by Gil Meynier
He crossed the street. There was a big fat cab in front of the hotel.
“It’s a little ways out on the Nogales road,” he said to the driver. “I’ll tell you where to stop.”
There was a house this side of where the road to the gambling joint turned off. His idea was to stop the cab there and walk the rest of the way. Better yet, he’d have him stop at the eating shack a mile or so this side of that house. The driver would think he had a hot date or something.
Cabs get to smell like flop-houses, thought Joe.
Taking a cab was a good idea. Might even cost him less than renting the convertible. Hunched in the corner of the seat, his feet up on the jump-seat in the glow of the meter, he was a big shot, taking cabs, just like that, whenever the spirit moved him.
He guessed all big shots were kind of lonely. Take people who aren’t big shots, like Dorry or Jard or the old lady; well, they stick around, kind of bunched together; they’re never lonely. But what do they do?
The cab reached the edge of town and the last of the street lights. Its headlights began to cut clearly into the night. Joe opened all the windows and let the hot air blow in. It usually cooled off about this time of night but tonight it was hot and muggy. Probably another storm on the way.
Long before they reached the bend in the road from which the sign of the eating place is visible, Joe started looking for it. Both feet on the floor, he leaned forward and watched the road. There was a certain pleasure in being driven. It was nothing like driving yourself, but it was all right. He wondered what cab drivers thought about, coming back empty from long hauls into the country. He wondered if they picked up babes.
“That’s it, over there,” he said.
He paid the cab driver who said: “Thanks, bud,” flipped his flag and headed back toward town, impersonal as hell.
Joe didn’t go inside the eating place. He stood in the driveway and looked around as if he were expecting somebody, just in case the driver was watching him in his little mirror. When the cab was out of sight Joe started walking down the road.
He didn’t like walking in the open, like that, specially on dark nights. Sidewalks in town are all right, but the soft shoulders of desert roads made him feel as if he were stumbling along in a bad dream. There were sudden rocks, and roots that snagged you, culverts that might hide unknown dangers, cars that blinded you or foo-ished past you from behind. And do you think any of those sons would offer you a ride! Unknown people, going unknown places.
Funny that he’d never gotten the drinking habit. That’s one thing you could say about him, nice clean boy who never took a drink. One or two, occasionally, to get some liquor into a babe, but he had seen enough drunks to be afraid of people doing things, taking advantage of him while he was high. He’d never really gotten drunk. That’s one thing you could say about him. Thinking how good he was helped him hurry along the road.
He had his good pants on, and his good shoes, and he was getting wet from walking fast. But he didn’t want to stop on the highway. He’d stop on the side road and dry off a bit. It wasn’t very far. Walking sure made you perspire.
How in hell was he going to get to talk to Mac?
Coming all the way out here he had tried not to think about it but now it was a problem.
Okay. He’d go in. He could tell by the cars outside whether there was a crowd or not. Mac would be standing under the bright light...
That’s all he could visualize. Mac, standing under the bright light. Then what? If there was a crowd it might be some time before he could speak to Mac, and all the time he was waiting in there to talk to Mac the Italian and his friend would be on the way.
There was a sustained puff of night wind and Joe’s wet shirt felt freezing against his back. He shivered and, immediately, his thoughts reverted to his own physical misery. The stitch in his side was coming back, his feet were hurting. He got a whiff of the moisture of his armpits. He never liked it when exertion stirred up that old sweat. People don’t like you when you stink. That’s why he never exerted himself, why big shots never exert themselves. Some even put on perfume. What he was really afraid of was the wet shirt feeling so cold against his back with the wind blowing. That’s the way you catch pneumonia.
It was blacker than pitch on the side road. How can you feel so cold when it is so hot! It’s the wind and the sweat. Joe rubbed his shoulders and tried to protect his chest with his arms as he walked. This is the goddamnest country, he thought; you freeze when it’s hot and your house melts away when it rains. What the hell was he doing here! He was here because there was no other place. Of the millions of roads in the world this was the bit of road he had to walk, and he had to walk it because everything was against him, everything, down to his own smell, his aching feet, his fears, the blackness of the night.
