The Black Train Part 2

"So, Lottie. Do you have any rooms available?"

She nodded again.

Not exactly a chatterbox.

A pleasant chime pealed when the next door came fully open. They stepped into an enormous entrance salon, whose thirty-foot-high ceiling dragged Collier's gaze upward. Very large oil paintings hung high behind the service counter, and higher than those stretched a long stair hall. More patterned throw rugs covered the hardwood floor, these much more refined than the thick vestibule rug. Antique sitting tables surrounded by high-back chairs were arranged about the great open s.p.a.ce, and gla.s.s-faced book and display cases lined the walls.

Impressive, Collier thought.

Semicircular stairwells swept up on either side of the long mahogany service counter, and behind the counter a wall of stained oak pilasters touted hand-carved flower designs.

"This really is a beautiful place," Collier mentioned to the girl.

She nodded.

It was twenty feet to the check-in counter; behind it, an old woman's face looked up and smiled through wrinkles. Midsixties, probably. A storm cloud-gray perm of curls, very short, crawled around her head-the kind of hairstyle that only women close to nursing-home age thought looked good. Even at a distance, Collier could detect the deepness of the wrinkles, and bags under her eyes, and the face seemed almost masculine with its slab cheeks and heavy jaw. Collier immediately thought, If Jack Palance had a twin sister...I'm looking at her.

"We'll I'll be!" her peppy tw.a.n.g rang out. "I say it must be celebrity month!"

"Pardon me?"

"I swear I seen you on the TV!"

Collier hated to be "recognized."

The elderly eyes glittered between puffy lids. "Couple weeks ago we had some fella from the New York Yankees check in, and now we got the Prince of Beer!"

"Hi," Collier said, depressed already. Now he had to put up the front. "Justin Collier," he said and extended his hand.

"I'm Mrs. Helen Butler, and welcome to the Branch Landing Inn. That short little thing standin' next to you's my daughter, Lottie. I run the place, she keeps it spick-and-span."

Collier nodded to Lottie, who nodded eagerly back.

"Lottie don't talk," Mrs. Butler explained. "Never could for some reason. She tried when she was a tot but could just never get it, so one day she quit tryin'."

Lottie splayed her hands and shrugged.

Mrs. Butler jabbered on. "Why, I saw ya on the TV just last night."

"Oh, so you're a beer connoisseur, Mrs. Butler?"

"Actually, no-I won't lie to ya. I'se always watch the show comes on after yours, Savannah Sammy's Sa.s.sy Smokehouse." She added rather dreamily, "I just adore that man, Savannah Sammy."

That d.i.c.k! Collier's pride rebelled. The comment challenged him. First of all, he's not even from Savannah, he's from f.u.c.king Jersey, and he doesn't even write his own shows! Collier felt wounded, but what could he say? "Yes, ma'am, Sammy's a great guy."

"But don't get me wrong, your show's terrific, too. In fact, my son watches it all the time, raves about it." She leaned forward, lowered her voice. "Say...do you know Emeril?"

"Oh, sure. Great guy, too." Actually, Collier had never met the man.

"Oh, please, Mr. Collier," she gushed next. "Please tell me that you'll be stayin' with us a spell."

"Yes, I'd like to stay for at least a few days."

"That's wonderful! And it just so happens that the room with the best view is available."

Collier was about to thank her but instantly fell to speechlessness when the old lady stood up and rushed to the key cabinet.

I don't believe this...

Mrs. Butler wore a simple orchid-hued b.u.t.ton-front blouse and matching knee skirt. But it wasn't the attire that stunned Collier, it was the body.

Brick s.h.i.+t-house, he had to think.

Her plain clothes clung to a proverbial hourgla.s.s physique. Wide-hipped but tiny-waisted; strong, toned legs like a female swimmer, and a burgeoning bust, heavy but high-and Collier didn't detect a bra line. This broad's got the wrong head on her shoulders, he thought.

The bosom rode with each vigorous step back to the counter. She handed him a bra.s.s key, like the old-style keys that fed into a large circle-atop-a-f.l.a.n.g.e keyhole. But the woman's physique continued to waylay him. How could a woman with a face that old and haggard have a body like THAT?

"Room three, it's our best, Mr. Collier," her drawl a.s.sured. "Best view, I'm tellin' ya-the best."

