Free Storm's Thunder by Brandon Boyce Page B

keep the embers aflame. She rattles off in her native tongue, and a second girl, plump and dressed more for scullery than sport, hustles in with a pair of sloshing water buckets. The way her face is painted up, I’d wager even the kitchen girl gets called upon to service them what can’t put together more than a dollar or two. Pei-Pei empties a whistling kettle into the second tub and then tosses in a handful of greenish crystals from a little bottle she replaces on the vanity, where a lantern, glowing beneath a pink, satin scarf enhances the mood. The only other furniture is a high, thin bed—more like a table—in the center of the room. Heavy sheets of velveteen drape the walls as well as the low ceiling, which billows down like the inside of a carnival tent.
    She gives the fresh bath a whirl with her arm while the round girl heaves in the cold well water. All this activity, I am grateful I have tarred up my bath with sufficient blackness to hide my man parts, but I would just as same prefer considerable less foot traffic buzzing about when I am sitting there with my preacher and choir flopping around. The madam’s voice erupts from beyond the curtain, squawking some admonition or another that Pei-Pei relays with equal vigor on down the chain to the ears of the round girl, who hustles over to the pile of my discarded clothes and collects the bundle—union suit and all—and hurries out. My coat and saddlebag remain untouched in the corner, protected by the Spencer and the rest of the guns. There is more instruction from beyond the curtain and then the chubby girl returns with a glass containing a liquid—a libation I gather, as she crosses toward me and deposits it in my hand. Then the round girl goes out for good, closing the curtain tight behind her.
    As if on cue, Pei-Pei’s movements lose their utilitarian urgency and she smiles at me—a shy little smile that sends her eyes back to the floor just the same. She passes behind me and graces a finger along my shoulder. Her touch against my bare skin sends my willy to full and immediate attention. I hear her strike a match, flashing a glow of orange as she steps back into my vision, dragging deep from a thin cigarillo. Holding the smoke in her lungs like a shaman, she proffers the lighted butt my way as she exhales. Tobacco smell permeates the room, but there is something with it, a sweet, sticky scent that tinges the vapor with cloying blueness. I take the cigarillo and bring it to my mouth, pulling gentle and slow until—all at once—a fire explodes from my lungs and a racking cough overcomes me. The ceiling spins, the floor lolling in in undulating waves. A cozy warmth blooms inside like a hundred downy quilts. “Oh . . . my,” I say.
    Pei-Pei just nods, adding a sly grin of profound understanding. Moving toward the second tub, she steps out of her slippers and taps the copper lip. Whatever she dumped in the water got it more frothed up than the head of a beer. She sticks her hand in to check the temperature and, satisfied with the result, points to the water and taps the edge of the copper. When I do not move she taps again, pointing more adamant and offering up some Chinese encouragement that I do not understand. But her intent is clear. A second bath. Makes perfect sense if you got the manpower and a preponderance of tubs lying about. I consider ruminating further on the notion for however long it takes for my stiffy to subside, but can see plain from Pei-Pei’s tone that she won’t be taking no for an answer. So instead I make a little circle motion and say: “Would you, uh . . .”
    Pei-Pei turns around and I down the drink in one swallow. Taking encouragement from the fruity, medicinal paint that spreads warm inside me, I stand up, gray water dripping loud from my body in an embarrassing drumroll. I bring my leg out and dip it into the new bath. For an indelicate moment I straddle the two tubs,