The Lost Cause. Never was a name more suited to a place. A pile of Wrecker junk a rat wouldn’t sniff at. Tattered shreds of who-knows-what. Battered bits of this and that. It looks like a heavy sigh would do for it. But it’s been here forever. Long years. Way before the weather changed and the storms moved in. When this was a grassy, green plain with life in plenty.
Even then, it was a well-known hooch and whores joint. But once Molly’s family became landlords, it became notorious. Four generations of Pratts made it the only stop in this part of the world. Famous brawls, rogues plotting mischief in corners, the hectic jangle of music, drink rough enough to numb your hair and bad girls of all persuasions. He wonders if Lilith’s still working the room. She must be knocking on a bit.
He’s never known the Lost Cause to be closed, day or night. Molly’s likely to be awake, even at this hour. She’s an early riser. Gets by on four hours of sleep with a catnap in the afternoon. She might even be working the bar.
Jack pauses outside the door. His stomach’s jittery with nerves. He’s pondered, over and over again, what he’s going to say to her. How he’s going to tell her about Ike. And he still doesn’t know. He’s never had to do this before. He’ll just have to hope the right words come to him.
To buy himself a moment or two, he knocks the dust from his hat. Flicks the pigeon feather stuck in the band. A little smile quirks his lips as he remembers the fuss Emmi made, choosing the perfect feather to beautify his battered old hat. He puts it back on. Tilts it to a jaunty angle.
He takes a deep breath. He opens the door. He goes in.
Molly’s behind the bar. She’s drying hoochers. The rusty, dented drinking tins and pots look even more harmful than the last time he was here. She’s working her way through a stack of them, like she’s got a crowd of thirsty drinkers waiting. He’s the only punter.
She looks up. She can’t hide the little start of surprise. The quick flash of joy that chases over her face. And something else, too. Relief. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The mask’s back in place. The heard-it-all smile. The seen-it-all eyes.
They’ve got history together, he and Molly. And it goes deep. But that joy wasn’t for him. Never for him the wild, hot joy he caught a glimpse of just now. No. She thinks Ike’s with him. He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.
Well, well, she drawls, look what the wind blew in.
She goes back to her work. Her long tangle of blonde curly hair’s tied back in a tail. She’s got distracting lips. Dangerous curves. Direct eyes. Travelling men make wide detours just to be in the same room as her. That’s the most that even the best of them can hope for.
Molly Pratt, he says. Remind me, what’s a heavenly creature like you doin in a dump like this?
Servin rotgut to scoundrels like you, she says. An if you call my place a dump agin, I’ll bar you.
You barred me the last time, he says, an the time before that, an the time before the time before that. Remember?
Oh, I remember, she says. Well, step in, don’t be shy. Yer hangin back like a virgin on her weddin night. Siddown, have a drink, pull up a stool fer Ike. Where is he? Settlin the horses?
He doesn’t answer. He’ll work his way up to what he’s got to say. Have a drink or three first. Wait for the right moment. He goes to the bar, grabbing a couple of stick stools on the way. He settles himself, slinging his bark saddlesack on the floor, dumping his weapons belt on the bar. There’s sand everywhere. Piled in the corners. Drifting around his feet in the draughts from the door.
There’s bad stuff goin on out there, Molly, he says.
Welcome to New Eden, she says. It’s a brand new shiny world.
A bloody world, you mean, he says.
It’s always bin a bloody world, she says. Only nowadays, some people’s blood is better than others.
What’s the news? he says. The Tonton sure ain’t what they was. What about the man in charge? You ever hear the name DeMalo?
She shakes her head. He’s called the Pathfinder, she says. The landgrabbers – pardon me, Stewards of the Earth – they breathe his name like he ain’t even human. They say he makes miracles. That he’s here to heal the earth.
You shouldn’t be here, he says. It ain’t safe.
Well, it’s true, she says, the Tonton don’t like hooch an 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.