No Good Deed 61

Gottschalk could scarcely be persuaded into the nearest tavern and refused all libations and tinctures once we had entered The Moon and Two Feathers. We drew the attention of all the clientele, both Negro and White. Gottschalk's enervation could have been the only explanation for it. Quite why he chose to consume such quantities of coffee was a mystery to me, since it made him no more lively: rather, it increased the trembling of his hands acquired on encountering Miss Leveau. My attempts at drawing conversation from him produced nothing more than the occasional sigh.

Behind the bar stood a man nearing the stature of a giant; his physique was impressive and in proportion for his height. His head however was not, being tiny in the extreme, at least in relation to the size of his body. Nor was this the only peculiarity regarding the caput. He was quite twice as wide in the jaw as the cranium. There was truly no possibility of any meaningful quantity of grey matter within it. Yet he stood, moved and dispensed alcoholic drink with remarkable competence. Speech came not so easily to this behemoth. His utterances did not extend beyond single words and those for the most part denominations of coinage, such as 'Dime!' 'Quarter!' or even 'Dollar!'. No quantity or combination of cordials provoked him into 'Fifty Cents', and perhaps that was one more word than he could muster at any one time.

In any event, I was forced to engage a fellow customer to enquire as to the origins of the name of the saloon. It seemed more appropriate to a Wiltshire tavern, in my opinion. Besides, the man had been eyeing me in a most peculiar manner since his entrance into the Moon and Two Feathers. In the American style, I thrust out a hand and barked,

'Anson Northrup.'

The man, sporting a stove-pipe hat and a sparse effort at a Lincoln beard, spat elegantly to his left.

'Danged if y'are!' He said.

'I beg your pardon, Sir!'

The man tugged at his left ear and gave a half-smile, the left corner of his mouth rising by the equivalent amount to which the right descended.

'Oh, I reckon, y'all could fool an acquaintance, Mister. But there ain't no foolin' a bosom-friend from childhood, is there?'

It was a coincidence at which Shakespeare himself might have baulked.

'I can explain...' I began.

'Mebbe you could, if'n I let y'all.'

His eyes crossed a little as he said this and I realised that the man was quite, quite drunk.

'Well now, why not allow me to enlighten you over a drink?'

I looked over at Gottschalk, but he was staring glassy-eyed at the floor.

'A whiskey, then,' I said, receiving a grunt in answer from the 'bosom-friend' and a basso-profundo 'Quarter!' from the ogre tending the bar.