by James Jones
The boy laughed, and Vic knew that he’d get the money. He really wasn’t such a bad boy, he thought, not compared to the rest of the sons of bitches who took after Elvira, damn them.
“How much do you need?” Young Dave said.
“Well,” Vic said, feeling his way, “I need enough for a fifth of whiskey; and then two or three for beer before the bars close. Say, ten dollars?”
“Jesus Christ!” Dave said. “I didn’t take you to raise.”
“No, and I didn’t ast you to, you son of a bitch,” Vic said.
“I’ll give you seven.”
“All right, if you want to be a tight-ass son of a bitch,” Vic said.
The boy was looking in his pocket. “I ain’t got seven. All I got’s a ten.”
He passed it over. “Here, I’ll give you that. But I want three dollars of it back tomorrow. What kind of a sap do you think I am? The bars close in fifteen minutes. You won’t have time to drink more than one.”
Old Vic folded the bill and put it in his pocket. “Well, I’ll probly have to take a taxi to get out there, in time,” he temporized.
“The taxi stand is closed. You forget. I run it.”
“That’s right,” Vic said. “Well then, I better hustle. Thanks for the money, boy.” He turned and started back down the block, half trotting.
“Don’t forget, I want that three dollars back tomorrow,” the boy called after him.
Vic stopped and turned around. “Well you won’t git it, you son of a bitch. If you thought you’d get it back, you’re dumber than even I thought you was.”
“I wanted you to get out to the bar in time,” Dave said.
“Go to hell,” Vic said. “Don’t try to use no sympathy on me. I don’t owe you nothin for nothin. And you can’t make me obligated to you by givin me your lousy money.” He turned and started off again.
Behind him, he could hear the boy’s thin laugh. He was beginning to learn how to handle him. The more you insulted him, the better he apparently liked it. Probly thinks I’m a tough old bastard, Vic thought. Well, let him. Besides the ten, he had in his pocket four bucks left from the last two times he’d hit him up. He-he. He’d have to remember to hide it out in the yard before he went up to his room, he reminded himself. Or Old Lady Rugel’d find it sure’n hell and that’d be the last he’d see of it.
He hurried along to the square and on across its corner to turn north out North Main and down the long hill toward Smitty’s Bar. If he didn’t get there before they closed, Old Jane Staley would be going off with one of them decrepit old sons of bitches she run around with. That boy Dave was a pistol. A real soft touch. The first time he’d gone over there to that taxi building, it had just been on a hunch, thinkin he might be able to get a buck off of him maybe, because of that whiskey he’d bought him in Ciro’s that time. A buck hell! by playin it careful, he’d wound up with five! Yes, sir, he hoped that boy Dave stayed around quite a while. Heh-heh.
It was funny to think how he had made that boy hisself. And there he stood, just like any other regular person. And yet he had made him, made him with Old Elvira. He was the last one, the last of the six: Francine and Frank, Edward, Darrell, George, and Dave, a whole damn worthless bunch just like Elvira. And it didn’t even seem the least bit sensible. Why them? Why not somebody else? Why anybody? Dog trotting down the long hill toward Smitty’s, Old Vic let himself dwell on the night he had made Old Jane Staley. Yes, sir. Not bad for an old man. Yes, sir, by God! wouldn’t that make young Frankie blow his head clean off and crap all over the floor when he found out! Heh-heh. It like to have killed Frank when he come back home and wouldn’t change his name, and this would even maybe kill him worse. Kill him even worse maybe than when he wouldn’t take his damned money and move to Terre Haute. Vic chuckled out loud and his beaked face wreathed itself in happy smiles.
With more pleasure than he’d felt over anything in quite a time, Vic ran his mind back over the night of the seduction as he walked. It was really all just luck really. He’d just happened to go in there to Smitty’s Bar, and he’d had that boy Dave’s money; and there, by God, Old Jane Staley had been sittin there, and there just happened not to be none of them old cruds of boyfriends of hers sittin with her. Just pure luck, that was the only way you could explain it. But then he’d always been lucky. Lucky Vic Herschmidt, they’d always called him.
