“There’s a Reason Why They Call It the Badlands”

Another tale of the old west by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq

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After a couple of minutes, during which Jace Calhoun fought back the urge to shout for service, one of the bartenders came over to him. “Whaddaya want, cowboy?” “I’d like some lunch, please.” “So would I.” “Do you have a menu?” The bartender pointed with his thumb to a blackboard mounted on the wall behind him. “You blind?” “Yes, I saw that, but I thought you might also have a printed menu.” “What’s the matter with the blackboard menu?” “Nothing at all. I just thought that the blackboard menu might just be specials, and that you might also have a printed menu.” “No.” “So the blackboard menu is your only menu?” “Yes, and look, as you can see we’re really goddam busy in here, so if you’re not ready to order I’ll check back with you in five, ten minutes.” “No! Look, your boss, Zeke –” “Mister Zeke to you.” “Okay, your boss, Mister Zeke, he recommended the chicken fried steak, but I see you also have a T-bone up there.” “So you can read.” “Heh heh, yes, so how’s the T-bone?” “I get few complaints.” “A buck-fifty, right?” “That’s what it says, don’t it?” “Yes. But what about that ten-alarm chili for a quarter, how’s that?” “What do you want for a quarter?” “Okay, well, does it come with bread?” “The chili?” “Yes, the chili, does it come with bread?” “Hardtack.” “Okay, hardtack. And is the chili really hot? I mean spicy hot?” “Why do you think we call it ten-alarm?” “All right. Now Mister Zeke told me that you get a bottle of red eye with the chicken fried steak. Do you get a bottle of red eye with the chili?” “No, but you get an imperial pint of our house bock.” “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad –” “What more do you want for a lousy two bits?” “Excuse me, cowboy,” said a small old man sitting on the stool to the right of where Jace stood. “Are you a vegetarian?” “A vegetarian?” said Jace. “No, why?” “Because the ten-alarm chili is a vegetarian chili.” “It is?” “Most assuredly. I’m a vegetarian, and I eat it every day.” “I didn’t realize it was a vegetarian dish.” “What do you expect for a quarter?” said the bartender. “Well, it did seem pretty inexpensive,” said Jace. “This is the 19th century,” said the bartender. “You need at least one or two vegetarian items on the menu.” “I can see that,” said Jace. “Well, look, I think maybe I’ll just try the T-bone.” “We’re out of the T-bone.” “Okay, well, I’ll go for the chicken fried steak then.” “Just sold my last order.” Jace sighed. “I’ll come back,” said the bartender. “No!” said Jace. “Look, how about the ham and eggs for fifty cents?” “All gone.” “Go for the chili,” said the little old man. “It’s to die for.” “I’m sure it is,” said Jace. “It’s just I’m not very good with hot spices, especially for my first meal of the day –” “Then don’t order it,” said the old-timer. “No skin off my nose.” “Okay,” said Jace, and he addressed the bartender again. “What do you have on the menu that you’re not out of yet?” The bartender turned and looked at the menu for a moment, then turned to face Jace again. “Flapjacks?” “Flapjacks, great, I’ll take those.” “Tall or short stack.” “Tall.” “That’s another good vegetarian option,” said the little old man. “Yes,” said Jace. “I’m sure it is.” Turning to the bartender again he said, “Do I get some red eye or beer with that?” “Not included. You do get a bottomless cup of our house fresh-ground chicory coffee though.” “Well, I was really hoping for a nap after lunch, and so I’d better not have