and out of the hotel.

   Calamaro stood there still a little bit confused but figured it was just another one of those things that happens when a man and woman get together. Private passions have a way of turning into crazy games. Why that woman let the man treat her like that, he’d never know.

   The man was on the floor, the gurgling coming up from his throat sounding like farts at the bottom of a well. Calamaro walked in the room and looked down at the dying man.

   “You had to pull your gun, huh?” Calamaro said.

   There was no response, only more gurgling.

   “You want a doctor?”

   More gurgling.

   The man’s purple beard started to move. The hairs twirled around like dizzy insect legs.

   Calamaro took a step back.

   As the purple beard’s movements got more violent, the dying man lifted his gun hand again and pointed it at Calamaro. Through thick phlegm and blood, he said, “Yig.” He cocked the gun. “Yog.” He pulled the trigger.

   Calamaro was nearly hypnotized by the purple beard and felt the bullet graze the top of his head. There was no use in bringing the man to the doctor now. He went down to a crouch and sent two bullets into the man’s chest.

   The man was dead.

   Standing up, Calamaro holstered his pistol and stared down at the corpse. There was no doubting it. The man with the purple beard was as dead as a doornail. But why the hell were the beard hairs still moving? It was a macabre sight that made Calamaro walk quickly out of the room.