by James Jones
He had walked a zigzag trail through the parties of beer drinkers over to the corner and stood on the outskirts of the little crowd that always congregates around a guitar player. There was a small group of five actors who were the center. The others, lumped deferentially as onlookers, stood around and sang or listened, beneath the superiority of the creative circle. Andy and Clark had swung into San Antonio Rose, and Prew circled around the outer edge, listening but making no attempt to enter, and Andy had caught sight of him.
“Hey, Prew!” he called, a fawning in his voice. “We need a guitarman. Come on over and sit in.”
“No, thanks,” he said shortly, as ashamed of the flattery in Andy as if it had been in himself, and turned to go.
“Aw, come on,” Andy urged, looking at him through the opening that the crowd had made, his eyes moving all around his face but never resting on it.
“Sure, Prew, come on,” Sal seconded eagerly his wide eyes shining blackly with enthusiasm. “Boy, we’re havin a lot of fun. We even got beer tonight. Say,” he added, rushing the new thought out, “I’m gettin pooped out. How about you takin this one for a while?” It was the greatest offering he could make, but it was the obviousness of it that hit Prew.
“Okay,” he said curtly. He walked over and took the proffered guitar and sat down in the middle of the group. “What’ll we play?”
“How about Red River Valley?” Sal said artlessly, knowing it was Prew’s favorite.
Prew nodded and hit a tentative chord, and they swung into it. As they played Clark pressed the beer pitcher upon him.
“It aint as good as Andy’s new one,” Sal said, nodding at his guitar. “He sold it to me cheap when he bought the new one. Its beat up, but its good enough for me, to learn on.”
“Sure,” Prew said.
Sal squatted in front of them holding the beer pitcher. He was grinning with great joy and he sang the song in that whining nasal, his eyes half shut, his head back and on one side, almost drowning out the rest. When it ended, he took Prew’s empty beercan that had its top cut off to serve as a glass and filled it.
“Here, Prew,” he said anxiously. “You gonna play, you’ll want to wet your whistle. Singin makes a guy get dry.”
“Thanks,” Prew said. He drained the can and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Andy.
“How about my Talkin Blues?” Andy offered. It was his specialty, that he never liked to do when there was a crowd, but now he was offering it to Prew.
“Okay,” Prew said, and hit a chord to start it off.
“I been lookin for you to come around,” Sal Clark said, above the music. “I been hopin you’d come around, Prew boy.”
“I been busy,” Prew said, not looking up.
Sal nodded quickly. “Yeah,” he said, with grotesque sympathy. “I know you have. Say, any time you want to play this old box, you just get it out a my locker. Dont bother to ever ask me, I never lock it.”
Prew had looked up then, at the candid happiness that was on the long thin olive face because he’d lost an enemy and made a friend. “Okay,” he’d said, “and thanks, Sal, thanks a lot.” He had bent his face back to the strings, feeling warm himself, because he too had made two friends today. . . .
“Two whores,” Maggio said, flipping over with its mate the queen he had for hole card.
“Two bullets,” Prew grinned, turning up his own. He reached out and scooped in the small handful of change from the blanket. There was a chorus of groans and curses as he added it to the four dollars he had won in the past two hours. “A little more of this,” he said, “and I’ll have enough to hit O’Hayer’s shed for a big lick.”
While they had played the guard bugler had sounded a watery Tattoo from the corner of the rainy muddy quad, and there had been a sudden influx of last minute pissers before they went to bed, and the CQ had come around and thrown the light switches in the squadrooms, and now in the darkened squadroom beyond the swinging saloon-doors of the latrine there were the heavy silences and soft stirrings of a great deal of sleep. But the game had gone on concentratedly through it all with that passionate singularity generally attributed to love, but which few men ever feel, for women.
“I might of knew it,” Maggio said dejectedly. He pulled down the strap of his undershirt and scratched his bony shoulder tragically. “Old-ace-in-the-hole-Prewitt. Any man catches an ace paired on the last card should have to throw in his hand or be outlawed from our club, thats all.”
“You’re as cold as a well digger’s ass in the Klondike, Angelo,” Prew grinned.
“Yeah?” Maggio glowered. “You believe it: its so. Gimme them goddam cards, men. Its my deal.” He turned to Clark.
