Nellie Bly and I sat at a table, lunching on terrapin stew. Across the room, Frankie and Johnny sat at a table of their own, not talking. I could see Johnny looking across the room at us, and Nellie avoiding his eye, and Frankie watching, expressionless. Then my mother walked into the saloon, to pick up some lunch to bring upstairs, and I saw Johnnie wink at her. I believe I mentioned my lack of enthusiasm for the male gender.
"That man currently gives me gallstones!" I told Nellie.
But just then the saloon's conversational hum stopped because the doors swung open and in walked Duster's three deputies followed by Sheriff Fitzpatrick Duprey, all four stepping back against the wall, two on one side of the door and two on the other. After that, Sweetie Hieronymus slithered in, darting out his forked tongue and hissing, which is a metaphor expressing his character with precision. He probably meant to calculate the lunch-hour take, but he saw Nellie Bly right off, she being a stranger, and came to our table and made a show of doffing the porkpie hat he always wore to hide his scalp, bald as a white egg, with the red hair on his head's sides clipped so short you could see white skin through it.
"Who might you be, Miss?" he said.
"Why that matters to whoever you are, I don't know," Nellie told him. "Incidentally, that is the greenest suit I've ever seen on a man."
Sweetie stared at her, but she didn't look away.
"I'm proprietor here," he finally said. "I noticed your pad and pen, and wondered what you might be jotting down, here on my premises?"
"It is my pastime to study local attractions, as I travel, and Susanna is being so kind as to tell me about Duster's phosphate mines, which I find fascinating," Nellie said. "Perhaps you and I could talk about that subject, at your convenience?"
Again he regarded her, and I could almost see gears in Sweetie's head turning.
"Alas, business presses," he said. "In any event, I expect you'll be traveling on directly because . . ."
He never finished that thought, probably what is termed a "veiled threat," because just then his brother, Placido Hieronymus, came in through the swinging doors and, seeing Sweetie, let out a sort of bleat. His face turned as red as his messy hairand his raggedy mustache, and he waddled over -- he and Sweetie shared red hair, but nothing else, Sweetie's proportions snakelike, Placido a lard bag.
"You'll be sorry!" Placido said, putting his red face close to Sweetie's and trying to glower.
Sweetie regarded his brother as if he were a fly in the soup.
"There's your lovey-dovey," Sweetie sneered, pointing at my mother, just then starting up the stairs with her bagged lunch. "Go sit in her lap and don't trouble yourself with big-boy things."
Placido's eyes swam, maybe because of his allergies, but also because eyes reveal the inner person, and Placido's insides consisted of whiny self-pity mixed with petulance, along with a sense of grievance, and it all made him prone to tear up. I'd certainly heard enough of it all to know what I'm talking about. At any rate, his face got redder and redder, because he wanted to say something to cut Sweetie to the core, but he couldn't think of anything. So he partially showed his hand.
"I've got a party coming who'll fry your beans!" he finally sputtered.
Sweetie's cobra eyes chilled, and I could see he was considering what sort of nuisance Placido had planned. Then his face turned even meaner than usual, because he did not like being crossed.
He pointed across the room at my mother. On her way upstairs, she had stopped on the landing to view the fraternal argument.
"I'll be visiting you later, Dearie," Sweetie hissed at her, loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear him.
That dropped Placido's jaw, since he paid my mother to be his personal companion, and he stood gulping at Sweetie. I was upset, too. Actually I was so sick in my stomach that I shouted at Sweetie: "Do you ever do one decent thing?" That was a
"That man currently gives me gallstones!" I told Nellie.
But just then the saloon's conversational hum stopped because the doors swung open and in walked Duster's three deputies followed by Sheriff Fitzpatrick Duprey, all four stepping back against the wall, two on one side of the door and two on the other. After that, Sweetie Hieronymus slithered in, darting out his forked tongue and hissing, which is a metaphor expressing his character with precision. He probably meant to calculate the lunch-hour take, but he saw Nellie Bly right off, she being a stranger, and came to our table and made a show of doffing the porkpie hat he always wore to hide his scalp, bald as a white egg, with the red hair on his head's sides clipped so short you could see white skin through it.
"Who might you be, Miss?" he said.
"Why that matters to whoever you are, I don't know," Nellie told him. "Incidentally, that is the greenest suit I've ever seen on a man."
Sweetie stared at her, but she didn't look away.
"I'm proprietor here," he finally said. "I noticed your pad and pen, and wondered what you might be jotting down, here on my premises?"
"It is my pastime to study local attractions, as I travel, and Susanna is being so kind as to tell me about Duster's phosphate mines, which I find fascinating," Nellie said. "Perhaps you and I could talk about that subject, at your convenience?"
Again he regarded her, and I could almost see gears in Sweetie's head turning.
"Alas, business presses," he said. "In any event, I expect you'll be traveling on directly because . . ."
He never finished that thought, probably what is termed a "veiled threat," because just then his brother, Placido Hieronymus, came in through the swinging doors and, seeing Sweetie, let out a sort of bleat. His face turned as red as his messy hairand his raggedy mustache, and he waddled over -- he and Sweetie shared red hair, but nothing else, Sweetie's proportions snakelike, Placido a lard bag.
"You'll be sorry!" Placido said, putting his red face close to Sweetie's and trying to glower.
Sweetie regarded his brother as if he were a fly in the soup.
"There's your lovey-dovey," Sweetie sneered, pointing at my mother, just then starting up the stairs with her bagged lunch. "Go sit in her lap and don't trouble yourself with big-boy things."
Placido's eyes swam, maybe because of his allergies, but also because eyes reveal the inner person, and Placido's insides consisted of whiny self-pity mixed with petulance, along with a sense of grievance, and it all made him prone to tear up. I'd certainly heard enough of it all to know what I'm talking about. At any rate, his face got redder and redder, because he wanted to say something to cut Sweetie to the core, but he couldn't think of anything. So he partially showed his hand.
"I've got a party coming who'll fry your beans!" he finally sputtered.
Sweetie's cobra eyes chilled, and I could see he was considering what sort of nuisance Placido had planned. Then his face turned even meaner than usual, because he did not like being crossed.
He pointed across the room at my mother. On her way upstairs, she had stopped on the landing to view the fraternal argument.
"I'll be visiting you later, Dearie," Sweetie hissed at her, loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear him.
That dropped Placido's jaw, since he paid my mother to be his personal companion, and he stood gulping at Sweetie. I was upset, too. Actually I was so sick in my stomach that I shouted at Sweetie: "Do you ever do one decent thing?" That was a
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