Arizona Tarot III
Found pictures of me from a year or so back, seven and a half stone, knife-thin and dressed in a frock coat and gunbelt. Damn I miss that. *sigh* Yeah, at some point when my life is actually interesting or awful I'll write something else. But for now...
He had a smile like a hyena on crack and was dressed like the worst sort of caricature of a snake oil salesman in a 1950s MGM film. He was so slick he positively poured himself into the chair next to her.
“I noticed that you and your friend were obviously young ladies of quality and discernment,” he began. “Please, allow me.” He snapped his fingers at one of the bar staff. “Champaign,” he ordered.
“We have yet to be introduced,” she said frostily, channelling some sort of Scarlet O’Hara ice-queen persona and praying she wasn’t overdoing it.
“Do forgive me,” he simpered. “I’m Elias Ford, very pleased to make your acquaintance. Might I have the pleasure of your name?”
“Mallory Benedict,” she told him, the double lie of it crooking her smile.
He didn’t appear to notice her dark amusement nor the wrecking rocks that lay in the sea of her eyes, just beneath the surface of the waves. He started his sales pitch.
She listened with half an ear, wondering if Sobriety would reappear any time soon and quite what she’d do to this lunatic huckster when she did. Elias Ford was a banker of some sort and had just made a deal with a bunch of miners who didn’t know what they’d got - his fortune, their loss - he now had a bundle of ore and they coins amounting to only a third of its true value. Mr Ford was seeking to further advance his fortune (she was listening even less at this point and so missed the intricacies of his scheme) and the upshot of it was he was looking for investors. If she handed over a thousand dollar stake he could personally by god and heaven guarantee she would be pocketing ore worth twice that within the week. He had the first instalment with him right now as it happened, but the rest, alas, there would be a slight delay in acquiring for reasons he hastened to reassure her were of no importance at all.
The champaign arrived. She considered pouring it over him on principle: she’d never been party to such a horribly blatant swindle in her life. Were people hereabouts really so desperate - so stupid? God she hoped not. Or did she really look that big a mark? She considered throwing warm champaign over him again.
Ford was looking at her in a way that he probably imagined was conspiratorial and seductive but to Mal just looked hungry. “Well?” he asked, obviously unused to his audience being quite so underwelmed.
“And what do you have to show me, sir, that gives any proof to your charming offer?”
He smiled like someone who thinks their bait has been swallowed, hook line and sinker. “Miss Benedict, I knew as soon as I saw you, you were a shrewd business woman, yessiree.”
She blinked. Oh. My. God. Did he just say that?
He had, and the silver-coin-patter continued to fall from his mouth as he pulled a lurid silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and proceeded to unfold it like a magician doing a trick for her and her alone. At the end of the over-narrated process, Ford held the kerchief pooled across his palm and there, in the middle, sat a small and undoubtedly pure nugget of gold.
As she looked at it, two distinct and separate thought processes ran concurrently through her head. The first was: And in the great hall of the tower that held her heart’s desire, the princess did see such riches as were beyond all compare. Golden statues, waterfalls of diamonds, chests of rubies and caskets spilling out emeralds, sapphires and opals. Silver mirrors edged in crystal sparkled in the light, and hung about the walls were bright tapestries and gowns of the softest velvet and most shimmering silks. If she reached out her hand, any of the treasures could be hers. But the princess remembered the Seers words, ‘You may leave Cairn Doon with one thing and one thing only. If it is a dish of beaten gold or a diadem of pearls, so be it. But if you seek the one locked within the tallest tower, it is he you must cleave to and no other thing.’...
The second ran thus: How much would that ore be worth back in London? If his tale is true (which it isn’t) what could I have? A flat? A house? A functioning bank balance? Retirement for my father? Comfort for my mother? But how would I sell the ore, how would I explain where it came from? And what does it matter anyway - my mother’s brain would still be rotting without cure and I’d still be alone.
At that point the disparate tracks ran together like rails at a depot: Put not your trust in faery gold but hold fast to your true love’s hand.
She smiled, a strange and sharply curving sickle of an expression. “And what in the world would I do with that?” she enquired.
The huckster was temporarily stumped before regaining his poise and allowing a good many words to tumble again from his mouth.
She looked at Mr Ford as if he was spitting serpents and toads with every breath. “Put your ugly little rock away, sir,” she told him. “I’ll have none of it.”
“But - but it’s gold!” he hissed.
“What good is that to me?” she demanded with hard-edged sincerity.
He spluttered but she shifted in her chair, turning her back on him and he was forced to admit defeat.
Sobriety returned a few minutes later looking pleased with herself. “I’ve negotiated our reward with Jonsey. Bed and board for a week, no charge, and twenty-five percent of the house takes.” She noted Mal’s expression. “Well we do have him in a bit of a bind, he couldn’t really say no. What did that clown in the checked coat want?”