“Hear that, Nose? Prewitt says it: Its so.” Maggio fingered his own big nose as he slapped the deck down for Prew to cut. “Was my father ever in Scranton, Pa? If I dint know my father was never out of Brooklyn in his life, I’d lay you money you was my kid brother. If I had money, that is.”
Sal Clark grinned shyly. “My nose aint big enough to be your brother.”
Maggio rubbed his hands together briskly and then ran each finger and his thumbs across his nose. “Now,” he said, “now. Here we go. I’ve changed my luck. Better’n fuckin a nigger any time,” he said, patting his big nose. He began to deal. “Who ever pinned you with the monicker of Clark, Ciolli? You’re a traitor to the Italian people, Ciolli. You snob.”
“Hell,” Sal grinned, unable to keep his face straight like Maggio’s. “I can help it? if the immigration people couldnt spell Ciolli?”
“Comeon, Angelo,” Prew said. “Deal the cards. You cant make money you dont deal the cards.”
“I cant win for losin, thats what I cant win for,” Maggio said briskly. “You’re a Wop, Ciolli. A greasy, hooknosed Wop. I dont know you. First jack bets.”
“Bet five.” Andy threw in a nickel.
Clark glowered comically, trying to narrow his fawn’s eyes. “I’m a hard man, Angelo. Dont mess with me. I’ll pull you apart. Ask Prewitt will I pull you apart.”
“You’ll never get rich on five,” Maggio said to Andy. “Lets make it ten.” He threw in a dime. “Is that right, Prew? Is this Ciolli boy really tough?”
“I call,” Prew said. “Sure he’s tough. He’s hard. I’m teachin him the manly art of self-defense.” He looked at his hole card. Sal grinned delightedly under his huge nose.
“Then he’s hard,” Maggio said. “I quit,” he said to Clark. “All right, all right,” he said, “its up to you, Jew-boy. Ten to you, you character.”
“I call,” said Pvt Julius Sussman, who had been losing steadily, “but I dont know why. Where’d you learn to deal such stinking hands?”
“I learn to deal these cards in Brooklyn, as you would know if you had of ever got out of The Bronx for air. I’m a Card Dealer. Queen is high.”
“Bets five,” Sussman said disgustedly. “You’re nutward material, Angelo, thats what you are. The original Ward Eleven Kid. You better re-enlist.”
“I’ll re-enlist,” Maggio said. “Right in your eye, with all six inches of it.” He looked at his hole card. “Two more weeks till payday. I’m ona hit Honolulu like a fifty caliber. Look out, Service Rooms!” He picked up the deck. “Last time around,” he said.
“Ha!” Sussman said. “A good piece of ass and a ride on my motor would kill you, Angelo.”
“Listen to him,” Maggio said, looking around. “The Waikiki Beach Kid. Him and his motorcycle and his one string gittar. Last time around,” he said. “Last time around. Any cuts, burns, or bruises.”
“Dealem,” Prew said.
“The man says dealem.” Angelo passed the cards, his thin hand flickering nervously, pouring out the energy, as he deftly made the round. “I aim to win this, friends. Oh, oh. Two Jacks to Andy. Jesus Christ! I closed my eyes. Two Jacks bets.”
“Its a ukelele,” Sussman explained. “Originally Hawaiian instermint. And besides, it gets the wahines. Thats all I care. My motor gets mor
e pussy than all the dough in this compny.”
“Then why dont you put the other three strings on it?” Maggio said. “You cant even play it anyway.”
“I dont have to play it,” Sussman said. “Its ony atmosphere.”
Maggio peeked tentatively at his holecard. “When I have to start playin a one string fiddle and buy me a motorcycle on time to get wahines, I’ll start payin my three bucks at the window.”
“You pay your three bucks at the window now, Angelo,” Sussman, whose motor was the dearest thing in his life, said testily.
“Thats what I said, dint I?” Maggio said disgustedly. “I call that two bits, Andy, and hump it two. Four bits to Reedy.”
“Horse frocky,” said Pvt Readall Treadwell, the sixth man, who had not won a single hand and who came from southern Pennsylvania. He heaved the fat-lined barrel that was his chest and belly in a lazy sigh and turned over his cards and tossed them in. His round face grinned lazily, belying the tremendous strength that was underneath the fat. Beside the nervous swiftness of little Maggio he was like a fat cross-legged Buddha. “You guys done broke me. I aint got no business playin cards with sharpers no ways.”
