Cool Hand Luke (9 page)

One night everyone had thrown in his hand but he
and Dragline. Drag had opened up the betting and then stood pat. Jackson drew three cards. Smirking, Drag bet the limit, a dollar. Jackson looked at his cards, looked at Dragline, saw the bet and then raised it a dollar. Drag sat there scowling, swearing in a harsh whisper and tapping the edge of his hand on the table. Jackson looked at him and smiled. Finally he drawled in that soft way of his.

Well, come on now, Luke. Shoot or give up the gun.

Ah am shootin‘—Ah mean—ah'm thinkin'. Damn yore ass. Ah think you're bluffin‘. Ah calls yore bet.

Dragline had a queen-high straight.

Jackson had four threes.

The next day out on the road Jackson was joined by Dragline and Koko during Smoking Period. Koko wanted to know about Jackson's war experiences, about his wounds and his medals, about all the girls he had laid in North Africa, in Italy and France and Germany. Dragline lay on the ground saying nothing. He himself had been a truck driver during the war, shuttling supplies from the ports along the Persian Gulf over the mountains into Russia. And he was still sulking from his poker defeat of the night before. But Koko persisted, eager and anxious.

Come on Jackson. How about this big medal that you got? That Silver Star thing. What did you do to get that?

Shoot man, nothin‘. Nothin' at all. All them people were just runnin‘ around like crazy. Shootin' guns and throwin‘ things. Screamin' and hollerin‘. Everything
blowin' up and burnin‘. All them trucks and tanks and airplanes runnin' races day and night. Me, I just played it cool, that's all.

After Smoking Period Jackson began to work along with Dragline and Koko. They shoveled and shot the bull in whispers until Boss Godfrey drove off with Rabbit to fetch the Store Order. As soon as the Man was gone Dragline stopped to take out his chewing tobacco, calling out,

Gettin‘ a chew here, Boss Paul.

Yeah. Chew it up, Drag.

Dragline took a pinch of the coarse, loose grains from the crumpled package, stuffing them in his mouth and chewing it up and moving it over in a wad to one side of his cheek. He offered the package to Koko who took a chew and then spoke out loud.

Must be time for Boss Godfrey to get back. Must be time for beans. What time do you say it is, Dragline?

Drag stopped. He spit out a stream of tobacco juice to one side, shifted his quid with his tongue, turned his head and winked at Boss Paul who stood nearby.

Ah bet ah kin come closer to it than you kin.

I'll bet you a cold drink you can't.

A cold drink? A cold drink? You think ah'm gonna waste mah soopernatcheral talents on a lousy five-cent cold drink? What do you think ah am?

How much do you wanna bet then?

Nothin‘ less'n a quarter. At least.

A quarter? What do you think
I
am? A millionaire?

Eff'n you don't wanna bet it's all right by me.

O.K. Make it a quarter then.

How ‘bout you there, Mister Newcock Poker Player Jackson? You wanna bet too?

Yeah. All right. I'll bet you a quarter. Why not?

Ha! This is mah lucky day. Ah'm cleanin‘ up!

Well Drag, said Koko. What time do you say it is?

Oh no you don't. Yo'll gotta say first. Ah kin come within two minutes ever‘ time and you know it. Yo'll jes guess a minute from me and you might jes win by accident.

No bet then. We got to have some kind of a handicap. We ain't got no watch built into our ass like you got.

Ha! You know it too, huh? Well, let's see. Ah guess ah kin afford to be generous with a pair of no ‘count amachoor time tellers like you two. Yeah. O.K. Ah'll guess first.

All right then, said Koko. It's a bet.

Yeah, said Jackson. Fire when ready, Mister Dragline.

Dragline looked up at the sun and squinted. He took off his cap and wiped his face with it, shoving it back on his head at an absurd angle. He stabbed his shovel into the ground and walked around it slowly, putting his fist on top of the handle with his thumb upraised as he scowled down at its shadow on the ground. Then he measured off the distance from the blade of the shovel to the end of the handle's shadow, using his outstretched fingers for a ruler. Spatoo! went the tobacco juice. Drag's lips began to move as he ticked off calculations on his fingers.

