Some Came Running (27 page)

He took his time going back to the table, although he didn’t want to, very much aware of all the eyes in the booths upon him, but in every booth he looked at the eyes all dropped away.

The eyes have it.

“What’d she have to say?” Dewey grinned as he sat down. He had ordered another beer for Dave.

“Said she was glad to meet me,” Dave said, and proceeded to drink off most of his fresh beer. He was breathing a little fast and his wrists were trembling, but the feeling of hilarious superiority had not left him. Neither had the piercing hunger and the misery. These were stronger. Than ever. It was a relief to get back to the table with Dewey and Hubie who he knew would not censure him, even if he didn’t like them very well because he felt they were wastrels.

Hubie snorted. “Yeah, she looked like she was glad to meet you. She looked like she could have killed you.”

Dave grinned, the tight-fitting puckery mouthed—too much drinking—arrogance washing about him—too much
living!
—in heady waves. He knew he had made a colossal ass of himself, a real violent fool, but he didn’t feel badly about having done it.

Rather he felt glad, very glad. He liked doing it. It was his business if he liked making a fool of himself wasn’t it?

“She sure smelled good,” he said, grinning grimly.

“And that’s all the good it’ll do you,” Hubie snorted. Hubie was getting more argumentative as he drank more.

“Don’t you worry, Dave,” Dewey grinned. “She ain’t so lily white all over. See that old dame up front in the corner booth smoochin with the old guy? Well, that’s Edith’s grandmother. Jane Staley. Jane’s a good old gal; she’s always good for a buck loan for a beer. But nobody knows what the old guys in this town would do for lovin if it wasn’t for Jane. So don’t let Edith crap you, she’s no saint descended from no Virgin Mary.”

“They don’t even speak to each other hardly in here or uptown,” Hubie said.

Dave looked up at the front booth, although he didn’t care, where an old gal of sixty-some was somewhat prevented from cuddling any closer to her stringy-aged companion by the unbelievable enormity of her breasts. Then he remembered her, startled. It was the same old Janie who used to take care of him as a kid. But she’d put on an awful lot of weight. He wanted suddenly to laugh wildly. They didn’t any of them, anywhere, understand a bit of it. What a way to introduce yourself to a woman you wanted to fall in love with! To make fall in love with you! He had sure picked himself a couple of great ones today, hadn’t he! And played them well! He felt, suddenly, exuberantly destructive. He just barely restrained himself from throwing back his head and roaring with laughter.

“Old Jane works for Frank, too,” Dewey said, looking at him curiously. “Or for Agnes rather. Does their housework.”

“I know. Maybe I ought to go over and say hello to her, too.” He laughed. While he was still looking at the ancients, ’Bama got up from the booth of girls and walked back toward them, cool, self-possessed, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his pulled-down mouth, his hat still riding just at his hairline. Dave’s sudden exuberance included him, too. What a book these characters would make someday! For some writer. Somebody. Somebody, like Wally Dennis, ought to do it.

“Hi, ’Bama!” he cried.

From the booth Edith, too, watched the tall ’Bama come back to the little table. He had evidently succeeded in patching up the squabble between Dewey Cole and his girlfriend, Lois Wallup. Now they would all get back together. Until some other argument started.

It had been an interesting diversion to watch, and she had more or less enjoyed it. Rather like going to a movie you don’t especially like or dislike but you stayed to the end anyway just to see what would happen. But she was still embarrassed about Dave, and therefore angry, and now it seemed to her suddenly a disgustingly unedifying way of spending an evening: To go to Smitty’s after the show and drink beer and watch an argument between Dewey Cole and his girlfriend.

And with Harold Alberson!

Poor Harold. They had only spoken once since Dave Hirsh had come over to the booth, which was when Harold asked her if she would like another beer, and she had said no.

She had been terribly embarrassed, and she had been hurt. Mostly, of course, it was just the being made conspicuous. Why, on earth, would he want to
do
something like that to her. She had never even met the man.

She had wanted to run away, leave, and even now her body was still sending her frantic signals to move, but she was confident none of it showed on the outside of her.

She watched the gambler ’Bama slide into his chair. She had never heard his last name, just ’Bama. And she listened coldly to Dave’s euphoric yelp of greeting. It was amazing how much he really did look like the boss. Like Frank. It was unbelievable two people could look so much alike and be so completely different.

