“Anyhow,” Hosteen told Morrow suddenly, re-ordering his hand, “here’s the latest from San Fran, ’fore I forget to tell ya ’bout it again — word is, after whatever the Rev got done doin’, half that bitch Songbird’s whole knock-shop fell down, leavin’ her out on the street. Then, next thing she knows, the Pinkertons’re there, too. Mister Head Agent Allan himself at the helm, b’lieve it or not, ’long with some fancy Northern professor he got hooked to his outfit.”
“What for, exactly?”
“Well, as t’ that . . . you recall back in th’ War, when the Bluebellies tried t’ put hexes t’ work, fightin’ on behalf of the Union? Reckoned if they looked ’mongst the Irish brigades, say, an’ took up all those who turned after a sizeable battle — always was one or two, per major engagement — they could cobble a devastatin’ force t’gether, ’specially if they added in every fled nigger with sim’lar inclinations in on top. But Mages don’t meddle, so they got t’ squabblin’ midst themselves, killed each other an’ sucked the corpses dry, long ’fore they ever drew anywhere near us. . . .”
Asbury’s lecture in action, Morrow thought.
“Still, guess Pinkerton’s fixed t’ get back at it again, ’cause Miss Songbird cut her a deal, turned State’s, for the cost o’ repairs. That an’ a license t’ come after the Rev, no doubt, with just as many Pinks as they’ll lend ’er.” Hosteen threw down. “Annnd . . . Ace, king, queen, jack, ten. I take the trick.”
Morrow frowned. “Thought we was playin’ whist.”
“Whist?” Hosteen rose, almost up-ending his own chair in the process. “Well, that’s me done for. Gotta go fall down.”
“We’ll miss you.”
“Yeah. Jus’ bet you will.”
He turned for the door, studying Chess, who barely seemed to notice — then sighed, and moved on. But —
“’Night, Kees,” Chess finally called out, gaily, just as the door clicked shut behind the old man’s back. And snickered, right down into his purple shirt-sleeve.
“You have to — ?” Morrow snapped, then stopped. Not quite fast enough, though.
Chess sat forward, chin propped on one palm, as the other fell to stroke his favourite plaything’s shiny pearl inlay.
“Don’t much enjoy me playin’ with old Mister H, do ya, Ed?” He asked. “And why is that, I wonder.”
“’Cause he’s my friend? Yours too, I always thought.”
Chess shrugged, eyes narrowing. “Sure. But then again — you think quite a whole damn lot, ’bout a full spread of very different subjects. Don’t think I ain’t noticed.”
Morrow held himself still as possible under that scrutiny, while in his pocket, the Manifold gave a shiver. Just sit tight and shut the fuck up, Morrow told it, and braced to wait it out, as though he could somehow will Chess’s unconscious hexation back into him; bad enough Chess might be fixing to shoot him, without adding spells in, on top of the mix.
“’Bout that boy’s woman,” Chess said, suddenly. “Fact is . . . I just didn’t calculate her dyin’. Hell, I had bottles broke on my head, lots of times, and I ain’t dead.”
“But you’re a man, Chess. You’re tough.”
Chess snorted. “Ever seen the inside of a birthin’ room? Stick a pin in the map almost anywhere, you’ll find ten women tougher’n me — and you, for that matter.” A pause. “Not many meaner, though. I believe I’m right in that estimation, anyroads.”
“Yeah, you do got that goin’ for you,” Morrow agreed, taking another swig.
For Morrow, it all came back to that one word, sprinkled throughout every Agency report he’d read before first embarking on this misguided venture: unrepentant sodomite and murderer. The primary description anyone who’d ever heard of Chess Pargeter always slapped on him, and strictly on the sodomy part of it, Morrow felt he could safely give a resounding yes. But as to the other . . .
“Still and all,” Chess continued, “you might have a point there, this one time. ’Cause thinking back, I
find how I do feel kinda . . . bad about riddin’ the world of Sadie’s little friend.”
“Well . . . you kinda should. That boy didn’t have a chance — and seems to me you liked it that way. Like back in ’Frisco, with that miner; you lead them on, then lay them down, then you giggle about it after. Way you conduct yourself, it’s — ”
“Uncharitable?” Chess suggested.
“ — easy. All a damn sight too easy entirely, considerin’ how afterwards they’re dead, and you’re alive.”
Morrow waited, but Chess didn’t reply — simply sat back, and though his hand still hovered near his gun, it seemed less a threat than a habit.
“That whole thing . . .” he said, at length. “It was nothin’ more than a damn tiff, ’tween Ash Rook ’n’ me. Just this dance we were havin’ with each other, spilled over into fisticuffs — and that boy, his bitch, they just got in the way, is all. And I . . .”
He trailed off, shook his head. And here Morrow saw something cross Chess Pargeter’s face, shame-full and sidelong — a thing so alien, so out of context, he barely recognized it himself.