"Wake him up," Jake ordered.
Rachel turned down the hall and opened a bedroom door. The air was even worse than in the parlor. A thin-chested youth of twenty-eight or so was asleep, lying across the bed on his face. The butt of a pistol stuck out of his hip pocket. His coat and vest and shirt were on the back of a chair, his shoes on the floor.
"Charlie," Rachel called.
There was no response. She approached the bed cautiously and gave a pull at his foot, jumping back out of reach as soon as she had touched him. There were a couple of angry grunts.
"Charlie," she called again.
He sat up with a roar of profanity.
"How many times have I told you to leave me alone when I'm sleeping? I'll break your dirty face for you."
"Jake's in the front room," she interrupted him. "Wants to see you."
"Jake?" He lowered the hand he had raised to strike her. "What in Hell does he want?"
"How do I know?"