The Marrowbone Marble Company by Glenn Taylor Page B

care to partake of your smoking pleasures.” Erm kept his expression straight. Ledford did the same beside him, though the urge to laugh was strong. Erm still hadn’t reached for a White Owl. He said, “That your position in this dump? You the cigar girl?”
    With that, Ledford laughed out loud. “All right, Erm,” he said. Charlie frowned and closed the box. “Hold it now, Kemoslabe,” Erm said. “Big Chief White Owl want smokem.”
    Ledford interceded. “Charlie here is handing out cigars on account of Rachel giving birth Saturday.”
    Erm spun his head. “No foolin. You son of a bitch.” They shook hands again. “Boy or girl?”
    â€œBoy. William, after my daddy.”
    â€œHow about that? Big Bill Ledford. I bet he’s a biggin. Hung where it counts like his old man.”
    Charlie laughed.
    Erm glared at him. “Let’s have at it then. Open er up and fire the torch.”
    The three of them stood and smoked and Erm uncorked his gin and passed the bottle. Ledford couldn’t bear to tell him how much he’d cut back, so he sipped light instead. He explained how they were doing just fine, careful not to badmouth his job too much in front of Charlie. “Renting out the old house,” Ledford said.
    â€œYeah, to a nigger,” Charlie said. He laughed and took another swig off the bottle.
    Ledford stared Charlie down and breathed slow and even. He contemplated his response.
    Erm said, “Well Sally, you just jump in anytime.”
    Now both men stared at him, and Charlie set the bottle on the desk and excused himself.
    â€œJesus H. Christ,” Erm said. “Who the hell was that pansy?”
    â€œThat’s Rachel’s first cousin. Her daddy’s nephew. Pain in my ass.” They both reached for the bottle at the same time. Laughed and exchanged after you sirs .
    Erm sat down and explained he was passing through on business he had in Baltimore. He got quiet after that. Neither spoke of their last meeting. Of Ledford’s serious talk, of Erm’s fuck you admonition, of the inevitable end of the auto driver who’d run over the wrong man.
    Ledford still owed Erm six hundred on a straight play from the previous November, when Army had blanked West Virginia. The spread was two touchdowns. The final score was 19–0. Erm even made him pay the vig.
    Ledford had been laying off the gambling like it was the sauce. After a long silence, Erm said, “I got married.”
    â€œI’ll be damned. When?”
    â€œLast Thursday.” He looked around at the empty walls, tapped his shoes on the floor.
    â€œWell…congratulations Erm.” Ledford nodded his head to convince himself such a move was wise for his friend.
    â€œYeah,” Erm said. “She’s got a bun in the oven.”
    Ledford raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations again.”
    â€œA toast to married life,” Erm said. They drank again, and Ledford was about to ask what her name was when Erm hopped out of his chair and said, “I gotta hit the road, but I’ll be coming back through real soon.”
    Ledford stood. He smiled uneasy. There was something in Erm’s demeanor, something that said he was running from trouble. Ledford would not protest the abrupt departure. It was the way things were for Erminio Bacigalupo. Always, he was running. Don Staples had been talking to Ledford about such movement through life. Away from things. Toward them.
    â€œListen,” Erm said. He was making sure his shirt cuffs stuck out beyond his jacket. “I got something I need you to hold on to for me.” He pulled a fat-stuffed leather envelope from his inside pocket. “Just make sure it stays where nobody gets their hands on it.” He held it out, but Ledford didn’t reach. “It isn’t a bag of dogshit Ledford. It’s dough. And a book.”
    Ledford laughed and took it. Rubbed his thumb across the