by Ralph Dennis
“That’s what they get for running it like a Chinese fire drill,” I said.
“They’re trying.” Sam counted out Hump’s change. “Since I came to work at three, they’ve been over two or three times trying to find out how they can reach Joe Bottoms.”
Hump drank from the bottle. “They learn much?”
“Nothing worth much.” Sam looked down the bar. Nobody needed a refill. “A house painter comes in here said he thought Joe used to drive one of those catering trucks, the ones that go from area to area selling sandwiches and soft drinks.”
“Used to?”
“He thinks Joe quit that job a month or two back.”
Hump shook out one of my smokes and lit it. “That’s a lot of help.”
“Someone else … I forget who it was … said he thought Joe did part of his drinking at the Parkland. That’s the place …”
“I know it,” Hump said.
I leaned in. “No word where he lives?”
“Nothing recent and he’s not listed in the phone book.”
“That means they don’t have my hundred yet,” Hump said.
“That’s my guess.”
Hump thanked Sam and we carried our beers to the round table next to the jukebox. I fed a couple of quarters to the machine and punched some Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson. At six, we left George’s and walked down the street to Moe’s and Joe’s.
No help. As we’d figured. The blond bartender said he hadn’t been able to reach Joe Bottoms yet. He was nervous and shaky when he talked and he wouldn’t look Hump in the eyes. But, he said, he would keep on trying no matter how long it took. If it took a week.
He had the manners to offer us a beer on the house but Hump shook that off. Hump wasn’t in the mood for any of that friendly crap.
Before we left Moe’s and Joe’s, Hump got a fairly good description of Joe Bottoms. Five-ten or eleven. Straw blond hair worn long. About a hundred and eighty pounds. Stoop-shouldered. Sleepy, hooded eyes. Usually he wore tennis shirts, jeans and a red University of Georgia nylon warm-up jacket.
A few minutes later, we parked next to the Highland branch of the library and jaywalked over to the Parkland.
It was wino country. Hard luck country. The last chance to make good had left on a Greyhound bus a month ago. The loving woman who used to open the cans and warm the soup had gone home to her mother in Macon. That kind of place. Just the beer and the wine left. Get it and drink it and let the rest of the world sweat that dry thirst.
“Deliver me,” Hump said when he brought two drafts to the booth I’d staked out.
I knew what he meant. I felt the same way. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. That chance that, in a few years, we might be the ones waking in the morning with the dry, scratchy throats. The rest of the day would stretch out, measuring a hundred years, when we’d have to worry about getting enough wine to make it through the night. The begging and the lying and all the sweat time that went with it.
“Save your money,” I said.
“I’ve got another idea. We start putting in wine now. Bottles and bottles, cases and cases. We fill a couple of rooms with it. And then, when we’re old and we turn wino, we’ll have a lifetime supply.”
“Or save your money,” I said, “and buy a wine store and just move a bed in.”
The booth I’d taken was off to the right, partly blocked from the sight line to the front door by the corner of the bar. Most of what the bar sold was the tap beer. There wasn’t a waiter or a waitress and we watched the traffic to the bar and back. That was good for a few minutes. Dull after that. So, I turned in the booth and watched the back door. Now and then one or two of the winos would hitch up their trousers and pat their hip pockets and head for the john. I knew what that meant. I’d been in the john once when a wino had walked in. He’d uncapped a pint of white port and poured it all down without taking the bottle from his mouth. It had to be done that way because the Parkland didn’t have a license to sell wine for drinking on the premises. It was all take-out and the quickie in the john was the way around that. Still, the management had to know. It was hard to ignore the huge metal trash can half full of wine bottles.
Seven o’clock. I was hungry. A trip to the deli counter and a look at the meats and I settled for a bag of peanuts.
Eight o’clock. I was bloated. The bloat without a belch in it. I wasn’t high, nothing like that. I sat and looked at a full glass of draft and didn’t want to touch it.
Nine. I eased out of the booth and shook my head at Hump. “I’ve had it.”
