“. . . thank you,” he said, at last.
“Not so fast,” Rook said, rummaging in the pile of clothes flung together by the bed’s side. Then re-emerged, with Chess’s knife at the ready.
“Aw look, hey, now — ”
“Calm the fuck down, Ed, it ain’t what you think. Hold still.”
Spent as he was, Morrow sat there dumbfaced while Rook sawed a chunk of his hair away, sheep-shearing-quick, then touched the raw spot lightly, a soothing balm spreading briskly out wherever his fingers lighted. The tuft itself he tucked away in a small leather pouch he kept on his gun-belt.
“All right,” he said. “Now we’re done.”
“The shit was that?” Morrow demanded, hoarsely.
The Rev shrugged. “Insurance, mainly. Know what a mojo is?” Morrow shook his head. “Well, the dolly-bag I’m gonna make from this hair says you’re gonna do what I want, whenever and however I want it — or I’ll throw it right in the fire, see what happens when it starts to burn. And you really don’t want that, believe you me.”
“I believe you,” Morrow replied, his voice gone almost completely juiceless.
Rook nodded. “Here’s the deal, then. I have to go somewhere, try out this mirror of Songbird’s. Gotta talk to my Rainbow Lady, and I need to do it alone; she’s gonna tell me things I don’t want Chess tryin’ to talk me out of. I need him kept away.”
“All right. But he won’t listen to me — not like he does to you.”
Another grim grin. “Oh, I don’t need him listenin’ that hard. Just tell him I told you he has to take the rest of the gang to Splitfoot Joe’s, lay low, and wait. That’s where I’ll meet back up with everybody.”
“He won’t believe — ”
Brooking no opposition: “Convince him, then.”
Rook turned his back, arrogant in his utter lack of wariness. And if Morrow hadn’t been so damn drained, that alone might have been enough to make him try something anyways, just on principle.
But instead, he simply looked back down at his hands, still trembling in his lap, and asked: “Okay, well — what were you doin’ back there — with Chess? I mean . . . I know what some of it was, obviously. But — ”
“Show me that ‘timepiece’ of yours, will you, Ed?”
Reluctantly, Morrow passed the Manifold over, as Rook stood waiting with one hand out. Rook took it, studying it from all directions.
/> “Very pretty,” he said, finally, and passed it back. “Might come in useful, eventually.”
“You gonna answer my question, or what?”
The Rev turned once more, finally rummaging for his small-clothes, and tucked himself safely away. “Oh, I think you’ll figure it out, soon enough. If you just keep your eyes open.”
Next morning, Chess came clattering down while Morrow was checking his ammunition, immaculate from head to toe, like he hadn’t spent half the night taking it from behind — his bright hair combed and gleaming extra-sharp with fresh pomade, purple coat brushed out ’til it shone, and in about as foul a mood as Morrow’d ever seen him.
“How long that sumbitch been gone?” he demanded. “Since ’fore dawn,” Morrow said, counting shells. Then, like he’d just thought of it: “Yeah, he said you was to go to Splitfoot Joe’s, and then he’d meet you there after.”
“After what?”
“Fuck if I know, Chess. He don’t make such as me privy to his thoughts.”
“Well, why the hell wouldn’t he tell me that his own damn self?”
“Uh . . . ’cause you was asleep, I guess.”
“Oh, that Goddamn man!” Chess grabbed the bottle Morrow already had going, and flopped down in the chair opposite him to take a long drink. “Bible-beltin’ son-of-abitch got business somewheres he thinks he don’t need me for; thinks he can stick his dick in my ass to keep me quiet, then run the hell off on me.”
Morrow squirmed, uncomfortably. “Aw, Chess, c’mon. I don’t need to know — ”
“Well shit, Morrow, what was it you thought we was doin’ up there? Playin’ Goddamn canasta?”