The rest of us were grinning. Boss Paul and the other guards were entranced by this devious, complex ritual which was really designed to steal a few minutes of free fucking off. And we knew that no one but Dragline could ever hope to get away with it all. Which is why we kept on shoveling, slowly, ineffectively, but constantly moving nevertheless.

Jackson stood there, leaning on his shovel and smiling.

Well now, come on here Luke. You know damn well we got a couple of rules around here. You gotta shoot. Shoot, man. Either that or give up the gun to my sergeant here.

Spatoo! went the tobacco juice. Dragline frowned, scratched his nose and scowled. Closing one eye, he turned his head and gazed at Koko.

It's exactly ten forty-seven. A.M.

Eastern Daylight Saving Time?

Natcherly. This here's official.

Drag. You're nuts. We had Smoking Period at ten. We went back to work at ten fifteen. Twenty minutes later Rabbit took up the Store Order. Him and Boss Godfrey took off at least a half hour ago. At least. It must be a quarter after eleven. If not later.

O.K. Aw right. That's fine. Do you wanna say it's eleven fifteen?

Now wait. If you say ten forty-seven—then I'll say it‘s—uh—eleven even.

How ‘bout you, Mister Handful o' Threes? What do you say?

Well sir. Reckon I'll go along with my big-headed friend here, Mister Coconut. I'll say eleven five.

Ha! You lose! You both lose!

Dragline glanced up and down the road and then called over to Boss Paul who stood there grinning, his shotgun balanced horizontally over his shoulder. Dragline giggled.

Hey Boss! Boss Paul! Listen! Ah got me a pair of mullets what think they can beat me out on the time. This Koko brain here. And this Newcock. This here parkin‘ meter bandit thing that calls itself Luke.

Boss Paul stood there without moving.

Aw, come on Boss Paul. Ain't nobody lookin‘.

Slowly Boss Paul stretched his free arm, yawned, pulled out his watch pocket, replaced it and grinned. We all waited. And then he murmured confidentially.

It's ten forty-eight, Dragline.

Ah tole yuh, Koko! Ah tole yuh! Didn't ah? And you too there, Mister Luke. Ah got me a real cool eyeball. Ah knows jes what that sun up there is doin‘,
all
the time.

All right. All right. So I owe you a quarter.

Owe?
Owe?
Owe, nothin‘. Cough it up. Right now. One cuter. You too, there, Mister Luke. Boss Paul! Boss Brown! Collectin' mah debts over here.

Yeah.

All right.

Collect it there, Drag.

Gleefully Dragline collected the coins that Koko and Jackson put in his hand. And then it was all over.
Down the road we could see the cage truck coming and we all dummied up and went back to work.

At noon time, Dragline, Koko and Jackson ate their beans under the shade of a live oak tree. And from then on they always worked together. For the Newcock had been fully accepted by the Bull Gang. Except that his name had been changed to Luke.

But as time went on Luke gained a reputation of being not only one of the best poker players in Camp but also one of the biggest eaters. He could put away an incredible pile of beans and corn bread. And when Rabbit took up a Store Order Luke would buy all sorts of Free World groceries with his poker winnings—apples, bananas and cookies, raw carrots and sardines. Every day he bought a quart of milk. He'd spread his jacket out on the ground, lay down on his back, open the container and drink the whole quart at once, gulping it down in one long, bubbling draught.

He was a natural. But in addition to his native aptitude he was given valuable lessons in technique from Curly. Recognizing Luke as a talented challenger to his position as the camp's biggest eater, Curly taught him all sorts of esoteric tricks of the trade. It was Curly who gave him the extra-large tablespoon that he carried, digging it out of his locker where he had it stashed away as a spare, giving it to Luke with a big grin.

Here, Luke. Use this. That little toy you got there ain't big enough to keep a man alive.

Curly could eat. But he could work too. This is
what kept him out of the Box in the old days when he would eat so much supper that the count was held up when the men checked into the Building for the night. Carr and the Wicker Man stood outside on the porch. The guards sat on the gun platforms. The captain was rocking and spitting in front of his Office. The cooks and trustees stood by in the kitchen. The Walking Boss sat in the Messhall, standing guard over Curly who sat there all alone—eating.

That was how he won the unique distinction of having the legal right to get in at the head of the chow line, this privilege granted by personal orders of the Captain himself.

