the cold thump when all goes dark exquisite convulsions on the bed open yer mouth and it pours out my donation of hot lead
i trace the mounds on your body still warm -- though by every which measure yer dead -- traced those burrs with my finger yer lips curled
now you are transformed -- how the dry wind howls in yer hollow chest -- dinnae cower the heat -- for it will melt you down
lay down now and let yerself be embraced -- the cold arms of night pull you away -- you taste but dinnae swallow ¹

Pt. 1: A Grandmother’s Pearls

A city will wear you like a pair of old cowhide boots. Your feet slip in, comfortably, since their caresses have worn in the leather just so, and now they are a part of you. Such thoughts preoccupied Pat Garrett as his train rolled into Montreal Central Station. He leafed through several dozen letters, scrawlings, newspaper clippings and the odd bar napkin he had collected on The Kid and which followed him around from a folder in his briefcase.

He found the letters to be curiously composed – haphazardly, yet with seeming intention:

Bonney plays nice – trust me – here is a story all about it – remember yer old friend – the one that didn’t quite make it – Bob methinks izes name – and ez little plaything – M – that firecracker francophonie is what shes –heard she gets around but i guess yell find that out willn-t YA GARRETT --B

(A POUR MEMORY) you were admirable had flint in yer eyes as you took aim --uhn a good shot dinnae we all learnt-- before you got down there uhn gave thet warm hug to the dust --now yer spilling out thet third black arm stretches out to cool off yewv bin all yewsed up uhn now yer sulking sinking--yer good-BYE too late-- uhn a five oh-clock sun-ll give her little black kisses, all over yer firm lips --does it tickle?-- and your stained ears --uhn now it's growin thet black arm ²

Returning to his hometown after what had felt like several lifetimes was surreal, to say the least. He never paid much thought to the city, its pocketed neighborhoods that gigantic trees and brick facades cushioned from the buzzing of the industry downtown, the boulevards flanked with three-story apartment buildings interlaced with wrought-iron spiral staircases, balconies and smoking Quebs in shirtsleeves who kept watchful eyes over schoolkids, ruffians, crack-addicts and drunks. Having now returned a grown man he realized that everything kept on chugging along, all the same as before. Cities are much more reliable timekeepers for this reason, better than man himself. Returning to face the city’s countenance, there you are, left staring at the figure of an old friend who remembers you for everything you were and waits before judging you for what you have become.

This place in particular stirred in him a sense of a city built on trust. There was a particular width to the sidewalks, and to the boulevards that separated them from the covered-porch stoops, a particular height to the balconies, the density of the foliage, the direction of the one-ways, that he enumerated methodically upon returning there. In this design, these calculated proportions, its residents weaved stories fanning the flames of their community.

Garrett being an outsider, had slight advantage as it concerned his business there. Those involved in the drama would not recognize him, provided he be nonchalant; in this city, chatter filled the alleyways, and watchful passers-by did not mind the invisible men. That was the first trick. Second, the news of Roberts’ death was not widely known there, meaning the Regulators were not likely to suspect Garrett’s arrival. These were a hired gang from Lincoln County embroiled in a gruesome feud culminating in the carnage that involved the murder of Andrew “Buckshot” Roberts. William (“The Kid”) Bonney killed him, it was believed, to avenge and thereby fill the power-vacuum left by the death of their leader, John Tunstall. Garrett had little to go on for capturing Bonney besides a rumor that Buckshot’s ex-lover, Mariette, had reportedly fled New Mexico for the North. Before his murder, she had left Buckshot for the wealthy businessman, Jimmy Dolan, according to the latter’s sister-in-law and a close friend of Mariette, one Esmerelda O’Flanagan.

“Peculiar tastes” drove her away-- Elda found ths to be funny because “there were obviously Ch-go and St. L-s, which were much closer, by God. M-- and J-D are sweetie-pies & they have their own unq kind of relshp. I dn- think he much cares th- she up -n- left, nor th- he was m-ch bothered th- she d-n tell him. Damn shame what hapnd to B--. Pathetic to go the way he did, all bloodshot and vengeful.”

As the train screeched to a halt, Garrett, closing his notes, stuffed them back into his briefcase and lurched from the station to his hotel downtown without so much as a glance toward that familiar city.

