A Book Of Tongues by Gemma Files Read Free Book Online Page B

on its merry, wobbly way. “. . . who was she ?”
    And here Chess’s eyes flicked over yet again, all the more
disturbing for their unpredictable lack of anger.
    “Well, hell, Morrow,” he said, lightly, “I’d’ve thought you’d’ve
already guessed. That there was the famous English Oona . . .
Pargeter.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    That night, Morrow lay awake without wanting to, trying not to
listen to Chess and the Rev fuck. Which was damn hard, since they
were so damn loud at it — Chess mostly, Morrow reckoned, though
the Rev sure did his share. The racket dripped down through the
ceiling, incautious and unashamed as all get out; creak and thump
of bedsprings and other accoutrements, plus Chess himself riding
Rook like he was some sort of trick horse with a whoop and a holler,
singing out his usual refrain at the top of his lungs: “Oh yeah,
hit that, God damn ! Hit that thing, uh, Good God Jesus! Christ
Almighty, go on ahead and hit it!”
    While Morrow didn’t really want to know what -all was getting hit,
necessarily, the sheer crazy spectacle of it still amazed him somewhat.
God knew, he’d never heard a man and a woman get quite so rowdy
with each other, not unless incipient physical damage was involved.
    “There’s things you need not to ask, concernin’ Chess and the
Reverend.” Kees Hosteen had taken Morrow aside and told him,
back when Morrow first joined up.
    To which Morrow had blurted back, “Those two screwin’ each
other, or what?”
    Hosteen gave him a long look. “Not each other , as such,” he said,
finally. “But Chess takes it from the Rev whenever the Rev cares
to give it, and if you feel you gotta make hay on that bein’ against
nature, or some such — ”
    “Chess’ll shoot me for it.”
    “Right where you stand, boy. I’ve seen it done, and more’n just
the once.”
    “Reverend feel the same way?”
    “Who knows what the Reverend feels? Them hexacious ones ain’t
for us to understand. But Chess don’t seem to care either way — so
watch yourself, or watch the damn wall.”
    Pinkerton Agency records didn’t say much about Rook, or his
proclivities, back before the hanging. Had he always liked men? Morrow wondered. Maybe the Rev just considered himself so
damned it didn’t much matter who he found himself at play with.
Or did they consider themselves some version of married, with
or without the Rev’s former deity’s permission? That seemed to
jibe, though for all Chess might be the one on the receiving end,
Morrow somehow doubted Rook thought he was the wife in their
arrangement.
    So Reverend Rook was a sinner and maybe a hypocrite, according
to the tenets of his own Good-turned-bad Book. Chess, though . . .
Chess Pargeter was by nature an outlaw born and bred, just like his
Ma, and couldn’t’ve ever been anything else, not even if he’d never
robbed his first stage, or killed outside of the War. The big decision
Chess had probably made before leaving San Francisco hadn’t been
to not be a whore , per se, ’cause from what Hosteen let slip, he’d
certainly taken payment for favours since — it’d just been to not
ever let himself be what Chess considered a victim.
    “He’s a mean little man, that’s for sure,” Hosteen had said, half-admiringly. “You know where Chess come from, right?”
    Morrow nodded.
    “Well, listen. I once went to a cat-house, up on Black Mountain —
them gals was so tough they didn’t even have pimps. They set their
own rates; enforced ’em, too. I saw one cut a notch in a trick’s ear
’cause he shorted her the minimum — said she’d’ve done it on his
tallywhacker, but she wanted to give him a chance to pay her back.
And the next week, there he was again! Chess strikes me that way.
    “Very first time he come into camp, lookin’ — and actin’ — like he
does, the men got to talkin’. Damn if he didn’t even blink, though —
just gave out how sure, he’d suck your cock for ya, long as you washed
it first. But he