Cutton remained silent.
Poltrock tried to push the memory out of his head. "Felt sick as a dog when I was in there."
"You was likely hungover," Cutton finally spoke up. "I saw you at the tavern last night, in your cups."
"Yes, that"s right." And that"s all it is.
"You meet his wife?"
"I did. Seems nice, sophisticated."
Did Cutton smile to himself? "She"s somethin", all right. How about his kids?"
"I saw a blonde girl with a dog for a minute." And then Poltrock gulped at what he thought he"d seen next. "Like about fifteen, sixteen or thereabouts."
"That"s Mary, and there"s another one-nine, I think-a brown-haired little girl named Cricket..." Cutton stalled his next words, which Poltrock found curious.
"Yeah?"
Cutton gnawed off the corner of a tobacco plug. "Well, see, Mr. Poltrock, I understand that you"re a man with some credentials. I heard you were the track engineer for the Pennsylvania Railroad."
"That I was, but what"s it got to do with Mr. Gast"s children?"
Cutton spat over the side. "I"m just an inspector-all of a sudden a very well-paid inspector but still. You"re my boss, and I don"t want to lose my brand-new job by sayin" something out of line."
This perked Poltrock up. He didn"t know anybody here. "I appreciate any information you might be kind enough to render. Good men keep the details of their discussions to themselves. My word is bond, and I am certain yours is, too. An honest man is worth his weight in gold and, for instance, it will be an honest man as well as a helpful man that I pick to be my line chief. Which pays an extra five dollars per week."
Cutton nodded. "I just mean to say that without no discourtesy to Mr. Gast, his children are a might peculiar and the same for his wife. It would do a wise man service to keep a good distance from "em all. They"re bad luck is all I"m sayin", Mr. Poltrock."
Cutton stroked his reins and drove on.
Poltrock thought he got it. But now that he was out of the house, he could think clearly. Gast just hired me to be his number-two man on this job-that"s all that matters.
The horses drew the wagon down a byroad that ran parallel to the track. The track itself appeared to be top quality, as was the tie bed beneath. "How much track"s been laid so far?"
"Five, maybe six miles so far, and we only started a few weeks ago."
Poltrock looked at him. "That"s impressive, Cutton."
"Mr. Gast plans to have it completed in mid-"62. He says the war will"ve already started by then, and the South will likely be in Washington. Mr. Gast"s rail line will be a crucial alternate supply route."
Poltrock thought about that, and smirked. A lot of it didn"t make sense to him. An alternate supply line...from Maxon? He figured it was best left alone. Just do what you"re paid for, and let Gast think what he wants...
A high gaze ahead showed him the layout. A steam engine connected to several pallet cars would haul the new rail and ties up the current point of construction, then go back to Virginia for more: a constant replenishment of material. Each return run would find the newly lain track a mile or two longer. Five years, was all Poltrock could think. Five years of goin" back and forth like that, each trip back a little bit longer. It would be hard work, for sure-and Poltrock wasn"t adverse to that-and by the time the project was done, most of his formidable salary would still be in the bank. Ain"t gonna have much time to spend it.
The sun blazed. The closer they got to the site, the more apparent the sound: metal ringing as a hundred slaves brought hammer to spike. It was almost musical in Poltrock"s ears.
"Gettin" close now," Cutton remarked.
At once a foul odor crinkled Poltrock"s nose. "G.o.d in heaven, what"s that?"
Cutton pointed beyond the track, to farmland. Poltrock saw cotton, corn, and beans being picked by complacent female slaves. But that"s not what Cutton pointed to...
Poltrock thought of scarecrows when he noticed a couple of severed heads on stakes. The awful smell came from the rotting heads? "I heard some talk of executions," he mentioned through a half gag.
Cutton nodded. "Yes, sir. Plantation justice I guess is what you"d call it. When slaves get frisky, well...you gotta make an example of "em."
"Any white men executed?"
"Oh, sure. Two or three, at least. One fella got caught tryin" to steal from Mr. Fecory-"
Poltrock stared at the odd name in his head. "Who"s he?"
"One you"ll get to know well, like the rest of us. Mr. Fecory is the paymaster. Shows up at the site every Friday with his ledger book and suitcase full"a money. Funny little man in a red derby hat. And he"s got a gold nose."
"A gold what?"