coffee.” “So don’t have it.” “Can I substitute some red eye or at least beer for the coffee?” “You looking for trouble, pal?” “No, not at all, it’s just –” “Look, it’s two bits for the flapjacks, pal. You don’t want coffee, fine, that’s on you. Order some red eye then, but I’m gonna charge you for it.” “Okay,” said Jace, “look, I’ll take a tall stack of the flapjacks and I’ll also have a bottle of red eye.” “It’ll be a quarter for the red eye.” “Great, that sounds very reasonable. Could I have the bottle of red eye now while I’m waiting for my flapjacks?” “Of course.” The bartender reached under the bar, pulled out an unlabeled bottle and a whiskey glass and put it on the bar in front of Jace. “Fifty cent,” he said. “For the red eye and the flapjacks. Pay in advance.” Jace had his money all ready and he put down a silver dollar. “Keep the change.” “Thanks, big spender,” said the bartender. Jace pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth, spat it onto the floor, filled his glass with the red eye, and drank it down in one go. “I think you’ll like the flapjacks,” said the old timer. “I eat them every day.” “At this point I don’t much care,” said Jace. “As long as it’s food.”  “You should really consider adopting a vegetarian diet.” “Okay, I will,” said Jace, and he refilled his glass. It wasn’t the worst red eye he’d ever tasted. He drank this second glass down and felt a little better. “Hey, old-timer,” he said, “can I ask you a question?” “Fire away, sonny.” “Why is everybody in this town so unpleasant?” “I don’t think I’m unpleasant.” “Okay, I generalized, I’m sorry.” “Apology accepted.” Jace refilled his glass again. “I wouldn’t mind some of that red eye,” said the old man. “Sure,” said Jace. There was an empty glass in front of the old fellow, and Jace filled it up with red eye. “To your very good health, sir,” said the old man, and they both emptied their glasses. “They call me Old Mose,” said the old man. “Jace,” said Jace, “Jace Calhoun.” They shook hands. The old fellow’s hand was filthy, but Jace’s hand was not so clean either. “There’s a reason why they call it the Badlands,” said Old Mose, and he shoved his empty glass toward Jace for a refill. Herbert Goldfarb paused with his fingers over the typewriter keys. Was he losing his mind? No one would buy this story. He’d typed five or six pages, and not a gunfight or saloon brawl in sight. He needed to eat, that was the problem. But he was stone broke, all he had was one subway token to his name. At this rate he would never get this story in shape in time to take the el up to the Minchkin Publications offices and try to get Schwartz to take it for a sawbuck. He was doomed. He turned and looked out his one window at the steel girders and columns of the elevated train in the bright but dirty sunshine. Then he hung his head, in despair, and there, on the bare floorboards, was a ten-dollar bill. He bent down and picked it up, held it to the light. It was crumpled, and dirty, but it was real. A ten-dollar bill.  Had his guardian angel left it here? Or had he himself somehow dropped it on the floor when he was flush, possibly when he had had one too many bocks at Bob’s Bowery Bar? He wouldn’t put it past himself. He only swept up once every couple of weeks or so, and the floor was littered with crumpled typewriter paper, gum wrappers, crushed Philip Morris packets, and dust bunnies.  Ten dollars. He could eat today, and he could even give Mrs. Morgenstern five bucks toward his overdue rent.  He pocketed the ten, and turned back to the sheet of paper in his typewriter. He began to type again.  next story

