XXIII

The Melungeon walked into Madame de Smets trailed by a Chinese boy and another boy whose head was shaped like an "A." The former had been a coolie goon on the transcontinental, but he was cast bereft along the fringes of the railroad frontier after the Panic of '73. His name was Ling Ling, or anyway they called him that. The other boy was called A-head on account of his single bar of eyebrow and even mop of greasy hair. He cast slow, stony glances around the room. They both brandished knives, but A-head kept an Ithaca riding shotgun under his oilcloth duster, and Ling Ling slung a tomahawk visibly from under his shoulder. The Melungeon didn't need anything more to get his point across.

Madame Julia de Smet closed in to greet the newcomers. They were welcomed by a room of sofas and a lecherous exchange of sexual economy. The smell of opium was thick and a pipa twanged languidly from an unseen room.

Well, don't y'all look like a dishy bunch!

The Melungeon smiled half-heartedly, but not enough to hide his his rotten teeth. Madame de Smet smiled without mirth and curtsied. I'm looking for Maw Possum, he said, removing his bowler hat and casting his eyes sideways this way and that to size up the room.

I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, you thorny brown stud. Her accent hung thick like the humid air. She studied down his body and looked over to her girls to find the right match, and then returned her smile to The Melungeon. It invited him to unspoken pleasures. But that's not what interested him. He wanted to speak with Maw Possum. I heard she could be seen here, he said.

Madame de Smet shrugged. She can't be seen, she said. No one sees her. The Melungeon was confused. But you can see her mwenzi, Mr. Lincoln, she said.

What the f**k is that, The Melungeon thought? What the hell is she talking about?

A negro who had been sitting in an arm chair reading the Limestone Democrat suddenly put down his paper and stood up. He continued to rise until he stood near seven feet tall. He wore red paisley pants and bleached white cotton shirt. He was clean shaven and bald as kettle. Papa Laduc, he introduced himself. What bidness you got with Maw, he asked?

The Melungeon was impressed. Even the A-head had to turn his head up. Ling Ling itched his fingers on the tomahawk under his left shoulder.

Your the muscle I see. I've come to see who everyone calls the Queen of Strangetown, he announced to the milling forms on the sofas. He was ignored, which irritated him.

You're the Melungeon, said Papa Laduc. Maw Possum says no good will come of you being here in Strangetown. Bad omens come with you.

What the s**t is this, The Melungeon thought as he turned his head to Ling Ling, who pulled his axe and swung at Papa Laduc. The whole room had seized. Papa Laduc threw out his long arm and snagged Ling Ling's arm before he could even swing the tomahawk, then threw the Chinaman into table, which shattered under him.

As A-head drew his coach gun, The Melungeon threw out his arm to restrain him.

Get the f**k up, he barked at Ling Ling, who fumed and steamed with embarrassment. Papa Laduc sneered down at The Melungeon, who seems none among the intimidated.

So what's this mwenzi, he asked?

I'm Maw Possum's agent you might say.

Then we've much to discuss my tall friend, as the Melungeon accepted a seat offered by Madame de Smet. Forgive my Chinaman, he said. He comes from a rough stock.