"I appreciate that." But he thought, The view of your rack is pretty d.a.m.n good, too. His s.e.xism made him feel unrefined and juvenile but the bizarre s.e.xuality seemed to reflect off her like sunlight off a mirror. "Let me go grab my bags and I'll be right b-"

"Just keep your feet right where they are," she ordered. "Lottie's gettin' 'em."

Collier noticed now the girl was gone. "Oh, no, Mrs. Butler. Lottie's a small frame to be hauling luggage."

"Don't'cha bet on it..." Mrs. Butler came around the counter. The bosom tremored with each step. "Lottie don't weigh a hundred pounds but she can sure as heck tote twice that. Strong gal, hard-workin' as they come. Poor thing's thirty now, and can't get a man. Lotta folks think she's slow 'cos she can't talk, but she's really smart as a whip."

"I'm sure she is," Collier said. He stared at the back of her toned legs as she led him to the center of the salon.

"Anyways, once you're settled in your room, come back'n see me. I'll'se show ya the whole place. See, we're more than just another Southern inn, we're a bona fide historical landmark. What we got here's better than the museum in town."

Collier dragged his eyes off the wide, tight rump. "Yes," he uttered, an afterthought. "All the display cases. I noticed when I came in."

"And lots more. I'll show ya."

He tried to snap out of his warped s.e.x-daze and say something. "I look forward to it..."

"Most folks don't know a lot of things 'bout how people lived back then." Speaking of this clearly enlivened her, her eyes even brighter now in the bagged lids.

But Collier's brain continued to ooze the dirtiest thoughts. He imagined closing his hands over the plump b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which were surely as firm as grapefruits.

Then he winced at himself and ordered his mind off the subject. He turned quickly...

A large oil painting hung on the sidewall: a stern-faced man in coattails and muttonchops. His expression looked preoccupied and unpleasant. "Who's that?"

Mrs. Butler's craggy face seemed to grow more craggy when he asked. "That's the man who built the house your two feet are standin' in right now. Mr. Harwood Gast. The most famous man to ever live in this town."

"The town's founder, I presume."

Why did she seem perturbed now? "No, sir. The town was originally called Branch Landing."

"Same as your bed-and-breakfast. But...I don't understand." Without conscious forethought, his eyes were back to roving the richly curved body tight in the cotton garments. Jesus...

"The town was called Branch Landing 'cos three main roads branched out from it, to three major rail cities. But when Harwood Gast arrived with all his cotton money-and his d.a.m.n railroad-the townsfolk were all too happy to rename the place in his honor. This house, in fact, was called the Gast House until the day I bought it from my uncle. See, he was related to the folks who bought the place in 1867. But the minute I took over here, I changed the name of the inn."

The words floated. Collier, ignoring the woman's old face, was rapt again on the filled bosom, and obsessed with the idea of what they must look like nude. But as the image percolated, he finally became aware of this strange taint of his character.

What the h.e.l.l is wrong with me! he yelled at himself. At once he felt ashamed. I'm l.u.s.ting after an OLD LADY, for G.o.d's sake! Get your head on straight, you pervert! Then he shoved his attentions back to her discourse.

She changed the name, he thought. Why? "I'm still a bit confused. This entire town is a Civil War attraction. Why not call your bed-and-breakfast the Gast Inn? It seems to make the most commercial sense to keep the name of the town's most famous figure, doesn't it?"

Sullenness fell over the old woman like a cloud's shadow. "No, Mr. Collier, and I'll tell ya why. Harwood Gast weren't just the town's most famous figure. He was also the town's most evil figure."

II.

Another day, another hustle, the young man thought but then he said, "That's it, b.i.t.c.h. You're learnin'."

The fat man, on his knees, moaned in anguish, his head going back and forth at the young man's bare crotch. Tears flowed from squeezed-shut eyes-tears of joy.

The sun glowed on the younger man's bare back; he always took his s.h.i.+rt off for this one. Sweat made the muscled lines gleam. He wasn't attracted to the fat man at all, of course, which is why he filled his head with images of Hollywood's most preeminent men: Cruise, Pitt, Crowe. It was always necessary when his "job" required him to perform in this rather opposite fas.h.i.+on. But no amount of fantasy could shut down the reality. The man so urgently fellating him was nothing to look at-and close to sixty-and whenever he opened his eyes, Pitt's chiseled visage turned into the fat man's bald head. Gotta get this over with. He grabbed the man's fat jowls and pushed his mouth off, then began to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e...

