She didn't look up. She stirred her coffee slowly. “Oh.”
“What's the matter, Vida?”
“Nothing.” Then she looked at me and smiled brightly. Too brightly, I thought.
15
CHUCK THOMPSON WAS ONE of the runners I had inherited from Sid when I began taking over the residential territory north of town. He was a big blond kid, not too smart, but a good runner for just that reason. I was in the telephone office that afternoon when he called in after making a delivery.
“It's Chuck,” one of the telephone boys said; “he wants to talk to you, Roy.”
I took the phone, and he said, “Look, is this territory west of Twenty-third supposed to belong to us or to Kingkade?”
“It's ours.”
“Then, by God, you'd better talk to Barney Seaward and get it straightened out. Kingkade's got his callin' cards and price lists stuffed in every mailbox on this side of town. He's undersellin' us a dollar a fifth and my customers are raisin' hell about it.”
For a moment I didn't say anything. My first impulse was to go straight to Seaward and start raising hell with him. But then I said, “Come on down to the office, Chuck. We'll take care of this ourselves.”
It was about three in the afternoon when he picked me up in front of the office in a rattletrap '39 Dodge that he used to make deliveries. He told me about it as we headed out toward Twenty-third.
“Well,” he said, “I kind of figured that somethin' was crazy about two days ago. Then I began to notice Kingkade's runners cruisin' the neighborhood, but that didn't worry me too much. I thought maybe it was some kind of deal between you and Kingkade. But when I got hold of one of his price lists and saw that he was cuttin' our price, I figured it was time to do some hollerin'.”
“It was time all right,” I said.
We hit Twenty-third and headed west. The streets in this part of town were lined with young elms; the houses were mostly modest brick or stone. When we reached Twenty-third and Front, one of the through streets leading downtown, I said, “Pull up here,” and Chuck pulled the Dodge over to the curb. “We'll wait here,” I said, “and when you spot one of Kingkade's runners, let me know. We're going to convince him that this is unhealthy territory for strange bootleggers.”
We didn't have to wait long. Less than five minutes had passed when the vintage Chevy pulled up at the stop sign and then turned onto the tree-lined street. Chuck looked at me and I nodded.
We gave him a good block start because there wasn't much sense to losing him in a twenty-mile zone. When we saw him park in front of a corner house I nodded to Chuck and we pulled up. We saw the runner lifting the front seat to get a bottle, then he went up to the front door carrying the fifth in a paper bag. I told Chuck to move up and park behind the Chevy.
While the runner was inside, I looked under his front seat. Sure enough, there was a lug and a half of red stamped bourbon and two bottles of gin. I told Chuck to take the liquor for himself.
The runner was youngish, wiry little punk who looked as though he might be about half Mexican. He came swinging down the walk from the house, whistling under his breath and not paying attention to anything in particular. He had almost reached the Chevy when he noticed us in the car behind him. He made a quick jump for the car and was already under the wheel before Chuck could get out on his side. The runner wasn't going anywhere, though, because I had his keys.
When he saw Chuck coming, he kicked the door open and made a try for it. He was too late for that, too. Chuck grabbed him and almost tore his head off with a swinging right that sent him slamming back into the front seat.
“What the hell is this?” he veiled.
Chuck had grabbed him by the front of his shirt and was holding him.
“You want to take him somewhere,” I said. “Go ahead. If I see anybody coming, I'll let you know.”
Chuck had his hands full for a minute or two. When the punk saw what we were up to he started kicking viciously and trying to squirm out the other side of the car. Chuck put a stop to that with a hammer-like blow to the crotch. The punk screamed, bitterly, but it was a thin sound that didn't carry far.
I stood back, watching for anyone that might come along, but it was a quiet residential street and there wasn't much traffic to speak of. Even from where I was standing, about five yards from the car, I had to listen pretty closely to hear the monotonous thudding of hard knuckles smashing against flesh and bone.
