Hearts In Atlantis (19 page)

“We certainly do.”

Len Files came out from around the desk, took Ted by the arm, and started to lead him toward the poolroom. Then he stopped and swung back. “Is it Bobby when you're home and got your feet up, pal?”

“Yes, sir.”
Yes sir, Bobby Garfield
, he would have said anywhere else . . . but this was down there and he thought just plain Bobby would suffice.

“Well, Bobby, I know those pinball machines prolly look good to ya, and you prolly got a quarter or two in your pocket, but do what Adam dint and resist the temptation. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won't be long,” Ted told him, and then allowed Len Files to lead him through the arch and into the
poolroom. They walked past the men in the high chairs, and Ted stopped to speak to the one getting his shoes shined. Next to Jimmy Gee's grandfather, Ted Brautigan looked young. The old man peered up and Ted said something; the two men laughed into each other's faces. Jimmy Gee's grandfather had a good strong laugh for an old fellow. Ted reached out both hands and patted his sallow cheeks with gentle affection. That made Jimmy Gee's grandfather laugh again. Then Ted let Len draw him into a curtained alcove past the other men in the other chairs.

Bobby stood by the desk as if rooted, but Len hadn't said anything about not looking around, and so he did—in all directions. The walls were covered with beer signs and calendars that showed girls with most of their clothes off. One was climbing over a fence in the country. Another was getting out of a Packard with most of her skirt in her lap and her garters showing. Behind the desk were more signs, most expressing some negative concept (
IF YOU DON'T LIKE OUR TOWN LOOK FOR A TIMETABLE, DON'T SEND A BOY TO DO A MAN'S JOB, THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A FREE LUNCH, NO CHECKS ACCEPTED, NO CREDIT, CRYING TOWELS ARE NOT PROVIDED BY THE MANAGEMENT
) and a big red button marked
POLICE CALL
. Suspended from the ceiling on a loop of dusty wire were cellophane packages, some marked
GINSENG ORIENTAL LOVE ROOT
and others
SPANISH DELITE.
Bobby wondered if they were vitamins of some kind. Why would they sell vitamins in a place like this?

The young guy in the roomful of automatic games whapped the side of Frontier Patrol, stepped back, gave the machine the finger. Then he strolled into the
lobby area adjusting his hat. Bobby made his finger into a gun and pointed it at him. The young man looked surprised, then grinned and pointed back as he headed for the door. He loosened the tied arms of his jacket as he went.

“Can't wear no club jacket in here,” he said, noting Bobby's wide-eyed curiosity. “Can't even show your fuckin colors. Rules of the house.”

“Oh.”

The young guy smiled and raised his hand. Traced in blue ink on the back was a devil's pitchfork. “But I got the sign, little brother. See it?”

“Heck, yeah.” A tattoo. Bobby was faint with envy. The kid saw it; his smile widened into a grin full of white teeth.

“Fuckin Diablos,
'mano
. Best club. Fuckin Diablos rule the streets. All others are pussy.”

“The streets down here.”

“Fuckin right down here, where else is there? Rock on, baby brother. I like you. You got a good look on you. Fuckin crewcut sucks, though.” The door opened, there was a gasp of hot air and streetlife noise, and the guy was gone.

A little wicker basket on the desk caught Bobby's eye. He tilted it so he could see in. It was full of keyrings with plastic fobs—red and blue and green. Bobby picked one out so he could read the gold printing:
THE CORNER POCKET BILLIARDS, POOL, AUTO. GAMES. KENMORE
8-2127.

“Go on, kid, take it.”

Bobby was so startled he almost knocked the basket of keyrings to the floor. The woman had come through the same door as Len Files, and she was even
bigger—almost as big as the circus fat lady—but she was as light on her feet as a ballerina; Bobby looked up and she was just there, looming over him. She was Len's sister, had to be.

“I'm sorry,” Bobby muttered, returning the keyring he'd picked up and pushing the basket back from the edge of the desk with little pats of his fingers. He might have succeeded in pushing it right over the far side if the fat woman hadn't stopped it with one hand. She was smiling and didn't look a bit mad, which to Bobby was a tremendous relief.