“What is ’Bama’s last name?” she asked Harold pleasantly.

“Dillert, I think it is,” Harold said. He cleared his throat.

“Dillert,” she said aloud to herself.

“Yes,” Harold said. “He came up here from Alabama.” He cleared his throat again. “That’s why the nickname.”

“Yes, I had heard that,” Edith smiled. He was supposed to be a very successful seducer of women. She could see where there might be a certain quality about him that might seem dangerous and attractive—if not very sensible. But he was so unattractive physically with that hanging belly and that strange way of walking, and that sneering cockiness as if he expected every woman to lie down for him, that she would have thought any woman would refuse to go to bed with him if only to show him all women weren’t easy. Who wanted to be just another jewel in some man’s crown?

Besides, he looked sallow and not very healthy, as if he never got enough rest, and only ate whenever he happened to think about it, and drank far too much, and as if his bowels had not moved regularly for years. That belly. You just couldn’t have good elimination without regular meals.

In front of her, Harold cleared his throat again. “I think I better go over there and say something to him,” he said. “Don’t you think I should?”

“Say something to who?” Edith said.

“To Dave Hirsh. I think I’d better go over and speak to him,” Harold said hollowly. “Ask him to go outside with me or something.”

“You’ll do no such a silly idiotic damned thing!” Edith said. “You’ll sit still and drink your damned beer! Do you want to make us even more conspicuous?” Jesus Christ! she said to herself, feeling ashamed for saying it about Harold. And he wants to marry me! None of those men over at that table would have asked your permission. They would have jumped up, perhaps too eagerly, and hit somebody if they were going to do anything at all. Poor Harold. Jesus!

“After all, he can’t be that tough,” Harold said. “I think I should ask him to apologize or go outside with me,” Harold said. He looked at her. “Maybe you would like me better if I did.”

“I’d like you a lot less,” Edith said. “And you’ll do no such a thing. The thing I like about you the best is that you’re a gentleman.”

“I think I ought to do something,” Harold said.

“Harold, you wouldn’t stand a chance with any of those men,” Edith said crisply. “Quit being a romantic damned fool.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harold said. “I used to box a little.”

“Those men are not boxers. They’re knock-down-drag-outers. And they’re crazy. Now stop it and shut up,” she said. “I can defend my own virtue. When it needs it. It doesn’t need it now.”

Harold looked away, perhaps relieved, but mostly miserable. Edith felt sorry for him. Maybe she ought to let him go over there. And get his block knocked off. But it was stupid. Stupid and foolish, and she could not endure the thought of being the cause of a fight.

She turned back to watch the table, where ’Bama was talking and the others listening. Except for Dave, who was staring off into space. It was amazing how much he looked like the boss, with a little less hair and the littlest bit more paunch it could
be
him.

It wouldn’t be so bad, watching them, if the whole wild bunch weren’t all so obviously aware they were being watched. They loved it. And yet, to be honest, she had to admit there was something menacing that made it exciting to come here and watch their antics—those evenings they were here. When they weren’t here, the place was dead as hell, that was the truth. No wonder Smitty catered to them. Edith felt sorry for them. It was as if they didn’t care at all about their bodies, or about their reputations. And why should they? she thought, never having had any? She knew about that herself—or else were haunted beyond caring by something.

In front of her, Harold cleared his throat again. “Sometimes I think you would like me a lot better if I were more like guys like that,” he said.

“Harold, you can without doubt make some of the stupidest remarks I have ever heard!” Edith said. “I like you better than
all
of them.”

She snapped her head away, and looked back at the table. God! And Dave Hirsh could go and nut himself—as Jane would undoubtedly have said; Jane had probably seen the whole thing and was sitting up there chortling to herself. She had never seen a man who could make himself so thoroughly unattractive and disliked in so short a time. Poor Harold was worth five of him.

“Order us another beer!” she commanded. Oh, hell! she thought. Oh, damn hell!

’B
AMA HAD SLID INTO
his seat at the table grinning triumphantly when he came back from the girls’ booth.

“Well, it’s all fixed up. They’re goin to move over into the empty booth. But they want to wait ten minutes so it won’t look like me talkin to them had anything to do with it. Let’s have another beer.

