A Rich Man's Toll

     The two of them drove up the mountain pass dog-tired and glareblind. Still in their work clothes, they sat with oil-stained coveralls and fur-lined boots and mittens on while ice clung to rockwalls on either side of them looking like the frozen layers of a massive labyrinth. The steering belt screeched in the cold air and the old piston rods thumped rabbitlike. Tommy, a heavyset blond, reached forward from the passenger seat to turn up the heat but the car was the warmest it was going to get. He sighed and reached into his jacket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, then fished around in the glovebox for a lighter. It plopped about, around the spare change and crumpled receipts, and he degloved and plucked out the firestarter with his pink fishbait fingers.
     He placed a cigarette between his lips and cranked down the window. Cold air streamed into the cabin and the loose paper piled in the backseat flew and clung to the rear window.

     “Jesus Christ, can’t that wait?” said Jess over the wind. “It’s freezing.”
     “You’re the one who told me if I smoked in the car, I better be smokin with the windows down.” He sparked the flint wheel with the ungloved hand and cupped his face with the mittened one. After a deep inhale he leaned towards the cracked window and blew out a milky plume of smoke which twisted and righted behind the car like steam engine exhaust.
     Jess reached over Tommy and rolled up the window with one hand still on the wheel, his body sideways over the center console. The hiss of air ceased and the car quieted again. “Jackass.” He shivered.
     “Your brother took you here before, right?” asked Tommy, taking a drag.
     “He never took me but he’s told me about it plenty.”
     “I got something real important to ask before we get there.” He turned sideways in his seat. “You sure you’re going to be able to get it up?”
     “Shut up.”
     “You told me what happened with Mary.” Tommy chuckled as the cigarette smoke pirouetted from his hand and collected at the ceiling. “You shouldn’t have. But you did.”
     “That was one time.”
     “Well, try not to make it a habit or else you won't have any fun tonight.”
     They crossed a narrow bridge. The stream below trickled over ice and bonewhite rock, knitting the two into a bed of clouded glass. Tufts of green shrubbery dotted the powdered basin, and on the slopes, pines stood snowcovered as if of a world over-sugared. At the end of the bridge the car jumped and they hovered in their seats for a moment.

     “Christ, someone better fix that pothole before some poor guy pops a tire and freezes to death out here.”
    “I don’t think the county cares much about potholes in the winter, Jess.”
    “And why’s that?”
     “You can’t see ‘em under the snow.”
     Jess smiled and ran a hand through his dark matted curls.
     “Does wintertime ever make you think of cannibalism?” asked Tommy as he found an empty can at his feet, fitting the cigarettebutt through the opening. “Like the stories of people getting trapped somewhere they shouldn’t be and one goes crazy and eats the others.”
     “What?”
     Tommy lit another cigarette with the can balanced between his thighs. After a bit of silence he continued. “You know the stories. They taught us about it in school. The Goner party or Boner party or something.”
     “I can guarantee it wasn’t the Boner party, but yeah, I remember learning about it.” 
     “How much would someone have to pay you to eat somebody else?”
     “You couldn’t pay me enough.”
     “What if you were starving? I bet I wouldn’t have to pay you much then.”
     “I really don’t want to think about that, Tommy.” 
     They drove for an hour more before the road flattened, passing through first a hollow and then an uneven stretch serried with ranks of the tallest pines either of them had ever seen. Jess turned the car at a fork where the snow had not yet melted off the gravel and there they followed tire tracks through blackened snow. At the end of the passage there was a squat building with a log portico and a freshly shoveled stairway built in a clearing of the otherwise dense growth. A truck and two other cars were parked haphazardly in the snow before it. A hatchback parked furthest from the building had a set of skis mounted to the roof.
     “This the place?” Tommy asked.
     “Looks like it.”