“Where to?”
“I need about a pound of prime rib.”
He pushed his glass away and stood up. “Something to eat and I can drop by and look in on the way home.”
“That’s it.”
I stopped just outside the front door. From the inside there hadn’t been any way to know. It was raining now. Maybe it had just started. I hadn’t noticed anyone entering the Parkland with the rain marks on him. We stood under the awning and looked at the rain. It was steady and solid and it didn’t look as if it would go away for a long time.
“No reason for both of us to get wet,” Hump said. “I’ll get the car and …”
I touched his arm and stopped him. I’d been looking in the direction of Ponce de Leon. I’d seen a man round the corner at St. Charles. He was moving slow, not paying much attention to the rain. When he passed under a streetlamp, I saw that he was wearing a red nylon warm-up jacket. He looked about the right size too.
“Might be your man,” I said.
“Let’s see.” We stepped out into the rain and headed for him. At nine the block was empty. The drugstores had closed earlier and only the night lights burned in the Highland library.
We met the man in the red jacket five doors away from the Parkland. We’d taken the street side of the walk, forcing him to settle for the building side. When we were level with him Hump turned his head toward the man and said, “That you, Joe?”
The man stopped. He said, “Yeah. Who are …?”
Hump moved fast. He rammed a shoulder into Joe Bottoms and slammed him against a brick storefront. I heard the breath jet out of him. I circled him and caught his right arm at the elbow and pinned it where it was.
“The name’s Hump.”
I could see his face. His eyes weren’t sleepy and hooded now. “I don’t know anybody named …”
“It’s a matter of a hundred dollars,” Hump said.
“The pool?”
“Now you’ve got it,” Hump said.
I looked in both directions. No movement. We were almost level with Hump’s Buick.
“I don’t have it on me,” Joe Bottoms said, “but I can get it.”
I didn’t like doing our business on the street. It wasn’t a high-crime area but the Atlanta police did patrol it now and then. I didn’t want to be taken for a mugger. I said, “Let’s talk in the car.”
“That all right with you, Joe?”
“I … I …”
“Keys?” I put out a hand and Hump slapped the key ring into it. “Got him?”
Hump grunted yes. I released the elbow and stepped away. A few fast steps and I reached the Buick. I unlocked the door and held it open. Hump, one hand on Joe Bottoms’ wrist and the other pinching his shoulder, brought him across the street and pushed him head first into the back seat. Hump lunged in after him. I got behind the wheel. After the engine kicked over, I drove toward Highland and Virginia.
Behind me, Hump said, “A hundred dollars is not much to kill a man over.”
Joe Bottoms mumbled something.
“Speak up, Joe.”
“I said I’d make it good.”
“You hurt my pride,” Hump said. “You know how silly this makes me look?”
“And dumb too,” I said.
“Shut up.” Hump sounded angry at me. “You’re trying to get me mad so I’ll kick the shit out of this pretty boy. You want to watch.”
“It don’t matter to
me one way or the other,” I said.
“Then shut up about it.”
It was a game we were doing. A simple whipsaw.
I said, “You don’t have to talk to me like that. I’m not the one made you look dumb.”
At Virginia, I took a left and headed away from the lights. From Virginia to Monroe it was a residential district. That meant there weren’t a lot of lights to worry about.
“Quit talking about dumb,” Hump said. “The next thing anybody knows I’m going to be spending that hundred. Who’s going to laugh at me then?”
“If you get the hundred,” I said.
“How much money you got on you, Joe?” Hump had shifted gears. He was soft and reasonable.
“Nine or ten dollars.”
“That’s not even a down payment,” Hump said. “That won’t even buy my supper.”
I stopped at a red light. I looked over the seat back at them. You could smell the scared sweat. “Maybe Joe’s got something he could pawn with us.”
“What do you mean … us? It’s my hundred we’re talking about.”
The light changed. I went back to driving. “I don’t want any part of that hundred. It’s bad luck money.”