He had hid the fifth of whiskey before he went into Smitty’s that night. Hid it across the tracks in the lumber yard. Hell, no use lettin everbody know he had it, heh-heh. So he had set at the bar and ordered a beer, and laid his five-dollar bill straight out on the bar so they could see it, damn them. That one-armed boy had grinned and took his order and clicked them hooks at him.
“Who the hell you been robbin, Vic?” he’d said.
“Never mind,” he’d said. “Not the govment, anyways, like you.”
“By God, that’s right! It’s the state goverment you’re robbin. I wouldn’t settle for nothin less than the federal, myself,” Eddie had laughed, and Vic watched him get the beer. He sure could use them hooks. Eddie brought his beer back and he had took a great big satisfyin slug and looked around. That was when he seen her settin in the corner booth, she like to filled up one side of the whole damned booth, and all by herself. And he’d knew right then that he was bein lucky. It was a while before he could get his nerve up to go over and say somethin to her, but finally he done it. She’d been givin him the eye anyway, hadn’t she?
So he just took his beer and just walked right over.
“How do, Miz Staley,” he’d said. “Mind if I set down here with you a spell?”
“Christ, no, Mister Herschmidt!” Old Jane bawled. “Please do!” Then she’d lowered her voice; and her eyelashes. “I seen you sittin up there to the bar,” she said, “and thought of askin you to come sit over here where it was more comfterble, but I didn’t know what you might think of me if I done that, Mister Herschmidt.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t have thought nothin,” Vic said. “Say, what do you say we cut out all this Mister and Miz stuff?” he’d said, and sidled over a little in the booth. “After all, we’ve knowed each other quite a while, ain’t we?” His knee’d bumped hers underneath the table. Heh-heh. He’d felt hisself gettin eager as some young pup.
“Well now, why I think that’d be fine,” she’d said. “I’ll call you Vic, and you call me Jane. Long as there ain’t no sort of misunderstandins comes of it, you know.” But he’d noticed she’d never moved her leg none.
“Why, course I understand!” he’d said. Heh-heh. “What kind of man you think I be?”
“Why I’m sure you always been a perfect gentleman around me,” Old Jane said, “Vic.”
“You bet your life!” he’d said, and let his leg rub against hers a little. “An I awys aim to be, Jane.” But then she’d moved it. “Excuse me, Mister Herschmidt! But you’re gettin just a little too close to me to be quite proper.”
“It was a accident!” he’d said. But he’d wanted to cuss. Especially when he looked down at her chest. Jane Staley really had the bosoms.
“I’m sure it was, Vic,” she’d said. “But I’m afeard you’re gettin wrong ideas about me.”
“Who, me? Not me!” he’d said. “I don’t never get no wrong ideas about nobody. Everybody’s got a right to live his life jist any how ever he wants to.”
“Well, as long as you feel like that, Vic,” she’d smiled, “I guess it’s all right, don’t you? But a lady has to be purty careful, you know.”
“Sure she does!” he’d said.
“You know, you’re quite a thinker, ain’t you?” Old Jane said. “I like that there what you said about Life. And you’ve seen a good bit of it, too, I bet.”
“Well, I’d say I seen a bit more than the average, anyways,” he’d said modestly.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you have,” she’d said, and slapped him gaily on the hand. Christ, for a minute he’d thought she had done broke two of his fingers. “Say, whatta ya say we have anot
her beer?”
“The best idea yet,” he had said eagerly. Chrisamighty, he’d thought his eagerness was goin to start his feet to twitchin. “Allow me to buy you one.”
“Why, thank you, Vic,” she’d said.
“Hey there, Eddie!” he’d hollered. “Two more beers over here! Now, where was we?” he’d said, turnin back and clearin his throat. But one-armed Eddie was already there.
“Right here you are, Mister Herschmidt, sir,” Eddie’d grinned. “That’ll be forty cents.”
“Here you are, Eddie,” he’d said, and tossed him a quarter and two dimes on the tray. “And keep the change there!”
“Why, thank you, Mister Herschmidt!” Eddie’d bowed and clicked his hooks at him.
“Now, where was we at?” he’d said. “What was we talkin about?”
“You was tellin me how much of life you’d seen,” she’d said.
“Ahhh, yes!” he’d said. “All I said was I thought I’d seen a mite more than the average. Say,” he said, “don’t you think it’s gettin a mite hot in here?”