Finally, two blocks away, a car turned into the street and I said, “All right, Chuck, that ought to be enough.”
The big runner brought his head and shoulders through the door and stood up panting. I leaned through the car window to put the key back into the switch. The punk was doubled up in a tight ball on the floorboards, making whimpering sounds.
I made the rounds with Chuck the rest of that afternoon, but we didn't see any more strange runners. It was about seven o'clock when I finally called it a day.
“Vida?”
There was no one in the front room when I came in, but I went back to the bedroom and Vida was sitting at the dressing table, looking at herself in the mirror. She had just come out of the shower, and when I kissed the back of her neck she smelled like spring rain.
“I love you,” I said.
She turned around and smiled vaguely. “Did you— have a busy day?”
“The usual.” I took off my coat and loosened my tie. “Anything happen here while I was gone?”
She turned back to the mirror. “I read a book. Are you hungry? If you are I'll get you something.”
“I'm not hungry now. Maybe I'll have a drink, though, after I shave.” Then it occurred to me that we had done the same thing almost every night since we had been married. A drink, something to eat, and then to bed. I had my shirt half off when I went over to her and said, “Why don't we do something tonight? Hell, we've been living like we had to watch our pennies or something.” I sat down beside her on the dressing stool and took her face in my hands. “Geez, I'm just beginning to realize what a lousy husband I've been. I keep busy through the day, but you stay here in the apartment. Do you ever go anywhere? Do you ever see anybody besides me?”
“I guess not. Not very often, anyway.” Then she smiled —really smiled this time. “Roy, do you really mean it? Can we go somewhere, dancing maybe?”
“Sure I mean it.” I kissed her then and her mouth was warm and eager. “I guess I'm not very smart,” I said. “I should have seen that you were lonesome here. Get your party clothes on while I shave.”
As I got under the shower Vida called to me, and her voice had new life in it.
“Where are we going, Roy?”
“I don't care. Maybe that roadhouse out west of town. The Blue Star.”
In a town the size of Big Prairie you don't have much choice. But to Vida, any place with people would probably be an improvement over the apartment. When I got out of the shower, I caught myself whistling, and that was something of a shock because it was something I never remembered doing before. The party mood had me.
By the time I got out to the front room she had some drinks made. She wore—a jet crepe dress that clung to her lithe body like the skin on a young panther. In that first instant, when I saw her, a brief, disturbing thought struck me. Christ, couldn't she manage to look a little less like a streetwalker! But the thought only lasted for an instant, the smallest part of a second, and then it was gone completely.
“You're beautiful,” I said. And I meant it as much as I had ever meant anything in my life.
16
THE BLUE STAR WAS ONE of those cement-block and stucco buildings that you see thrown up along highways around towns like Big Prairie. In the daytime they look like misplaced chicken houses, but at night, with their neon trimmings and their tinted floodlights bathing false fronts in soft blues and purples, they take on a kind of cheap glamour. It was still early when we got there but cars were already beginning to crowd the parking space in the rear.
&nbs
p; “It doesn't look like much,” I said.
“Big Prairie's best,” Vida smiled.
“Well, maybe it's better on the inside.” I parked the car, then I got the bottle of Scotch we brought and went around and opened the door for Vida.
The place tried hard enough, but it didn't come off somehow. When you went in there was a dimly lighted foyer where you checked your coat and hat and paid the cover. The floor was heavily carpeted and the walls were decorated with large framed photographs of girls who had been in the Blue Star's floor show at one time or another. A big guy in a sports coat, doubling as head-waiter and bouncer, gave us a tight grin and led us into a dark, low-ceilinged room where a five piece bop band shocked the customers with senseless discords. I put the bottle of Scotch on the table, when we got to it.
“How do you like the Blue Star?”
Vida shrugged and smiled faintly. “Maybe a drink will make it look better.”
We tried but it didn't work. It was a dirty, small-souled place and no amount of whisky would change it. The noise of the band grated on my nerves. The faintly soured smell of the place and the thick smoke, took the edge off the excitement. We didn't even try to dance.