"Nose. Rumor is he got his nose blowed off a while back when some fugitives tried to rob him, so now he wears a fake one made"a gold. But like I was sayin", one"a Mr. Gast"s white laborers pinched some money out of Fecory"s pay case and, well, that was that for him. Then another white fella or two got caught rapin" some town girls. They got executed, too."
Poltrock looked at the next severed head. "In the fields?"
"No, no. The white men got trials. They was hanged in the town square. Only the nigrahs are killed in the field. You"re probably smellin" it right about now."
"Yes, I am. Hard to believe a couple of severed heads could smell that bad at this distance."
"Oh, it ain"t just the heads," Cutton calmly went on. "Their whole bodies are threshed into the soil. Fertilizer. turnin" somethin" bad into somethin" good. And they"ll just leave the heads there till they rot down to skulls, a reminder for the rest of the slaves not to act up."
Poltrock gazed back out when several intermittent shadows crossed his face. Jesus Lord, he thought grimly. They"d just pa.s.sed two more severed heads mounted in the field. He forced himself to look forward.
Down the line, he could now see the men working. White foremen measuring gauge and marking the next length of track bed to be dug and filled with ballast, then a hundred sweat-glazed slaves, either digging, hammering spikes, or dropping ties. Armed security men stood watch over the entire site, faces vigilant.
"Here were are, Mr. Poltrock," Cutton announced and slowed the wagon. "Everything you see, you"re now in charge of. It"s a pleasure to be workin" for ya."
You work for me, but I work for Gast, Poltrock reminded himself. "Thank you." Metal striking metal sang in his ears. "I must say, this appears to be a top-notch team." And suddenly he felt enthused. Maybe the job wasn"t impossible after all. The operation was running like welloiled machinery.
The wagon stopped. "Morris is the crew boss. I"ll have him call a break, and then he can introduce you to the men."
"That would be in order."
They both dismounted the wagon. No one even looked at him when they approached the line. Each man, black or white, worked with focus and determination.
And the hammers. .h.i.tting spikes rang on.
When Poltrock crossed the line, he stopped cold. Suddenly he felt bile bubbling in his gut...
The field seized his gaze, where he saw at least three dozen more severed heads on stakes.
II.
"Quit actin" like you ain"t never done this before," the younger man said, straddling the fat man"s face. The fat man mewled.
This guy is the hardest trick I ever turned, thought the younger man, frowning, and this younger man, of course, was Jiff. To maintain his arousal, he forced himself to think of Tom Cruise in c.o.c.ktail, because every time he looked down at his obese client, he winced. Nothing arousing about him. The fat man remained strained and trembling on his bed, his x.x.x-large Christian Dior shirt opened, and his Bermuda shorts pulled off.
"Suck it right, fattie," Jiff said, and grabbed a hank of white hair beside the fat man"s bald spot. "If"n you cain"t suck better than that, I just might have to slap your big fat face."
The overweight "client" struggled to do as complied.
"Maybe if I kick your fat a.s.s, you"ll get the message," Jiff went on with his playact. He angled off the bed and- CRACK!.
-brought his open palm hard against the fat man"s face.
The fat man was misty-eyed now. "I...I love you..."
Jiff couldn"t have smirked more sharply.
Afternoon sun lit up the fat man"s posh bedroom; Jiff found it amusing that a busy Number 1 Street bustled just outside that window, a story down. Tourists out for leisurely strolls and antique fanatics scouring the town"s quaint shops. And none of "em would ever guess what"s going on up here. When the fat man brought his hands up to caress Jiff"s a.s.s, Jiff jerked away the fat man"s cheeks with one hand, squeezing hard.
"Did I give you permission to touch my a.s.s, girlie? Hmm?" He squeezed harder, and the fat man shook his head.
"I ought"a drag your fat girlie a.s.s right out in the street with your little pants down like ya are, so"s every one out there can see your little pansy p.e.c.k.e.r! And then p.i.s.s on ya to boot!" Now he squeezed so hard, tears formed in the fat man"s eyes, and- Jesus, what a sick pup, Jiff thought.
Before the great mound of belly, the client"s genitals hardened and he moaned.
How grim. It just reminded Jiff of the situation"s strange psychology. I tell the guy I"m gonna p.i.s.s on him and he gets hard? Jiff had been a male prost.i.tute for a long time but even he had never seen a client this bad off. It wasn"t the actual s.e.x, nor even the pain and bondage-it was the sheer humiliation that the fat man was paying for. It didn"t matter that this was fast money-the gig was getting old.
Get it over with, he thought, disgusted.