“I hadn’t noticed it none, Vic,” Old Jane’d said. “Do you feel warm?”
“Well, just a mite,” he’d said. “I was jist thinkin we might get out and take a little walk.”
“It’s purty cold out, Vic,” she’d said. “And I chill awful easy out.” And she’d dropped them eyelids again. Old Devil. He hadn’t knowed how to answer that. Ruther, he’d knowed but he was a little afeard to say so soon he had a way to keep her warm. Maybe that was what she was wantin him to say. But he hadn’t. So they had set there and drank beer for another half a hour. Until finally, he got up nerve enough to bring up the whiskey.
“What’s the use of us asettin around here tankin up on beer, Jane?” he’d said. “When I got a fifth of whiskey put away?”
“Well, I never been much on whiskey, Vic,” she’d said. “Though I guess a snort or two wouldn’t hurt me none, against the cold,” she’d giggled. “Where is it?”
“Never you mind,” he’d said, feelin purty sly. “But it ain’t in here. Let’s go git it.”
“Okay,” Jane’d said, smilin at him shyly. “Let’s do. Please help me with my coat, Vic?”
“Yessir! Yessir! I sure will, Jane,” he’d said. From the bar as they left, Eddie had give him a big wink and clicked his hooks at him like he was playin shamey-finger, but he’d ignored him.
“Now where’s this here whiskey?” Jane had said when they was outside. It were colder’n he’d remembered.
“It ain’t far,” he’d said with a chuckle just the same. “Jist folley me,” and he’d led her over across the tracks into the lumberyard.
“Well, ain’t you the foxy one!” she’d purred. “Got it right here close. And nobody’d ever find it in the world.”
He’d grinned. “I don’t know where we kin go to drink it.”
“Well, what’s the matter with right here?” she’d said.
“You mean here? In the lumberyard!” he’d said.
“No, silly!” she’d said, lowering them big eyelids again. She nodded her head back across the tracks. “Right there. Look at all them cars.”
“You mean one of them cars is your’n!”
“Hell, no!” Jane said. “I ain’t got no car!”
“Well you mean, go git in one of them other people’s cars?”
“Sure,” she’d said. “Why not?”
“What if they come out?”
“They won’t. They’re all in there drinkin and they won’t come out now till Old Smitty closes her up. I been—” She’d stopped.
So that was where she took all them old boyfriends of hers! he’d thought. He-he. He’d always wondered.
“I been sittin in that bar night after night and I never seen nobody leave,” she’d went on. “Not this near to closin. Come on,” she’d said.
“Hell; okay by me,” he’d said, and he had folleyed her back into the cinder parkin lot.
“Here’s a likely lookin one,” Jane’d said. It was a new car, a Chevie. “Nice big roomy backseat, so we can be comfterble—while we’re drinkin’,” she’d said, shyly. “Come on, let’s git in.” She was a nervy one. Real nervy.
“Here, you want a drink?” he’d said when they was inside and had shut the door.
“No,” she’d said, like with a little giggle. “You go first. Ain’t this cozy?”
“Sure is,” he’d said. He’d uncorked the bottle and took a little drink and then he’d handed it to her, before he’d risked puttin his arm around her.
“Say, you got real muscle in that arm,” she’d said.
“I ain’t as thin as I look,” he’d said.
“No, I just bet you ain’t,” she’d said, puttin her hand on his chest.
“How’s about a little kiss?” he’d said.
“Well, I don’t know if I should,” Jane’d said, takin a big healthy drink from the bottle.
“Why not?”
“Well, it ain’t very proper, is it? Out in a car like this.” She giggled. “You might force me to walk home!”
“Nah,” he’d said. “Nah, I wouldn’t. Come on, just one.”
“Well, all right.” She’d had a nice soft mouth, he remembered. It’d surprised him. “Ahhh!” she’d said, when he left her go. Then he’d corked the bottle and put both arms around her. Heh-heh.
“Another one?” he’d said.
“Well . . . yes!” she’d said.
When he’d left go of her the second time he’d been ready to come right out with it. And to hell with it! Risk everything! “Come on!” he’d said. “Let’s do it!” Ah, he’d been a terrier all right, by God, hadn’t he? He-he.
“Do what?” she’d said, playin innercent.
