Tumbleweed

Jerry stared at the revolver on the bar.

His arms went numb with shock and his right thumb began a slow tremble. He pulled out an empty glass
and a dusty bottle of Lamar's cognac and set it on the bar in front of the man.
This man sat at the bar cleaning the dirt from under his thumbnail, slowly and meticulously. Jerry
proceeded to pour a drink for him, a glass of cognac and a small puddle around it. His hands were
shaking too. He crossed them tight and clutched his shirt. Waiting.
There was no doubt about it, it was him. Maron. One of the most feared men this side of Woodvyn. He
was still scraping dirt from under his thumbnail, looking perfectly benign. Short, sparse white hair
covered his head. His clean shaven face was dominated by a chunky slab of a nose and clever brown
eyes that seemed to hold a constant look of derision. He cleaned his thumbnail at a deliberate pace,
then blew away the last bit of dirt. His hands moved cleverly, cleaning the spilled drink with a rag and
clearing the bottle aside. He looked up at Jerry.
"Relax kid." Jerry was 19, and looked it. Thin frame. Ridiculous looking stubble.
Jerry stiffened instead. Trickles of sweat ran down the back of his neck.
Maron slid the revolver towards himself, folded his fingers around it lightly, and took a deep breath.
"Now." He smacked his lips and frowned. "I believe in keeping pawns fully informed of their fate, it's
only fair isn't it?"
Jerry nodded.
Maron looked down at the revolver.
"There's goinna be a shift in power."
He clasped the revolver with both hands.
"The Haons and the Cusyers have binnatit for a month. Sixteen dead. Something about stolen contracts,
doesn't matter."
Snapped open the revolver with a loud click that echoed around the deserted bar.
"It's bloody work, and word has reached Lord Gammon."
He fished out a small leather pouch from his jacket.
"Now Lord Gammon, he likes peace."
Soft chuckle.
"So the Whores and the Cussers are in trouble they can't see yet. Fat fat trouble yes?"
He flicked open the pouch with his left hand and emptied the contents in his right. Small rag that
smelled of alcohol, toothpicks, rock blanket, nails, and bullets.
"The veins were were pinched from up high. The bosses on both sides have been asked politely to have
a sit-down. Lord Gammon asks. And they come."
A nail to the cylinder. Just so. The cylinder popped aside, creaking. It was empty.
"The bastards will come well armed, you don't rise to their level without being suspicious of every body
including your granny. The cogs of bribery and illicit friendships will move. Both sides will try out their
old connections to avoid being cornered by terms or bullets."
He dipped the rag in the glass of cognac and squeezed it. He wrapped it around a toothpick and starting
cleaning the hinges of the cylinder, then the bullet houses. Jerry watched.
"The sit-down will happen, there's no dirt to be found. Not by dimmers like them anyway. They will
come to Jerry's bar and talk. I will mediate on Lord Gammon's behalf."
Jerry had guessed as much. After his uncle's death, footfalls had begun to dwindle at the bar. A meet like
this could easily be set up here now. A 'closed' sign up front and the fair few customers would stay
away.
Maron unwrapped the rag from around the toothpick and tossed it back into the pouch. One by one, he
slotted in the bullets with practiced ease.
"The table will be rigged with dynamite before they arrive. Once talks start, I'll wait for half an hour then
excuse myself for fresh air and -"
A flick of the wrist and the cylinder popped in with a sharp click. The hinges smooth and noiseless. Jerry
realized his jaw had dropped an inch. This was bad.
"Don't look at me like that kid. God knows they deserve it. I know you're a cow. Let Scart be, after he
murdered your uncle in cold blood. I would have knocked on his door the very day. Better to die than be
afraid. Better to kill than to die."
Jerry closed his mouth and chewed his tongue. His nostrils flared slightly. He didn't like vengeance.
Didn't like killing. Didn't like murder. Coward or not, this was his choice. Uncle would have approved. Yes
he would have. He was sure. He was quite sure.
But a faint crease appeared between his eyebrows.
Maron was now polishing the sandalwood handle with the rock blanket.
"Dress for the occasion won't you. Yours is the crucial part of keeping customers at bay. And then fleeing
from the wretched life you've holed yourself in."
