Texas by the Tail

by Jim Thompson

  The letter had been a long time in catching up with him. It was addressed from the same city in which he was then working. He read it, feeling a nostalgic tug at his heart. Having an afternoon off from his job, he went out to see her.

  The house was in a scrofulous neighborhood of similar dwellings. Flanking it on one side was a weed-grown railroad siding. On the other was an abandoned commercial building, its crumbling façade clustered with grinning, frowning, earnest-looking posters of innumerable political aspirants—cardboard vultures on the bones of a dead dream.

  Stepping up on the porch and starting to knock, Mitch glanced through the opened screen door. It was a so-called shotgun house, its three-and-a-half rooms in a row. It was just about impossible not to see into the bedroom, the second room back, and to hear the epigamic surgings of the bedsprings.

  Mitch lowered his hand without knocking. He went quietly down the walk, and sauntered up to the corner and back. Then, he moved toward the porch again, whistling noisily. He knocked. He knocked a second time, and the throaty flushing of a toilet answered him. In the fragmentated silence that followed, a silence punctuated by a man’s surly monosyllables and simpering whinny which could not be, but was, his mother’s, Mitch called out to her.

  “Mother? It’s me, Mitch.”

  In the interim before she finally came to the door, Mitch almost called it off and left. He did not see how he could face the whinnier, the owner of that cowering voice, and he was sure that he had better not face her husband. He could see the man moving about the bedroom, a swarthy, sleek-haired character with very broad shoulders and an invisible waist. And he detested every inch of what he saw.

  Still, knowing that he should beat it, Mitch was somehow held where he was. So after almost ten minutes, he was at last greeting his mother through the rusted screen. Through it, since she did not unlatch it, although her hand hesitated fearfully in the neighborhood of the latch.

  “Francis,”—she spoke weakly over her shoulder. “It’s my son, dear.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Uh, would it be all right—could I have him come in, dear?”

  “He ain’t my kid.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear, thank you,” his wife breathed gratefully. And Mitch was allowed to enter.

  She gave Mitch a hasty peck, obviously fearfully aware of the man in the other room. Mitch sat down on one of the three straight chairs, a little puzzled by the appearance of the divan until he recognized it as the front seat of an automobile. His mother asked him what he was doing now, and he said he was night bell-captain at the city’s leading hotel. She said that was nice, oh, that was awfully nice; wasn’t that nice, Francis? (“Big deal.”) And Mitch thought, Holy God, what’s happened to her?

  He knew the answer to that one, of course, and in a way it seemed to have been good for her. The peppery waspishness had given way to a cowlike contentment. She was washed-out looking, haggard as a witch. But, hell, she was pushing fifty now, and Francis the Gallant couldn’t be over thirty-five.

  “…a dancer, you know,” his mother was saying. “Francis is a very talented dancer. Everyone says so.”

  “That’s nice. Oh, that’s awfully nice,” Mitch said.

  “Yes, uh, yes, he dances.”

  “Oh,” said Mitch. “You mean he dances.”

  “Y-Yes…A dancer.”

  “Well, that’s nice. That’s awfully nice,” Mitch said. And then, his mother’s eyes begging, he made himself behave. “I’m sure he’s very good,” he said. “I’d like to see him some time.”

  Francis did not come into the living room until he was fully dressed in a very “sharp” black suit with broad chalk stripes, toothpick-toed shoes, a black shirt, and a yellow tie. He waited until Mitch had arisen and extended his hand. Then he sat down, ignoring the hand, taking a swig from the can of beer he was carrying.

  He stared at Mitch silently, eyes unblinking. Mitch stared back at him smiling.

  “So you’re a bellboy,” he finally grunted. “What do you do when a guy asks you to get him a woman?”

  “What do you do?” Mitch said.

  “I heard that all you birds was pimps.”

  “Did you indeed?” Mitch smiled. “And what’s your personal opinion?”

  His mother was fidgeting nervously; she whimpered the statement-question that Mitch might like a can of beer. “So let him have one,” Francis said, and he suddenly pitched the can at Mitch.