“The Man Who Shot Johnny One Ear”

Another tale of the old west by Dan Leo

Rip snorting illustrations by the illustrious rhoda penmarq

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“I recommend the chicken fried steak,” said the man in the black suit. “Okay, thanks,” said Jace.  “It’s our special today.” “Well, that sounds good.” “I wouldn’t recommend it if it wasn’t good.” “No, of course not.” “It’s a dollar.” “Wow, a dollar?” “Two four-ounce cutlets of lightly breaded tenderized cube steak, served  with our hand-cut house fried potatoes and choice of veg, what’s your problem?” “Oh, no problem, in fact it sounds really good.” “Jesus Christ, cowboy, I got to make a living here you know.” “Yes, of course –” “We serve the steak with a sauce Béarnaise, but if you don’t want Béarnaise you can get it plain or with ketchup or with our house hellfire sauce.” “Could I get the Béarnaise on the side?” “Certainly.” “Could I also get the hellfire sauce on the side, you know, just to try it?” The man in black paused for just a moment before replying. “Sure, cowboy. Why not?” “Much obliged.” “You get a bottle of red eye with the meal, too.” “A bottle of red eye is included with the steak special?” “What did I just say?” “I’m sorry, but, yeah, that sounds great, I mean, chicken fried steak and a bottle of red eye, that’s a pretty good deal –” “Don’t forget the house fried potatoes and choice of veg.” “I haven’t, yes, it all sounds –” “What the hell else do you want?” “Nothing, like I said, it really sounds –” “Great.” “Yes, it does –” “Because it is.” “Yes, I’m sure it is, so, look, I guess I’ll head over to the bar then and try to get my order in.” “You do that.” “See you later, Zeke.” “Mister Zeke.” “Sorry – Mister Zeke.” “What did you say your name was?” “Jace Calhoun?” “Calhoun.” “Yes. Jace –” “Jace Calhoun?” “Yes. My first name is actually Jason, but –” “Wait. Jace Calhoun who gunned down the Mason brothers over in Deadwood?” “Okay, now that incident has been wildly misreported, Mr. Zeke –” “Jace Calhoun who robbed the Danville train?” “All right, hold on, I had nothing – or practically nothing – to do with that robbery –” “Jace Calhoun who shot Johny One Ear in the back?” “Okay, now look, that’s just not true –” “So you’re saying you didn’t shoot Johnny One Ear.” “Well, I’m not saying I didn’t shoot Johnny One Ear, per se, but – to just say I shot him in the back does not tell the whole story. You see, what happened was –” “I thought you were hungry.” “I am.” “Then maybe you better get over to the bar and order that chicken-fried steak special before we run out of it.” “Yes, of course –” The man just stood there staring at him, and so Jace turned and headed for the bar. Herbert Goldfarb pulled the page out of the typewriter and scrolled another one in. He reached for another bite of the babka and realized to his horror that all three pieces were gone. He rubbed his finger around the plate, gathered up the crumbs and licked them from his finger. He sighed. He was still hungry. Mrs. Morgenstern’s cinnamon babka was delicious, but it was hardly a nutritious lunch, especially considering that Herbert had had nothing for breakfast except a cup of black Nescafé with no sugar, and all he had had to eat for dinner last night was a hot dog with sauerkraut at Ma’s Diner.  He looked into the mug Mrs. Morgenstern had brought him, and at least there was a bit of coffee left in it – and it had cream and sugar in it, too, just the way he liked it. He drank it down, it was still almost warm, and so much better than black Nescafé with not a grain of sugar. Okay, back to work. He really had to work a gunfight in here, or at least a saloon brawl. It was so hard to concentrate when all you could think about was food…  “So now you’re gonna feel sorry for yourself?” Herbert turned, and it was a little old man, shabbily dressed, with wire-rimmed round glasses which magnified his eyes to twice their presumable actual size. He had a cloth cap on his head and a gnarled little cigar in his mouth. “Who are you?” said Herbert. “How did you get in here?” “Don’t worry about how I got in here,” said the little man. “Bert is my name. They call me Bowery Bert.” “Y’know, now that I think about it, I’ve seen you around, at Ma’s Diner, and Bob’s Bowery Bar –” “Oh, the keen novelist’s eye! So you do take some notice of your physical surroundings?” “Well, to some extent. I know I’m self-absorbed, and that’s something I have been working on –” The little man held up his little hand, like a miniature traffic cop. “Stop. I am not here to hear your life story.” “Oh, okay, then, well, may I ask then why –” “I am a guardian angel.” “A guardian angel? You’re my guardian angel?” “I am the guardian angel for this area of the Bowery. I always have to explain this to everybody, but we do not have individual guardian angels for every single human being on the planet. We are given districts. My district is the Bowery, from Bleecker to Union Square and the adjacent blocks on either side of that storied thoroughfare you humans call the Bowery.” “So – you’re here to help me?” “Help is a strong word. I prefer the term ‘advise’.” “Wow, thank you. So what do you advise me to do?” “Cut the shit.” “The ‘shit’?” “Cut it, right now. You know why you’re starving and can’t pay your rent?” “Well, the market for fiction is very competitive –” “Bullshit. The problem is the crap you write, not the market place.” “What’s the matter with the crap I write, I mean the stuff I write?” “The problem is that you are writing according to formulas. You’re writing the same shit every other hack writer writes. So here’s my tip. Lose the formulas. Write from your heart, and from your brains. What’s your name again?” “Herbert Goldfarb. But I write under various pen names. Like my detective stories are ‘Mack J. Collingsworth’, and my science fiction stories are ‘J. Phelps Bensonhurst’, but my westerns, like this one I’m writing now, are signed ‘Jake C. Higgins’ –” “Try writing under your own name.” “Herbert Goldfarb?” “That’s your name, isn’t it?” “Yes, but –” “Look, I got to run. All day I got appointments, and trust me, some of these clowns are a hell of a sight more hopeless than even you are. Which is saying something.” “Okay.” “Now get back to that story you’re writing. And remember: lose the formulas.” “I think I at least have to get a gunfight or two in it.” “Lose. The. Formulas.” “Well, okay,” said Herbert. He turned and looked at the page he had just typed. Then he turned back to the the little old man, but he was gone, all  except for the smell of his little cigar. Herbert turned again, and looked at the blank page in his typewriter. Jace found a place at the crowded bar. No stool, but at least he had a place to stand. He waited to get a bartender’s attention. He was determined to be patient, and determined to try to get through the day without a gunfight, or even a saloon brawl. Was that too much to ask? next story

