by Jada M Davis
The man laughed.
Ree hit him, hard, and the big man sprawled on the floor, slid on his back, and rolled to his knees, cursing feebly.
“Don’t ever laugh,” Ree said. “They laughed when I was a kid, but they don’t laugh now. My old woman couldn’t spell, they told me, and wrote it like she said it. And that’s all right. It’s all right, so don’t laugh. Don’t ever laugh.”
“I’ll never laugh again, bub. My jaw’s broke.”
“O.K. Forget it.”
The man snorted.
“You’ve served time,” the man said finally.
“How did you know? Does it show?”
“No. Besides, I can’t see you good. It’s a feeling, I guess.”
Ree stepped to the doorway again. The man moved up beside him.
“Have a cigarette, Willa.”
“Thanks.”
The man flipped a match with his thumbnail and gave Ree a light. He cupped the match in his hands and held it to his own cigarette. He was a Negro.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” Ree said.
“Aw, ‘s all right.”
“Where you headed?”
“Who knows?” the big man asked. “Or cares?”
“I’m getting off at the next town.”
“It’s a free country.”
Ree turned back into the car and found the bundle that held his spare slacks and tie. The slacks were wrinkled and dirty. They’d have to be cleaned.
It had taken a long time, but this was what he wanted, where he wanted to be.
He’d followed the spidery red lines on road maps, and the red lines had been deceptive. He’d followed the lines by slow freight and the distances had been amazing. He’d been in the boxcar a day and most of this night. During the day it was hot, burning hot, and the wind had whipped stinging sand before it, until his face was burned and his eyes red raw. The night had been cool at first, almost cold, but turned warm, and the car had retained the heat soaked up during the day.
There were town lights ahead.
Ree crouched to jump, but changed his mind. He straightened and relaxed and again leaned against the car door. When the train neared the station lights and slowed, he stepped back into the car, out of sight. Not until the train was at a dead stop did he jump to the ground, parcel of clothes under his arm.
“Take it easy, Buster,” he called.
“So long, Willie,” the Negro said and laughed softly.
The first gray light of day flicked darkness aside and outlined the station, train, empties, and dingy buildings that are part and parcel of any town’s railroad area. The sign on the station said “BRETON.”
Chapter Two
Ben Halliday couldn’t sleep.
He cursed himself for a fool.
The bed floated in circles each time he closed his eyes, dipped and swayed and spin span spun, sickeningly. A hollow place formed at the pit of his stomach, heavy and dead.
How many beers had he had?
Not many.
Twelve, maybe.
There was a time, a time, a time when a dozen beers wouldn’t have made his head spin. No matter what medical science had to say about it, there was a time when he could drink more than he could now.
What was it he’d read in the paper?
There is no such thing as building up a tolerance for alcoholic beverages by regular drinking, the paper said. A man’s capacity is based on the bulk of his body, and not on his drinking habits. Age has nothing to do with....
Nuts!
There’d been a time, once upon a time, when he could drink all night and every night and sometimes during the day, and it never made him sick. And he never, never, never, ever had hang-overs.
Except now and then.
And what about the bulk of the body?
Wasn’t he heavier at forty than he’d been at thirty? Not fat. Not paunchy. Just a little heavier, all over heavier.
The clock in the hall ticked away, and his mind ticked with it. Back and forth, back and forth, to and fro.
If he could only take his brain out and rub it.
Martha stirred, moved on her bed, in the darkness there, somewhere in the darkness, over there or over there, somewhere to hell across the room.
He didn’t know where, because his head was spinning.
A groan welled up from that heavy place in his stomach and climbed up through his chest and throat and out between dry lips.
Nora would tell Martha in the morning. Not that she’d want to, but no doubt she’d feel duty bound to tell. After all, her conscience would say, you’re Martha Halliday’s best friend.
Ah, Nora Byrd would tell her. She’d approved at the time, even asked him over to their house for dinner and drinks.