     The vehicle rocked and the engine strained as they drove over loose powder and parked at the back of the lot. A squirrel resided there, and it scurried up a treebase into the needle-lined limbs hanging over the windshield. Snow fell from the branches as the creature sat there looking down at the two young men. Jess flicked on the wipers and after the glass was cleared, the squirrel was gone. He turned off the engine and the two of them sat quietly for a moment. 
     Tommy sighed and slapped his thighs. “Let's do this, playboy.” 
     They got out of the car, its hinges squealing into the open, and zipped up their jackets. Tommy reached upwards and stretched, his pale belly escaping the bottom of his coat, while Jess grabbed their duffel-bag with clothes and toothpaste and a handle of vodka. As they walked up to the entrance Tommy patted at his pockets, cursing under his breath.
     “What?” asked Jess, his breath smoking before him.
     “Do they have an ATM? I didn’t bring any cash.”
     “You didn’t bring any cash? Are you an idiot?”
     “I brought my card. I just forgot about cash.”
     “This isn’t a damn sports bar, Tommy.” Jess reached into his own pockets and pulled out a wad of cash. He bit off a mitten and then licked his finger and counted the bills. “That’s four-hundred. You will give me five-hundred when we get back to town.”
     “Shit.” Tommy took the cash and put it into his jacket pocket. “How much do the girls cost?”
     “The ugly ones? About four-hundred.”
     “Shit.”
     The door was heavy but he pushed with his shoulder and the hinge gave and it swung open. Tommy crowed and slapped Jess’s shoulders as the sound of soft piano streamed out into the cold. They entered, shedding their jackets and hanging them next to the door before getting a good look at the room—it all smelled of tobacco and wood lacquer. Someone yelled, “Hurry and shut that door before you let all the warm air out,” and Jess shut it and waved towards the bar apologetically. Walnut chairs sat around circular tables, each adorned with an unlit brass candelabra, and a massive rug of maroon and ochre sprawled from corner to corner. Three men sat at the bartop, each sipping whiskey from a crystal glass, while the bartender cleaned another with a white rag. Two older men conversed next to an old Hardman grand piano in the back of the room while a well-dressed Mexican man coaxed out a nocturne, his humming traveling along the walls like another instrument entire. 
     The barmen didn’t look back at them, but one of the gentlemen sitting next to the piano offered a nod while his companion kept talking. 
     “Let's get a drink and figure out how to do this,” Jess whispered, 
     “I don’t see any girls, Jesse.” 
     “They’re here. My brother told me, they’re here.”
     The two of them took a seat a few stools over from the group of men and the bartender finished cleaning the glass before lazily wandering over to them. He asked what they wanted and Jess asked for two whiskeys and the man turned around and selected a bottle off a shelf and filled them. “Is that all?” 
     “That’s great.” 
     “You got this round, right?” said Tommy with a smile.
      Jess sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a twenty and sliding it across the counter.
     “Now ask him about the girls,” whispered Tommy.
     “Shut up.”
     “The girls are…preoccupied.” The bartender took the money.
     “When will they be finished?” Tommy asked but the bartender just turned and walked through a door leading to a back room behind the counter. The door swung back and forth after him. “Don’t tip him anymore,” whispered Tommy. 
     The men at the far end of the bartop took interest in their conversation and the one at the edge stood up and walked over, taking the seat next to Jess. “I hope you fellas didn’t have to go too far out of your way to get up here. Looks like tonight’s going to be a disappointment. Like he said, the girls are all busy.” He said this last word with a hint of annoyance. “Name’s Howard.” He put his hand out towards Jess.
     “Jesse.” He shook the man’s hand, pink and clammy. “And this is Tommy.”
     “Pleasure.”

     “What do you mean, busy?” Jess asked. “Like they’re all with other…” He struggled to find the word. “Patrons?”
      The man chuckled and sipped his own drink. “I wish. They won’t be here at all tonight.”
     “What?” Tommy leaned forward and raised his voice. “Jesse, you said there were girls.”