“The Worst Guy in the World”

A cautionary tale by Dan Leo

Artwork by the illustrious rhoda penmarq

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“I got a little class,” said Tom the Bomb. “Not a lot of class, but a little class.” “Sure,” said Wine.  Tom was buying, on account of he had worked this week, down at the Fulton Fish Market, and so Wine was agreeing with everything Tom the Bomb said. “How’s your wine, Wine?” said Tom, even though he could see that Wine’s glass was empty. “You want another Tokay?” Wine had never turned down a drink in his life yet and he wasn’t about to start now.  “Thanks, Tom, sure, I appreciate it.” “Yo, Bob,” yelled Tom, “another Tokay for my father here, and I’ll take another bock.”  Bob was down at the other end of the bar, talking to the Brain, but he at least looked up, even if he didn’t say anything. “When you get time, Bob,” yelled Tom. “No hurry.” Bob turned back to the Brain. He didn’t hurry for anybody. “Thanks, Tom,” said Wine again. “Don’t mention it,” said Tom. “When I’m flush my friends are flush. And that means you, ya little wino.” “Heh heh.” “A little class,” said Tom. “Not a lot of class, but a little class.” “A little class is good, Tom,” said Wine. “That’s what I say,” said Tom. “A little class. Just a little. That’s all.” “You’re right, Tom.” “I know I’m right. And you know why I know I’m right?” “I don’t know, Tom.” “You want to know why I know I’m right?” “Sure.” “I’ll tell ya, buddy. I’ll tell ya how I know. It’s because I got a little class. And that’s how I know.” Bob was there, and he refilled Wine’s glass from the gallon jug of Tokay, which, like his bock beer, he brewed down in the basement of the bar.  “Thanks, Bob,” said Wine. “Take it out of my pile there, Bob,” said Tom, tapping his little wet pile of dollar bills and loose change. “And another bock for me, too.” “Yeah, I heard you the first time,” said Bob. “Heh heh,” said Tom. Bob took Tom’s glass down to the bock tap. “I love that guy,” said Tom to Wine, in a low voice. “Yeah, he’s a good guy,” said Wine. “What was I sayin’?” said Tom. “That you got a little class. And a little class is good. And that you know that ‘cause you got a little class.” “Yeah,” said Tom. “A little class. Not a lot of class. But a little.” “And a little class is good, Tom.” “Damn straight it’s good,” said Tom. Friday, and the joint was filling up. What did Tom care? He had enough money to get his load on, and enough to get Wine loaded too. If he wasn’t too hungover tomorrow, maybe he’d show up for work at the Market, and if he didn’t feel like getting out of bed, he wouldn’t. That was tomorrow, and now was now. Bob laid the fresh glass of bock down and took the exact change for the bock and the Tokay and went away. “Here’s to you, pal,” said Tom to Wine. The two drunks touched their glasses and drank. Tom sighed. “I ain’t the worst guy in the world,” he said. “No,” said Wine. “Not the worst,” said Tom. “Not at all,” said Wine. “I ain’t the worst guy in the world.” Then Tom didn’t say anything for a while.  Wine didn’t mind. next story

