The King of Taos by Max Evans

Author:Max Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of New Mexico Press
Published: 2020-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

17

SHAW WALKED BOLDLY into the art supply shop, although in all honesty his heart was doing the tango in his breast and his stomach was jumping.

He spoke to the laughing lady.

The laughing lady spoke back, “Ohhhhh, hoooo, oh, ho, ha, I hear you’ve been selling lots of work.”

“That’s true,” said Shaw with some dignity and pride. He’d sold six portraits and nudes of Anna for a total of ninety-seven dollars in cash, six free meals, twenty or thirty drunks, a fifteen-year-old sewing machine, and a rifle. He traded the latter two to Holt for sixteen dollars’ worth of drinks and a cheap Indian bolo tie he gave to Indian Tony for posing. But he could say only four words that fit his artistic endeavors. He was surely selling.

Shaw promptly ordered some canvas, some new brushes, and paints of all kinds . . . Everything he would need for a spell.

Laughing lady just bubbled over with joy and giggles while she wrapped the supplies. A sale of this size was rare, even in a town full of “artists.”

“Will that be, ha, ha, heee he, all?”

“Yes’m,” he said, picking everything up in his arms and heading for the door. “Charge it!”

“But . . . but . . . but . . .” she said, and for the first time that year she forgot to giggle.

Shaw walked straight out to his pickup and felt a cold chill run around on his back like a man must feel when he walks across a clearing in front of enemy machine guns. He didn’t look back though. He got in the old pickup and almost ripped the gears out leaving.

He had to find Anna and get some paintings done. It seemed those he did of her were much better than his landscapes and townscapes, and they were much better than the occasional portraits he did of Indian Tony. To his eager satisfaction they sold better, too.

Since his phone had been removed and his electric lights had been cut off, he had less to worry about. The coal-oil lantern was not strong enough to paint by, so he had to get to work as early as possible during the day. About all he had to worry about now was his rent, the small loans company taking his pickup, and getting enough extra paint for the ceiling, where he must eventually paint everything in the world. He’d finally made one payment on the pickup, but if he didn’t have the other by tomorrow, the man had told him, “We’ll be forced against our wishes to impound the truck, and unfortunately, young man, this will involve attorney’s fees, extra interest, and penalties.”

The last few months Shaw had decided it was extra interest and penalties that killed most people, instead of disease, accidents, and outright murder.

He found Anna in the Lucky Bar, and though she was weaving, dancing, and shaking her hindquarters at random in the middle of the floor, he convinced her to leave.

She crawled into the pickup after several faltering attempts.

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