"Yeah, that's right, honey, you like that, don't'cha? Yeah, you got some BIG fat t.i.ts on ya. Next time I just might have me a t.i.ttie-f.u.c.k as much fat as you got."

"Oh, G.o.d, yes!" The fat man paused and sobbed.

A minute later, the deed was done, and the fat man-his face splattered-fell back into the gra.s.s, moaning.

"How'd ya like that, ya big fat b.i.t.c.h?"

"I-I simply adore you..."

The younger man stepped back in the sun. Poor f.u.c.ked-up b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought. He'd made a mess of the fat man's mustache and Vand.y.k.e.

"Game's over," the younger man said, hitching up his jeans.

"I-I adore you..."

"Aw, come on now. You know the rules. I gotta go."

"But-please. Just-"

The gleaming washboard abdomen flexed when the younger man pulled his tight T-s.h.i.+rt back on. "Huh?"

Sheepish, embarra.s.sed. "You know."

The younger man frowned. "Oh, yeah." He stepped forward and- ccccccur-HOCK!

-spat in the fat man's face.

"Oh, G.o.d! Thuh-thank you!"

I HATE turning tricks like this, the younger man thought. Now that he was done, he gazed across the sweeping field. Trace breezes s.h.i.+fted the miles of belthigh rye gra.s.s. He'd heard that during the Civil War, Gast's plantation tracts took up thousands of acres: cotton, soybeans, and corn, mostly. Now it was just green wasteland, and he knew why. But he was not quite complex enough to realize how securely he was standing on a plot of significant American history.

The fat man was still on his knees, crying.

Aw, Jesus! "Why don't'cha git up now? I need to be gettin' back."

Chopped sobs hacked out the words, "But you're so important to me! I couldn't live without you!"

Pain in the a.s.s. The younger man only understood a little of this. Usually they pay me to do the sucking, not to GET sucked. Had he been more learned, he'd know that the s.e.xual psychology of some folks was quite skewed. Debas.e.m.e.nt, like masochism, for instance, served a strange toggle in the mind that had been conditioned for years (since childhood, often) such that what tended to turn most people off-ugliness, abuse, exploitive behavior-lit the fuse of arousal. Oh, well. He didn't particularly like the overweight bald man, but he similarly didn't enjoy treating him like s.e.xual garbage. He'd heard somebody talking once about this guy a long time ago named Hitler, who was, like, the king of Germany, and this guy couldn't even get aroused unless a gal shat on him. The younger man guessed something similar was going on here. Weird, he thought. "Come on now, let's git. Oh, and where's my money?"

The quivering, plump hand held it out, a personal check for thirty dollars.

"Thanks," the younger man said.

"Let's go to lunch," came more hacked sobs. "Anywhere you want."

"Naw. Got business."

Wet eyes implored him. "At least, at least tell me I do it better than your lover..."

A futile exhalation. "You do fine, that's for sure," came the overly generous charity. Actually, it was mediocre work. "But I told you, I ain't got no lover, and I don't never get attached in somethin' like this. You know that. This deal's gotta be like what we agreed. One thing in exchange for another. Right?"

Dismally, the fat man nodded.

"Here, lemme help ya up," the younger man offered. He grabbed a fat hand. Ooof! Ya d.a.m.n near weigh more than a f.u.c.kin' washer'n dryer! Once up, the guy wouldn't let go of his hand. Ain't nothin' worse than a mushy f.a.g. He pulled away.

The fat man stared, tears still streaming. "I'd do anything for you..."

Oh, man! The younger man knew he needed to be careful. After all, this was good money for fast work. "Look, I can tell you're out'a sorts right now, so I'm gonna take off. I'll walk back. But just you stay here a while and calm down, git yourself together. You don't wanna be going back to town all cryin' like ya are. And wipe that mess off your face."

A jowly nod, a handkerchief across the eyes, lips, and Vand.y.k.e.

"That's better." The younger man held up the check. "You call me when ya wanna go again." And then he turned and walked off.

He strode right out of the clearing into a path between the high gra.s.s not even shoulder-wide. Dissolving words faded behind him: "I love you..."

Shee-it...

He strode faster, to get away. Walking was fine. He liked the fat man's car-a new Caddy, with some fine a/c-but when he got in these mushy moods, s.h.i.+t- I'll walk.

Another step and- d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l!

-he stumbled and fell. His knees thunked, and when he arched around to see what he'd tripped on...

His mind quieted.

A brown skull, half buried, looked back at him.