Poor Nora.
But in the shape Sam Byrd was in, stayed in, he couldn’t satisfy himself, much less a woman like Nora. Drunk or sober.
And Nora needed a man.
Sam was too drunk, slobbery fall-down drunk, to do anything but fall asleep. Why Nora’d ever married that slob, with her looks, and her figure, was more than.... Well, Sam was a friend, fellow businessman, member of the town council and all that, but too weak to hold a woman like Nora.
Someday, wait and see, Sam’ll pass out and Martha’ll be out of town. Like last night. Only last night Sam hadn’t passed out.
Someday, wait and see.
No, it wasn’t Nora last night. It would have been, could have been, except for Sam.
Why did Nora plan last night?
Because, don’t be a fool, because Martha was out of town and she knows Martha’s colder than an ice-box and because she wanted to see just how far things could go if the opportunity presented itself.
She almost found out, too.
Martha stirred again, somewhere in the darkness, and Halliday lifted his head from the pillow to listen.
Even the darkness began to spin, and he let his head fall back.
It might be better to get up and go on to the bathroom and be sick and get it over with.
The spinning slowed. He felt better, except that his throat burned and his lips felt thick and parched and cracked and the inside of his mouth felt lined and slick.
There had been Martha, hours away, sky high, on a plane, dozing in her seat, flying home.
Martha had wired that she’d be in on the one A.M. plane, and he knew that it was too late to find a woman. Unless he went to a hotel, and he didn’t want to do that. Bought woman was the same as no woman, almost, yet not altogether. But bought woman wasn’t the same, somehow, and anyway besides, bought woman left a bad taste in the conscience.
Every night he’d thought of going out, meeting some lovely girl at a night club or in a café and making a conquest. Hell, she wouldn’t even have to be lovely, just young, good figure and young.
But, as the nights passed and the date for Martha’s return neared, he realized that he’d have to buy a woman.
Or forget it.
But he couldn’t forget it.
His body, his mind, cried aloud, or almost aloud, the need for woman.
He’d tried, even tried, picking up girls on the street. And that had failed. Because, when he tried, he could see himself as the girls must have seen him. And that made him feel like the fool he felt the girls felt he was.
Too old and too awkward and too tongue-tied.
Finally, sick with desire for someone young and pretty, but old, not loving, (not Martha, old with young body, but old, just suffer in silence like a good wife) he’d tried a night club.... No luck.
Too old.
Too old.
Well, might as well wait and love Martha, though the love in return would be nil, no more and no less than he could get at a hotel for ten or twenty bucks. At least, a tramp pretends enjoyment. Martha wouldn’t even do that.
Here he’d worked and slaved and made money, lots of money, a hell of a lot of money, and she gave nothing in return. Here he was, respected and wealthy, a member of the city council, a
director of the chamber of commerce.
All for Martha.
Hell.
His head was spinning. If it didn’t stop spinning, he was going to be sick.
Maybe he’d feel better if he smoked a cigarette. Groaning, gagging, he sat on the edge of the bed and found cigarettes and lighter on the table.
He inhaled—it tasted good, for a moment.
Sweat on his face—sick.
He must have made a noise for Martha stirred again. If Martha knew...!
He laughed inside, hating her, hating her for withholding what she had and he wanted, and for having what he wanted and couldn’t have and was wasting.
His conscience didn’t bother him, not a bit, and had never bothered him. He’d always said, if you can’t get it at home, get it where you can.
Not that he didn’t love Martha.
But if she knew, oh, if she knew!
Tonight, last night now, hadn’t been the first time and wouldn’t be the last.
Dinner at the Byrds’ had been mostly beer, and he and Nora had watched each other, and he knew that she wanted him too.
Sam got drunker and drunker but he didn’t fall asleep, so at ten o’clock he left the Byrds’ and went to a hotel. He wondered what time it was.
Martha stirred again, moaned softly.