  Mitch caught it, but awkwardly; beer splashed onto the trousers of his one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar suit. Very carefully, he set the can down on the bare pine floor. He again turned his smile on Francis, who was shaking with laughter.

  “You ain’t much of a catcher, bellboy!”

  “No, I’m not,” Mitch smiled. “But you should see me pitch.”

  “What’d you pay for that suit you’re wearin’?”

  “I made it myself,” Mitch said. “I make all my own clothes.”

  “Don’t get smart, bellboy!”

  “You should try it,” Mitch said. “After all, what have you got to lose?”

  He could feel his smile widening, freezing on his face. His mother knew its meaning, and twittered an attempted diversion. But her husband silenced her with a look.

  “How much loot you make a week, bellboy?”

  “I’ll trade information with you,” said Mitch. “Where do you keep your little red hat?”

  “Huh? I ain’t got no little red hat.”

  “But what do you use to collect the pennies in?”

  “Collect pen—huh?”

  “That people give you for dancing,” Mitch explained. “Or doesn’t the organ-grinder trust you with money?”

  His mother whinnied fearfully.

  Francis cursed, swarming up out of his chair. But he just wasn’t fast enough. Before he knew what was happening to him (if he ever knew), Mitch had given him a kick in the groin, an elbow across the windpipe and a knee in the face. Then, as Mitch’s mother screamed and clawed at him, he methodically stomped in her husband’s ribs.

  He was sorry, terribly, terribly sorry, even as he fled the house. The fact that Francis was the king of the boobs was no reason to half-kill him. In attacking Francis, he realized, the real victim had been his mother. He would never dare see her again now. And he would have to get himself out of town very quickly.

  He went home and gave Teddy the news, promising to send for her as soon as he found another job. Teddy declared that she was going right along with him. Her daddy wasn’t going to go any place without his mama.

  “We’ll go to Forth Worth,” she announced. “I know of a very good job I can get there. The same kind of work I’m doing now.”

  “But what about me? I don’t know that I can get a job there.”

  “You don’t need a job; I make more than enough for both of us. Anyway, you’ll be busy taking care of the baby.”

  “Baby! What the hell are you talking about?”

  Teddy raised her skirt, and pulled down her panties, baring the creamy environs of her belly button. She pulled his head against the area, and suddenly he felt something—a small but unmistakable kick.

  “See?” she beamed at him as he jerked away. “Eight months, and it hardly shows at all. Some women are like that, the doctor says. He says I’ll probably be able to work almost up to the time of its birth.”

  “B-But—But—” Mitch waved his hands desperately.

  “So everything’s going to be just fine and dandy. Mama will work and daddy will take care of the baby—a baby should be taken care of by its daddy—and he’ll have plenty of time to play with his little dicey-wicey.”

  Mitch suddenly exploded. He asked her what the hell she took him for? He, by God, would provide the money for the family—he’d find some kind of a job—and she, by God, would take care of the baby!

  “I will not,” said Teddy, iron coming into her dulcet voice. “I already have a baby to take care of. My daddy’s my baby.”

  “You hear
d me!” Mitch said. “And knock off that daddy-mama alfalfa! Shake it out of your pretty little skull! It’s beginning to give me the meeyams!”

  “Don’t you sass your mama!” Teddy said.

  “Goddammit!” Mitch yelled. “I said to knock it off!”

  He flung himself down on the bed. Face clouded ominously, Teddy marched into the bathroom.

  He heard water running. He bit his lip, remorse flooding over him. My God—first his mother, then his wife! Pushing around two women in one day, the only two who meant anything to him. And Teddy was pregnant! Almost on the point of becoming a mother! It was up to him to humor her at such a time, not shout and curse at her.

  He was on the point of calling an apology to her, when Teddy suddenly loomed over him. She shoved a washrag into his mouth. She scrubbed vigorously.

  For a moment he was too startled to move. Then, gasping and gagging and retching, he struggled free of her. Staggered about the room, literally frothing at the mouth.

