Swag (9 page)

“You mean here?”

“What's the matter with here?”

“But I don't have anything to put on after,” Arlene said, “except this wet swimming suit.”

If that was all she was worried about, Stick knew he was home. He said, “I'll get you a robe or something. How'll that be?”

That was how he got her in the shower. He put her drink on the top of the toilet tank, adjusted the spray to nice and warm, and went out, closing the door.

Stick didn't own a robe. Maybe Frank had one, but he didn't bother to look. He went into his bedroom and got undressed, put his shoes and socks in the closet, hung up his new pants and shirt, got down to his striped boxer shorts, thinking he could have taken her to dinner, spent twenty bucks. He could have taken her to a movie and then to a bar, hear some music, then coming home ask her if she wanted a nightcap at his place. He could have gone through all that and then have her say thanks anyway, she was tired. Find out first, then take her out after; that was the way to do it. He couldn't figure out why he had hesitated going to Mona's, trying to get the words right. Mona was a pro, whether she looked like one or not. Arlene was a—what? Hot-rod queen. A flake. Part-time camshaft model and kept lady. But he really didn't know her or how she'd react.

She might scream. She might say, Now wait a minute, or, Get the hell out of here, or threaten to call the police, or be so scared she couldn't say anything.

What Arlene did say, when he pulled the curtain back and stepped naked into the shower with her, was, “Hon, get me another Salty Dog first, will you?”

They were in bed, dried off and smelling of Mennen's talcum powder, when Mona started.

That faint sound through the wall, a caressing sound without words.

Stick hadn't heard her come in. Probably while they were in the shower. He was on an elbow right now, half over Arlene with a leg between hers, giving her a little knee, feeling strong with his gut sucked in, giving her nice tender kisses and feeling her hands moving over the muscles in his back.

Arlene opened her eyes.

“What's that?”

“What?” He put his mouth on hers to keep her from talking.

“Like somebody's in pain.”

“I doubt it's pain,” Stick said. He got back to it and Arlene began to squirm and press hard against him.

Mona, in another bed in another room, said, “Oh Jesus. Oh God. Oh Jesus.”

Arlene's eyes opened again. “Listen.”

“Oh please—”

Arlene slid around him and sat up. “Where's it coming from, next door?”

“I guess so.”

“Who lives there?”

“The one—I don't know her name.”

Arlene frowned. “The mousy one with the straight hair?”

“I don't know as she's mousy. A little plain maybe. Not what you'd expect—”

Arlene stopped him. “Listen.”

She got out of bed, carefully climbing over him, and followed the faint murmuring sound to the wall where the dresser stood. Stick watched her crouch there—a naked redhead who looked especially naked to him because her skin was white and didn't show tan lines—her face alert, pressed to the wall, her perky little boobs hanging free.

“You want to learn how it's done. Is that it?”

“Shhhhhhhh.”

“I thought you knew. You seemed to be doing all right.”

Arlene didn't look over or change her expression. The room was silent. Stick could hear the sound again.

After a moment Arlene said, “Oh . . .
now
, please. Oh please, please, please,” keeping her voice low.

“I'd be glad to oblige,” Stick said.

Arlene was fascinated, glued to the wall, her eyes alive and mouth slightly open.

“Give it to me. Give me everything, oh please. Oh God, Jesus.”

“Maybe what she's doing,” Stick said, “she's saying her prayers.”

“Uh-unh. She just said the word.”

“What word?”

“I can't say it out loud. God, now she's saying it over and over.”

“Spell it,” Stick said.

He got a Marlboro off the night table with the Chinese figurine lamp and sat up in bed to smoke and watch Arlene and tried to imagine what was going on in the bed on the other side of the wall. He could picture Mona's face, her eyes closed; but he couldn't picture her saying anything or picture the guy with her. He didn't want to picture the guy. Arlene's eyes opened a little wider. It wouldn't be long now. Arlene looked good. He wondered if he could like her seriously. Studying her he realized she was very pretty. Delicate features. Slim body. Flat little tummy. Not at all self-conscious about standing there naked. But she couldn't say the word.

Arlene must have been thinking about it, too. When she came back to bed and crawled over him she said, “I could never say that. I can do it, God, no trouble at all. But I can't say it. Isn't that strange?”

Stick said, “I was thinking, why don't you take your rings off? So nobody'll get hurt.”

8

THE BAR IN HAZEL PARK
was on Dequindre, only a few blocks from the racetrack. They had been in once before and watched a couple of big winners buy rounds for the house. They weren't sure if bars were worth it and picked this one as a good place to find out.

When they went in at 1:30
A.M.
, a half hour before closing, it was filled with the sound of voices and country music playing on the jukebox. The bar section was still very much alive, though the tables were empty now and the waitress was standing by the service station counting her tips.

Once they pulled their guns, Stick would cover the people at the bar and put them down on the floor while Frank concentrated on the bartender, a woman, and got her to empty the cash register. Before Frank could get his Python out, Stick touched him on the arm.

“Let's sit down.”

They got a table. The waitress brought them a couple of draft beers and left.

“The guy with the hair,” Stick said, “at the end of the bar.”

The guy was at the curved end nearer the door, facing the length of the bar: thick hair over his ears, big arms and shoulders in a dull yellow-satin athletic jacket. Frank drank some of his beer as the guy's head turned toward them.

“What about him?”

“He eyed us when we came in. Watch him, keeps looking around.”

“Maybe he's waiting for somebody.”

“Or maybe he's a cop, staking the place out. You read about it? They been doing that.”