"Goldfarb's Holler"

A tale of the old west by Dan Leo

Rip roaring illustrations by rhoda penmarq

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Jace Calhoun had always tried to be a good feller. It weren’t his fault he kept getting into trouble. All across the wild west he had roamed, just trying to find peace, excepting every durn town he pulled into there was always somebody who wanted to throw down on him. And why? He was a nice guy, but maybe it was just because he was so nice, and also because he was a six-foot-two rangy strapping drink of cool mountain spring water with a broad flashing grin and a good word and a howdy-do for everybody he met.  Take this one feller he met when Jace pulled into this mining town in the Badlands name of Goldfarb’s Holler. Herbert Goldfarb paused at his typewriter. Where the hell had “Goldfarb’s Holler” come from? Who the hell ever heard of a Badlands mining town called Goldfarb’s Holler? See, this is what happened when you were overworked and underslept, tired, and hungry. But his rent was over a month overdue, and Herbert really wanted to get a story written today. If he got it finished by mid-afternoon he could take the El up to the Minchkin Publications offices, shove his way in and go right to Al Schwartz’s desk, throw it down and ask for a ten-buck flat fee. But first he had to write the damn thing.  Time was short and typing paper was expensive, so Herbert decided to let Goldfarb’s Holler stay.  Where was he? Oh, yeah… First thing Jace did after he found a stable for his horse Bosco was the first thing he did whenever he came to a new town. He hit the nearest saloon. It was around noon and the place was packed. Didn’t nobody work in this town? And then he realized that most of the fellers in here were very dirty, and so they must be miners and they were in here on their lunch break. What Jace really wanted was a beefsteak, some fried taters, and a bottle of whiskey. Now that was a lunch. Maybe some pie afterwards, then a nice nap. Herbert realized he was really hungry. No breakfast today, not even toast, let alone the daily breakfast special across the street at Ma’s Diner. Damn, that beefsteak Jace wanted sounded good. What was today? Tuesday? Ma’s Diner’s Tuesday all-day special was her delicious chicken-fried steak! For seventy-five cents you got a juicy thick chicken-fried T-bone, hand-cut french fries and your choice of veg, and depending on what was available Herbert liked the succotash or the “breaded ‘n’ fried” Jersey tomato slices. Beverage included, and Herbert would always go for Ma’s house chicory coffee, with plenty of cream and sugar… He was getting distracted again. Back to the story. “Hey, miss,” said Jace to a comely dark-haired waitress going by with a tray full of beers and whiskeys, “can I get a table for one?” “What, are you nuts, cowboy? Look at this joint, you see an empty table?” “Well, how long do you think the wait is for a table?” “How the hell do I know?” “Could I just put my name down? It’s Jace, Jace Cal–” “What do you think this place is, Delmonico’s?” “I’d just like to put my name on the waiting list. I could have a drink at the bar, and –” “Do I look like I got a waiting list?” “Oh, then is there a hostess I could talk to?” Jace looked around for a hostess stand. “Hey, Mabel, this guy bothering you?” This was said by a fancy-looking dude in a black suit, smoking a thin cigar. “He’s an idiot,” said the waitress. “Wants to know if we have a waiting list for tables.” The dude looked at Jace. “What’s your problem, pal?” “I just want to get some lunch.” “Then why you bothering Mabel?” “I didn’t mean to bother her, but since she seems to work here, I thought she might be able to help me to get a table so I could eat lunch.” “You want to hog a whole table for yourself when this place is this busy?” “Maybe just a small table?” “We have a few deuces, but they’re all occupied at present.” “Oh, so you work here too?” “I own this establishment.” “Hey, Zeke,” said the waitress, “can I drop these drinks off now? The beer’s getting warm and