Maron stood up, pulled the hammer of the revolver, and stared down the sights at the jukebox. With a
satisfied grunt, he put the revolver back on the bar and repacked the pouch. He walked up to jukebox
set in the far corner, out of Jerry's sight. Coins clinked into place, and after a few seconds Junior
Walker's saxophone took up residence in the bar.
Maron looked at the jukebox, frowning in concentration. "I think I have a cousin named Cleo".
Jerry wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and looked on, in a dream-like state, as Maron
taped three sticks of dynamite under a table and concealed the wire among the floor boards. He backed
down to the entrance of the bar and ran the wire along the door frame, using a dark brown tape to
camouflage the wire. It seemed that the dynamite would be set off from the room across the bar where
Jerry lived. He could hear Maron moving furniture in his room; the song had ended and the bar was
silent again.
Jerry stared at the revolver.
Several thoughts fought to claim his attention. What if he ran away ? What if he picked up the revolver ?
What if he shot Maron ? Wouldn't he be part of this horrible murder if he stayed silent ? Did he have a
choice ? What would Lord Gammon do to him if he shot Maron ? Where was Scart right now ? He
looked at the shiny handle, the curve of the hammer...
"That's it, I'll take a nap. I suggest you do the same." Jerry jumped out of his thoughts. He hadn't heard
Maron enter.
***
Jerry found himself standing at the entrance of the building at six in the morning. The sunlight was
pleasant and warm on his face. The town was asleep. The crows were awake. He was still in the previous
day's clothes, and his mind was still in the same dream-like state; living one moment at a time. He
spelled 'fate' in the dust with his boot. Then stepped on it, disgusted with himself.
The Whores and Cussers (he had forgotten their actual names) arrived within minutes of each other.
Both bosses had brought along two men each. Jerry was amazed at how rough they looked compared to
Maron, who was wearing a suit. That probably meant something. One of the Cussers stepped up and
stuck a cigar between Jerry's lips, grinning.
Jerry spat it out and listened to the footsteps fading away as they climbed to the first level. Chairs
pulled. Muffled voices. He could recognize Maron's. Slow. Weighing on each word.
There was a sound like a freight train crashing into a cliff. Jerry found himself swallowing dust. He
stumbled to his feet, not remembering how he'd gotten there in the first place. He had lost a tooth. Spit
ran down the side of his chin.
He ran up the stairs, almost on all fours. To his right, the door to his room stood open. To his left, the
explosion had thrown the door to the bar on the floor. Heat emanated from the bar and the smell and
taste of metal claimed his senses. Jerry stood at the entrance, staring blindly into the smoke and dust.
He couldn't see anything beyond arm's length.
Something moved within the smoke. A man emerged from the bar, carrying a mangled mess on his
shoulder. Jerry stepped back instinctively and fell to the floor hard. The man was Lord Gammon. Gaunt,
tall, young. With gray eyes that reminded Jerry of bed-time ghost stories.
Lord Gammon dropped the body next to Jerry. It was Maron. Jerry looked away quickly, the limbs were
all wrong and there was blood everywhere. All the thoughts in his head died abruptly, except one.
Pulsing through him like a steady bass note.
Lord Gammon kneeled beside Jerry and smiled at him with one side of his face. "So. Jerry!"
"Looks like our friend here is quite ... dead ?" His voice was low but strong.
He looked at Jerry closely. "You know, he was probably around your age when I first met him. Maron ?
He grew faster than many, aye. A little ... too ambitious, in the end. I made my choice. Pity I couldn't find
him a death more befitting his stature."
Jerry sniffed out dust from his nostrils, transfixed. His muscles were coiled.
Lard Gammon smiled the half smile again. "My lad, you held your own today. Remarkable control over
yourself. There is, if you are willing, a place for you under my command. Here, I found something in the
rubble beside Maron."
Lord Gammon held out his hand. He was holding Maron's revolver, the handle held out for Jerry.
Jerry did not look up at Lord Gammon.
He took the revolver, clicked back the hammer and shot Lord Gammon in the chest. Lord Gammon
slumped against the wall, wheezing.
***
Winds changed. Days passed. Rains came.
A ghost town. An abandoned bar much like Jerry's, but smaller. Scart sat at a table, his hands tied behind
his back.
Jerry stared at the revolver in his hands.
"Now." He smacked his lips and frowned. "I believe in keeping pawns fully informed of their fate, it's
only fair isn't it?"
His finger ran down the smooth sandalwood handle of the revolver, but his thumb trembled still.