Post by mauvelantern on Mar 7, 2012 18:15:49 GMT -5
THE VIGILANTE in RETURN TO THE WEST
It seemed the whole population of New York City had turned out at the Apollo Lounge that cold March night. In the four years since its opening, the lounge had never had a crowd like this; the bartenders could not pour the drinks fast enough. The manager, Lenny Weisinger, flitted around the establishment, mingling with the fine and fancy patrons and asking them how they were enjoying their time in the Apollo. He got compliments on the band, the service from the waiting staff, and the atmosphere of the lounge, how it all came together to make for one heck of a club. Everything was going so well until one of the waitresses tapped him on the shoulder.
"What's the matter, Elise? Does Table 13 need another round?" the manager asked with a smile on his face.
"No, sir, there's a rather difficult customer at the door," the tiny blonde replied.
"Is he refusing to leave?"
"Actually, we refused to let him in."
"Why would you do that? A customer is a customer!"
"Yes, but he isn't exactly dressed for the lounge, sir."
Confused, the manager followed Elise back to the door and discovered just who the unruly customer was. The bouncers were holding back a tall, well-built man wearing a dingy blue shirt, white pants checkered with oil and dirt, and cowboy boots caked in mud. He had a handsome face marred by the presence of a five o'clock shadow and his long black hair reeked of cheap hair gel. His teeth were yellowed from years of smoking cigarettes and bared at the immovable bouncers.
"Dag-nabbit, all Ah want is a doggone drink after a long day of work! That ain't too much t' ask now, is it?" the cowboy asked.
"Sir, we will gladly serve you if you would leave and change into something else," one of the bouncers replied.
"Listen, son, yer doin' yer job n' Ah can respect that, but iffn' you don't move by th' time Ah count to three, there's going to be some problems. One…two…"
"Mr. Saunders!"
The cowboy stopped his counting when he saw the manager and he grinned like the Cheshire Cat. When the manager gestured for the bouncers to move, Mr. Saunders walked up to his friend and wrapped him in a bear hug.
"Lenny! Great to see ya!" he exclaimed.
"It's great to see you to, Mr. Saunders," the manager wheezed.
"When are ya gonna start callin' me Greg like Ah asked ya to?"
"Sorry, Greg, just been a long day of "ma'ams" and "sirs"; you know how it is."
"Don't Ah know it!"
"Right this way."
Lenny walked with Greg all the way into the lounge and showed the man just how full up the place was. There seemed to be standing room only; not a single barstool or chair of any kind was left open. Greg let out a booming laugh.
"It's about time you got some business, Lenny! This place is usually deader than a cemetery," he exclaimed.
"Yes, well, I imagine everyone's just trying to get out of the cold," Lenny reasoned. "Awful weather we're having today, y'know?"
"Th' weather's mighty terrible but Ah could care less. Today's a day to celebrate!"
"You mean-"
"That's right! My record is finally finished!"
Greg turned to the lounge and announced, "Yer attention, please! The next round of drinks is on me!"
Everyone in the bar hollered and cheered, not caring why a man was splurging on liquor; someone else was paying for the drinks and who were they to say no? Lenny clapped his new favorite customer on the back in congratulations.
"Gee, that's swell, Greg! Here, let me show you to our V.I.P. table; you've earned it tonight, pal."
Greg followed his friend up a flight of stairs and past rows of tables, shaking hands with the patrons who recognized him. Most only knew him from his declaration, but there were some who were genuine fans of his work; those were the ones he appreciated the most, though Greg drank in all the attention regardless of its source. As a little-known radio star, it meant the world to him that so many recognized him as the country singer he was.
"Right over here, Greg," Lenny said, gesturing to a table filled with handsome men and women.
"Much obliged, Lenny," Greg replied, flipping a quarter to the manager before sitting down.
Even though he was surrounded by socialites far better dressed than he, the singer felt no awkwardness. He thrived on new situations and looked forward to them wherever he went; all new things were worthwhile experiences. The stares Greg received from some of the patrons at the table went unregistered by the singer. Tonight was going to be a good night one way or the other.
"So, what is it that you do, sir?" a dandy across the table asked.
"Ah'm a singer, friend," Greg replied while signaling to a waitress.
