onto a board. He was handy at his work and it afforded him a living. His pleasures were few and modest—sitting in the sun at the door of his house in the orchard above the Breaks; a slow drive along the vacant county gravel roads with Francie to park finally above the river to watch the sun fall down toward the crimson close of the day. Once a year he loaded a stout pole and reel and drug the muddy Missouri bottom for paddlefish.
The Colonel, a small wizened figure seeming smaller yet within his huge swivel chair, instructed Sid the Kid to display the goods on a long folding table, making benevolent sweeping motions as he spoke and when this was done he got up with pipe in hand and walked up and down before them as if inspecting troops, picking up an occasional saucer or bowl to squint at runes on its underside. Gload had taken a chair opposite the Colonel and the exhibited wares, that he might see the man’s eyes. He smoked and appeared to pay little attention to the production. Like a tradesman, his talents were primarily manual—the use of a knife, manipulation of flesh—but they ran also to cards and the reading of men’s faces. So when the Colonel sat back and packed his pipe and said a number, Gload stubbed out his cigarette, stood and walked through the door into the night without a word, as though he were taken with a mild whim or notion, or had remembered suddenly some domestic errand. The Colonel and Sid White sat quietly dandling their feet in their chairs. They did so for fifteen minutes. The Colonel began to swivel and fidget in his chair and Sid began to sweat.
As if to answer a question that had not been asked, Sid said, “Well, hell, I don’t know. He might of had, you know, one of them deals.” He made a rotating motion near his ear. “A stroke.” He rose. “I’d best go and check on him.”
As he left the room the little man said, “It’s a generous offer, tell him. A handsome offer.”
Gload sat in the room, smoking. He had turned on the TV but did not seem engaged by it. He sat with his head leaned back on the chair watching the smoke curl up to the ceiling. He had put his slippers on.
Sid looked at him incredulously. “What’re you doing? He’s waiting back there.”
Gload smoked. Presently he spoke, very slowly, as if instructing a child. “How much did the kid who previously owned all that shit say it was worth?” He continued to study the smoke, White presented with a view of the bristled hollows of the older man’s throat.
“What he said might not of been right,” White said. “He might of just been a fag trying to be Mister Big Shot.”
Gload only sat, waiting, his head back. One slippered foot jounced up and down to some slow rhythm sounding in his head.
“Okay,” Sid said, “he said seventeen-five.”
“Seventeen-five,” Gload repeated. “And your new buddy over there, the Colonel, offered what was it again?”
“It’s a handsome offer.”
Gload’s eyes were small and black like a pig’s and when he dropped his head and turned them on the kid, in the fluxing television glow they flashed a brief radioactive spark.
“Okay, okay,” the kid said. “Eight thousand dollars. That’s a shitload of money for dishes.”
“Eight thousand dollars. A difference of what?”
Sid sat figuring for some time. He began to cast about for pencil and paper.
Gload said, “Nine thousand five hundred dollars.”
“Right. Nine-five.”
Gload held a single finger aloft as if to admonish White to listen to something outside the room. White looked about, his head canted.
“What?” he said.
“That,” said Gload. “The sound of the Colonel making money off other people’s sweat and travail.”
White stood helplessly, his hands outstretched in an attitude of supplication.
“Travail?”
“My sweat and travail.”
The kid said, “Well, what do I tell him?” A vision he’d begun to concoct of himself attired in a western-cut Porter Waggoner–style suit, its
The Colonel, a small wizened figure seeming smaller yet within his huge swivel chair, instructed Sid the Kid to display the goods on a long folding table, making benevolent sweeping motions as he spoke and when this was done he got up with pipe in hand and walked up and down before them as if inspecting troops, picking up an occasional saucer or bowl to squint at runes on its underside. Gload had taken a chair opposite the Colonel and the exhibited wares, that he might see the man’s eyes. He smoked and appeared to pay little attention to the production. Like a tradesman, his talents were primarily manual—the use of a knife, manipulation of flesh—but they ran also to cards and the reading of men’s faces. So when the Colonel sat back and packed his pipe and said a number, Gload stubbed out his cigarette, stood and walked through the door into the night without a word, as though he were taken with a mild whim or notion, or had remembered suddenly some domestic errand. The Colonel and Sid White sat quietly dandling their feet in their chairs. They did so for fifteen minutes. The Colonel began to swivel and fidget in his chair and Sid began to sweat.
As if to answer a question that had not been asked, Sid said, “Well, hell, I don’t know. He might of had, you know, one of them deals.” He made a rotating motion near his ear. “A stroke.” He rose. “I’d best go and check on him.”
As he left the room the little man said, “It’s a generous offer, tell him. A handsome offer.”
Gload sat in the room, smoking. He had turned on the TV but did not seem engaged by it. He sat with his head leaned back on the chair watching the smoke curl up to the ceiling. He had put his slippers on.
Sid looked at him incredulously. “What’re you doing? He’s waiting back there.”
Gload smoked. Presently he spoke, very slowly, as if instructing a child. “How much did the kid who previously owned all that shit say it was worth?” He continued to study the smoke, White presented with a view of the bristled hollows of the older man’s throat.
“What he said might not of been right,” White said. “He might of just been a fag trying to be Mister Big Shot.”
Gload only sat, waiting, his head back. One slippered foot jounced up and down to some slow rhythm sounding in his head.
“Okay,” Sid said, “he said seventeen-five.”
“Seventeen-five,” Gload repeated. “And your new buddy over there, the Colonel, offered what was it again?”
“It’s a handsome offer.”
Gload’s eyes were small and black like a pig’s and when he dropped his head and turned them on the kid, in the fluxing television glow they flashed a brief radioactive spark.
“Okay, okay,” the kid said. “Eight thousand dollars. That’s a shitload of money for dishes.”
“Eight thousand dollars. A difference of what?”
Sid sat figuring for some time. He began to cast about for pencil and paper.
Gload said, “Nine thousand five hundred dollars.”
“Right. Nine-five.”
Gload held a single finger aloft as if to admonish White to listen to something outside the room. White looked about, his head canted.
“What?” he said.
“That,” said Gload. “The sound of the Colonel making money off other people’s sweat and travail.”
White stood helplessly, his hands outstretched in an attitude of supplication.
“Travail?”
“My sweat and travail.”
The kid said, “Well, what do I tell him?” A vision he’d begun to concoct of himself attired in a western-cut Porter Waggoner–style suit, its
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