the bar and a fella named Red thumping him on the back which makes the ache in his skull jostle around and a little weaselly one they call Doc.
“Saw a boy die in the ring one night,” says Doc. “Hit the floor just like you did. An insult to the cranium.”
“You’re an insult to the cranium, Doc,” says Rev Bowers. “Suds, lay one out for our scrapper here.”
“Don’t think I could handle any liquor now,” says Hod. “Feels like I ought to keep what wits I got left as clear as I can.”
More laughter then and Red Gibbs thumping him some more which makes Hod want to deck him and then Niles is on his feet with a toast.
“To Young McGinty,” he says. “As game a warrior as ever stopped a punch.”
They drink several more rounds then, laughing, Niles imitating the various suckers they have skinned that night, while Hod props his elbows on the bar and holds his head in his hands. He feels like he might vomit. It’s late, only Jeff Smith’s party still in the Nugget, the wood stove and the whiskey warming them.
“And the sheeny and his fat Paddy manager,” says Rev Bowers, cheeks glowing, “think they’ve made a killing, tickets paid back to Frisco, when the steamers are so afraid of Jeff it won’t cost him a penny.”
“We have an arrangement,” Jeff Smith corrects him. “An understanding between business parties. Fear has nothing to do with it.”
They are halfway to the door, leaving Hod alone on the stool, when he remembers and calls out.
“Mr. Smith?”
They all turn as if they’ve forgotten he is there.
“A hundred dollars?”
He sees Niles winking to Rev Bowers.
“In trade,” says Jeff Smith.
“Trade?”
Smith moves his eyes to Addie Lee, leaning in the doorway of her little crib, watching with no expression. “You’ll keep track, won’t you Sparrow?”
She shrugs and slips behind the hanging flag.
A SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT
White folks’ hair is easy. Dorsey never stops wondering at the way it just grows out straight from their heads, offering itself up to be trimmed. And the shaving, for the ones like Judge Manigault who don’t keep a beard or moustache, you just pull the skin taut and slide with the blade. It never curls back into the pores to make a bump or get infected like his own. If only they would keep their mouths from moving while you try to work.
“Humiliation.” The Judge sits in Dorsey’s chair, lathered up next to Mr. Turpin who owns the pharmacy, who is getting his trim from Hoke. Old Colonel Waddell waits near the door, his face hidden behind the Messenger. “We have attempted to hold on to our heritage, to our custom of living,” says the Judge, “and we have failed. So now we must be humbled.”
“I don’t know, Judge,” says Mr. Turpin as Hoke clips out the hair in his ears. Hoke is a good boy, stay on his feet the whole day if needs be, only sometimes he forget and commence to hum while the gentlemen are still talking. “You scratch under the surface just a bit, you’ll find somebody making a profit on it. That’s what politics is all a bout .”
“Russell got sufficiently fat before he was governor. But this appointing of half our aldermen—unprecedented. Another chance to force us to eat crow. I believe the yankees are behind him.”
“But our own Supreme Court—”
“Failed in their duty to protect the citizens who maintain it.” The Judge is one of those who keeps his own shaving mug here at the shop, has a favorite razor. He won’t let Hoke shave him, good as the boy is. Dorsey, of course, is famous at the Orton, and hasn’t drawn blood since he was a novice.
“ Lex ita scripta est ,” mutters the Colonel, lowering his newspaper a bit. “That was their verdict.”
“ The law as it is written ,” the Judge scowls, “is not meant to serve scoundrels.”
Dorsey cuts the guests at the Orton Hotel—merchants from around the state, politicians, even Governor Russell once when he was still running a dairy across the
“Saw a boy die in the ring one night,” says Doc. “Hit the floor just like you did. An insult to the cranium.”
“You’re an insult to the cranium, Doc,” says Rev Bowers. “Suds, lay one out for our scrapper here.”
“Don’t think I could handle any liquor now,” says Hod. “Feels like I ought to keep what wits I got left as clear as I can.”
More laughter then and Red Gibbs thumping him some more which makes Hod want to deck him and then Niles is on his feet with a toast.
“To Young McGinty,” he says. “As game a warrior as ever stopped a punch.”
They drink several more rounds then, laughing, Niles imitating the various suckers they have skinned that night, while Hod props his elbows on the bar and holds his head in his hands. He feels like he might vomit. It’s late, only Jeff Smith’s party still in the Nugget, the wood stove and the whiskey warming them.
“And the sheeny and his fat Paddy manager,” says Rev Bowers, cheeks glowing, “think they’ve made a killing, tickets paid back to Frisco, when the steamers are so afraid of Jeff it won’t cost him a penny.”
“We have an arrangement,” Jeff Smith corrects him. “An understanding between business parties. Fear has nothing to do with it.”
They are halfway to the door, leaving Hod alone on the stool, when he remembers and calls out.
“Mr. Smith?”
They all turn as if they’ve forgotten he is there.
“A hundred dollars?”
He sees Niles winking to Rev Bowers.
“In trade,” says Jeff Smith.
“Trade?”
Smith moves his eyes to Addie Lee, leaning in the doorway of her little crib, watching with no expression. “You’ll keep track, won’t you Sparrow?”
She shrugs and slips behind the hanging flag.
A SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT
White folks’ hair is easy. Dorsey never stops wondering at the way it just grows out straight from their heads, offering itself up to be trimmed. And the shaving, for the ones like Judge Manigault who don’t keep a beard or moustache, you just pull the skin taut and slide with the blade. It never curls back into the pores to make a bump or get infected like his own. If only they would keep their mouths from moving while you try to work.
“Humiliation.” The Judge sits in Dorsey’s chair, lathered up next to Mr. Turpin who owns the pharmacy, who is getting his trim from Hoke. Old Colonel Waddell waits near the door, his face hidden behind the Messenger. “We have attempted to hold on to our heritage, to our custom of living,” says the Judge, “and we have failed. So now we must be humbled.”
“I don’t know, Judge,” says Mr. Turpin as Hoke clips out the hair in his ears. Hoke is a good boy, stay on his feet the whole day if needs be, only sometimes he forget and commence to hum while the gentlemen are still talking. “You scratch under the surface just a bit, you’ll find somebody making a profit on it. That’s what politics is all a bout .”
“Russell got sufficiently fat before he was governor. But this appointing of half our aldermen—unprecedented. Another chance to force us to eat crow. I believe the yankees are behind him.”
“But our own Supreme Court—”
“Failed in their duty to protect the citizens who maintain it.” The Judge is one of those who keeps his own shaving mug here at the shop, has a favorite razor. He won’t let Hoke shave him, good as the boy is. Dorsey, of course, is famous at the Orton, and hasn’t drawn blood since he was a novice.
“ Lex ita scripta est ,” mutters the Colonel, lowering his newspaper a bit. “That was their verdict.”
“ The law as it is written ,” the Judge scowls, “is not meant to serve scoundrels.”
Dorsey cuts the guests at the Orton Hotel—merchants from around the state, politicians, even Governor Russell once when he was still running a dairy across the
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