"A singer? How romantic!," exclaimed a brunette at the end of the table. "What do you sing?"
"Folk songs, mostly. Ah'm what folks might call a "country singer", but, th' way Ah see it, Ah'm just singin' what Ah know. Ah sing about life, death, n' everythin' in between."
"Got any hits?" asked a large man with two women under his arms.
"Just one, sir, but Ah finished cuttin' a record today, so we'll see iffn' this sells too."
"What's your name?" the brunette asked.
"It's Greg Saunders, ma'am, but you c'n just call me Greg; all mah friends do."
"Were you the one who just ordered our next drink?" asked the dandy.
"Th' one n' th' same."
"Well, Greg, you just made yourself a fan!"
And so the night went on in that fashion: Greg would wander from table to table, introducing himself to people from all over the city and worming his way into their conversations. Some did not want to be seen with such a loud, dirty man while others were charmed by his openness and his good nature. By the middle of the night, Greg had chat it up with most of the debutants in the VIP section and had grown bored with the mingling. He needed to get to the dance floor and "cut a rug" or whatever the kids were calling it these days.
As the band struck up a fast, Mexican number, Greg joined the dancers on the floor and slid along to the music, swinging and dancing to the rhythm of the beat. A buxom blonde appeared through the crowd and danced along with the cowboy, matching his movements step by step, note by note. The other people on the floor made room so the two had space to dance and pull off more elaborate moves, like when Greg twirled the girl away from him and brought her back in.
"Yer pretty good," the cowboy said over the sound of the band. "Where'd you learn to dance like that?"
"Spent a couple of years in Tijuana as a waitress," said the blonde, spinning into Greg's arms. "How about yourself, hotshot?"
"Ah was born with golden feet, darlin'."
Greg and his partner danced through the rest of the song, ending on a move that sent the blonde over the cowboy's shoulders and into his arms. As the audience applauded, he smiled at the woman and set her down on her feet.
"I feel like I owe you a drink for that," she remarked, taking a couple of breaths to calm down.
"Ah believe Ah will take you up on yer offer, ma'am," Greg replied, having burnt a sizeable hole in his wallet that night.
Before they could clear the floor though, a burly man stormed up to the pair. He stood a head taller than Greg and looked like he belonged in a zoo. The shape of his head made him look like a gorilla and his muscular, barrel-shaped torso and ropy arms only enhanced the effect. Worst of all, this gorilla-man was steaming mad; if he were a cartoon, smoke would be coming out of his ears.
"What're you doing with my doll, mac?" the ape-man asked through gritted teeth.
"We were just dancing, Johnny! You wouldn't dance, so I figured-"
"Shut up, ya tramp!"
Johnny slapped the blonde across the face with one of his meaty hands, sending the girl flying off her feet. Before he could strike her again though, his arm was pulled back and held in place by Greg, who glared the ape-man down.
"Sir, if'n you don't want trouble, you'll keep yer hands off th' lady," said the cowboy.
"Don't you be telling me how to handle my woman!" Johnny shouted, wrenching his arm out of Greg's grip. Even though he was smaller and leaner than the gorilla, Greg left a mark on Johnny's arm, right on the spot he was holding.
"How 'bout you take yer anger out on someone yer own size?" Greg asked.
Johnny sneered. "Then why don't you go get him?"
Greg just looked at him with indifference. This made Johnny's ire spike, sending him into a hollering rage as he charged at Greg like an angry bull.
"You asked for it!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.
Johnny cocked his arm back and balled his ham-sized hand into a fist, but it never made contact. Greg side-stepped the big man and stuck a foot in his path; the ape moved so fast that he never saw it coming. Head-over-heels, Johnny tumbled into the on-looking crowd, a crowded table eventually stopping him. When he got up and turned around, Greg was right behind him.
"Mah turn," he said as he punched Johnny in the face, breaking the ugly man's nose.
Before he could get another shot in, Johnny tackled Greg and drove him to the floor. The gorilla man reared his fist back but was boxed in the ears by the smaller cowboy, whose arms were left free from Johnny's grasp. As he clutched his head, ringing from the attack, Johnny was caught unaware by a blow to the jaw. The ape fell over and howled in pain, giving Greg a chance to get up.