And he was doing it for something that seemed so damned remote that he was almost tempted to give up. But you can’t give up the only thing you have. If he gave this up, what would there be? He wouldn’t even know three or four people any more, like everybody else. Mac was his last friend, really. And you’ve got to know somebody. You’ve got to bunch up with somebody. Maybe that’s why those women were never lonely. That’s what kept people from walking dark roads in the night between nowhere and nowhere, the bunching together.
If only there was a light in the distance, something to walk toward. But there wasn’t. The house he was going to had light inside, bright light, but none of it showed outside. A light, showing, would have been a kind of encouragement, a hint that everything would be all right when he got there, stumbling on the ruts of the road. Instead of that, there was a fear of what he would be up against, in the glaring light, inside, when he got there.
He groaned and hurried on. He had to get there, quick. He’d sit down somewhere, between a couple of cars, maybe, and get straightened out before he knocked at the door.
And there was that horrible feeling that the house might be dark inside, too, when he got there. Suppose the joint was closed for some reason. Nobody there. Empty, dark house.
What is it that makes you think things like that? Is it because you don’t know what people do, because you don’t understand what makes people do things, like checking up on you when you return a car, like saying fifty bucks deposit, like taking the old lady away. And like condemning the house, and like what made Dorry come here, and made her go away, and police cars suddenly turning up, slowly cruising along.
That’s it, you don’t know. You don’t even know what made you come here and what makes you walk this lousy side road. It’s all the people who are connected together, and yet are unconnected. It’s Mayhew, coming from nowhere, making him do something and then disappearing back again into nowhere. That goddamn pucker and that goddamn money-belt.
There probably wasn’t anything in that moneybelt. Why would he be living in a place like that if he had any money? But suppose there had been money in it, then Joe had been goddamn well cheated. Plain cheated by whatever it was that took the moneybelt away and had it now. Where was it?
It’s maddening to think of all that’s going on behind your back. That guy in the shack, and his boss! The red tricycle. How did it get there, what made the kid leave it there, what made two people meet and have that kid?
Joe stumbled into the yard where several cars were parked. The breeze had stopped blowing. He no longer felt cold, but wet with perspiration. He was about to knock at the door when a quick thought made his heart race. He turned his head and looked toward the parked cars. What if the Italian and his friend were already there! He couldn’t see the cars very well in the dark. He moved away from the door and took a close look at the parked automobiles, one by one. The Italian’s long, low touring car was not there. The only one he recognized was Mac’s. Reassured, he went back and knocked. After a short wait he heard the panel sliding over the peephole and the door opened.
“Hi, Lucky,” said the old man.
Like old times. Even the pleasant, stuffy smell
of the gambling rooms. The roulette wheel was going, so was the blackjack game and there were a few people in the other room, around the crap table. Joe tried to behave just as he always did even if the old man was looking at him longer than usual, probably wondering about the dirty shoes and the perspiration and perhaps realizing that he had not heard a car drive up before Joe knocked at the door. Let him worry, thought Joe.
The thing to do was to go up to the crap table and stand at his usual place. As he walked toward the brightly lighted table he counted four of the regular customers. There was an empty space for him at the corner of the table.
He pulled out a five and a one, folded them lengthwise, the five on the outside, and handed them to Mac. Mac acted as if he didn’t even recognize him. He didn’t even greet him as he usually greeted the regulars as they came in. Of course, Joe hadn’t expected him to. Before pushing the dice over to the next customer, Mac reached for chips and gave Joe six dollars’ worth, in quarters. Then he started the play going.
And it was only three nights ago, thought Joe, that he had been there, at the same stand, working the racket with Mac.