“To tempt me from my course with faery gold.”
“And you didn’t pour champaign over him?” she was incredulous. “Gods, woman, you're getting mellow in your old age. I would have.”
Mal grinned. “Possibly why he waited ‘til you’d left to bother Jonesy.” Her expression changed suddenly. “How come you look better in that dress than I do?” she demanded plaintively.
Sobriety laughed. “I don’t, you’re just fooled by the tits. Easy mistake to make. Have you seen the lines that dress gives you? And the way it’s pinned at the back showing off your tattoo? It’s like you’ve got real raven wings. I’d take all that over larger tits any day.”
She tried not to giggle with only partial success, knowing they were both being ridiculous. “Not sure the rest of the room agrees with you.”
Sobriety surveyed the patrons of the bustling house with scepticism. “Damn, out of what’s on offer I prefer the saloon girl.”
Her friend shrugged. “Well, if you’re feelin’ frisky...” she drawled.
“Kerrist, Mal, was that a come-on or was that one of those fucking awful euphemisms you come up with like ‘frolicking in a field’?”
She was unrepentant. “Not me you idiot, her. Although I really wouldn’t advise saying 'frolicking in a field'. Makes it sound like she’s a horse.”
A second of perfectly straight poker-faces locked against each other’s gaze was all they managed before both dissolving into laughter.
=======
The stars were bright in a sapphire black sky like a handful of gold dust and ground diamonds scattered carelessly across the endless vaults. They were both hunkered down, close to the fire, wrapped in their bedrolls and pillowed against their saddles.
Mal broke the silence, pitching her voice just above the crackle of the flames and the sigh of the scrubland.
“Life is just a dream you can die from:
I’m a rake at the gates of Damnation
Dancing with ghosts knocked from pillar to post
Pursued by my black-fingered demon.
We sold our souls down the river
For a cold handful of silver
And the promise of blue skies and freedom.
I close my eyes but you haunt me still
A symbol of all that I strove to kill
Running out West like a dead man possessed
Who keeps moving through duty and will.
We were all old liars proved true
And with deep debts overdue
We sought shelter from the dark and the chill.
Left too much to my own devices
Walking a road of straights and vices
Strength’s at an end but I’ll craft my legend
To any which way the deck slices.
We hold to a rattlesnake moon
Long shadows, dusty high noon
And pray god honour and luck suffices.”
Silence again, underpinned by a soft breeze and the hum of the cicadas.
“What was all that?” Sobriety asked.
She smiled sheepishly in the flickering glow of the flames. “Lyrically bad poetry.”
He had a smile like a hyena on crack and was dressed like the worst sort of caricature of a snake oil salesman in a 1950s MGM film. He was so slick he positively poured himself into the chair next to her.
“I noticed that you and your friend were obviously young ladies of quality and discernment,” he began. “Please, allow me.” He snapped his fingers at one of the bar staff. “Champaign,” he ordered.
“We have yet to be introduced,” she said frostily, channelling some sort of Scarlet O’Hara ice-queen persona and praying she wasn’t overdoing it.
“Do forgive me,” he simpered. “I’m Elias Ford, very pleased to make your acquaintance. Might I have the pleasure of your name?”
“Mallory Benedict,” she told him, the double lie of it crooking her smile.
He didn’t appear to notice her dark amusement nor the wrecking rocks that lay in the sea of her eyes, just beneath the surface of the waves. He started his sales pitch.
She listened with half an ear, wondering if Sobriety would reappear any time soon and quite what she’d do to this lunatic huckster when she did. Elias Ford was a banker of some sort and had just made a deal with a bunch of miners who didn’t know what they’d got - his fortune, their loss - he now had a bundle of ore and they coins amounting to only a third of its true value. Mr Ford was seeking to further advance his fortune (she was listening even less at this point and so missed the intricacies of his scheme) and the upshot of it was he was looking for investors. If she handed over a thousand dollar stake he could personally by god and heaven guarantee she would be pocketing ore worth twice that within the week. He had the first instalment with him right now as it happened, but the rest, alas, there would be a slight delay in acquiring for reasons he hastened to reassure her were of no importance at all.
The champaign arrived. She considered pouring it over him on principle: she’d never been party to such a horribly blatant swindle in her life. Were people hereabouts really so desperate - so stupid? God she hoped not. Or did she really look that big a mark? She considered throwing warm champaign over him again.
Ford was looking at her in a way that he probably imagined was conspiratorial and seductive but to Mal just looked hungry. “Well?” he asked, obviously unused to his audience being quite so underwelmed.
“And what do you have to show me, sir, that gives any proof to your charming offer?”
He smiled like someone who thinks their bait has been swallowed, hook line and sinker. “Miss Benedict, I knew as soon as I saw you, you were a shrewd business woman, yessiree.”
She blinked. Oh. My. God. Did he just say that?
