Perhaps he had needled away one too many sloe gin fizzes. Perhaps it was the sawdust under his stool, the all-too-conspicuous dampness of tears and nervous sweat. Perhaps it was the humiliation hovering on his shoulder like a foul-mouthed parrot—Earlene, the emaciated flit that called herself the town’s “preeminent intimate confederate” had booted him out of the room and down the stairs the previous night, all the while yelling “Ah ain’t that kinda dirty!”

Whatever the cause, Ned ascended his barstool and unfurled the old bill he eternally clutched:

SEE NEEDLE -TOED NED THE NIMBLE WONDER CROSS THE PIT OF BURNING TORMENT , CALF ON HIS BACK .
ADMISSION : THREE BITS

“I can still do it, I say! Don’t none of you believe me, but I’ll prove it. You jus’ watch me prove it. I still got it!”

Hezekiah, the sallow-faced farm hand out at McAlester’s, cracked a smile, glinting off the stiletto he was using to pick his teeth. “Well, folks, sounds like we gonna get some entertainment this day. I know just the place.”