  He spat, cursing sickishly, and a flood of soap bubbles sprayed from his lips. Teddy watched him with an air of self-righteous sympathy.

  “Now, mama didn’t want to do that,” she said. “It hurt mama much more than it hurt daddy.”

  “For God’s sake,” Mitch sputtered weakly. “Why the hell—what kind of a damned fool—”

  “You better be careful,” Teddy said. “You better be a nice daddy, or mama will wash your mouth out again.”

  7

  There was a soft upward swelling of the music in the bar. Mitch arose from his stool with a little nod to Red.

  “Sit tight, honey. I’ll be right back.”

  “Mitch”—her eyes were following the tall, overly elegant man who had told them to leave. “Who is he, Mitch?”

  “Frank Downing.”

  He left quickly before Red could protest. At a door some distance away, Downing turned and glanced over his shoulder, then passed on through it.

  The room was a kind of annex to the bar. A place to lounge and confer informally. The lights here were even dimmer than they had been outside, and there was not even the muted rustle of a voice to whisper of another presence. Mitch blinked, peering around, trying to penetrate the shrouding shadows. Then, there was a click—the flame of a cigarette lighter, and Frank Downing’s phlegmatic poker face hung limned against the darkness.

  He was sitting over at the far side of the room at a small writing desk. Guided by the spasmodic glow of Downing’s cigarette, Mitch made his way across the deep pile carpet, and sat down opposite the Dallas gambler.

  He said nothing, waiting. Downing said nothing. Minutes passed. Mitch lighted a cigarette, and went on waiting. At last Downing broke the silence: A reluctant grunt of admiration. Then he sighed softly, tapping out his cigarette.

  “That redhead,” he said, “is positively the most woman I have ever seen.”

  “Yes,” Mitch said innocently. “My sister is a very attractive girl.”

  Downing let out a snort. “Nobody,” he said, “but nobody ever had a sister like that.”

  “So?”

  “So buy her another drink, if you like. Buy her some dinner. Dance with her a few times. And then get the hell out of here like I told you to. Or maybe you didn’t hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  “I don’t think you did,” Downing said. “No one ever hangs around a place after I tell them to beat it.”

  “Maybe I’m an exception.”

  “That redhead is certainly a lot of woman,” Downing said absently. “A woman like that deserves to be happy.”

  He started to get up. Mitch hastily put out a restraining hand.

  He had to operate in Texas. Except perhaps for Tulsa and Oklahoma City, Texas was the only remaining pasture for the big time gambler’s grazing. Here alone was there always another metropolis to move on to, lush with the long-green and stubbornly resistant to the blight of credit cards and charge-a-plates. Here they liked the feel of money. Here they were shocked by the piker notion of “never carrying more than fifty dollars.” Here were people who’d gambled their very existence for what they’d got, and who stood ready to gamble again. Here and almost here alone did restlessness, impatience, and self-confidence—the conviction that there was always more to be had where the first had come from—combine to make dice an accepted social pastime, much as bridge and rummy were accepted in areas where the money was older and its owners more effete.

  So there it was. He had to operate in Texas. He could not operate there—in fact he was very apt not to operate period—if he antagonized Downing.

  “All right,” he said, at last. “All right, Frank. But I don’t like it.”

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” Downing murmured.

  “I’m no punk. We’ve always got along together. Now you holler frog, and I’ve got to jump. Why? What’s the answer? Why do you want me out of here?”

  “Give the girl another drink,” Downing said. “Give her some dinner. Dance her around a few times.”

  “Come off of it!” Mitch frowned determinedly. “I’ve got a right to know.” He hesitated, studying the gambler. “If you’re afraid I might try to crumb-in on your action—”

  “Don’t be stupid. I wouldn’t pop for a penny outside my own store.”

  “Then, why? Red and I are good people. Why treat us like dirt?”

  Downing didn’t seem to hear him. Slowly, he lighted another cigarette, absently contemplating the exhaled stream of smoke as Mitch silently waited. He ground the cigarette out again, hesitated, and spoke. There was a peculiar note in his normally toneless voice.