“Bad luck only if I don’t get it,” Hump said.
“Make up your mind,” I said. We were passing the old Marta bus barn. “I don’t intend to drive around all night.”
“Where you live, Joe?”
“Maybe he’s got a piggy bank or a coin collection.”
“I’ll take pennies if you’ve got enough of them,” Hump said.
I eased to the curb. Right ahead Virginia dead ended at Grady High School. “Tell the man where you live.”
“Look, give me a day or two. I’ll meet you somewhere and I’ll have the hundred for you.”
“No sale on that trash,” Hump said. “You’ve got a way of dropping out of sight. I’ve got better things to do with my time than look for you.”
I gave the seat back a hard slap. “Hump, dammit, which way you want me to go?”
“Joe, I am not going to like it if you bleed on my upholstery.”
“I’m not going to bleed …” Joe broke it off. He understood.
“Which way?” I slammed the seat back again.
“Joe?”
“Left,” Joe said, “take a left.”
That part was done. We’d sold him that hard-assed bill of goods.
It was a one-story duplex on St. Charles. It was a wide loop drive and a circle to get there. It was, as I parked and looked toward Highland, only a short walk to the Parkland where we’d started out.
Both sides of the duplex were dark. The driveway was empty. Joe sandwiched between us, we hiked up the walk past the neat lawn. Maybe the landlord cared. Joe didn’t look the type who’d rake a leaf or walk behind a lawn mower.
Joe Bottoms used his key to unlock the door. I pushed him toward Hump and went in first. I found the switch to the overhead light and flipped it on. Behind me, Hump gave Joe a shove and sent him stumbling past me.
It was a dollhouse of an apartment. The room we’d entered was supposed to look like a living room but the Castro couch was still extended to form a bed. The sheets were twisted and the pillowcase looked brown and dirty, as though it hadn’t been changed in a couple of months. Straight ahead, past the sofa bed, was a partition with an opening and a counter. I could see, through the opening, that this was the kitchen with a two-burner gas stove and a battered old refrigerator. There was a high stool with a back to it at the counter and the paper plate on the counter told me that he used that area as a dining room. I opened the closed door off to the left. It was the bathroom. That was it.
Hump stared down at the bed. “Our friend here is not very neat.”
“He wasn’t expecting company.” I pulled the bathroom door closed and leaned into the kitchen for a closer look.
“See anything worth pawning?”
“Not in here.” I joined them in the living room-bedroom. It looked like most of what was in the apartment came with the lease. The tiny portable black and white TV set was probably his but you couldn’t get ten dollars for it at one of the shops on Pryor. “Nothing,” I said.
“Boy, you’re in trouble,” Hump said.
“I can have the hundred tomorrow,” Bottoms said. He looked pale and shaky in the strong overhead light. I had the feeling he was about to break down and cry.
“Tonight’s the right time,” Hump said. “Tomorrow it’s overdue.”
“I swear I can have it.”
“I don’t believe you. That’s my last word. Anybody who has to trick a dollar off some dumb ass …”
“That was fun,” Bottoms said. “I was playing.”
I gave the apartment a last slow look. It was pressure and game time again. “I don’t want to watch this. I’ll wait in the car, Hump.” I got to the door and twisted the knob before it broke him down to the split.
“Wait. I can prove it.”
I put my back to the door and watched Bottoms lunge for the clothes closet. “Hump, watch him …”
Hump had the same idea. There might be iron in the closet somewhere. Hump reached the closet just behind Bottoms. Hump put one hand on his shoulder and leaned in with him. Bottoms felt around on the top shelf off to the right. His hand grabbed something. It wasn’t iron or a weapon of any kind. It was a plain white envelope. Hump swung about with him. Bottoms put his back to us. He dug into the envelope. When he turned, he had a narrow piece of paper in one hand. Even as he held the piece of paper out to us, he stuffed the envelope into his hip pocket.
