Over at the Bella Union, other bad stuff is going down. Joanie comes down the stairs to find a fretting Cy. He wants to know how Andy's doing upstairs, and she tersely replies that "he's sick." Ever the humanitarian, Cy growls that "we ain't no hospital," and calls over one of his goons. "Number eight's relocatin'," he says. Cy tells the guy to bundle Andy up, shoot him up with dope, and take him to the hills. The goon has a pang of conscience. "Can someone else do it, Mr. Tolliver?" he asks, all guiltyfied. But see, Cy is in no mood for goons and their pangs. He gives the guy the eyebrow: "Sure they can," he says, full of sarcasm. "Shall I get someone else to take him?" The dude gets it, and says no, he'll do it. Cy snarls at him to burn the blanket afterwards, and shuffles off. Joanie is upset. "Some do get well, Cy," she says, though she doesn't say it with much confidence, and Cy snaps back that "his chances will improve outdoors." Oh, certainly. I believe the winter, 1878 issue of The Old-Timey Journal of Medicine recommended slinging smallpox victims out into the harshest climate possible and praying for their timely demise. Alternative therapies included dipping them in frozen lakes and/or covering them with scorpions.
Things are tough all over. At the Gem, Dan is setting up the room for the trial. From above, Al wonders what the hell he's doing, and Dan snappily asks if he wants the tables together, or not. "I don't want anything done that can't be undone five minutes after this fiasco concludes," Al says, adding in a sharp aside to Jewel to "clean somewhere where I can't see you." For someone who volunteered to have the thing at his place, he sure is being a bitch about it. Seeing the whores looking with curiosity on the preparations, he commands them to "Go on! Get fucking!" Sometimes I hate to love Al so much, actual tears come to my eyes. Speaking of tears, E.B. oils in and reports about the widow signing over her proxy to Bullock.