---

1230 St. Laurent Blvd Montreal, PQ Mariette Brown Elda -- you-ve always shown your dearest affections to me and Jimmy – I love you two so dearly and it pains me knowing how you lost your love too soon – for that I am eternally sorry –i only ask this one more small favour, if you an Jimmy can be so gracious and charitable –surely you will know exactly what it is I am asking an far be it from me to re-iterate –i write you finally to let you know that i am there now and you may proceed as it has been discussed –i pray you can respec this wish of ours and know your good deed will be dearly compensated. Lastly –I cannae emphascize it enough --how talented you are –please consider joining me –I’m sure of it the gang will love you Yours, -- M

---

The old parts have eyes whose glare could be felt, the woosh-ing windowpanes shifting in their place as you walked down the hallway. These parts recounted tales of intrigue, vengeance, and in some cases, murder; at times, the tales were playful and meaningless, like the way the dancer’s tits bellowed, her ass shaking like a leaf as she pranced smugly out toward the patrons, or how the bartender got smacked around for being drunk on the job. Garrett, although more than peculiarly sensible to hearing the tales, did his best to tune them out. He looked around. Security was lax. In one corner seated near the bar were suited business-men around a table. He scanned the rest of the room. No Mariette. He approached the bar and ordered a shot of Red Label, neat.

The men at the table next him continued chatting, casting glances toward Garrett from over their suit-shoulders. He listened, but they spoke a dialect of French he could not fully make out. Up close he noticed each of their figures looked less imposing than the impression they gave off as a group, more bric-a-brac – teeth missing, shirt collars stained around the top, cheap pin-striped polyester suits. And they were acting sloppy, un-precise. If being in law-enforcement taught him one thing it was that the only type of person more dangerous than the creature who is painstakingly exacting is the one who is brutally sloppy. The former will string you up and bleed you out over a creek so that your every drop of life gets carried away, and then cut you free sending you fumbling after it. The latter will just use a wood-chipper to spray your guts all over your mammy’s white picket fence, or trample you to a pulp in the dusty streets so your barber, butcher and sister-in-law all can watch from their living-room windows.

Garrett felt the eyes of the dancers as they shot upside-down glances atop overturned tits or cranked their heads to roll their eyes off the firm arched hollow of their backs, glances that the gentlemen saddling the red-steel framed cafe chairs with their arms crossed to rest their chins on the chair backs thought were for them. Glance-baiting was an aspect to the art of earning their bread, an art involving putting on a disguise while being completely naked, a type of telekinesis used to feign rapport, a phony-bashfulness directed outward toward the patrons. He noticed the server, the woman behind the bar dressed in garters with a thick shock of dark hair sweeping over her eyebrows, how she looked down as she worked yet moved her body to and fro like an athlete, adeptly juggling whiskey-sours, gin-tonics and tequila on-the-rocks. He ordered a second drink.

Looking around the room and seeing no sign of Mariette, Garrett feared lest he had wandered right into the leviathan. Then, the sound of clinking glasses started him, making what remained of his drink jump up onto his shirt, followed by the sound of a gun’s safety clicking off. Smooth R&B kept playing over the speakers as one of the suited gangsters pressed the muzzle of his revolver up against the temple of one of the dancers. His alligator boot heels thumped on the floorboards as he walked her toward Garrett, smiling through missing teeth. Garrett’s head felt flushed, his lips tingled as his hands groped confidently at his gun. His eyes stayed fixed on the suited man as he steadied himself, swaying slightly as his heart pumped blood through his veins.

“Calm down, mec, and just tell me what you want. Ain’t no-body gotsta eat it today, specially not that innocent doe.” Garrett felt the plastered walls and creaky floorboards recording his every move. He breathed and --BANG!--Garrett turned to see as a revolver rang out from behind the bar, the tail of blue smoke floating as the room hung silence, and saw that the outstretched arm belonged to Mariette. Broken glass, tequila, beer and tonic water now bubbled over the bar as it mixed with scattered wedges of limes before making small splashes as it crashed on the wooden floorboards. The bartender’s arms now flayed out as her body flopped forward, her bangs now soaked in that macabre concoction like an old bar rag.

“Dinnae move, or she gets it too,” said she, gesturing toward the dancer, whose eyes pleaded Garrett.

“I’ll put you away one of these days, Mary. Don’t you think you can run forever.” The excitement made him feel sober again.

“This,” she gestured regally toward the grisly scene, the club which was now empty save for that soiled rag-doll, a few goons and one loudly-breathing hostage, “is a message from Billy. Those papers label him an outlaw, which might be true, but you and I both know the author of this carnage, Garrett. Long as your handlers allow themselves to be blinded by their greed and passions, this war will never end --Oh, and pass these along to Jimmy, won’t you?”

Garrett watched as the pearl necklace she thrust along the floor stopped at his feet.

And as a bat beats its wings unseen in the night, so did Mariette beat her eyelashes, signaling to her goon to let the dancer go. The latter fell to the floor cupping her ears as Mariette led the remaining patrons unceremoniously out of the cafe. The sound of gunfire reverberated in the room like a cackle. Garrett picked up the pearls, which would return with him to Lincoln county in his briefcase.

to be continued...

https://stacker.news/items/1196482

Footnotes

1. "la P'tite Mort" ↩

2. "Buckshot Bob" ↩