     “Normally, Jesse is right,” said Howard. “But they’re all bought out.”
     “What do you mean, bought out?” Jess asked.
     “Some guy getting a jackpot up there?” asked Tommy. 
     “No, they ain’t busy like that.” He turned slightly and nodded towards the piano. “See the guy in the corner? Fancypants smoking the cigar? He came in here about two hours ago, right before me and my guys did, and he bought out all the girls. Must’ve been ten of ‘em here, ready to screw our brains out, and he paid ‘em all off.”
     Jess turned and looked as the pianist was reaching the end of a song, pulling his hands off the keys like there were strong magnets in them and his fingertips. For a moment, the old man facing the bar met Jess’s eyes. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a one-hundred dollar bill and handed it to the Mexican.
     “So what’s he doing sitting over there? Why isn’t he with the girls?” asked Tommy, his first drink nearly finished.
“Bartender told me: old fella comes in here, hands each of ‘em an envelope with a couple grand in it, and tells ‘em to go home for the night. Tells ‘em it's their lucky day. That they got the night off. Damn prick.” The man finished his drink and grunted. “Me and the fellas have been trying to figure out his motive for the past few hours.”
     “Well, did you ask him?” asked Jess.
     “And ruin the only fun left in this place? Hell no we didn’t ask him.” Howard stood and reached over the counter and grabbed the bottle of whiskey hidden there. He uncorked it and filled their drinks again. “Besides, he gives me the creeps.”
     The men Howard came with were finishing their drinks and began to get up. They left cash on the bartop and called to Howard as they headed towards the door.
     “Wait one minute,” he yelled backwards. “I think he must be a holy man. One of those rich traveling ministers or something. The kind of guy that gets on stage wearing a white suit, fresh ironed tie, and some polished snakeskin boots. The kind of guy to preach and holler, saying the congregation needs to give and give for the church and for God, and then take half the cut for himself and drive away in a car worth more than most those nice people’s houses. If I were a betting man, which I’m not, that’s what I’d put my money on.”
     “He paid off the girls cause of God?” asked Tommy. 
     “Maybe not because of God Himself. But maybe because it makes him feel holy, coming in here and paying off the whores so they don’t have to sin.” The men at the door yelled again and Howard shot back his nearly full drink and stood up. “Maybe he pays ‘em off so he can sleep at night. So he can go on the road again and steal from church folk the next Sunday. I don’t know. But that’d be my bet.” 
     The men left and eventually the bartender came back smoking a cigarette and carrying a stack of finger sandwiches on a white plate. He poured them another round and then sat down to eat his supper while the sun outside the cabin walls fell beyond the mountains and the white light refracting off the snowpack dimmed and silvered into a soft winter twilight. At some point the rich man’s friend stood and sang aloud into the cabin in a reedy tenor voice while the pianist’s hands swept across the keys like lowflying birds. Jess and Tommy clapped when he was finished but the rich man didn’t. Jess and Tommy talked some, but mostly they listened to the soft music and got drunk off the whisky and the bartender’s heavy hand. Before long it was completely dark outside.
     “Why do you think he does it?” Tommy finally asked the bartender. “I know you’ve been listening to us while you’re eating those sandwiches. I’d like to hear your opinion.”
     The man spoke more than a few words for the first time and Jess heard the remnants of a an accent softened by years and years in the States. “I have my ideas,” he said. “But I cannot gossip in this way. I cannot chit chat about my customers like some school girl in the lunch-yard. This is not my way.”
     “You must be curious.”
     “The man came and he paid the women. He paid them well. Now he sits and enjoys the music and buys drinks. I cannot ask for more than this.” 
     Jess nodded.
     “You think we could buy some of them sandwiches?” Tommy asked.
     The bartender smiled for the first time and left again.
     “What do you want to do?” asked Jess.
     “I say we wait out the old man. Who knows, maybe he’ll get tired and leave and some of the girls’ll come back to double dip.”
