“Aw, come on, can’t you wait til we get gas, at least?”
“I gotta go bad.”
“It’s only a few miles.”
“How ‘bout I just tie it in a knot.”
“Any excuse to play with it,” Ryan said, and Ben swatted him before laying a solid foot on the gas.
~
They gassed up at Grossman’s Texaco, scraping together two-fifty-five (Ryan had a buck-sixty-two, Ben the rest), and the attendant, a rather rotund creature named Jake Maxwell—a toady of Ray Bishop—gave Ryan a look that was less than cordial as he pumped. His big belly dangling over his pants, Jake took the money with a small squealer of a fart, straightened his Texaco cap, and then waddled back to his little office and wedged himself through the door. Ten seconds later, Ben emerged from the restroom and hobbled to the truck.
“I hate that sonofabitch,” Ryan said, climbing in.
“Everyone hates Jake,” Ben said. “Don’t sweat him.”
“You get some crawlers?”
“We’ll get ’em up at McNall’s.”
“Tell me you got more money. I didn’t think of it until after we paid for the gas.”
Ben tapped his back pocket, then drew out a wrinkled coffee-stained single. More than enough for a large box.
Beaks stood up in the back and barked.
“What the hell did he get into, anyway?” Ben said.
“I dunno.”
“Looks like you both got whatever it is. Pinkeye?”
“Does it look like pinkeye to you?”
Ben chuckled. “Maybe it’s yelloweye.”
Ryan frowned. “All I know is, it hurts like a bugger.”
Ben started the engine. “How’d you get it, anyway?”
Ryan was about to say he didn’t know—he didn’t, not for certain, anyway, although he suspected it had more than a little to do with the drifter—but clammed right up when a red pickup pulled in. Ray Bishop parked outside the entrance to the gas bar and headed inside, most likely to get Jake Maxwell to hand over a free pack of Chesterfields. Jake was a toady, just like that other toady, Frank Wright. Neither one of them could stand up to his father. Few people could.
Ben knew enough to go. Ryan checked the side mirror and watched his father’s pickup shrink in the distance. Deep inside he felt the throbbing pangs of hatred and hurt, and suddenly, for now at least, he had forgotten all about Kain Richards and the strange magic.
~
“Team’s doin’ better,” Ben said. They were on their way north, up 71 now. “Two games outta first.”
Ryan hadn’t said a word since they left the Texaco. He didn’t now.
“Stu Bergman’s comin’ on,” Ben went on. “He almost blew his arm out last week, though.”
“He will. He always does.”
They didn’t discuss Jimmy Long, and Ryan was glad they didn’t. He figured Ben knew better.
“How’s Rudy’s bunting?” he asked dimly.
“Hopeless,” Ben said. “Coach gave up on him. Told him to just hit the damn ball.”
“That figures,” Ryan said. “If that was me, there’s no way Coach would let me give up. He woulda had me out there in a hailstorm til I got a bunt.”
It was true, at least from where Ryan stood. Coach Plummer treated him differently than the other players. The man pushed him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
“Rudy’s Rudy,” Ben said. “He just can’t bunt. No biggie.”
“Bullshit. I’d never get away with that.”
“Maybe not. But Coach did let you quit.”
“Let,” Ryan echoed. “That’s a laugh. The man wanted me out because he thinks I’m bad for the team.”
Ben kept driving. They were almost out of town now, just a few stops from the highway.
“Warner’s fillin’ in for you.”
“Warner? Great.” Ryan slunk down. “Warner.”
“He’s doin’ his best.”
“Come on, the guy can’t pitch. Can’t even hit.”
“You’re not exactly Mantle.”
“Yeah? Well, Warner’s the strikeout king.”
“So …”
“Don’t say it, Ben.”
“Why not come back? I was talkin’ with Coach and—”
“Plummer can shove it.”
Ben Caldwell shook his head. “I don’t get you. He’d take you back in a second.”
“Who cares?”
“The team does. And so does Coach.”
“I doubt it.”