The thing is, he thought, that Martha has the body and all a woman needs to make a man happy, but she either didn’t know how or wouldn’t even try to please him, and a man with guts would leave Martha.
At twelve he went to the airport.
The plane had been on time, and Martha stepped off looking fresh and young and beautiful.
He hugged her and tried to kiss her but she turned her head.
He noticed what’s-his-name, the manager of Johnson’s Tool Company, get off the plane. What’s-his-name nodded and he nodded back.
Martha needed one look, just one look, and knew he’d been drinking. He could feel her scorn, but she didn’t nag, but even though she didn’t nag he knew she was scorning him.
They’d gone home and straight to bed, in separate beds, like always.
And he thought, If I hadn’t had what I had, I wouldn’t have had a damned thing.
At first, for an hour or so, he had slept. But then he came wide awake, half sick and more than sick without being sick at his stomach, really. When he closed his eyes, though, the bed began to spin, making his stomach more queasy, and all he could do was make himself think about other things.
He finished the cigarette, scraped the floor with his feet until he found his slippers, and stood up. He tried to orient himself in the darkness. It was hard to think, and finally he began to walk with short sliding steps until his knee hit an end table. He knew where he was, then, and his hand found the wall.
It was easy going down the hall, easy knowing how many steps to take before reaching with the left hand and touching, surely and accurately, the handle on the bathroom door. And then he closed the door quietly before switching on the light, lest the light and noise disturb Martha.
Must not disturb Martha, he thought.
The light hurt his eyes and he felt a headache coming on. Not a hang-over, but a headache. Migraine, maybe.
Four o’clock by his watch. He’d slept longer than he’d thought.
He doused his face with cold water, sloshing it on the back of his neck, wanting to drink it from cupped hands, but knowing better, and only wetting his mouth and swallowing a little.
After he’d dried his face, burying it in the towel and blotting gently (deep dark warm darkness with nowhere light), he looked in the mirror.
Not bad at all for forty, he decided, and sick as hell, at that, and after a hard day’s work before a hard night that was, in a lot of ways, harder work than the day’s work had been.
And then, suddenly, he bent over the basin and vomited again and again until the sick feeling was gone from his stomach and the dizziness from his head.
His throat and mouth burned, but the weight was gone from his stomach and the swaying dizziness from his head.
It was wonderful to drink cold water, wash his mouth out and gargle and drink. He felt weak, but not sick any more, and except for that and rawness of throat and mouth, he felt fine.
Coffee, now, he decided, and scrambled eggs and toast and jelly.
On impulse, he almost called Martha to ask her to have coffee with him. He checked himself—foolish.
Martha wouldn’t do it, he knew. She’d be mad as hell at being disturbed, and she’d refuse.
He wondered if only the bitches of the world understood men and enjoyed life and love as do men, lived under the same code as do men, and had the ability to make men happy.
If only Martha would get drunk one time, and lose her inhibitions.
He snorted at the thought of Martha drunk. He sighed.
Trying to be quiet, he was clumsy. In the kitchen he was unknowing and unfamiliar, and he banged and clattered pots and pans.
Maybe, he thought, something in my subconscious is causing this noise-making, trying to make Martha hear.
The eggs were good, moist and soft as he liked them, and never had food tasted better. Drinking his coffee and smoking, he was conscious of the deep stillness of the night.
How long had it been since he’d had time and inclination for a thing like this? Or just for thinking?
A long time.
Money he had, and prestige. City councilman, solidly entrenched, and fingers in several pies. In fact, the man to see if things needed doing.
But I’m not honest....
Well, who is? Who can be, and make money? What is honesty, anyway? A code.
Maybe I’m not honest, but I’m ethical....
He left the dishes on the table and went to the bathroom. There was a chance that a shower would disturb Martha, but he needed a bath.
Not a bad physique for a man of forty.