He played a few quarters here and there, made a few, lost a few, not paying much attention to the game, but keeping his eyes on Mac. Goddamn it, he had to talk to him. It had seemed easy when he had decided to come and see Mac, back at the lunch counter, and going to the car lot, and even in the taxi. Then, walking along the side road he had realized that it would not be so simple. Now that he was here, it was even worse. He couldn’t talk to Mac with all those people around. He couldn’t nod his head toward the washroom and expect Mac to leave the game. In fact, he wondered how in hell he had thought he was going to get to talk to Mac. People, unconnected, doing things, keeping you from doing things.
Two of the customers were noisy; the other two just played. Mac was the same as usual, with his patter, his quick handling of the chips and his little stick. And his rolled-up sleeves and his eye-shade and his goddamn poker-face.
But the difference was that on his way here Joe had been avoiding the Italian, but now that he was here, Stringer was closing in on him. He had been a damn fool to come; it was like being trapped here with Mac, and the Italian closing in.
Suppose he walked in, right now.
Joe was looking at the bright green cloth and the painted numerals on the crap table but he had stopped thinking about the game. If the Italian came in, right now, there was only one thing to do and that was to get the hell out of there; let Mac take care of himself. Getting out would mean finding himself out in the yard, with no way to get away, and maybe Stringer’s friend...
“Your dice,” said Mac.
Joe realized that the customers were waiting for him to have his turn at throwing the dice.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Joe.
He didn’t like to have everybody looking at him. He dropped four chips on the table and rolled the dice. Four came up, then seven. He lost his money but he was glad to be rid of the dice.
The play went on. He lost a few quarters and made a few.
The more he thought about the whole business the more hopeless it seemed. He felt it was useless to fight. All the big ideas he had had slowly shrank until everything was reduced to the immediate feeling of the side of the crap table against his stomach, the occasional smell of his own perspiration, the man he couldn’t talk to, the rolling dice that were hard to outguess. He felt tired and faintly sick.
Just before his turn at the dice came again he went to the washroom and stayed there awhile.
When he came out it was his turn again. He didn’t care any more if people looked at him. He rolled, made three passes in a row, won four bucks.
He kept on playing because he couldn’t think of what else to do. He figured that when he lost his chips he would just walk away, give up. He’d walk down the road, and let them catch up with him if they wanted to.
He had stopped looking at Mac. He couldn’t stand to look at Mac, knowing the spot he was in.
A couple came in, the blonde who put the chips in her brassiere the other night and the same fellow she was always with. The play became noisier. Joe stayed on, his chips in his hand, keeping about even.
It seemed as if hours went by. Not hours, but a long, heavy chunk of hopeless time.
Then he felt himself tingle all over. Everybody was laughing at the blonde who was putting chips down her front again, and while they were looking at her a yellow chip was tossed over to his corner. He looked up at Mac but Mac was looking at the blonde, like everybody else.
Joe picked up the chip. More were tossed his way in the next half-hour or so. The trembling that had come over him at the first chip ceased and he felt a crazy sort of mellow happiness, something that was making a damn fool of him, but he didn’t care; he wanted to hug Mac, and pat him on the back and talk about how they were sticking together. Hell, he’d stick to him like nobody had ever stuck by him before. The two of them. He wouldn’t even care if Mac kicked him around a bit now and then. He wanted to laugh and he could have cried, too.
He could have cried because, now, he had a racket again and he didn’t have to stay in that crummy, broken-down adobe house. He might even go to one of those tourist courts and be somebody.
Think of what he had gone through just because he had held out a little on Mac. He was not going to do that again. Share and share alike from now on, brother. Little Joe was back in and he knew when he was well off.
If Mac would only look at him and nod or something. But no. Mac was poker-faced as usual, running the game as if Joe wasn’t even there.
After a while the chips stopped coming. When he was sure it was the end for tonight he cashed in and gestured good night to the customers. He had thirty bucks there, fifteen apiece.