“We need you, Rye. Warner’s just not cutting it.”
“But he’s doin’ his best, right?”
“Smartass.”
“Dumbass.”
“Look,” Ben said. “Just talk to Coach, will ya?”
“What do you want me to do? Kiss the man’s ass?”
“I’m just sayin’ maybe you should think about this.”
“No. No way.” Ryan turned to check on his dog, trying to make it look like he didn’t care.
“It’s not like you got anything else to do,” Ben said.
Ryan stewed. Sure, Coach would take him back. But no way he was going back. No way he was going to apologize. This wasn’t his fault. It was that bastard, Jones.
They paused at an intersection, and as they moved on, Ben spoke up. “Warner’s wearin’ your jersey, you know.”
Ryan was about to say something nasty about his replacement, then realized he had almost stepped into the bear trap that Ben Caldwell had set for him.
“Nice try.”
The driver shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”
“I’m not goin’ back, Ben. Warner or no Warner.”
“You’re too damn stubborn, you know that? Just li—”
Ben Caldwell stopped himself.
“Just like my old man, right?”
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Thanks, Ben. That was low.”
“Rye … I … I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah.”
That pretty well ended the talk of baseball, at least the talk of the imminent return of Number 23 to the mound, and they carried on without a word. Ryan sat looking out the side window at nothing, thinking about how it might go if he did go back. Apologizing to Coach Plummer seemed as palatable as a plateful of maggots.
~
“You know what we need?” Ryan said, after three miles of sulking. They had just hit the last leg that would take them to Spirit. “Some Old Number Seven.”
Ben laughed. “Even if we had the cash—which we don’t—where the hell are we gonna get whiskey, Einstein? The Booze Fairy?”
Ryan gave him a knowing grin.
“Well, where is she?” Ben said.
“On the way. But we gotta double back a bit first.”
“Why?”
“You said it yourself. We’re broke.”
“No way,” Ben said, realizing. “Not again.”
“We won’t get caught.”
“We almost did last time. Or don’t you remember?”
“Almost did. Not the same as did.”
“Let’s just go fishin’. We’re late enough as it is.”
“Two minutes, that’s all we need. And whatever’s left over, you can keep. Put some gas in this thing.”
The shortstop considered, and just as he was about to say, No, Ryan, he stopped himself. He sighed.
“Two minutes. Two. Then I’m walkin’ out the door.”
~ 15
They didn’t get caught. Ben kept the old man busy, helping him rebuild the Great Pyramid of Campbell’s Soup in the window of Milton’s Hardware & Grocery, the display he had deliberately toppled for the third time this month. There had been some mild shouting and a few choice words from Gabe Milton as he threw his lone hand in the air (Gabe’s left is buried somewhere in the Ardennes, having been blown off during the Battle of the Bulge, where he had been a member of the Second Infantry Division), but mostly the vet had told Ben to get his damn eyes checked, n
ext time just stay outside why don’tcha, and Ryan, who had worked there part-time last summer, didn’t make a sound. No one had come, not like last week when Sue Hanford and her sister had surprised him, and he managed to lift two tens and a single from the till. He bought some gum with the single when the cans were in place, and then, as sly as a fox, gave Ol’ Five Fingers (it was Dougie Warner, Wienie Warner, who had actually given the storekeeper the nickname four summers back) a polished smile before heading out the door.
“No more,” Benny said when they were off again. He had a visible sweat growing there on his forehead.
“Will you stop worrying?”
“It’s not right, is all. And what if we got caught? What then?”
“We didn’t … and we won’t.”
Ben gave Ryan an anxious glance. He stopped himself before he said something, and then simply turned back to the road. His foot fell a little harder on the gas.
“Turn here,” Ryan told him when they were two miles up 71. It was another two from the turn, and they carried on.
Ben Caldwell finally turned into a wide parking lot and brought them to within thirty feet of the large building before them. He looked out at the nondescript hotel—nondescript save the fat red letters and winking joker face on the roof—and gave The Joker’s Wild a summary grimace. “Booze Fairy,” he muttered. “Jeeze-Louise.”