“Really, I'm not being sarcastic, you should take one.” She held out one of the keyrings. It had a green fob. “They're just cheap little things, but they're free. We give em away for the advertising. Like matches, you know, although I wouldn't give a pack of matches to a kid. Don't smoke, do you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“That's making a good start. Stay away from the booze, too. Here. Take. Don't turn down for free in this world, kid, there isn't much of it going around.”

Bobby took the keyring with the green fob. “Thank you, ma'am. It's neat.” He put the keyring in his pocket, knowing he would have to get rid of it—if his mother found such an item, she wouldn't be happy. She'd have twenty questions, as Sully would say. Maybe even thirty.

“What's your name?”

“Bobby.”

He waited to see if she would ask for his last name and was secretly delighted when she didn't. “I'm Alanna.” She held out a hand crusted with rings. They twinkled like the pinball lights. “You here with your dad?”

“With my
friend
,” Bobby said. “I think he's making a bet on the Haywood–Albini prizefight.”

Alanna looked alarmed and amused at the same time. She leaned forward with one finger to her red lips. She made a
Shhh
sound at Bobby, and blew out a strong liquory smell with it.

“Don't say ‘bet' in here,” she cautioned him. “This is a billiard parlor. Always remember that and you'll always be fine.”

“Okay.”

“You're a handsome little devil, Bobby. And you look  . . .” She paused. “Do I know your father, maybe? Is that possible?”

Bobby shook his head, but doubtfully—he had reminded Len of someone, too. “My dad's dead. He died a long time ago.” He always added this so people wouldn't get all gushy.

“What was his name?” But before he could say, Alanna Files said it herself—it came out of her painted mouth like a magic word. “Was it Randy? Randy Garrett, Randy Greer, something like that?”

For a moment Bobby was so flabbergasted he couldn't speak. It felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. “Randall Garfield. But how  . . .”

She laughed, delighted. Her bosom heaved. “Well mostly your
hair
. But also the freckles . . . and this here ski-jump  . . .” She bent forward and Bobby could see the tops of smooth white breasts that looked as big as waterbarrels. She skidded one finger lightly down his nose.

“He came in here to play pool?”

“Nah. Said he wasn't much of a stick. He'd drink a beer. Also sometimes  . . .” She made a quick gesture
then—dealing from an invisible deck. It made Bobby think of McQuown.

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “He never met an inside straight he didn't like, that's what I heard.”

“I don't know about that, but he was a nice guy. He could come in here on a Monday night, when the place is always like a grave, and in half an hour or so he'd have everybody laughing. He'd play that song by Jo Stafford, I can't remember the name, and make Lennie turn up the jukebox. A real sweetie, kid, that's mostly why I remember him; a sweetie with red hair is a rare commodity. He wouldn't buy a drunk a drink, he had a thing about that, but otherwise he'd give you the shirt right off his back. All you had to do was ask.”

“But he lost a lot of money, I guess,” Bobby said. He couldn't believe he was having this conversation—that he had met someone who had known his father. Yet he supposed a lot of finding out happened like this, completely by accident. You were just going along, minding your own business, and all at once the past sideswiped you.

“Randy?” She looked surprised. “Nah. He'd come in for a drink maybe three times a week—you know, if he happened to be in the neighborhood. He was in real estate or insurance or selling or some one of those—”

“Real estate,” Bobby said. “It was real estate.”

“—and there was an office down here he'd visit. For the industrial properties, I guess, if it was real estate. You sure it wasn't medical supplies?”

“No, real estate.”

“Funny how your memory works,” she said. “Some
things stay clear, but mostly time goes by and green turns blue. All of the suit-n-tie businesses are gone down here now, anyway.” She shook her head sadly.

Bobby wasn't interested in how the neighborhood had gone to blazes. “But when he
did
play, he lost. He was always trying to fill inside straights and stuff.”

“Did your mother tell you that?”

Bobby was silent.