He would have to wait for Mac outside.
He thought he was going to have trouble with the doorman. The old fellow followed him into the yard, probably wanting to see what car he got into.
“Friend of mine is going to pick me up,” said Joe.
“O-oh,” said the old man.
“What time is it?”
“Early. One-thirty.”
“I’ll just wait here,” said Joe.
“Suit yourself,” said the old fellow. And he shuffled back in, leaving Joe in the open air, in the dark.
Joe moved away from the door. Lights of an incoming car, if there should be one, would sweep this way, then over the parked cars and into the night over the fence. The best place to stand and wait for Mac would be on the other side of the house, but he didn’t want to be found there if someone from the joint should come out. It might be hard to explain. The best thing to do was to stand behind the parked cars, away from the entrance to the yard. If someone caught him there he could turn around and pretend to be buttoning his pants. He liked to figure out angles like that.
The main part of the problem, though, was to get hold of Mac and for both of them to get out of the Italian’s way, fast. He tried to figure out what he would do if he were the Italian and someone called him a punk. Surely Mac wasn’t going to get killed for it. Suppose they busted his fingers so that he couldn’t handle the chips. In a way, it would serve him right.
He was beginning to feel sick at his stomach. What about saying to hell with the whole mess! Standing behind the cars with silence, blackness, hot night air all around him, he tightened his belt until his stomach stopped feeling empty. Even if they got out of the Italian’s way tonight, what about tomorrow?
Joe thought of getting into the back seat of Mac’s car.
As an idea it was not too good because if anyone came out of the joint, Mac wouldn’t like it to look as if he were waiting for him.
Still, he looked for Mac’s car.
Feeling his way in the dark, Joe found the familiar, rusty-looking tan sedan. He reached in to see if by any chance the key was in the ignition. It wasn’t. Next, he opened the back door and felt around on the floor for something he had suddenly thought of. He found wh
at he wanted, a tire iron. Then he went all the way around the car to the door on the side where a front-seat passenger would sit. He opened the door and placed the tire iron on the floor, at the side of the seat, where it would be concealed between the cushion and the door and easy to reach by dropping your hand. This was just in case. He couldn’t imagine bringing himself to hit anybody with it, but he couldn’t stand the idea of having nothing in his hand he could hit somebody with if he had to.
It was probably a quarter to two by now. Any moment he might see lights turn into the side road in the distance. His eyes were getting used to the darkness. It was as if the faraway glow over the town was helping him find his way around.
Time was running out. Maybe, just in case anything went wrong, he had better see if any of the other cars had the keys in them. He might like to borrow one. A painful, quick snort came out of him as he thought of the word borrow. It sure looked more like he was fixing to steal one, alone out there, prowling in the parking space, between the cars.
Summer, cars have their windows down all the time. You just stand alongside of one, reach in and feel around. First car, the one next to Mac’s, no key. The next, no key. The third car was a big four-door sedan. It was parked slightly away from the others. Joe walked over to it, reached in over the steering wheel and felt around. Cold, blood-stopping, a voice from the back seat, Stringer’s voice, said: “What are you looking for, Joe?”
17
THE back door of the sedan opened and Stringer’s friend, tall, heavy and quick, stepped out. His hand darted for Joe’s shirt-collar, lifting him so that his arms felt useless as the suddenly taut shirt bit into his armpits. The worst was the sickening feeling that the two men, sitting in the back of the strange automobile, had been watching him all the time, when he thought he was alone. Joe kicked and thrashed.
The man reached for Joe’s belt with his other hand, lifted him, knocked his legs from under him and tossed him to the ground between the parked cars. Joe’s elbow hit the running board and the pain blotted out all other thoughts. On his back, free from the man’s hands, he had a fleeting notion to roll under the car and try to escape, but instead, as he used to in the school-yard and in the alleys, he held his aching arm and whimpered, pleading the injury to ward off more blows.