Hump held out his hand. Bottoms passed the paper to him. I moved over and looked at it with Hump. It was a check. The amount, $2,000, had been imprinted on it by a computer. It was drawn on the account of the Frank R. Temple Construction Company in Boston. The authorizing signature at the bottom right of the check had been applied by a check-writing machine.
“All I’ve got to do is cash that tomorrow,” Bottoms said.
“Looks real,” Hump said to me.
“Might be.” The payee, Joseph Bottoms, was typed in.
“You see? Didn’t I tell you the truth?” Joe Bottoms took a couple of steps toward Hump and reached for the check. “I cash this check tomorrow and you’ll get your hundred.”
Hump pushed his hand away. He folded the check and slipped it into his right-hand money pocket. “I’ve got a better use for it, Joe.”
“Huh?”
“It’s your guarantee,” Hump said. “I’ll be at George’s tomorrow at five P.M. You have the hundred for me and you’ll get your check back.”
“No, look.” The composure was gone. He was sweating. “I’ve got to have that check. I’m in trouble without …”
“No chance,” Hump said.
“I got to have it.”
“Tomorrow at five.” Hump turned for the door.
It was desperation. That’s all it could be. Joe Bottoms took a run and jumped on Hump’s back, wrapping his arms around Hump’s neck. Hump mumbled, “Shit, man,” and broke Bottoms’ grip with one hand. He whirled and threw Bottoms into the center of the sofa bed.
Bottoms curled up, the fight gone out of him, eyes closed as he reached for the pillow and dragged it toward him.
A short drive and we were at Colony Square. We had the prime rib at The Brothers Two. I had to pay the tab.
CHAPTER THREE
At five-thirty, Hump turned slowly on the bar stool and let his feet hit the floor. Without looking at me, he walked out of the bar section and into the deli section. He had to thread his way through a couple of Arab or Greek families who’d come all the way across town to buy the feta and the peta bread and the black olives in brine that came in the big orange plastic barrels.
At the front door, he stopped and looked back at me. He waved a one at me. I nodded and the next time Sam passed I ordered two more Buds. It was closer to five minutes before he returned. He shook his head and took the bar stool on my right. I pushed hi
s fresh beer at him.
“Thought he might have misunderstood.”
“He’s not at Moe’s and Joe’s?”
He didn’t bother to answer me. It was a dumb question anyway. “We’ll give him until six.”
“I thought he got the word.”
“It looked that way to me,” Hump said.
“That found hundred is turning into a lot of work. I’m glad I’m just along as company.”
He gave me a bleak grin. “You’ve got to finish what you start.”
I understood that. You finished even if it turned dumb and stupid on you.
“One thing. I’ve still got his check.”
The check was bait and it hadn’t worked. I didn’t understand it. It was a hundred dollars against two thousand. A good exchange. No, staying away didn’t make sense.
At six, I pushed the empties toward the back of the bar counter, nodded at Sam and got his wave as we left.
I waited in the car. I watched Hump, on the duplex porch, try Bottoms’ door and then lean on the buzzer. Hump was a black mean shadow up there. Frustration was getting to him and I knew I’d have to do some song and dance to help him keep his balance. It was fair enough. He’d done the same thing for me a time or two.
It was bare light out. As far as I could see down St. Charles the leaves were turning. The first ones had already fallen and it would be December before the trees were bare. By the time you raked one dumping another one replaced it. That was why my rake was rusting and getting dusty in the garage. I’d wait until December and then hope that a big wind would come up and blow them into somebody else’s yard.
Hump moved his hand away from the buzzer. He gave the door an angry shot or two with his palm. Nothing. Zero. He looked at me and blew his breath out slowly. He came down the steps and cut across the lawn.
I waited until he was behind the wheel. “You want to wait some more at the deli?”
He considered it. He chewed it for half a minute or so. In the end he shook his head. “I’ve got the check. It’s up to him to find me.”
He drove out Highland and parked in a space in front of George’s. My car was down the street and around the corner next to the fire station.
