The Man Who Killed. Fraser Nixon

here, that’s for sure.”

      “What was your name again?”

      She sought it for a second, twirling her costume pearls.

      “I told you. Celeste.”

      “Right.”

      “What’s yours?” she asked, brightening.

      “Michael,” I said.

      “And where’re you from?”

      “Far west indeed.”

      “You don’t say,” she said.

      “I’m starving,” I said.

      “So eat something,” she shrugged.

      There was Brummagem trash on the plates, limp cheese on toasted crusts. Instead of food I chose drink. Jack started talking to his whore about a friend of his.

      “He lost a hand at Wipers. The left. We met in the hospital after I was gassed. Bugger carved himself a new one from a piece of mahogany we scrounged from a church. Four fingers and a thumb, just like Captain Danjou.”

      “Who?” asked the whore.

      “Légion étrangère. Anyway, we went to a party in Belgravia somewhere after we got out and he held it over a lamp until it caught fire, and lit the candles on a birthday cake with it. That was a great night. He was a hell of a guy, for a Hasty Pee.”

      Jack’s whore laughed.

      “Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment,” Jack said.

      “What happened to him?” asked Jack’s whore.

      “He died. Survived the Western Front to die of ’flu home in Berlin, Ontario.”

      There was one of those silences, Jack looking elsewhere. The brothel’s electric current throbbed and made the light filaments flicker. We were in a stroboscope, spinning around.

      “Did you ever see that Charley Chase where his best man tricks him into thinking his fiancée has a wooden leg?” asked Jack’s whore.

      Bob was with the two other girls and they lifted the Jeroboam and poured the lees into his yap.

      “Your friend looks too young to have fought,” said Celeste.

      “He lied his way in.”

      “What about you?”

      “I was on a troopship when they announced the Armistice, then I got ’flu myself. Almost croaked in hospital.”

      I drank more wine. Celeste was beginning to get on my nerves. Things were becoming crookeder, my resentments hatching in the amniotic cocktail of Champagne and cocaine. Too much happening. From another room sounded louder music, perhaps a bunch of aldermen whooping it up. This whorehouse felt in-between, like a limbo. Criminals, prostitutes, burghers, divines, here until our indulgence was paid for. Soon our bottles would be bottom-up in their buckets of melted ice. Dead soldiers. I wondered what’d happened to Jack’s sharkspine stick. Bleaching bones in the sun. My own body one day hewn apart on the dissecting table, organs weighed and bottled in formaldehyde, the flesh sliced and boiled away. My scalp worn on an Iroquois war belt, finger bones strung on tendons to sound as they rattled together in a north wind outside the tepee, my knuckles used as dice by gambling savages. Bob and his whores were at the piano singing “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No More.” Jack was talking to his blonde about Freud.