  “Ever in the Dallas river bottoms in the old days, Mitch?”

  “No.” Mitch shook his head puzzled.

  Downing said that he’d been born there, and it was quite a place. Crap Creek, the bottoms, squatters had called it; shit creek. Because that was just about what the river was. So thick you could walk on it in some places. Yet people bathed in it—what else? They drank from it. They drowned their bastard infants in it, and there were many of them to drown. For whoring was one of the largest industries, and unwanted babies a principal crop. Bastards and rats and disease. But Frank Downing had been lucky, a happy victim of a process which snatched him from the bottoms to the relative heaven of the state’s toughest reform school. He had eaten regularly there. He had had a bed to sleep in, and clothes to wear. He had gotten Texas’ standard eleven years of schooling. He had received invaluable training in the arts of bribery, graft, strong-arm, and gambling. And when he left, the head guard himself had given him the warmest of recommendations to the chief of the Dallas vice-squad.…

  “That’s what I came from, Mitch. From there to here. From there to Zearsdale Country Club.”

  “Yes,” Mitch nodded, still puzzled. “That’s quite a story, Frank, and I appreciate your telling it to me. But—”

  “I’m up for membership in the club.”

  “Membership! But—uh—why, that’s fine, Frank. I—”

  “It’s a joke,” Downing said flatly. “You know, like taking a whore to church. Tee-hee, ho-ho, ha-ha, just look who we’ve got in our club! It’s a joke—but who’s the joke on? I want in. I can’t let you or anyone else get in the way.”

  Mitch wanted to know how he could do that. The gambler spelled it out for him.

  “We’re both pros. You kratz yourself up, and it could rub off on me. Like, say, we were working a frammis together.”

  Mitch argued with him, declaring that Downing was really reaching for it. Downing said that he’d been really reaching for a long time, all the way from the Dallas river bottoms. It was true that Mitch wasn’t known as a pro. But he could get known. It was also true that Mitch wasn’t the kind to kratz up. But that could change, too.

  “The point is, Mitch, there’s always a chance when you take chances, and on you I don’t have to take any. So I wish you hadn’t rushed off so fast. I was going to tell you good-bye, but I see you’ve already gone.”

&
nbsp; He nodded, grinned satirically and started to rise. Again, Mitch detained him.

  “I’m holding light, Frank. Red doesn’t know it, but I need to hit.”

  “Yeah?” Downing obviously didn’t believe him. “If you hadn’t already left, you could see my collar was on frontwards.”

  “I mean it, Frank. I’ve just about got to hit.”

  “Oops!” Downing pointed. “There he goes!”

  “What?”

  “The chaplain. He just ran out the front door,” Downing said. “Probably couldn’t stand to see a man crying. For that matter, neither can I.”

  Mitch knew he had blundered. He reversed himself immediately. “All right,” he laughed. “I’m here, and I want to get my feet wet. Now, suppose I never touch the dice myself. Just fade, and try to make out with the odds. That couldn’t possibly do any harm, could it?”

  Downing hesitated. Aside from liking Mitch, he believed in doing favors where no cost to himself was involved.

  “You’re asking me to put you in the game,” he said.

  “No, I’m not. Of course, I figured that you’d probably want to watch me…”

  Downing said that it worked out to the same thing. Mitch denied it. “We’ll all go in together, sure; you and Red and I. You can make talk with her while I’m at the table. But that doesn’t add up to putting me in the game. You know everyone, and we’re just a couple of more people that you know.”

  “Well…” The gambler half-nodded. “You don’t push yourself, now. You can’t do it here.”

  “I wouldn’t do it anywhere.”

  “And you only fade. No shooting.”

  Mitch agreed. They arose, Mitch grinning to himself. Tonight he would simply break the ice, get himself known to the high-rollers. Then, another night, after making sure that Downing was no longer in town, he would come back for another visit.…

  They reached the door of the room. Downing suddenly turned on him, with a curse. “Why, you sneaky—! It went right past me, and I didn’t see it!”