“Hell,” Maggio said. “You still got twenty cents. Stick around. I’m just beginning to win.”
“Gotohell,” Treadwell said, getting up. “I got enough for two beers left is all. An I aim to drink em, not you. Ah cant play poker no ways.”
“Hell no,” Maggio agreed. “All you’re good for is a BAR man, to lug that 27 pounds around so some noncom can take it away from you when its time to shoot it.”
“Man, you know it,” Reedy Treadwell said. But having stood up, he was no longer a part of the circle. He stood behind them looking down a minute, then ambled out, no unhappier than if he had won ten dollars.
“What a character!” Maggio said, shaking his head. “I almost hated to take his money. But I convinced myself. Everybody in this compny is characters except me and Prewitt. And sometimes I’m gettin so I wonder about Prewitt. All right, all right,” he said to Andy, “what you gonna do?”
“What you got there?” Andy stalled, sullenly studying Maggio’s cards.
“You can see em,” Maggio said. “Four clubs up, one club in the hole. That makes a flush.”
“Maybe you aint got it,” Andy said.
“Call and find out,” Maggio said. “Thats my advice to you.”
“You checked the bet on the last card,” Andy said sullenly. “You checked a cinch into me.”
“I dint have that last club on the last card,” Maggio said. “Quit stallin. You gonna call?”
Andy looked sulkily at his pair of Jacks, then at the third Jack he had for holecard. “I got to call,” he said. “There aint no choice. But you screwed me on that last card, Angelo,” he accused.
“Balls!” Maggio said. “You seen them four clubs up before you bet. Put the blame on Mame.”
“I call,” Andy said.
“Money talks,” Maggio said.
Andy threw in a quarter, reluctantly.
“How about you, Prewitt?” Maggio grinned.
“I got to call,” Prew said, studying Andy’s face. “I’m low man on this totem pole, but if he’s ony got a pair I got him beat.” He threw in his money.
“Read em and weep,” Angelo chortled, triumphantly turning up the fifth club. He reached out and scooped in the money, letting it trickle through his fingers and making a high chuckle like a miser. “You better quit now,” he said to Prew, “if you want to keep them winnings. Cause I rubbed the old nose, see? and I’m as hot as Big Virginia’s double shunt.”
“It wont last,” Prew said, taking a last drag on his tailormade and flipping it at one of the commodes.
“Hey,” Maggio said. “The butt. The butt. Dont throw it away, you capitalist.” He scrambled up and picked it up from under the commode, inhaling the smoke luxuriantly. “Lets go,” he said, “lets go. Reedy’s out: its your deal, Andy.
“Sick a Bull Durham,” he said, coming back. “I worked in Gimbel’s Basement, I least had tailormade cigarets. You niggerlip them, Prewitt. You’re sloppy. You aint a soljer.”
“A drag,” Clark said. “Gimme a drag.”
“My god!” Maggio said. “At the end of the month and two weeks till payday? I just got it. Leave me have a drag myself.” He handed over the tiny end, while Andy dealt the second round, face up. Clark took it gingerly and sucked, burning his fingers, and then flipped it into a commode.
“So,” Maggio said. “You dont believe it, Prewitt. You dont think I’ll take your money. My ace is high, bet two bits.”
“Jesus Christ!” Prew said.
“Its your own fault,” Maggio said. “I warned you.”
Andy dealt the next round and Maggio’s ace was still high. It stayed high through the whole hand and won it for him. He won the next hand, and the next one, and the one after that. The sparking energy radiating from his knobby bony frame seemed almost to call to him the cards he wanted and repel the good cards from the others.
“Man,” Maggio said, “I’m hot. I can feel it in my balls. A nail, Prewitt,” he said bitterly, “a stinking nail. I’m thirsty for a nail.”
Grinning, Prew reluctantly pulled out his almost empty pack. “First you take my money, then you want me to provide you with tobacco. I had to borrow money to buy this pack.”
“Buy another pack,” Maggio said. “You got money now, you hebe.”