flat while this moron is holding me up.” “Yes, go on, Mabel.” The waitress went off and the dude looked at Jace again. “I hope you didn’t come here looking for trouble.” “All I want is some lunch, mister. A nice beefsteak, some fried taters, a bottle of red eye. Is that too much to ask?” “Not at all,” said the dude. “But if you’re gonna come in here looking for trouble, let me tell you something, you’re gonna find it, in spades.” The dude drew back the skirts of his frock coat, draping their folds behind the pearl handles of twin revolvers in a black gun belt twinkling with .45 cartridges in their little leather loops. “Oh, jeeze, mister – what is it, Zeke?” “You can call me Mr. Zeke. You haven’t earned the right to call me Zeke. Yet.” “Okay, Mr. Zeke – my name’s Jace, by the way, Jace Calhoun.” Zeke ignored Jace’s offered hand. Okay, thought, Jace, be that way. “Okay, fine, skip the handshake, I get it. But, look, I’ve been riding since dawn, no breakfast, and I’m tired and sore and hungry, and all I want is a beefsteak, and some potatoes, and a bottle of cheap whiskey. And then, if it’s not too much trouble, I would like a room, to sleep in. And I’d like to get a bath after I wake up from my nap. Is all that too much to ask?” “I don’t know,” said Zeke. “Is it?” Herbert had reached one of those points in a story where you really had to have something happen. Should he go right for a gunfight now? Maybe just a bar brawl? Or maybe a gunfight could break out in another part of the saloon? Would Jace ever get his beefsteak? A knocking sounded on Herbert’s door. “Mr. Goldfarb?” It was Mrs. Morgenstern. Great. “Mr. Goldfarb, I hear you typing, so I know you’re in there.” “Coming, Mrs. Morgenstern.” Herbert got up from his table and walked the six feet to the door. He opened it. “Look, Mrs. Morgenstern, I know my rent’s overdue, but if I can finish this story I’m writing today I can give you ten dollars this evening, I mean I think I can if I can run it uptown to this publisher that takes most of my stories. What’s that?” “I baked a cinnamon babka. I thought you might like some.” She had a tin tray with a plate on it, with three thick slices of babka. Next to the plate was a big ceramic mug, steaming. “A nice fresh hot mug of coffee, too. Cream and sugar, right?” “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Morgenstern.” “And listen, if you sell your story, you ain’t got to give us ten tonight. Maybe a fin.” “A fin, yes, a five, well, okay, I’ll try to at least get you five.” “I know you work hard. All day I hear you typing in here.” “I try. But the publishers only pay –” “Just keep typing away. Someday you’ll write one of them best sellers, like Herman Wouk, Harold Robbins.” “I wish.” “Okay, I got work to do myself. See ya later, Mr. Goldfarb.” “Thank you, Mrs. Morgenstern –” But she was already headed down the hall. Herbert closed the door and sighed. The coffee smelled good. The babka smelled good. He took the tray over to his little table and set it down next to his typewriter.  He took a bite of babka. Delicious, and still warm! He took a sip of the coffee, and then looked at the page in his typewriter. Jace sighed. He didn’t want a gunfight. He wanted a beefsteak, some potatoes, some whiskey, maybe a slice or two of pie or cake, and then a room with a bed. “Okay,” he said, “look, Mr. Zeke, how about if I just try to find a spot at the bar, and I’ll have my lunch standing up if I have to.” “You probably will have to.” “Could I at least ask you for a room that I can go to after my lunch?” “All we have is a fourth floor single looking out over the pig yard in back.” “That would be perfect.” “A dollar a night, in advance.” “That seems very reasonable.” “You can pay me now.” Jace dug out a silver dollar from his Levi’s, and gave it to Zeke. “I’ll send the bellboy over to get you at the bar in about an hour.” “That would be fine,” said Jace. Great, thought Herbert, now to get a good gunfight in here. He took another bite of the delicious babka, and a good gulp of the coffee, and he got back to work. next story