Read Online BBH01 - Cimarron Rose by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Lee Burke
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of a blind hallway.
Her cotton sports bra was peppered with sweat, her face flushed and
heated with her movement on the machine. Her curly hair stuck in
strands to her cheeks.
'Good morning,' I said.
'How do you do, Mr Holland?' she said.
'Nobody calls me "Mr Holland"… Never
mind… That was impressive last night. That guy in the welding
truck owes you one.'
'You stopped, didn't you?'
'Can you go to a picture show tonight?' I asked.
'Why do you keep bothering me?'
'You're a handsome woman.'
'You've got some damn nerve.'
I bounced the tip of my towel on the base of the
StairMaster.
'Adios,' I said.
A half hour later I walked outside into the blue
coolness of the morning, the mimosa trees planted in the sidewalks
ruffling in the shadow of the buildings. Mary Beth Sweeney, dressed in
her uniform, was about to get into her
car. She heard me behind her, threw her canvas gym bag on the
passenger's seat, and turned to face me.
'You strike me as an admirable person. I apologize
for my overture, however. I won't bother you again,' I said, and left
her standing there.
I walked down the street toward my
car. I paused in
front of the pawnshop window and looked at the display spread out on a
piece of green velvet: brass knuckles, stiletto gut-rippers, barber's
razors, slapjacks, handcuffs, derringers, a .38 Special with notches
filed in the grips, a 1911 model US Army .45, and a blue-black ivory
handled revolver that could have been a replica of L.Q. Navarro's.
I felt a presence on my back, like someone brushing
a piece of ice between my shoulder blades. I turned around and saw
Garland T. Moon watching me from the door of a bar, licking down the
seam of a hand-rolled cigarette. He wore a cream-colored suit with no
shirt and black prison-issue work shoes, the archless, flat-soled kind
with leather thongs and hook eyelets.
I walked back to the door of the bar.
'Early for the slop chute, isn't it?' I said.
'I don't drink. Never have.'
'You following me?'
He lit the cigarette, propped one foot against the
wall, inhaled the smoke and burning glue into his lungs. He cast away
the paper match in the wind.
'Not even in my darkest thoughts, sir,' he said.
I headed back up the street. The three-hundred-pound
black woman who owned the pawnshop was just opening up. She saw my eyes
glance at her window display.
'Time to put some boom-boom in yo' bam-bam, baby,'
she said. She winked and tapped her ring on the glass. 'I ain't talking
about me, honey. But I 'predate the thought anyway.'
At noon I carried a ham sandwich and a
glass of milk
out on my back porch. Beyond the barn I saw Pete sitting on the levee
that surrounded the tank.
He heard me walking toward him, but he never turned
around.
'Why aren't you in school, bud?' I asked.
'Stayed home, that's why,' he said, looking out at
the water.
Then I saw the discolored lump and skinned place by
his eye.
'Who did that to you?' I asked.
'Man my mother brung home last night.' He picked at
his fingers and flung a rock into the tank. Then he flung another one.
I sat down next to him.
'Is your mom okay?' I asked.
'She ain't got up yet. She won't be right the rest
of the day.'
'Where could I find this fellow?' I said.
We went into the barn and I strapped
on L.Q.' s
roweled spurs and saddled my Morgan. I pulled a heavy coil of rodeo
polyrope off a wood peg and hung it on the pommel. It was five-eights
of an inch in diameter and had an elongated eye cinched at the tip with
fine wire.
'What are we doing, Billy Bob?' Pete said.
'The man who owned these Mexican spurs, he used to
tell me, "Sometimes you've got to set people's perspective straight".'
I put my arm down and pulled him up on the Morgan's
rump.
'What's "perspective" mean?' Pete said.
We rode through the back of my farm, crossed the
creek and went up the slope through the pines. The ground was moist and
netted with sunlight under the Morgan's shoes, and ahead I could see
the stucco church where Pete and I
Her cotton sports bra was peppered with sweat, her face flushed and
heated with her movement on the machine. Her curly hair stuck in
strands to her cheeks.
'Good morning,' I said.
'How do you do, Mr Holland?' she said.
'Nobody calls me "Mr Holland"… Never
mind… That was impressive last night. That guy in the welding
truck owes you one.'
'You stopped, didn't you?'
'Can you go to a picture show tonight?' I asked.
'Why do you keep bothering me?'
'You're a handsome woman.'
'You've got some damn nerve.'
I bounced the tip of my towel on the base of the
StairMaster.
'Adios,' I said.
A half hour later I walked outside into the blue
coolness of the morning, the mimosa trees planted in the sidewalks
ruffling in the shadow of the buildings. Mary Beth Sweeney, dressed in
her uniform, was about to get into her
car. She heard me behind her, threw her canvas gym bag on the
passenger's seat, and turned to face me.
'You strike me as an admirable person. I apologize
for my overture, however. I won't bother you again,' I said, and left
her standing there.
I walked down the street toward my
car. I paused in
front of the pawnshop window and looked at the display spread out on a
piece of green velvet: brass knuckles, stiletto gut-rippers, barber's
razors, slapjacks, handcuffs, derringers, a .38 Special with notches
filed in the grips, a 1911 model US Army .45, and a blue-black ivory
handled revolver that could have been a replica of L.Q. Navarro's.
I felt a presence on my back, like someone brushing
a piece of ice between my shoulder blades. I turned around and saw
Garland T. Moon watching me from the door of a bar, licking down the
seam of a hand-rolled cigarette. He wore a cream-colored suit with no
shirt and black prison-issue work shoes, the archless, flat-soled kind
with leather thongs and hook eyelets.
I walked back to the door of the bar.
'Early for the slop chute, isn't it?' I said.
'I don't drink. Never have.'
'You following me?'
He lit the cigarette, propped one foot against the
wall, inhaled the smoke and burning glue into his lungs. He cast away
the paper match in the wind.
'Not even in my darkest thoughts, sir,' he said.
I headed back up the street. The three-hundred-pound
black woman who owned the pawnshop was just opening up. She saw my eyes
glance at her window display.
'Time to put some boom-boom in yo' bam-bam, baby,'
she said. She winked and tapped her ring on the glass. 'I ain't talking
about me, honey. But I 'predate the thought anyway.'
At noon I carried a ham sandwich and a
glass of milk
out on my back porch. Beyond the barn I saw Pete sitting on the levee
that surrounded the tank.
He heard me walking toward him, but he never turned
around.
'Why aren't you in school, bud?' I asked.
'Stayed home, that's why,' he said, looking out at
the water.
Then I saw the discolored lump and skinned place by
his eye.
'Who did that to you?' I asked.
'Man my mother brung home last night.' He picked at
his fingers and flung a rock into the tank. Then he flung another one.
I sat down next to him.
'Is your mom okay?' I asked.
'She ain't got up yet. She won't be right the rest
of the day.'
'Where could I find this fellow?' I said.
We went into the barn and I strapped
on L.Q.' s
roweled spurs and saddled my Morgan. I pulled a heavy coil of rodeo
polyrope off a wood peg and hung it on the pommel. It was five-eights
of an inch in diameter and had an elongated eye cinched at the tip with
fine wire.
'What are we doing, Billy Bob?' Pete said.
'The man who owned these Mexican spurs, he used to
tell me, "Sometimes you've got to set people's perspective straight".'
I put my arm down and pulled him up on the Morgan's
rump.
'What's "perspective" mean?' Pete said.
We rode through the back of my farm, crossed the
creek and went up the slope through the pines. The ground was moist and
netted with sunlight under the Morgan's shoes, and ahead I could see
the stucco church where Pete and I
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