Free A Congregation of Jackals by S. Craig Zahler Page A

he was polite regardless. Money from a rude man spends just as well as the stuff from nice folks. Pickles glanced furtively at the slumbering woman, hoping to glimpse something pink, but was frustrated by the dingy blanket and dingier fellow that clung to her as if beached on an island.
    The talker said, “Don’t get any ideas. She ain’t goin’ with no nigger. Not for any money.”
    “I was just lookin’. She just layin’ there.”
    “Don’t talk back.”
    “I ’pologize.”
    There was a gentle knock. The twins pointed their guns at the door; they were quicker than mosquitoes when they aimed their weapons.
    “Who’s out there?” the talker asked.
    “Alphonse.”
    To Pickles, the talker said, “Let him in,” though neither he nor his sibling lowered the barrels of the guns they had pointed at the door.
    “Don’t shoot me none by accident,” Pickles admonished.
    The errand boy turned to the door, twisted the key in the lock and opened it wide. The small foreigner in the burgundy suit and bowler cap was back. He walked past Pickles, a roll of papers wedged in his right armpit.
    “Shut the door and lock it,” the talker said to Pickles. He obeyed. The twins holstered their guns.
    To the foreigner, the talker said, “You get a good look at ’em?”
    “Oui.”
    “You drawed ’em all like Quinlan tol’ you? James and his fiancée and the sheriff?”
    “Oui
. And deputy. And minister and church.”
    “They accurate?”
    “Very much,” Alphonse replied. He handed the bundle of vellum to the talker.
    The man unrolled the parchment and looked at an illustration of a pretty white woman with curly blonde hair and an adorable dimple on her chin. The talker showed the illustration to his mute brother.
    “James did well for himself, that big oaf,” the talker said. Arthur stared at the illustration, his face inscrutable. To Alphonse, the talker said, “She’s real beautiful.”
    “Today,” the foreigner replied.
    Pickles did not understand the foreigner’s answer, but the talker did and nodded.
    “Why is nigger here?” Alphonse asked, pointing to—but not looking at—Pickles.
    The talker said, “I was goin’ to settle him when you come up. Arthur’s concerned ’bout him and how he’s always lurkin’.”
    “Oui.”
Alphonse turned and looked at Pickles.
    The errand boy said nervously to the talker, “B-But I got th-them ribbons that you asked for. That’s why—that’s why I come up here.” He pulled a fistful of lavender ribbons with yellow polka dots from his bag and shook the iridescent strips like talismans. “This . . . this is w-what you asked me to fetch. They got the circles on ’em j-j-just l-like—”
    The Frenchman jammed a rag into Pickle’s mouth and swept his feet out from under him. The floor rushed up, met and smacked the back of his skull; the impact dazed the errand boy. He opened his eyes and looked up. The inside of a bowler cap covered his face; private night enveloped him (one that smelled like hair oil). Cold metal dug into his neck.
    The last thing Pickles heard before he bled out was, “Mule. Wrap up that nigger before it shits the floor.”

Chapter Eleven
Not Heaven
    Dicky sat opposite Godfrey for the fourth and final day of their train trip across the United States. The duo had lost interest in cards a while ago and consequently spent the days drinking, watching the landscape flee.
    The train was currently parked beside a water tower; engine men lathed the bellows. Dicky’s view was obscured by a blanket of steam blown east by the strong western wind. For a moment, both sides of the car were aglow with roiling bright white exhaust.
    “It’s like we’re flying. Up in the clouds,” Godfrey observed.
    “Enjoy the view. I’m pretty sure we don’t have angels making beds for us in heaven.”
    “You like jokes.”
    “That wasn’t one.”
    “You know what they say about clowns.”
    “Children enjoy their antics?”
    The door at the front end of the