Rebel Heart Read Free Page A

they don’t like whores. My, how times’ve changed. But them bastards got bigger things on their mind than this place. Storm belt land’s no good to ’em. I let Lilith an th’other girls go an, as you can see, I ain’t ezzackly overrun with customers. No whores, not much hooch, they ain’t gonna bother with me.
    You don’t know that, he says. You need to leave, Molly.
    This is my home, Jack, she says. My business. I had it since I was fifteen. My father had it before me an he got it from his father. I bin dealin with hard-nosed sonsabitches my whole life.
    I seen ’em, Molly, I seen ’em in action, he says. Are you willin to give yer life fer this place? Fer this?
    It’ll never come to that, she says. An if it does, I can take care of myself.
    Well, you shouldn’t be here by yerself, he says. When did the girls go?
    A while back, she says. It’s fine, me takin chances on my own account, but not them.
    Something about the way she says it makes his eyes narrow. What’re you up to? he says.
    Leave it, she says. This line of conversation is now closed. She shoves an overflowing, rusty tin at him. There’s a dead beetle floating on top.
    Drink up, she says. No charge fer the bug. I better pour one fer Ike. You boys must be parched.
    While she fills another hoocher and he fishes out the beetle, she glances towards the door. What’s keepin him? Oh, don’t tell me, I know. Hidin behind his horse. Ain’t it jest like him, sendin you ahead to scout out the enemy while he waits fer the all clear. I’ll be back in three months, he tells me, three months, Molly, I give you my word, an then I ain’t never gonna leave yer side agin. Three months, my aunt patootie. Try three years, ten months an six days. I said it to you then, Jack, an I’ll say it to you now: do not step through my door agin unless yer bringin Ike back to make a honest woman of me, ferever an ever amen. If you do, I’ll shove you in the still an boil you into bad likker. Did I say that to you or did I not?
    You did, he says.
    An ain’t I a woman who keeps her word?
    You are.
    Well then, she says.
    He throws down his drink. Gasps as it hits his throat. That’s unspeakable, he says, when he can speak. What is it?
    Wormwood whisky, she says. Brewed last Tuesday. It keeps off bedbugs, lice an flies. Good fer saddle itch too. The last man to try it ran outta here on all fours, howlin like a wolfdog.
    Yer gonna kill somebody one of these days, he says.
    Who says I didn’t already? What the hell’s keepin that man? She asks like she couldn’t care less. But her eyes say different.
    One more drink, then he’ll tell her. He shoves the hoocher at her. Keep it comin, he says.
    Help yerself, she says.
    She’s busy checking her reflection in the shard of looking glass she keeps behind the bar. She pinches her cheeks, bites her lips, and fiddles with her hair, all the while shooting little looks towards the door. Twenty nine, but like a nervous girl, waiting for the one who makes her heart beat faster. To see her so makes his own heart squeeze tight.
    He drinks. Nerves twist his stomach. Go on, he tells himself, do it. Tell her now. But he finds himself saying, I swear, Molly, every time I see you, yer more beautiful than the last time. How many hearts you broke today?
    Shut up, she says, I know I’m a hag. He snorts with disbelief and she smiles at herself in the glass, pleased. Livin in this dump is playin merry hell with my looks, she says. I’ve grown old, waitin on Ike. The Lost Cause. That’s me all right, Jack, the biggest lost cause ever lived. An you know why? Fer thinkin that man might ever mean what he says. Ike Twelvetrees settle down? You might as well ask the sun to stop shinin.
    Now. Tell her now. Molly, says Jack, there’s somethin I—
    Oh, enough about Ike. He’ll show his face when he’s worked up his nerve. She leans her elbows on the bar. What’s this sorry-lookin object? She flicks the brim of his hat. It tumbles to the floor.