“God,” he said leaning back in his chair, “the things I have to go through to get my friends fixed up— Eddie!” he called.

The one-armed young bartender looked up and grinned and held up four of his five fingers.

’Bama nodded at him. “Now, look,” he said to Dewey, leaning forward again. “All I want is for you to give us fifteen minutes to get us established with the other three. Then you can do anything you want: Get up and leave, kick them in the jaw, pour beer on them. But give us that fifteen minutes so our three won’t feel honor bound to side in with them like they’re doing now. In fifteen minutes, they can legitimately feel like a separate party. So please sit and talk to them that long.” He paused. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Dewey said, unperturbed. “I said we would. But if you’d have just waited they’d have come back here finally.”

“Yes,” ’Bama said, “but by that time it would have been five minutes of closing and we wouldn’t have had any time left to make our pitch.”

Dewey shrugged. “We’re goin to do it for you.”

“Okay,” ’Bama said. “Now as for you,” he said, turning to Dave.

Dave, who would have felt highly flattered if he could have heard Harold Alberson’s opinion of his fighting prowess, nodded. But he could not make himself really listen. All he could think of was what a tremendous amount of thought and energy was being expended, wasted—all because he had inadvertently said something earlier about wanting to get fixed up. And now he didn’t care. But he couldn’t say anything, not now after ’Bama had gone to all this trouble. He felt trapped. He tried to make himself listen.

“First I made sure they understood you weren’t a soldier, you were a civilian guy who just got his discharge,” ’Bama said. “Then I told them some stuff all about you: how you live in Hollywood, are a writer for the movies, and are just visiting your brother here a week or so. And you don’t know anybody and want to meet someone.”

“Oh, Christ,” Dave said. “You didn’t tell them I was a writer.”

’Bama paused. “Sure. Why the hell not?”

“But I’m not one anymore.”

“What difference does that make? As long as you can make it work for you,” ’Bama said. “I told them you were a movie writer, and that when you got back out there and got to workin on some new ones, if you saw some part that might fit one of them, should any of them happened to have caught your fancy, you might very easily get her out there and get her started in a couple jobs.

“I figured we might as well use everything.”

“Oh, Christ,” Dave said.

“What the hell, why not use it. They’ll never know the difference anyway. What’s wrong with that?” ’Bama demanded.

Eddie brought their beers. ’Bama paid him. “Now look,” he said. “There’s three of them. You can have yore choice. I’ve had them all one time or another, so it don’t make me no difference.”

“Why don’t we take all three,” Dave said. He laughed uproariously.

’Bama looked at him curiously. “That’d be all right with me,” he said, “but I don’t think these gals would play along. You got to remember these gals are country gals. We’ll have to go to the city for that. Chicago or someplace.”

“Then I guess we better not,” Dave said, grinning.

“I don’t think we better chance it,” ’Bama said. “Now look. I’ll brief you on them. Two of them work out at the br—” He paused. “Wait a minute. How’d you make out over there?” he asked, nodding his head toward Edith Barclay.

Dave grinned. “No good.”

“Because I can always break this off quick, if you find somethin better.”

“No,” Dave said. How to explain it? “I didn’t—”

“He wasn’t tryin,” Hubie volunteered.

“Well, I didn’t figure you’d make out anyway,” ’Bama said. “With her. Especially when she’s got a date. Now look: Two of these work out at the brassiere factory with Lois. That’s Ginnie and Mildred. The other one—”

“Look, they’re movin’,” Hubie said suddenly. “They’re goin over to the other booth. Come on, Dewey,” he said, “let’s go.”

“Let them sit a spell,” Dewey said sourly. “What’s your hurry? We don’t want to go runnin up there like a couple of dogs.”

“The third one, is Rosalie Sansome. She’s the big, well-built one. She’s the niece of the woman who runs one of the bars up at West Lancaster. You know about West Lancaster?”

Dave nodded absently.

“West Lancaster’s the only place in the county can sell hard liquor over the bar,” ’Bama said anyway. “Her aunt’s a tough old gal, used to run a whorehouse in Terre Haute, and Rosalie’s pretty rugged herself. She can get pretty huffy, but she can be made, on the first time out, if you handle her right and baby her along. For instance, you don’t want to ever call her Rosie, she hates it. But she’s the best-lookin one by far of the bunch.”