"What do ya eat in th' mornin', rocks?" the cowboy muttered as he rubbed his hand. "Ah ain't felt a critter with a head as hard as yers!"
With that, Greg turned and walked over to the bar. He needed a drink to come down after a fight, and the scared bartender was more than happy to oblige. As the man poured a glass for Greg, Johnny crawled up off the floor and tried to tackle Greg one last time. This time, the cowboy spun around and, planting his feet in the ground, caught the ape-man and lifted him over his shoulder, using the man's momentum to help him. He sent Johnny flying off the ground, over the bar, and right into the mirror surrounding the bottles on display.
Greg twisted his neck from left to right, feeling the joints crack, and said, "Sorry 'bout th' mess, folks! Y'all go back to yer dancin' and drinkin'!"
As he walked to the door, Lenny ran up to him, asking "Greg, are you okay? You're not hurt, are you?"
"Ah'd be more worried 'bout yer bar, Lenny. That ugly son of a gun couldn't hit th' broad side of a barn door," said the cowboy.
"Don't worry about the bar; I've got it covered."
"Good to hear. Ah don't want to be more of a burden, so Ah'll make mah leave."
Once he got his hat and coat from the front desk, the cowboy walked out into the night. Though the rain had stopped, the cold was still there, so he wrapped his dark coat about him and lowered his white hat to block the wind.
"Hey, mister!"
Greg turned and saw the blonde from the dance floor following him. She was wrapped in a thin coat that did not go past her knees, leaving her bare legs unprotected from the chill.
She said to the cowboy, "I just wanted to apologize for what Johnny did. That klutz gets jealous in all the worst ways; I can barely convince him to go out, and when we do, it usually ends up like that."
"You've got nothin' to apologize for, miss. Ah'd get mighty angry if'n Ah saw mah girl dancin' with another fellow," Greg replied.
"Still, I feel terrible. And let me look at your hand."
Greg held his hand, the one he used to punch Johnny in the nose and jaw, out for the blonde to see. She winced at the blood oozing out of the knuckles.
"I'll assume that's not Johnny's. You need to wrap that up, mister," the girl told the cowboy.
"Ah've had worse."
"Yeah, but you've never had a nurse like me. Come on, I'll take you back to my place and get you wrapped up."
"Fine, but let me give you mah coat. It's th' least Ah c'n do."
The blonde accepted the gesture and let Greg wrap his large coat around her. It hung off her thin frame like a blanket, dwarfing her. She smiled at the warmth and glanced up at the singer.
"Aren't you going to be cold, mister?"
"Darlin', if'n you think this is bad, you should come see a prairie winter sometime. It'll chill you right to the bone," Greg replied, a smile creasing his face.
The couple did not get far before they were stopped again, however. This time, a weasel-like man sneaked out of a nearby alleyway and jumped out in front of Greg and his lady. He had greasy hair that was thinning and teeth in desperate need of a dentist. The knife in his hands was long and sharp, and the weasel never once let it off of either Greg or the woman.
"Give me everything youze got, buster!" the weasel man said.
"Now, why would you want t' do this?" Greg asked the assailant. "Ah've done nothin' to ya unless yer a friend of th' big palooka back there."
"Nah, I'm just a patron who decided to help himself to your moneybags! Now, are you gonna hand it over or do I have t' cut it out of youze?"
"Greg, I think we should do what he says," the blonde whispered.
"Ah worked hard fer mah money n' Ah ain't about t' hand it over t' no rat. Now, 'scuse me fer a second."
In one quick motion, Greg embraced the woman, reached into the pocket of the coat, and drew out a silver revolver. He had the gun cocked and loaded before the weasel could even blink.
"Ah ain't had t' use this in a long time, friend. Do you want to be th' one t' start up mah comeback?" he asked the weasel man.
"Eek! N-no sir, not at all!" the thief replied, dropping his knife and scurrying back into the alleyway.
The blonde woman gazed at Greg with such admiration, such awe that it made the cowboy turn a slight bit red. She said to him, "Well, a brawler and a gunman. Where did you say you were from, Mister Saunders?"
"Just a little town called Miracle Mesa, ma'am. Ah'm a Western man."