“Just let me handle this, will ya?”
“This is nuts! He’s not gonna go for this.”
“You want whiskey or not?”
Ben sighed. “I get all the change, right? Right?”
Ryan gave a slim grin that seemed to make Ben Caldwell worry even more. He got out and took a look around. The place was of grayed wood and brown brick, run down, with some shoddy apartments on the second floor; one of the windows up there had a running fan that buzzed. The lot was nearly empty, save a couple of half-tons and a beat-up station wagon that had one headlamp smashed in. He had half expected to see his father’s pickup, but they’d left him behind at the Texaco; on any other day it would have surprised him not to find him here. Once his mother kicked him out he practically lived here, working his biceps daily with a bottle of Old Number Seven. It didn’t matter that it was illegal to sell booze in taverns across the state. The Wild did, and that’s all that mattered to men like … well, men like his father. The cops had busted the owner more than a few times, but it was all just a dog and pony show. The guy was the brother of the county Sheriff; it didn’t take a degree in rocket science to figure out how the lights stayed lit. Mostly, folks just turned a blind eye to the goings-on here, and while there were always the Holy Rollers trying to shut the place down for good, they were pretty much blowing smoke out of their asses. There were whispers, louder and louder every spring, that liquor was a-comin’ to town, a-comin’ to Iowa bars and Iowa restaurants, maybe as early as next year, and all he could think was how much easier it would be for his old man to make more of a jackass out of himself.
Suddenly he had second thoughts about the whole thing. What exactly was he going to say?
He didn’t know. He’d bullshitted Benny, but that was easy. Like blowing a fastball by him.
This was the Big Leagues.
He only hoped he could step up to the plate and cork a home run. Like that asshole, Jones.
Just remember: if the guy says no … it’s Plan B.
Ben raised his brows. Well?
Ryan turned and hobbled to the entrance, his legs still tender. He was about to try the weathered door when it swung open and nearly struck him. A bear of a man, greasy, six-six, three hundred easy, looked him up and down. His lips wriggled as if he was going to say something, but then he uttered a solid belch, his hot breath pungent with the stagnant smell of spent beer. Ryan backed away in a grimace and let him pass. The man made his way to his truck with all the swagger of a Friday-night drunk. He let out another round of beer gas, climbed in and drove off.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, he thought, and almost turned round. But in the next breath he was reaching for the door.
The place was dark and dank. Like a dungeon in a Karloff film. A few lamps suspended above some pool tables glowed like torches, guiding him, one by one, toward the bar. Two small bulbs, bare as sin, burned brightly above it. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and he wondered why on Earth they would keep it so dark.
Maybe they don’t like to see each other’s faces. Makes them invisible … makes it easier to hide from the demons.
He understood. They buried their troubles in a bottle. He buried his in the dirt.
The smoke was dreadful, hanging there like thick sap. He could taste it with every breath. A jukebox played something old, one of those corny Freddie Price songs his old man liked. There was some muted chatter, then only the music, just before a sharp crakkk startled him. Deep laughter echoed in the murk. The guy who broke scratched on the break, and his buddy was having a good holler over it. The guy who broke told the other guy to go fuck himself.
Some rube sat at the bar, his big ass spilling over the seat of his stool. The man barely stirred when Ryan approached, and he kept a good distance between them. The guy reeked of hard liquor. The drunk hovered over his glass, head hung in despair, the poor bugger’s hand trembling like a leaf. Ryan almost asked if he was all right. It occurred to him he was looking at his father maybe ten years down the road. Maybe less, the way things were going.
A grim hard face emerged from a corridor as a door swung closed behind it. The door was marked KINGS, the door beside it QUEENS, the cursive letters tarnished brass, and it was all Ryan could do to stop himself from laughing. All he could think was how stupid the names were. No doubt the drunken patrons who used the facilities felt like royals, as they gave it a shake or wiped their ass.