“Look,” I said, “there must be some other place where people go. Something better than the Blue Star. What about people like Paul Keating?”
Vida looked at her drink. “The Keatings?” Then she looked at me. “They have a country club for people like them.”
I don't know why I hadn't thought of it. Probably because I had been too interested in other things—in getting my bootlegging business set up. Until now I hadn't had much time for social life. I knew about the country club, of course, because all the Big Prairies in the world have them and they're all exactly alike. It was Cedar Street all over again.... A place where the snotty bastards could withdraw and be free of people like me.
Vida was looking at me strangely. Several minutes must have gone by before I realized that she was holding my clenched hands under the table.
“Roy,” she said softly. “Roy, let's go.”
I started to get up, but something seemed to push me down again and hold me there. I thought, I won't let them beat me! I'm not going to let them ruin Vida's night for her. All right, I thought—climb higher. Grow bigger.
I got up then, the idea full grown in my mind. I put my hand on Vida's shoulder and squeezed it gently to reassure her. “I'll be back in just a minute,” I said. She kept staring at me.
I found a pay phone near the check room. It wasn't necessary to look up the number this time; I had it in my mind.
“Hello.” The well-turned, cultivated voice. Paul Keating's.
I said, “Listen to me, Keating. I've decided I want to see how you stiff-front bastards live, so we're going to have a party. I hear that the place to go in Big Prairie is your country club, so that's where we're going. Vida and I are going to be the guests of you and your wife, Keating. I'll give you an hour to get ready and be there. We'll be waiting.”
I could hear him swallow. “Of course.” It was a weak voice now. “Of course, some other time perhaps, but tonight is impossible. We have company and—”
“Get rid of them,” I snapped.
“But I tell you it's impossible!”
I said. “All right. Forget it. But don't be surprised when the crime bureau men come around.”
“For God's sake, Foley! I tell you we'd like to, but it's—” I could almost see him wiping the sweat from his forehead. “All right,” he said at last, weakly. “We'll be there.”
“That's better.”
I hung up.
“Roy, are you sure?” Vida said doubtfully.
“Sure, I'm sure. I talked to Keating and he thought it was a fine idea.”
“But the country club. You have to be a member to go there.”
“We're going as Keating's guests, I told you that. If you like the place, then we'll take out memberships. Keating can swing that, too.”
She didn't mention Lola, but I could see that she was thinking of her.
I poured two stiff drinks. “Relax,” I said. “We're going to have a look at Big Prairie's society. If we like it, we'll buy it. Besides, if we stay in Big Prairie we've got to have a place to go, a place to entertain our friends.” I looked at my watch. “Let's go. We mustn't keep the county attorney waiting.”
“The country club was a rambling ranch-style building about a mile off the highway, surrounded by low rolling hills and a few trees. There were several cars parked in front of the clubhouse. Muted, danceable music came from somewhere and there were people coming, going, a few of them lounging on the long, hooded veranda. This is the way to live, I thought. Hell, I should have thought of this before. I looked around but I didn't see that black Cadillac of Paul Keating's. But we were early and it didn't worry me. The bastard didn't dare stand us up.
Vida didn't say anything and neither did I. I had a vague picture of me and Vida, the way we would be when we were members. It would do us good to get away from Big Prairie once in a while. You get in a rut when you see nobody but whisky dealers and crooked politicians and whores. What we needed was a place to relax—as soon as I forced Kingkade Out of the county and had the business running smoothly.
“Is that Keating?” Vida said.
I looked around and saw the Cadillac pulling in beside me. It was Keating all right. His face was pale, and he looked sick. Lola sat beside him, her eyes as hard as gunsteel.
A white-coated flunkie met us on the veranda, all smiles and teeth when he saw it was the Keatings. The smile vanished when he saw me and Vida.
“A table for two, Mr. Keating?” he asked hopefully.
“There are four of us tonight,” Keating said stiffly.