“You know what damn it! It!” he’d said.
“We shouldn’t. What kind of a girl will you think I am?” Old Jane’d said.
“I’ll think you’re a damned nice girl,” he’d said, about ready to explode.
“You won’t think I’m bad?” she’d said.
“Hell, no!” he’d exploded. “Hell, no! I’ll think you’re good!”
“All right,” she’d said. “But you’ll have to never tell.”
“Well, will we do it right here? in the car?” he’d said.
“Hell, yes!” Old Jane’d said. “You don’t want to do it out in the cold on the ground, do you?”
“Okay,” he’d said. “The hell with it!” He hadn’t cared much anyways by then.
She could really move around, that Jane, for such a big fleshy woman, and in a cramped car, too.
“You sure got wonderful muscles in your back,” she’d said afterwards, runnin them big hands across his back.
Gratitude, jist sheer gratefulness, had been a-wellin up in him all over—though he didn’t know why a man should be grateful to a damned woman, he thought, they got as much out of it as him—and he’d said gruffly to hide it: “I’m still a pretty tough old bird.”
“Yes, I bet you are,” she’d said. “We better git out of here. And I got to git on home.”
She was a fine woman, Old Vic thought smugly, by God, she was.
Ahead of him, the lights from Smitty’s broke up his reverie, and Old Vic increased his pace a little. He was gettin pretty winded. He sure did hope she was there. And none of them old devils of her’n with her.
As he burst into Smitty’s, Eddie was standin just inside behind the cigar and cigarette counter.
“Gimme a fifth of that there whiskey, Eddie!” he said, and then turned to look at the corner booth, and discovered it was empty.
“What’s the matter, Vic?” Eddie grinned. “You look like you been to a fire.”
“Where’s Old Jane Staley?” he said. “I thought she was out here.”
Eddie grinned. “She ain’t been here in severl days, Vic. Were you lookin for her?”
“Naw,” Vic said. “I ain’t lookin fer her. She’s just usually out here though, was all.”
Eddie sacked the
whiskey and set it on the counter in front of him. “I don’t know what’s happened to her,” he offered, still grinning. “She was just in here one time after that night you and her was talkin out here.”
“Oh,” Vic said. “Oh, is that right?”
“Maybe she’s fell in love with you, Vic,” Eddie grinned.
“Who, that woman?” Old Vic said. “Nosiree. Not for Old Vic Herschmidt. I’m off of women. Women only cause a man trouble.” He was looking at the whiskey. He’d have to take it now, damn it.
“Maybe you got somethin there,” Eddie grinned.
“Well, gimme my bottle,” Vic said. “And I’ll be moseyin along home.” He put the money on the counter.
Walking back across town to the pensioner’s home, he drank a little of the whiskey; but it was small comfort. Now damn it all, what do you suppose could of happened to her? You reckon she catched a chill from that night?
At the home, he sneaked up and hid the bottle under the front porch, and then went and hid his money. What was left of it, he thought ruefully. There was a light on inside, and he was especially careful to make no noise while he hid his stuff. Old Lady Rugel was obviously waitin up for him, the old bitch.
When it was all hid, he walked loudly up the steps and across the porch. She was sittin in her damned rocker before the fireplace gas logs, which she never burned just the same.“Well!” she said, in her best chilly voice. “Where have you been to, Mister Herschmidt?”
“I been out, goddam it,” he said. “Where the hell do you think? And don’t gimme that Mister Herschmidt stuff like you never went to bed with me,” he sneered. “And now I’m agoin to bed, ‘Miz Rugel.’”
“I see that you are drunk agin,” Old Lady Rugel said. “And please do not use that nasty talk in front of me. It won’t do you no good. You cannot make me mad. I’ll pray for you tonight.”
“Aw, damn and hell and God and Jesus,” Old Vic said. “An’ why the hell don’t you turn on them damned gas logs, if you’re goin to sit before ’em. Are you too tight to spend the gas?” He turned back to the stairs in the hall.
“Mister Herschmidt!” Old Lady Rugel cried behind him. “May God forgive you!”
He went on up the stairs. He-he. Let her stew, the mealy-mouth old bitch. Damn them all, the sons of bitches, he thought ruefully, everybody. Especially Frank.