“Buy your own pack. If I furnish butts to the players, then I cut the game. I’ll split it,” he grinned, “but thats all I’ll do, see?” He handed out two of his small stock, one to Maggio and Sussman, the other to Andy and Sal, and took one for himself. The others passed their paired cigarets back and forth between them as they played, and as Angelo went on winning.
Andy was dealing when the saloondoors opened and Pfc Bloom came in, pushing the door back so hard it banged against the wall and then swung back and forth squeaking loudly. Pfc Bloom advanced on the men around the blanket with a heavy, meaty confidence grinning and shaking his flat kinky head, so big the tremendous shoulders seemed to fill the door.
“Quiet, jerk,” Maggio said. “You want the CQ up here and break up the game?”
“To hell with the CQ,” Bloom said, in his customary loud voice. “And you too, you little Wop.”
A transformation went over Maggio. He stood up and walked around the blanket, up to the huge Bloom who towered over him.
“Listen,” he said in a contorted voice. “I’m particular who calls me Wop. I aint big and tough, and I aint one of Dynamite’s third rate punchies. But I’m still Maggio to you. I wont mess with you. I work you over, I’ll do it with a chair or a knife.” He stared up at Bloom, his thin face twisted, his eyes blazing.
“Oh yeah?” Bloom said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Maggio said sarcastically. Bloom took a step toward him and he leaned his head forward pugnaciously on the thin bony shoulders, and there was the sudden attentive silence that always precedes a fight.
“Lay off, Bloom,” Prew said, surprised at the clear loudness of his voice in the silence. “Come on and sit down, Angelo. Five up to you.”
“I call,” Maggio said without looking around. “Take off, you bum,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away. Bloom laughed after him self-confidently and nastily.
“Deal me in,” Bloom said, elbowing in between Sussman and Sal Clark.
“We got five players,” Maggio said.
“Yeah?” Bloom said. “So what? You can take seven players in draw poker.”
“This is stud,” Maggio said.
“You can take ten then,” Bloom said, missing the point.
“Maybe we dont want no more,” Prew said, squinting at his holecard through the smoke of his cigaret.
“Yeah?” Bloom said. “What’sa matter? Aint my money no good?”
“Not if its in your pocket,” Maggio said. “Its probly counterfeit.”
Bloom laughed loudly. “You’re a character
, Angelo.”
“To you I’m Maggio. Private Maggio.”
“Cheer up,” Bloom laughed. “You may make Pfc yourself someday, kid.” He looked down and brushed the new stripes on his shirt caressingly.
“I hope not,” Maggio said. “I sincerely, truly hope not. I might turn out to be a son of a bitch, too.”
“Hey,” Bloom said. “You mean me? Are you callin me a son of a bitch?”
“If the shoe fits, friend, you wear it,” Maggio said.
Bloom looked at him a minute, puzzled, not sure if he had been insulted or not, not able to understand why the antagonism, then he decided to laugh. “You’re a character, Angelo. For a minute I thought you was serious. Who’s got all the cigarets?” he asked. Nobody answered. Bloom looked around, and spotted the bulge in Prew’s shirt pocket. “Gimme a butt, Prewitt.”
“I aint got any,” Prew said.
“Yeah? What’s that in your pocket? Come on, give us a butt.”
Prew raised his face impassively. “An empty pack,” he lied, staring in Bloom’s eyes without embarrassment. “I just killed it.”
“Yeah?” Bloom laughed sarcastically. “All believes that stand on their head. Give us the butt on that one then.”
“Sure, friend.” Prew flipped the butt of his cigaret contemptuously. It lit on the floor near Bloom, under a commode.
“Hey!” Bloom protested. “You think I’ll smoke that? after its rolled in all that piss? Thats a hell of a way for a guy to act, for Christ’s sake.”
“I smoked one just a while ago,” Maggio said. “Tasted good to me.”
“Yeah?” Bloom said. “Well maybe I aint sunk that low yet. When I do, I’ll pick me up some horseturds and roll my own.”
“Suit yourself,” Maggio said. He crawled over and picked up the butt in question and smoked it himself. “Just watch out,” he said, crawling back, “you dont pick the wrong one up and smoke yourself.”
Sal Clark had been collecting the cards for the new hand, keeping his face averted embarrassedly from all the antagonism that had come in with Bloom, as if he did not want to see it. “Shall I deal him in?” he asked Prew gently.