     “I guess waiting can’t hurt. We drove all that way.”
     “Yes, we sure did.” Tommy gulped down his drink.
     The bartender came back with their sandwiches and the men ate in the dimly lit cabin while the piano player took a break to flex his hands and drink. He came up to the bar and greeted the men with a yellowed smile before calling to the bartender in Spanish. The bartender brought him red wine in a jar and he stood there and sipped it with both elbows against the bartop, sighing heavily after each swallow, mumbling or humming to himself quietly.
     “You know that fella sitting over there?” Tommy asked him, midbite.
     The piano player raised his eyebrows in confusion and Jess wasn’t sure if he hadn’t heard Tommy or if he didn’t speak English.
     “I said, do you know the old fella in the corner?” Tommy repeated.
     “El caballero?”
     “Sí.”
     “No.” He took another sip and thanked the bartender before leaving and starting a new song.
     “Well damn,” said Tommy.
     They waited an hour more and during that time another group of men came into the cabin, learned of the situation regarding the women and promptly left. It had started to snow outside and large flakes clung to the windows—beyond them, the world iridescent, dark and pewter. Wind stirred in the early nighttime and it whistled through the cracks in the walls like a flautist accompanying the keys. The bartender took matches and lit the candelabras and brought one over to the counter. Their faces reflected back to them jaundiced in the candlelight and wood polish.
     “If we don’t leave now we won’t be going home,” Jess said. “I’m not trying to kill myself driving those roads.”
     “Yeah. I guess I figured we waited this long. Really thought he’d get tired and leave by now.”
     “Stubborn old ox.”
     Tommy lit a cigarette. “Mhm.”
     “Why don’t we just go ask him, then we can head back down before it starts blizzarding.”
     “You sure you want to drive in the dark?”
     “I’ll drive careful.”
     Tommy nodded and took a drag. He washed down the smoke with the last of his fifth or sixth glass of whiskey. “Alright, let's ask him.”
     The old men had hardly moved since they’d gotten there, their hands dancing while they droned on, burning away time like old friends reminiscing on a lifetime lived or a lifetime apart. Jess and Tommy’s boots clomped on the thin rug as they approached, and the singer must’ve heard their footsteps because he turned and invited them to join with a bright smile and extended arms. The rich man said nothing, extending only the most subtle nod at the two newcomers. They dragged over chairs from the nearest table and exchanged greetings politely. Handshakes, but not names.
     “I hope we don’t bore you all, but we have been having the same debate for most of the night. And I do not see an end in sight,” said the singer.
     “Really?” said Tommy. 
     Jess swirled the whiskey at the bottom of his glass. The rich man looked at him and then at Tommy.
     “You see, my friend and I have known each other for many years.” He gestured to the rich man with his wine glass. “And now that we are old, we have much to talk about. I am an artist, you see, and for many years I have withstood shame and poverty in order to make beautiful things. I think this path is the correct one as nothing is as powerful as art. Though, I’ll admit I am lucky—I’ve faced adversity and doubt, but now in my graying years I can enjoy some recognition. Not all artists are so fortunate and he says this is why I hold the opinion I do. He says that if I died unknown, suffocated, it would not be a happy death, as an unrecognized artist is forced to exist in submission to the future. He says that an artist’s death lingers like a foul smell, a question: will my work live on?”
     The rich man nodded.
     “He says that the pursuit of beauty is self-consuming, that it is nothing without the prize at the end. My friend values only the prize.” The artist gestured around the table. “So I ask you, what is most important?”
They all were quiet for a moment. The rich man’s eyebrows drew up high on his face and the artist slicked back his thinning hair as he adjusted his cap.
     “I suppose you have to have a reason for going on,” said Jess. “And as long as you have that reason, it doesn’t matter much what it is.”
     “A philosopher!” cried the artist. He tried to continue but the rich man interrupted him.