“A cop,” Frank said. “He looks like a bush leaguer never made it.”

“Cops put on these outfits now, play dress-up,” Stick said. “You never know anymore.”

“If you don't feel right about it,” Frank said, “let's go. Maybe it's not a good idea anyway. Six, seven, nine with the waitress, that's a lot of people to keep track of.”

“Wait,” Stick said. “I think he's leaving.”

They watched the guy in the yellow-satin jacket slide off the stool and pick up a leather case that must have been leaning against the bar on the other side of him.

“He's got pool cues,” Frank said. “I thought he was a jock. He's a poolhall cowboy.”

“Going to the can,” Stick said.

There was an inscription on the back of his jacket. They watched it go into the men's room.

“Port Huron Bullets,” Stick said. “He's one of the famous Port Huron Bullets. You ever heard of them?”

“We'll wait'll he leaves,” Frank said. He finished his beer. When he took a cigarette out Stick did, too, and got a light from him.

Dolly Parton was singing on the jukebox. Stick had been in love with Dolly when he used to watch the “Porter Waggoner Show” and paused to listen before he said, “You want to do it, huh?”

Frank looked at him. “What's the matter, you nervous?”

“No more than usual. You bring a bag?”

“Shit, I forgot,” Frank said. “They probably got something behind the bar. Wrap it in the broad's apron or something.”

“She doesn't have an apron on.”

“We'll put it in
some
thing, okay?”

“I don't know,” Stick said. “I don't feel we're a hundred percent this time. You know what I mean?”

“When're we ever a hundred percent sure?”

“I don't mean sure. I mean ready, wanting to do it. We come in, right away we hang back.”

Frank was looking past him. “Here he comes.”

Stick saw the change in Frank's expression and heard him say, “Jesus Christ,” softly, with a sound of awe. He heard that and heard Loretta Lynn now saying they didn't make men like her daddy anymore, as he turned and saw the guy in the yellow-satin jacket and the door of the men's room behind him, the guy raising a pump-action shotgun level with his waist.

“Don't nobody move! This is a holdup!”

The guy shouted it, drowning out Loretta Lynn. “I'll shoot the first one moves!”

When he swung the shotgun at their table, Frank and Stick were looking right at him about fifteen feet away. “You two—don't make a move. Don't anybody. I'm warning you. I'll shoot to kill.”

“Wants everybody to know he means business,” Frank said.

They watched him move hesitantly toward the bar, telling people who were looking over their shoulders at him to turn the fuck around. Loretta Lynn was finished and it was quiet in the place now as he got around behind the bar and moved down to where the woman bartender was standing at the cash register.

“How come he doesn't make 'em lay on the floor?” Stick said. “You believe it?”

“He doesn't know what he's doing,” Frank said. “Dumb poolhall cowboy. Tells everybody on his jacket where he's from.”

“That shotgun'd be a pain in the ass,” Stick said, “wouldn't it? You imagine carrying a shotgun around?”

“Keep your hands on the bar!” the guy shouted at somebody.

“He's pretty nervous,” Frank said. “Maybe it's his first time.”

“He's more nervous than I am. Look at him wave that scattergun,” Stick said. “Doesn't know where to point it.”

“What he ought to do,” Frank said, “is put it on the waitress. Tell 'em he'll blow her off if anybody moves, or if the broad doesn't give him the money.”

“Yeah, get 'em laying down first, they don't see where he's at.” Stick shook his head. “Dumb cowboy, I wouldn't be surprised he had a horse outside.”

“Runs out in the street waving his shotgun,” Frank said. “Or you suppose he puts it back in the case first?”

“He goes in the toilet,” Stick said, “and comes out again pretending he's got pool cues in it. Now he's getting the change off the bar. What'd she put the money in? The broad.”

“Looked like her purse.”

“Runs out with a shotgun and a purse,” Stick said. “That'd be a sight, wouldn't it? How much you think he got?”

Frank was silent for a moment, watching the guy as he moved carefully toward the end of the bar.

“He isn't out of here yet.”

Stick looked at Frank, then back to the guy, who was coming around the bar and now backing toward the door.

“It's an idea, isn't it?” Stick said.

“If we see the chance.”

“I think when he goes to open the door,” Stick said.

The guy seemed more nervous than before. He glanced over at their table but was concentrating on the people at the bar. “Don't nobody move,” he said. “I go out, I'm liable to come back in to make sure. Anybody I see moved gets a load of twelve-gauge, and I
mean
it.”

“He talks too much,” Stick said.

The guy turned to the door, raising the shotgun barrel straight up in front of him, and started to push it open.

“Drop it,” Frank said.

The guy hesitated, his back to them and the shotgun upright against the door. He had a moment, but when he finally turned, it was too late. Both Frank and Stick, standing away from the table, ten feet apart, had their revolvers on him, aimed at arm's length.

“Come on,” Frank said, “put it down.”

When the shotgun was on the floor, Stick walked over to the guy and took the purse from him.

He said, “Much obliged, partner. We appreciate it.”

The story in the
Detroit News
the next day described how for six hours the would-be holdup man and the bar patrons were locked up together in a storeroom where all the liquor and bar supplies were kept. When they were found the next morning, the newspaper account stated, the would-be holdup man appeared to have suffered a severe beating, while the bar patrons were in a festive state of intoxication.

“Can you see it?” Stick said. “The Port Huron Bullet comes out, blood all over him, can't open his eyes. Hasn't got any idea what happened to him. Keeps asking himself, over and over, ‘What went wrong?' ”