Free Mojave by Johnny D. Boggs Page A

this Madame De Lill wasn’t much to look at, neither. Later that afternoon, I got a fleeting glimpse of a dressmaker who had an office above the bank. Not to mention, as we saw a few more kids, we figured there had to be a schoolteacher who might be a school marm, and some of these businessmen likely had wives, or at least concubines, and a drummer at the South Saloon said a couple of gals run a couple of the boardinghouses.
    Say ten to twenty women. In a town of more than twelve hundred. And probably another two thousand men in the mining district that stretched all through this desert.
    â€œYou know what you’re doing, Whip,” Guttersnipe Gary said.
    â€œThat I do,” Whip Watson agreed, and we entered the Globe Chop House for some real good beefsteaks and fried taters.
    We were finishing our slices of cherry pie—the cherries come from airtights, but it wasn’t like you’d find fresh fruit in Calico—when the dirty little waif poked his head inside the restaurant, and before the man in the black evening duds with tails who’d sent us to our table could toss the boy out, another fancy-dudded man came in, said something to the guest-sitter, and slid the fellow a coin. Dirty Waif kept pointing at us, and him and the dude eased their way to where we was sitting.
    Whip Watson laid down his spoon and pushed back his chair a mite.
    â€œI found Canfield, sir,” the kid said.
    â€œI see you did,” Whip said, and tossed the boy another five-dollar piece. The waif was gone before you could say thank you, sir, which the kid didn’t say. All the patrons eating seemed relieved that the dirty tyke wasn’t spoiling their dinners.
    â€œHave a seat, Mister Canfield,” Whip told the newcomer, who settled into the empty chair.
    He was a dark man. Dark hair. Darker eyes. Dark suit. Dark hat. And, as I’d soon learn, an even darker soul.
    Whip didn’t introduce us to Rogers Canfield, and Canfield had no interest in us.
    Canfield said, “So you are Whip Watson.”
    After a slight bow, Whip said, “And you are Ronen Kanievsky.”
    His dark face got a bit lighter, and he was leaning back in his chair, and I thought he might either suffer an apoplexy or get up and leave. But another man in some more fancy garb had stopped by and was asking, “Would you care for a cocktail, Mister Canfield?”
    Mr. Canfield, or Mr. Kanievsky, stuttered and stammered and finally spit out that a Tom and Jerry would be just fine, so the waiter in the black duds said, “Very good, sir,” and walked away.
    For a while there, nobody said anything until Guttersnipe Gary finished licking the crumbs off his plate.
    Finally, Mr. Canfield/Kanievsky, said, “What’s in a name?”
    Which, considering as many names as I’d used in my life of devilment, was something I could relate to, and I figured so could Whip since I allowed how his mama and daddy likely hadn’t named him Whip.
    The drink arrived, and our guest took a fair-sized swallow, set the glass on the table, and straightened, doing his damnedest to look dignified again. “Names are not important,” he said, “but business is. And by business, my name is shadchan. ”
    Now, I know Micah Bishop ain’t much of a handle, and some of the other names I’ve used—John Smith, John Jones, Smith Jones, and Big Tim Pruett mightn’t be all that clever—but Canfield and Kanievsky and Shadchan sound a bit ludicrous, if you ever ask me. Even Guttersnipe Gary said, “Shadchan sounds like you’re a damned Chinaman.”
    Which got me to thinking about Jingfei.
    â€œYou don’t look like no Chinaman.” Guttersnipe Gary had consumed quite a lot of liquor, and the canned cherry pie and all its crumbs hadn’t sobered him up none.
    â€œShadchan isn’t his name,” Whip said. “It’s his occupation. It’s Hebrew. He’s a