Henry Roberts was frail, pencil-thin; a solid breeze might send him fluttering away. His hair was fine and white, his scruffy complexion a sickly gray under the dim lights. He had creases in his crusty skin just about everywhere you looked. Baggy brown shorts, the ugliest Ryan had ever seen, swallowed his skinny legs, legs so close to stripped bone that Beaks would likely gnaw on them on sight. A half-smoked Lucky Strike hung from his thin lips, and when he looked up and saw the kid in his bar, his eyes narrowed to vicious slits of black. Slits that felt like razors cutting into Ryan’s flesh.
Ryan stepped back a little. He felt something thick clog his throat. The guy gave him the creeps. The barkeep drew on his smoke, eyeing him up. Henry Roberts raised a bony hand to his cigarette, drew it out slowly, and exhaled in his face. The Stick Man stuffed the cancer stick back between those chicken lips, his head kind of listing, a hint of some wicked grin there.
Ryan swallowed. “… I need …”
Henry Roberts drew his cigarette between his ochre-stained stick-fingers. He rolled a thin tongue over decaying front teeth, two missing, another chipped to a sharp edge. He unstuck the black thing stuck there, chewed it a bit and swallowed. For all Ryan knew, it was a morsel of roadkill. And from what he’d heard about the man, he wouldn’t put it past him. The guy was a freak.
If he so much as touches me, so help me God I’ll—
“You need what,” Henry Roberts groaned, like an old tree in the wind.
Ryan panicked. He had no idea what he needed. His mind seemed to freeze. And he was worried that Ben would have messed things up.
“I need whiskey,” he mumbled after some length, too weak to be understood.
“Eh?”
From the glare he was given, it was hard to tell if it was anger or surprise, or if the man hadn’t heard him right in the first place. Maybe it was a little of all three. He straightened, trying to play it cool, but the fact was, that clog in his throat was threatening to choke him dead. Even his eyes betrayed him, shifting to the brooding rube for a moment.
“… I need … whiskey.”
He had spoken too loud. He must have. He didn’t want to turn to the men shooting stick to find them staring at
him. He’d look like … well, like a kid.
“I want—”
“I know what you want,” the barkeep croaked. His cigarette hung taut in his lips, poised like a tiny knife.
Suddenly, standing alone, Ryan felt entirely vulnerable; this was a place of men. Maybe he should have brought Ben after all. Or just gone fishing.
“I got money,” he said flatly, and immediately wished he hadn’t. In all likelihood, he was walking out of here with nothing but a boot up his ass, and more likely was that he’d be twenty bucks lighter once they forced him to hand it over. So much for Ben’s change.
Henry Roberts cackled. It took him a moment to settle, the smoke from his Lucky floating round him in a thickening cloud. He didn’t look like he was going to speak another word, and then he did.
“You got trouble,” is what the Stick Man said. “Now get the hell outta here before I call the cops.”
Ryan flinched, praying the man didn’t notice. The bitch of it was, Henry Roberts was probably twenty pounds lighter than him, probably fifty years older. Why he was so afraid of him he wasn’t quite sure. Well, there was the thing about the old bastard touching him.
“I want whiskey.”
“Dumb shit.” The barkeep swept behind the bar, bent down a breath, and came up with a cocked .30-.30. All Ryan could do besides shit himself black was to stumble back on those useless legs.
“Wh—what’re you doin’?”
“Get your sorry ass outta my bar, kid.”
Ryan took a small step—a very wavering step—forward.
“Don’t you get me, boy?”
“I’m not leavin’ … not without whiskey.”
Ryan stood cold, uncertain of his next move or his next word (let alone his next breath), and turned to the men playing eight-ball. They looked up with dim curiosity, one sucking a smoke, the other spitting something dark and slick to the floor. And then they simply went back to wasting the afternoon, as if this happened all the time.
“Eh?”
He is deaf, Ryan thought. That’s what they say.
“I’m not leavin’.”
“I’m gonna count to three.”
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” Ryan said. “You know it, and I know it.” But he might, he thought, he just might.
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