It was inevitable that the day should come. It was hot and the Bull Gang had spent all day in a drainage ditch in water up to their waists, cutting out the dense undergrowth of briars and willows and palmettos with bush axes. Luke had worked like a fiend, slashing away at twice the speed of anyone else, lopping off the fronds and branches with forehand and backhand strokes of ferocity. But because of the temperature and because we weren't very far from Camp, the Bull Gang was the first squad to check in from the road.

Luke was the first man to reach the Messhall door, limping and staggering, his pants and shoes soaking wet with mud and slime. Everyone waited for the other squads to come in. Finally the Patch Squad arrived and then Curly came up, stepping right in front of Luke with a grin.

Everybody made jokes and wisecracks. The two
double-gut giants stood by the screen door, grinding their teeth and stomping their feet, their spoons held in their hands at the ready, glittering in the sunset.

Boss Higgins was the Walking Boss in charge of the Messhall that night. He went inside. Taking his position by the kitchen door, he gave the signal.

Curly and Luke each grabbed a plate and leaped to the line of pots where one trustee was serving the scrap of fat back and another the catheads. On this particular night the Dog Boy ladled up the main dish, a concoction of stewed potatoes. It was a soft, overcooked mess but not really bad at all. But for the big eaters it was a pure blessing. Ordinarily they always chewed a mouthful of food just twice and then swallowed. But on this night they didn't have to chew at all.

Before the sixth man had filed inside Curly and Luke were standing by the door, their empty plates dangling in bored, innocent hands. They ignored our grins, scowls and insulting whispers, calmly waiting there for the end of the line to come through so they could get seconds.

Then again they leaped to their places with overheaped plates, their spoons scooping in a whipped blur as they slopped, slurped and swallowed and jumped up neck and neck to go back for more. This time the Dog Boy stacked up their plates with a mountainous heap, never believing they could finish it and getting a vicious thrill out of the Heat he imagined they were bringing down upon themselves from the Free Man.

But they polished off that serving in less than sixty seconds and returned once again. And then we knew. For the first time in over three years, Curly's title was being seriously challenged.

The whole drama was acted out in silent pantomime. We couldn't cheer, shout or make bets. But we expressed our glee and our befuddlement with our eyes, our nods, fingers and smiles.

Reluctantly we finished up our own pitifully small portions. One by one we got up and stepped outside to wash off our spoons under the faucet, to take off our shoes and empty our pockets to allow the Floorwalker to shake us down. Inside the Messhall, a few brave ones were still dawdling, risking the wrath of the Free M‘an in order to witness at first hand this incredible contest.

Four plates and then five. The Dog Boy's remarks became louder and more cutting. Being a trustee he had the right to speak aloud in the Messhall. And being a Judas whose job was to train the bloodhounds and to chase escaping convicts, and being a natural son of a bitch besides, he tried his very best to put the Heat on the gulping, swelling duet.

Damn. Ain't never seen such gluttons. Keep on and the State's liable to go broke feedin‘ 'em. Here boy! Soooooeeeee! You want some more slops?
Soooeeeee!

But the Free Man simply observed the proceedings from his chair in the corner, clutching his ulcered stomach with his fingers. Then he growled out impatiently.

Them two are the best Rollers in Camp. Boss Godfrey says Luke's able to do more work than any man in the Bull Gang. A man sure as hell cain't work if he don't eat right. Ah only wish ah could eat like that. Ah'd give anything.

And that shut up the Dog Boy who had come dangerously close to putting the Finger on himself.

After six plates of stewed potatoes each, the pot was empty. With a sigh of regret, Curly started to rise. But then Jabo the Cook came out with two aluminum bowls of stewed prunes that were left over from the guards' table at breakfast. He offered them to Curly and Luke and then sat down on the bench opposite them, holding his chin in his hand and watching. Babalugats was the last Gunman left in the Messhall. But then he could tarry no longer and came out to break the news to the rest of us who were clinging to the bars and wire of the windows, waiting for some word.

They both spit out the last pit at the same time to set the metal bowls ringing in an affirmative major chord. Sardonically the Cook offered to get them still another bowl but Curly was too cunning. He realized that if they ran the thing into the ground there was a serious risk of getting into trouble. They had had their fun. But they didn't want to become Wise Guys.