His mind went back a step, and he wondered why had thought of himself as being dishonest. Not dishonest, just not honest. Unethical might be a bad word, at that. It’s possible to be honest and not be ethical. Or is it? Anyway, it’s good business, and if it’s good business, it’s not dishonest. Or if it is dishonest, there’ll be a lot of company in hell.
“Oh, a hell of a hell of a hell of a lot of company in hell,” he sang, almost gaily.
Thirty minutes later, clad in khaki shirt and slacks, he left the house and walked.
Flares in the fields twinkled like city lights, friendly and beckoning in the distance. The sky was not so dark now, though there was no moon, and he realized it must be almost five. Nearly dawn.
Maybe he should go back to the house and dress for the office.
Did the council meet today, or next Wednesday?
He couldn’t remember. They were supposed to get some street paving started. Some wise guys were beginning to yelp about paving money disappearing faster than paved streets appeared, and it was time to pave a few blocks to lull the suspicious to sleep. Well, no matter. Sam Byrd would call about the paving today. Poor old Sam, old worried Sam, scared-as-hell Sam. Not too scared to take a slice of the graft, but scared.
Sam would bear watching. Scared men make mistakes.
Well, maybe Sam was right to be scared. Something would have to break some day. Someone would slip, or some wise guy would run into something.
A few more months and he’d slide off the council and take Sam with him.
Everything had gone smooth as silk for three years now, with no slips. And it had been so easy, so damned easy.
Except for Chief Bronson, it had been easy. But the Chief wouldn’t play ball. And he was getting wise.
It hadn’t been easy to fool Bronson, and it had been damned hard to organize a town behind the police chief’s back.
He needed someone—someone hard.
Not that things, on the whole, hadn’t run smoothly. There’d been rumors, ugly rumors, of course. Rumors of kickbacks, pay-offs, fund splitting.
Bu
t nothing ever happened. People don’t get excited until they suffer a personal loss.
Still, it might be better to get out while the getting’s good. Sam Byrd’s scared, and Sam’s no fool.
Oh, nuts! Get someone tough on the police force and organize things big.
The damn fools in this town don’t care. They wouldn’t care if somebody walked off with the city hall. They’re too busy making money, fighting for money, spending money.
Typical oil town.
The air was fresh and clean, almost cold. He shivered and wished he’d worn a jacket.
A milk truck passed.
Two paper boys, on bicycles, called a greeting.
Far off, faint but clear, a train whistle mourned the passing of the night. Whoo-ooo-ooo, whoo-ooo-ooo, whooooo....
Main Street was just ahead, dark and silent. His shoes clop-clopped on the pavement, gray with the drifted sand gutter and in the recessed doorways of the stores.
It was darker here, amid the buildings, and the dawn seemed far away. Ahead of him, down the street, a café’s neoned front flickered bluely.
He decided to have some coffee, and then take a cab home to change.
He went into the café.
Chapter Three
Willa Ree stood beside the boxcar for several minutes. He wasn’t big, wasn’t tall, but his shoulders were broad and he looked strong, as some men look strong because of an inner something that makes itself felt. It may be that he was more compactly formed than others, or it may have been the way he stood or moved or held his head. It could have been the look on his face, or the expression in his eyes. It could have been all these things or none of them, or some of them, or it could have been the very presence of him that tickled or irritated the unused and forgotten danger senses of other men.
Willa Ree.
He was, perhaps, five feet and ten inches tall, and weighed, perhaps, one hundred and seventy pounds. His hair straight and black. He smiled, as he almost always did, and his lips were thin and his mouth wide. His teeth were white and strong. His skin was tanned, and he was hard and brown. His nose was straight, a bit too thin and a bit too long, but his eyes were widely spaced. They were brown, and the brows above them were bushy black, curving and ending outward and upward in sharp points, giving him a somewhat rakish appearance. He wore a white shirt, once clean white but now dirty white, and a pair of khaki trousers. Both shirt and trousers were wrinkled, but his shoes were shiny brown and good.