There lived an old lord by the Northern Sea
And he had daughters, one two three . . .
I’ll be true to my love,
If my love will be true to me.”
Morrow squinted, feeling the room lurch around him. “So he had three daughters.”
“Yeah, and one of ’em steals the other’s finance, so the other one throws her in the river to drown. Then she floats downstream and snags in the mill, and the miller drags her out — ”
“So she’s rescued.”
Another laugh. “’Til he cuts the rings off her fingers, and throws her right back in.”
“An’ the third?”
“She don’t even come into it, Morrow; three’s a better rhyme than two, is all.” Chess shot him a quick glance, and even mellow as he was, Morrow felt a quick stab of superstitious dread, unable to deny that even in the bar’s smoky semi-shadow, the pistoleer’s eyes really did throw back light like a cat’s. “You’re an odd sorta bastard when you’re drunk, ain’t ya?”
Morrow swallowed. “Yeah. When I ain’t drunk, too — or so I’ve been told.”
And then, because the Two Sisters was so warm and dark, maybe, packed full to the gills with outlaws and really almost too noisy to talk at all, Morrow found himself asking, without thinking twice, “What the hell was that place, anyhow? Back at Songbird’s?”
But to this, Chess didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he continued to study on his own empty glass a while, once more deep entranced by what he saw there: that cool, sticky green world where nothing mattered, ’cause everything was already well-drained hollow.
“Down in the hole?” he said, at length. “They call it the hospital — not that it’s for gettin’ better, you understand. ’Cause that’s just where they put the whores who really are on their last inch of trim.”
“’Bout how long you think they all got, then?”
“Oh, not too long. Undertakers’ll be by tomorrow. If they ain’t dead by then, they better try harder.”
“So — that woman you were talkin’ with . . .” Another gulp, as the room continued on its merry, wobbly way. “. . . who was she?”
And here Chess’s eyes flicked over yet again, all the more disturbing for their unpredictable lack of anger.
“Well, hell, Morrow,” he said, lightly, “I’d’ve thought you’d’ve already guessed. That there was the famous English Oona . . . Pargeter.”
CHAPTER FIVE
That night, Morrow lay awake without wanting to, trying not to listen to Chess and the Rev fuck. Which was damn hard, since they were so damn loud at it — Chess mostly, Morrow reckoned, though the Rev sure did his share. The racket dripped down through the ceiling, incautious and unashamed as all get out; creak and thump of bedsprings and other accoutrements, plus Chess himself riding Rook like he was some sort of trick horse with a whoop and a holler, singing out his usual refrain at the top of his lungs: “Oh yeah, hit that, God damn! Hit that thing, uh, Good God Jesus! Christ Almighty, go on ahead and hit it!”
While Morrow didn’t really want to know what-all was getting hit, necessarily, the sheer crazy spectacle of it still amazed him somewhat. God knew, he’d never heard a man and a woman get quite so rowdy with each other, not unless incipient physical damage was involved.
“There’s things you need not to ask, concernin’ Chess and the Reverend.” Kees Hosteen had taken Morrow aside and told him, back when Morrow first joined up.
To which Morrow had blurted back, “Those two screwin’ each other, or what?”
Hosteen gave him a long look. “Not each other, as such,” he said, finally. “But Chess takes it from the Rev whenever the Rev cares to give it, and if you feel you gotta make hay on that bein’ against nature, or some such — ”
“Chess’ll shoot me for it.”
“Right where you stand, boy. I’ve seen it done, and more’n just the once.”
“Reverend feel the same way?”
“Who knows what the Reverend feels? Them hexacious ones ain’t for us to understand. But Chess don’t seem to care either way — so watch yourself, or watch the damn wall.”
Pinkerton Agency records didn’t say much about Rook, or his proclivities, back before the hanging. Had he always liked men? Morrow wondered. Maybe the Rev just considered himself so damned it didn’t much matter who he found himself at play with. Or did they consider themselves some version of married, with or without the Rev’s former deity’s permission? That seemed to jibe, though for all Chess might be the one on the receiving end, Morrow somehow doubted Rook thought he was the wife in their arrangement.