Alanna shrugged. Interesting things happened all up and down her front when she did. “Well, that's between you and her . . . and hey, maybe your dad threw his dough around in other places. All I know is that in here he'd just sit in once or twice a month with guys he knew, play until maybe midnight, then go home. If he left a big winner or a big loser, I'd probably remember. I don't, so he probably broke even most nights he played. Which, by the way, makes him a pretty good poker-player. Better than most back there.” She rolled her eyes in the direction Ted and her brother had gone.

Bobby looked at her with growing confusion.
Your father didn't exactly leave us well off
, his mother liked to say. There was the lapsed life insurance policy, the stack of unpaid bills;
Little did I know
, his mother had said just this spring, and Bobby was beginning to think that fit him, as well:
Little did I know
.

“He was such a good-looking guy, your dad,” Alanna said, “Bob Hope nose and all. I'd guess you got that to look forward to—you favor him. Got a girlfriend?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Were the unpaid bills a fiction? Was that possible? Had the life insurance policy actually been cashed and
socked away, maybe in a bank account instead of between the pages of the Sears catalogue? It was a horrible thought, somehow. Bobby couldn't imagine why his mother would want him to think his dad was

(
a low man, a low man with red hair
)

a bad guy if he really wasn't, but there was something about the idea that felt . . . true. She could get mad, that was the thing about his mother. She could get
so
mad. And then she might say anything. It was possible that his father—who his mother had never once in Bobby's memory called “Randy”—had given too many people too many shirts right off his back, and consequently made Liz Garfield mad. Liz Garfield didn't give away shirts, not off her back or from anywhere else. You had to save your shirts in this world, because life wasn't fair.

“What's her name?”

“Liz.” He felt dazed, the way he'd felt coming out of the dark theater into the bright light.

“Like Liz Taylor.” Alanna looked pleased. “That's a nice name for a girlfriend.”

Bobby laughed, a little embarrassed. “No, my
mother's
Liz. My girlfriend's name is Carol.”

“She pretty?”

“A real hotsy-totsy,” he said, grinning and wiggling one hand from side to side. He was delighted when Alanna roared with laughter. She reached over the desk, the flesh of her upper arm hanging like some fantastic wad of dough, and pinched his cheek. It hurt a little but he liked it.

“Cute kid! Can I tell you something?”

“Sure, what?”

“Just because a man likes to play a little cards, that
doesn't make him Attila the Hun. You know that, don't you?”

Bobby nodded hesitantly, then more firmly.

“Your ma's your ma, I don't say nothing against anybody's ma because I loved my own, but not everybody's ma approves of cards or pool or . . . places like this. It's a point of view, but that's all it is. Get the picture?”

“Yes,” Bobby said. He did. He got the picture. He felt very strange, like laughing and crying at the same time.
My dad was here
, he thought. This seemed, at least for the time being, much more important than any lies his mother might have told about him.
My dad was here, he might have stood right where I'm standing now
. “I'm glad I look like him,” he blurted.

Alanna nodded, smiling. “You coming in here like that, just walking in off the street. What are the odds?”

“I don't know. But thanks for telling me about him. Thanks a lot.”

“He'd play that Jo Stafford song all night, if you'd let him,” Alanna said. “Now don't you go wandering off.”

“No, ma'am.”

“No,
Alanna
.”

Bobby grinned. “
Alanna
.”

She blew him a kiss as his mother sometimes did, and laughed when Bobby pretended to catch it. Then she went back through the door. Bobby could see what looked like a living room beyond it. There was a big cross on one wall.

He reached into his pocket, hooked a finger through the keyring (it was, he thought, a special souvenir of his visit down there), and imagined himself riding down
Broad Street on the Schwinn from the Western Auto. He was heading for the park. He was wearing a chocolate-colored stingybrim hat cocked back on his head. His hair was long and combed in a duck's ass—no more crewcut, later for you, Jack. Tied around his waist was a jacket with his colors on it; riding the back of his hand was a blue tattoo, stamped deep and forever. Outside Field B Carol would be waiting for him. She'd be watching him ride up, she'd be thinking
Oh you crazy boy
as he swung the Schwinn around in a tight circle, spraying gravel toward (but not on) her white sneakers. Crazy, yes. A bad motorscooter and a mean go-getter.