In the doorway of the Grand Central, E.B. is stewing. "They congregate outside Cochran's cabin," he says to himself, all slithery. "They've taken the child there. Well, I wish him well." Huh. This week, E.B. is the Greek chorus. Seeing Dan charging across the lane toward him, he recoils back behind the desk, muttering in a panic. Forgoing pleasantries, Dan barrels in, asking for Hawkeye. "I see, Dan," E.B. says. "With the world off its axis, I'm no more to you than a room clerk."
Dan's got about half the patience of Al, today. He asks if Hawkeye's there "or fuckin' not." E.B. says no, not for three days, but can't help getting all snippity about it, scornfully asking Dan if he'd like him to shine his shoes and do his laundry. Dan ain't having it. He grabs E.B. by his collar and pulls him half over the desk, asking if E.B. fucking understands that he needs to see Hawkeye. "Yes," E.B. croaks, and, after Dan leaves, says, "A broken heart does not impair hearing." Aw. E.B.'s feeling left out again, I guess.
Over at the Bella Union, Wolcott and Cy are having a drink. (Before I go on, I must tell you that almost every time I type out the name "Wolcott," I accidentally type "Wolcoot," and somehow, even though I've done it hundreds of times now, it never stops being funny.) Cy asks Jack the bartender, who has just come in, if Leon and Con Stapleton have managed to get "that fat fuck" over to Joanie's yet, and smartassedly wonders if "her ladyship" took him in. Jack reports, with extreme stiffness, that Leon and Con have not made it up the street yet. Cy remarks that the Bella Union needs a better sled. Hee. But no, Jack says, it's not just the sled in this case, apparently Con's pulled a rupture in his groin trying to haul the corpulent Manual through the thoroughfare. Cy can't take it. "You get back to that fuckin' circus act, and tell him to get Mose Manual to Joanie's, or a rupture won't be a tickle compared to the pain I'll throw at him later."
Jarry picks this exact moment to arrive. "Commissionerrrrrrrr," Cy says in exasperation, sounding like a cartoon pirate. Jarry cuts to the chase, asking where he'll find the sheriff. Cy tells him that the Bullock's boy has had an accident and that the sheriff is with him at the Doc's. "Where is the Doc's?" Jarry asks, super-rude. "Oh, don't be a fool," Wolcott groans, and rightly so. Jarry, dude -- when a multiple murderer who can't have sex without his pants on is casting aspersions on your ability to act right, you need to dial it down a FEW notches. Better yet, though...keep it up, asshole, and maybe Wolcott will have to razor you, causing Christmas to come early at my house.
Jarry ain't clear on the matter, though. He drones on, saying that the Yankton deal takes precedent over the sheriff's privacy and that Wolcott's employers would no doubt feel the same way. Cy tells Jarry that going to Bullock now will only earn him a pistol-whipping. "These injuries mortal," Jarry says, "to earn such commendable deference." HUH? Now, come on, people! Even I can barely find the...sentence in that sentence. I get it, though, when Cy says that "mortal's how I would be bettin'." Ah, Jarry says, realizing we're talking about mortal injuries. "Of course that casts a different light," he says, with all the sincerity of a person with no soul, "very sad for the sheriff and his son." Uh, yeah. Wolcott and Cy are drinking shot after shot in what seems to be actual sadness. Jarry continues to be JARRING, asking if "that paper man can be made sensible."