     “What do you do for work, son?” It was the first time they had really heard his voice and it came from his throat thick and sweet like syrup.
     “We work in oil, sir.”
     “A fine job.”
     “I can’t complain.”
     The rich man sat back in his chair for a moment, scanning the ceiling. “Do you have everything you want?”
     “I have enough,” said Jess.
     “That’s not what I asked you.”
     “I don’t think I’ll ever have everything I want. I don’t agree with the question in the first place.”
     “And why’s that?”
     “Just cause a man’s got everything, it doesn’t mean he’s going to use it right. Or that he’s really earned it.”
     “You have no want of money or power?”
     “I’m not saying I’m a perfect man.”
     “None of us are, but you miss my point.” The rich man ran a hand through his beard. “Why’d you come here tonight other than to use your hard earned cash and have a little power?”
     Jess shrugged and finished his drink.
     “What about you?” The rich man turned to Tommy. “Why did you boys come here tonight, if not to get what you wanted?” 
     “Why did you come here and pay all the girls off?” asked Tommy. “You Christian?”
     The rich man’s lips spread into a thin smile and he picked up his drink and sipped it. The pianist was playing, but absentmindedly, his head cocked over to better hear their conversation. “I wanted the place to myself. It’s as simple as that.” 
     “Then why come here?” asked Jess. 
     Tommy leaned forward. “You must’ve known what this place was, why other men come here. Why ruin it for everyone else?”
     “Let me tell you what the most important thing is, boys.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in a rubber band. He split the stack in half on the table then extended what must’ve been a few thousand to the pianist. “I would like a lobster. Freshly caught, with butter and lemon.”
     He stopped playing, took the cash and looked at it, his eyes wide and his hands trembling at the touch of all that money. “Señor, we are very far from the ocean. It would take me a long… I do not have a car.’’
     “That is five-thousand. And this is another ten.” He tapped the brick of cash on the table and it thudded like a woodblock. “If you can get me a plate of fresh lobster—and I will know if it is fresh—before sunrise, you will receive the rest.”
     The pianist stood and looked lost for a moment, unsure of his direction. Then he grabbed his jacket from the hook next to the door and stepped out into the cold. The artist laughed uncomfortably and the rich man sat unsmiling.
     “Money is all that matters, boys. Money makes a man into something greater than a man. It is the only worthy pursuit. Everything else is surrender.”
     The three others were quiet for a while, a silenced, hobnob assembly, and the bartender left the counter and disappeared into the back again. Tommy was the first to speak, interrupting the ceiling’s sough and bringing all attention to him. “You know what I think?” he said.
     “What’s that?” said the artist, eager to brighten up the room.
     “I think you must be queer.” He pointed at the rich man. “You sent all those girls away cause you don’t much care for them.”
     “Careful,” the rich man said in a whisper.
     “No. I think you’re a prick and a cocksucker. And we will be leaving now.” Tommy stood and turned his back on the men. Before Jess could start after, the rich man pulled something from his side and quickly raised his right hand from underneath the table. Gunfire ran out in the brothel and the artist and Jess recoiled, hands over ears. Tommy stood frozen for a second and then blood bloomed from a small hole in the back of his shirt. The rich man shot him again in the neck. Tommy collapsed. 
     The artist made a drawn-out whining sound.
     Jess couldn’t find the power to say anything but he stumbled over to his collapsed friend and held him in his arms. Tommy was breathing hard, trying to form words through the blood pooling and gurgling up from his throat. Jess began to cry and panic, looking into his friend’s darkening eyes. 
     “Money is all that matters and tonight you will learn that lesson, son. You hold your friend as his life drains into the floorboards. You hold him and you think I’m a monster, that nothing can quench your rage or keep you from revenge. You think that nothing can silence you, no amount can snuff out justice, but you are wrong. There is a price for this as there is a price for everything else. So now I ask…” The rich man stood and walked over to Jess, pistol in hand and a wild grin askew on his face. “What is your price?"