He had, and the silver-coin-patter continued to fall from his mouth as he pulled a lurid silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and proceeded to unfold it like a magician doing a trick for her and her alone. At the end of the over-narrated process, Ford held the kerchief pooled across his palm and there, in the middle, sat a small and undoubtedly pure nugget of gold.
As she looked at it, two distinct and separate thought processes ran concurrently through her head. The first was: And in the great hall of the tower that held her heart’s desire, the princess did see such riches as were beyond all compare. Golden statues, waterfalls of diamonds, chests of rubies and caskets spilling out emeralds, sapphires and opals. Silver mirrors edged in crystal sparkled in the light, and hung about the walls were bright tapestries and gowns of the softest velvet and most shimmering silks. If she reached out her hand, any of the treasures could be hers. But the princess remembered the Seers words, ‘You may leave Cairn Doon with one thing and one thing only. If it is a dish of beaten gold or a diadem of pearls, so be it. But if you seek the one locked within the tallest tower, it is he you must cleave to and no other thing.’...
The second ran thus: How much would that ore be worth back in London? If his tale is true (which it isn’t) what could I have? A flat? A house? A functioning bank balance? Retirement for my father? Comfort for my mother? But how would I sell the ore, how would I explain where it came from? And what does it matter anyway - my mother’s brain would still be rotting without cure and I’d still be alone.
At that point the disparate tracks ran together like rails at a depot: Put not your trust in faery gold but hold fast to your true love’s hand.
She smiled, a strange and sharply curving sickle of an expression. “And what in the world would I do with that?” she enquired.
The huckster was temporarily stumped before regaining his poise and allowing a good many words to tumble again from his mouth.
She looked at Mr Ford as if he was spitting serpents and toads with every breath. “Put your ugly little rock away, sir,” she told him. “I’ll have none of it.”
“But - but it’s gold!” he hissed.
“What good is that to me?” she demanded with hard-edged sincerity.
He spluttered but she shifted in her chair, turning her back on him and he was forced to admit defeat.
Sobriety returned a few minutes later looking pleased with herself. “I’ve negotiated our reward with Jonsey. Bed and board for a week, no charge, and twenty-five percent of the house takes.” She noted Mal’s expression. “Well we do have him in a bit of a bind, he couldn’t really say no. What did that clown in the checked coat want?”
“To tempt me from my course with faery gold.”
“And you didn’t pour champaign over him?” she was incredulous. “Gods, woman, you're getting mellow in your old age. I would have.”
Mal grinned. “Possibly why he waited ‘til you’d left to bother Jonesy.” Her expression changed suddenly. “How come you look better in that dress than I do?” she demanded plaintively.
Sobriety laughed. “I don’t, you’re just fooled by the tits. Easy mistake to make. Have you seen the lines that dress gives you? And the way it’s pinned at the back showing off your tattoo? It’s like you’ve got real raven wings. I’d take all that over larger tits any day.”
She tried not to giggle with only partial success, knowing they were both being ridiculous. “Not sure the rest of the room agrees with you.”
Sobriety surveyed the patrons of the bustling house with scepticism. “Damn, out of what’s on offer I prefer the saloon girl.”
Her friend shrugged. “Well, if you’re feelin’ frisky...” she drawled.
“Kerrist, Mal, was that a come-on or was that one of those fucking awful euphemisms you come up with like ‘frolicking in a field’?”
She was unrepentant. “Not me you idiot, her. Although I really wouldn’t advise saying 'frolicking in a field'. Makes it sound like she’s a horse.”
A second of perfectly straight poker-faces locked against each other’s gaze was all they managed before both dissolving into laughter.
=======
The stars were bright in a sapphire black sky like a handful of gold dust and ground diamonds scattered carelessly across the endless vaults. They were both hunkered down, close to the fire, wrapped in their bedrolls and pillowed against their saddles.
Mal broke the silence, pitching her voice just above the crackle of the flames and the sigh of the scrubland.
“Life is just a dream you can die from:
I’m a rake at the gates of Damnation
Dancing with ghosts knocked from pillar to post
Pursued by my black-fingered demon.
We sold our souls down the river
For a cold handful of silver
And the promise of blue skies and freedom.
I close my eyes but you haunt me still
A symbol of all that I strove to kill
Running out West like a dead man possessed
Who keeps moving through duty and will.
We were all old liars proved true
And with deep debts overdue
We sought shelter from the dark and the chill.
Left too much to my own devices
Walking a road of straights and vices
Strength’s at an end but I’ll craft my legend
To any which way the deck slices.
We hold to a rattlesnake moon
Long shadows, dusty high noon
And pray god honour and luck suffices.”
Silence again, underpinned by a soft breeze and the hum of the cicadas.
“What was all that?” Sobriety asked.
She smiled sheepishly in the flickering glow of the flames. “Lyrically bad poetry.”