He put the rubber ball in the fat man"s mouth and got to work.
A few minutes later, Jiff was finally done, his client ravaged. He removed the rubber ball. Finally...
"Help me! I love you so much!" came the desperate plea.
By now Jiff felt sorry for him. Poor fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d"s up"n fell in love with me. "That"s a good girl," he praised. "And now, for bein" so good, you know what I"m gonna do?"
Hopeful eyes glimmered up.
Jiff lowered his face and bit one of the nipples.
The fat man shrieked in glee.
Jiff climbed off the bed, nude. He knew that the fat man"s eyes were on his body when he strode to the bathroom. Behind him, he pretended not to hear the forlorn whisper: "I love you so much..."
Jiff washed up at the sink. He felt skewed. He"d originally viewed this gig as easy money-thirty bucks for ten minutes?-but now it was getting too kinky even for him. The debas.e.m.e.nt? At least his other tricks in town were simple action. It was his body that got him the business. He appraised himself in the mirror, flexed his abs, shot a few bicep poses. Some of the guys down at the Spike would lay twenty on him just to flex while they jerked off. Now I"ve got this tub"a lard with all his hangups. Oh, well, he supposed it beat cutting yards.
He pumped his pecs once in the reflection. Yeah. I still got it.
Behind him, his client"s voice drifted, "You"re beautiful..."
Jiff frowned.
When he came back out, the fat man was sitting up in bed, his shorts still at his ankles. "I"d be a mess without you."
You ARE a mess! Look at yourself! You look like 300 pounds of vanilla pudding folded over in bed! Jiff ignored the remark.
He looked around the s.p.a.cious room. A stone bust of some guy named Caesar stood on a pedestal by one wall, and another one of some guy named Alexander the Great stood next to the window. Jiff guessed these guys were relatives of Liberace, maybe helped get him started in Vegas. There was also a chess table made of checkerboarded marble and pieces that looked made of silver and gold. Lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d...Jiff knew that his client"s money came from an inheritance-he was the last of the line. Ain"t no way that fat pansy"s ever gonna have a kid to inherit what"s left. Jiff knew he could steal a chess piece or two, but that wasn"t his style. He was just a hayseed male hooker, not a thief.
An old, fancy armoire stood opened, revealing cans of nuts and boxes of chocolates. "Hey, can I have some"a this?"
"All that I own...is yours."
I guess that means yes. Jiff knew he had to get the gears shifted fast now, otherwise the man"d just get all depressed and mushy. He opened a box of Trufflettes. "Wow, these are good."
"Take the whole box, I"ll get you more. I order them special from France."
Jiff shook his head. The antique cupboard was full of such stuff. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Aside from me comin" over here and treatin" him like dog s.h.i.t, all he"s got to look forward to is food. "But, you know, you ought"a cut down on this stuff. It"s bad for your heart"n all."
A grateful sob. "You care about me!"
Christ. Jiff knew that the sight of his naked body was just riling the old man up. He began to dress.
"I"m nothing," his client croaked. "I"ve got nothing."
"Aw, don"t start talkin" like that now. Shee-it, you got quite a bit from what I can see. Nice car, nice place, money."
"Don"t you understand? None of that means anything, not without love. I"ve got no true happiness at all..."
"Stop feelin" sorry for yourself!" Jiff snapped. I gotta get out"a here! "Come on, now, none of that. Look, I got work to do, so where"s my money?"
A trembling hand pointed to an inlaid dresser. Jiff picked up the check and folded it in his pocket.
"At least, tell me...Tell me you like me! Please!"
"A"course I like ya-"
"Then love me, too!"
"We been over it"n over it. This ain"t like that, and never will be. This is just fun and games. We"re friends, that"s it. You help me out, I help you out. We play a game. What"s wrong with that? What"s wrong with bein" friends?"
Teary eyes looked up. "Do you ever...think about me? I mean...when we"re together?"
Jiff was getting sick of this. Man, when I"m with you, all I think about is Christian Bale in his Batman suit, you pathetic fat slob...But Jiff just couldn"t be that much of a p.r.i.c.k. The man was too harmless to be disgusted by. "A"course I think about you sometimes," he lied.
The client clasped his hands. "Thank you!"
Jiff needed to split. He needed to be around some real men. "Now you give me a call next time you want me to come by." And then he headed for the stairs.
Halfway down, he heard the plea: "Marry me! It"ll be our secret! You can have as many lovers as you want! I"ll give you everything! Just...marry me!"