Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy by Axel Howerton Page B

an Indian, too. Big barrel chest and jet
black hair done up all slick-like , wasn’t wearin’ one a them
turban hats like some of em' do. He looked real mean and sorta
angry. I got up to use the can and there he was, just standin’ in
front of the exit. He didn’t do nothin’ at first. Just stood there
staring at the fellas in their shiny suits.”
    The cowboy
paused, closing his eyes as he was caught by a hacking cough and
struggled to catch his breath. He shuddered and wavered on his
stool. The cook’s eyes shot to the gun, even as Tommy reached out
to steady the old man.
    The cowboy
slapped Tommy’s hand away and began to cough again. “I’m all right
damn it! I don’t need no goddamn help!” His cough was wet and
croupy and it took a full minute for the old cowboy to recover and
set his legs stable beneath him. The cook kept his eyes on the
pistol.
    Ruddy color
flushed in the old man’s cheeks as he righted himself on the stool.
His eyes moved to Tommy, who was leaning as far away from the
cowboy as he could without falling on his ass. The old man
scratched at the sparse white threads on top of his head and gave
Tommy a conspiratorial wink
    “I’m alright,
son. I just got a lot more days behind me than in front of me. Got
me a bad ticker,” he said, tapping his chest with two fingers.
    Tommy smiled
and drew a harsh glare from the cook, who threw his head back
toward the kitchen, the signal for Tommy to return to work. Tommy
ignored the gesture as another round of sirens sounded in the
street. The cook lifted his eyes to the windows, a dim look of
concern slowly working its way through the dull landscape of his
face.
    “Must have
been some serious shit,” the cook declared. “Where’d you say this
magic show was?”
    “At that big
hotel on the strip. The one with all the palm trees and silvery
shit everywhere,” replied the old man.
    The cook
snickered, “Vegas, old man. Every place in town is silvery with
fuckin’ palm trees.” He shook his head and took a filthy rag from
his back pocket, wiping the counter as his eyes stayed set on the
street outside.
    “So what
happened next?” Tommy whispered, inching forward on his stool.
    The cowboy
turned and squinted at the question, eyes full of water. “You ever
seen somebody get killed, son? Bad, I mean? Up close? Not on TV or
in the movies.”
    The boy shook
his head, open-mouthed.“Nothin’ much more happened until them white
tigers come out. Then that Indian fella stormed up toward the
stage, hollerin’ to wake the dead. Two security guards tried to
grab him and... I ain't never seen nothin’ like it,” The cowboy
waved his hands in front of him like a third-base coach calling off
the steal. “That big Indian just waved his hands and the security
guards--big fellas, mind--they went flying back as if they was
kicked by a horse that knows its about to get gelded. He never
touched em. Just waved his goddamn hands in the air!”
    The fat man in
the purple shirt had been listening, and had inched closer and
closer until he found himself easing into a seat at the counter.
“Then what happened” the fat man asked.
    The cowboy
leaned back to look at the source of the new voice and nodded as if
accepting him into his circle. “Well, like I said, he tossed them
security boys off to the side. And then, no word of a lie, that big
ol' Indian bastard put his arms out like Jesus on the cross. He
just threw his arms out and kinda lifted up there onto the stage
like a goddamn Genie or somethin’!”
    “You mean he
levitated?” asked the fat man.
    “That’s the
word. That is the word, fella. Levitated. Like he just got lifted
straight up off the ground and set down there in front of the
magicians. He started yellin’ something ‘bout desecratin’ sacred
tigers. Then he held his hands out and I’ll be goddamn if those
white tigers didn’t step up to him, nice and pretty, like a couple
of housecats lookin’ to get their bellies scritched.”
    The fat