"Well, cowboy, how about I patch you up and then you show me how you do things in Miracle Mesa?"
"Ma'am, that would make mah night."
A few days later, a telegraph boy knocked on Greg Saunders door. The uniformed deliverer waited in solemn silence as he heard the sounds of activity inside, of someone scuffling across the room, knocking a couple of things over along the way. When the door finally opened, Greg opened the door in a white undershirt and a pair of blue jeans; his feet were bare.
"What c'n Ah do fer ya?" he asked the boy.
"Mister Saunders?"
"That'd be me."
"Telegram for you."
When the boy passed his message to Greg, the cowboy flipped a nickel to him and retreated back inside. He stumbled back to his bedroom, where Shelly, the blonde girl was waiting. She had stayed with Greg for the past three days for fun at first until she realized that Johnny would get out of the hospital at some point. Greg offered her a bed and food if she helped keep the place livable, a proposition Shelly could hardly refuse.
"A message from your fans, Mr. Saunders?" Shelly joked as she walked into the bathroom, putting on the finishing touches of her make-up.
"Very funny," he replied, "very funny. Ah'm not sure what it is, but it comes from Miracle Mesa."
"Bad news from home?"
"Let's hope not."
Greg sat at the foot of his bed and read the telegram. It said:
WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR FATHER HAS DIED IN SERVICE TO OUR CITY COMMA MISTER SAUNDERS PERIOD THE FUNERAL WILL BE ON THE 23RD COMMA IN ST MICHAELS CHURCH IF YOU WISH TO ATTEND PERIOD
The paper slipped out of Greg's hands before he even got to the second line. He had not been back home since he left for the big city ten years back, nor had he been in touch. Matthew Saunders had been a man of the law, of practicality, and he thought little of his singing son, who seemed to disobey him at every turn. All his other children had turned into productive members of society; Greg was the one who turned out wrong. If he did not know any better, Greg might have thought the old man was happy to be rid of him.
"Nothing but a damned disgrace, that one," he remembered Matthew saying once.
Greg picked up the message and held it in his hands. The 23rd was just a few days away, and he could make it in plenty of time if he took the train. If nothing else, it would give him some measure of closure to visit his family and show them how he had turned out. Wouldn't that be a surprise? Greg Saunders finally had a career.
"Everything all right, Greg?" Shelly asked from the bathroom.
He hesitated for a second before getting up and pulling a suitcase out from his closet. The cowboy reached in and pulled out a black jacket, the same one he gave to Shelly a few nights ago.
"Everything's fine, Shelly. Ah'm goin' back home fer a funeral."
"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! What happened?"
"Mah father is dead," Greg answered, a slight note of happiness sneaking into his voice.
He left the station the next day, riding the 11:30 train out of New York and to the west. Shelly insisted that she come along as "moral support", though Greg supposed that she wanted to keep hiding from her crazy boyfriend. Part of him was grateful for the company, but the other part did not want her to see him in case he did something shameful. If he were to spit on his father's grave or pick a fight with his brother Lucius, he did not want anyone but family and friends to see it. Shelly was nice, but so far, she was neither.
"So Alan is the judge, David is the bailiff, Eleanor owns the farm, and Lucius is the deputy?"
"Yep, yep, yep, n' yep. Th' only reason Pa didn't make Elly go into law is because mah mother passed away n' someone needed t' tend t' th' land."
"What made you go into the music business?" Shelly asked.
"Ah always liked sounds: th' sounds of men workin' in th' fields, th' sounds a guitar makes when it's played, and th' sounds of people listening to good music. Ah wanted t' make people feel good, so Ah tried t' make mah way into th' business," Greg explained.
While Greg and Shelly spoke, the train barreled out through the West, traveling across the plains towards Miracle Mesa. It would be just a few more hours before they got to the nearest station and there was nothing but desert as far as the eye could see. Great rocks towered in the distance like sleeping giants, but that was all there was to see. That was why everyone onboard was shocked when they saw a gang of twelve riding alongside the train, each one covering their face with a bandana. The leader, a man with a metal glove on one hand, gestured further up the train and the men rode ahead.
"What's going on, Greg?" Shelly asked.
"Bandits, Shelly. We've got bandits."