“Yes, sir.” He didn't like it, but because Keating was who he was, the flunkie kept his distaste in his eyes instead of his voice. The vision I'd had exploded like a pricked bubble. “Yes, sir. This-way, Mr. Keating. Mrs. Keating.” The sonofabitch looked at Vida as if she were a two-dollar whore.
I forced myself to grin, but inside I was raging.
Vida got it now, as we followed the flunkie through the lounge and into another place where a sign over the door said “The 19th Hole,” where people sat at white covered tables, where couples danced, where a band played softly. The women were the most obvious. They stared at us first, then they shrank back as we passed. In our wake I could hear them clucking, outraged, and I knew that they were talking about Vida. “Tart!” I heard one of them say, and I stiffened. Vida held me.
“It's all right, Roy. It's all right.”
An immaculate waiter was holding a chair for Lola, beaming at Lola and Paul Keating and ignoring everybody else. I seated Vida. Lola and Paul Keating looked at, each other, they looked blankly around the room, at the waiter, at anybody or anything, but not at me or Vida. We were poison. They were making that clear.
“Hello, Keating! Good evening, Mrs. Keating.” A hearty, red-faced man stopped at the table, slapped Keating on the back and carried on a moment of pleasant small talk. The only thing wrong with it was that he pretended that the Keatings were absolutely alone. Not a look or a word at me. Not a glance at Vida. He made his point and moved on.
Keating motioned to the waiter. “The usual, Henry.” Then, as an afterthought, “Is Scotch all right with you, Foley? Mrs. Foley?”
“Sure.”
It was beautiful, the way they brought it off. Freeze you to death, that was the way they worked it. Sure, I could manage a membership, they were telling me. But did I really want it? Did I really think that a membership could make me belong? And Lola sat there beautiful and cold, smiling a smile that couldn't be seen. Laughing laughter that couldn't be heard.
Laugh! I thought savagely. Go ahead and enjoy yourself, because you'll pay for it. It'll be the most expensive pleasure you've ever had!
Slowly, the bitterness left me and strength took its place. Who holds the club? I asked myself. Me or Keating? Me or Lola? Look at them;
you can break them in half anytime you feel like it! I took Vida's hand under the table, her cold hand, and held it and warmed it.
“Sure,” I said, and I could grin now. “Scotch will be fine. I'm beginning to like this place you've got here. Not bad at all.”
The orchestra was playing. A few couples were getting up to dance. I remembered another time and another place. There had been music and there had been couples dancing in the high-school gym. And Roy Foley had been a hero for a little while. I let go of Vida's cold hand and I could feel her watching me as I stood up abruptly.
I said, “It's been a long time since we've danced together, Lola.”
She didn't dare refuse.
“What do you want?” Her voice was toneless. She was as cold as ice in my arms as we danced, feeling the eyes of the place on our backs.
“You should know what I want, Lola,” I grinned down at her.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “I'll see you dead first! I'll kill you myself!”
“Would you, Lola?” I asked. “Of course not. It takes guts to kill. That kind of guts your kind doesn't have.” The music stopped. I said, “The same place, Lola. At eight o'clock tomorrow night. I'll be waiting.”
Without waiting for her to answer, I turned on my heel and went back to the table.
Vida and I left the place, and I drove back to the apartment as though the hounds of hell were snapping at my heels. Vida said nothing. When I touched her she shivered. When we got back to the apartment we undressed without speaking and got into bed.
I thought, What can I tell her? How can I explain it to her? There was no way to put it into words, the way I hated Lola and still had to have her. How can you explain a thing like that to a wife who loves you?
And Vida wasn't blind. She had seen.
Almost an hour went by as we lay there in the darkness not touching, not speaking, not sleeping. At last a long, tortured sound seemed to fill the room, and it took several minutes for me to realize that it was coming from my throat. I took Vida in my arms. There were no words in me. Her face was damp, her tears salt-tasting to my lips.
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