Some Came Running

by James Jones

  And the other two times he had seen them weren’t much different.

  Dave took his feet down off the windowsill. He was afraid if he did not he would convulsively kick them both out through the pane. Behind him Albie belched, a booming sound which filled the office.

  Dave wrenched his mind back to his private miseries. They hadn’t even invited him to come over for Christmas! Well, to hell with them. He certainly wasn’t going to ask them if he could come over Christmas. And if they did ask him now, he wouldn’t go. He’d get drunk by himself Christmas and to hell with them. Maybe he’d get drunk with ’Bama.

  About the only damned bright spot left anywhere, Dave thought, was in ’Bama Dillert. And even that seemed to be bad for him. Twice during the last two weeks, when the complete hopelessness of ever again writing a decent line got too much for him, he had gone down to the Ath Club poolroom and looked ’Bama up. ’Bama never looked him up; just said he didn’t want to bother him if he might be working good; yeah, damn him. But ’Bama did mean it seriously, he really didn’t want to disturb his writing. (In a fit of confidence he had told the gambler once, all about the new book; to which the big man had given his measured considered opinion that he thought it was a good idea!) Both of these two times ’Bama had been on his way to some local lodge’s poker game and had taken him with him; and both times both of them had made money. Also, both times both of them had got drunk. That was where the bad came in. He didn’t see how ’Bama could stand it, day in and day out; Dave had always considered himself a pretty good drinker but—! Anyway, both times when he had had the next day off, he had felt so bad he hadn’t had the heart to try to write.

  But on the other hand, there was still plenty of good in his going out with ’Bama too. Mainly, this good was in the money he had made. Both times he made more money than he got in a week at the taxi stand. For some reason whenever he went out with ’Bama, both of them seemed to be lucky. Nobody could seem to beat both of them. If ’Bama didn’t win a pot, he would win it. “I ought to hire you, just for a good luck piece,” ’Bama had said jokingly across the green felt of the table on the second night. But later on, he had also broached it seriously. They had got an illegal after-hours bottle off the lodge bartender and taken it up to Dave’s room at the Stephen A Douglas, after the game broke up at two.

  “No kiddin,” the tall gambler drawled, “you and me ought to form up some kind of a partnership in this poker playin.” He was sprawled in the single armchair, the semi-western hat over his eyes, holding a waterglass of straight whiskey. Dave was flopped on the bed. He had made over a hundred dollars. “We could work it out on some kind of a percentage-wise basis some way. Pool our playin capital and then divide our total winnings.

  “We could make us a lot of money, I think,” he said. “In gamblin, there’s certain periods where, for reasons I never been able to quite figure out, you do real well—and know yore goin to do real well; and the smart guy takes advantage of it when it’s there because he never knows when it’s liable to just up and leave him. Now somethin about you and me bein together makes that happen—right now, at least, anyway. We ought to take advantage of it.

  “Always provided, of course,” he added, “that it don’t interfere with yore writin.”

  “My writing isn’t doing worth a damn,” Dave said from the bed.

  “Well, yore out of practice with it,” ’Bama said. “That’s understandable. You can’t expect to start right out batting .400 when yore out of practice, can you? You just got to give it some time.”

  “Is that right? What the hell do you know about writing?”

  With one careful thumb the tall ex-Southerner lifted his hat brim and grinned out from under it. “Just what I’ve heard you and Wally talk about it, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t think I could even do it anyway,” Dave said. “I’ve got a contract with Frank, you know. He’s got me in a position so I have to work for him.”

  “Does it say that in the contract?”

  “Well, no. At least I don’t think so. I’ve never actually read it. But it’s got one of those partnership things in it. He told me about that. You know, that ‘Give or Take’ thing.”

  “Oh; yeah?” ’Bama said. “Yeah, I think I know what them are. You mind if I take a look at it for you?”

  Sitting in the taxi office, Dave remembered vividly what had happened then. It was one of the few really bright spots in his present existence. He had always assumed that Frank would be plenty shrewd enough to take advantage of him in the contract and at the same time protect himself fully, which was one reason he’d never bothered to read it: It would have depressed him. And actually, to give the bastard full credit, that was apparently exactly what under all ordinary circumstances he had done. Only: There was an un-ordinary circumstance he had not thought about, apparently. Hunh-hunh.

  What he would like to do, he thought, right now, today, was go ahead and do it. Throw it right in his lap. And then let Old Frank sit in it and sweat. Heh-heh.

  He had shown ’Bama his copy of the contract. The tall gambler had sat up, and had read it through from cover to cover. Then he had laid it on the table and picked up his whiskey, and sprawled back down and pulled his hat back down over his eyes. The upshot of what he had to say after thinking a minute, was that indeed not only did Frank not have Dave by the throat, but Dave had Frank by the throat. There was absolutely nothing in the contract that required Dave to work for the taxi service. The ‘Give or Take’ clause was the standard one used around here, generally by the country people, he said, and which ’Bama seemed to know all about apparently. All Dave had to do was quit, if he wanted to. He would still own 40 percent of the taxi business. Then it would be up to Frank to invoke the ‘Give or Take’ clause. If Frank did not want to invoke it, Dave would still own his 40 percent. If Frank did invoke the clause, Dave then had the right to name the price, and Frank then had the choice to ‘Give or Take.’ He could either buy Dave’s share at the named price, or he could sell his own share at that price. In this case, since they were not fifty-fifty partners, the price of each man’s share would be arrived at on a mutual percentage basis. He made it very clear, and it seemed to Dave he knew an awful lot of legal language.

  Since such was the case, and here the gambler seemed to grin a little, under his hat, all Dave had to do was name a price to Frank that was a little too high. The chances were, Frank would then decide to sell. The chances were, that was why Frank had had the clause put in in the first place: You see, if Frank decided to sell, and Dave was unable to raise the money to meet the price, then Dave would be more or less honor bound to sell his own share at just about whatever price Frank then decided to give him. In that way, Frank could buy Dave’s share at its original face value of five thousand dollars, or perhaps even for a thousand or so less; Dave would pretty much have to accept. The only other alternative would be to go to court, in which case both men’s assets would be sold by the court. No doubt Frank could probably prevail upon the judge to set a fairly low value; then he would have a front guy to buy it—someone like Judge Deacon, maybe—and then later he would buy it all back from judge and become sole owner, for less than the business was actually worth. And Dave would be holding the short end of the stick.

  “Then I don’t see how the hell you can think I got Frank by the throat,” Dave had said, “by naming a high price.”

  “Because,” ’Bama said, “in this case, you would have the money to buy his share.”

  “I would?”

  “Sure. I would give it to you.”

  Comprehension seemed to dawn. “Oh,” Dave said. “I see. Then you would own the controlling share of the taxi service.”

  “Oh no,” ’Bama said. “I don’t want to own it. I would loan you the money to buy it.”

  “Yeah?” Dave said. “With how much interest?”

  “None.”

  “No interest at all?” Dave said. “Well— Well then, what would you stand to make out of it?�
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  “I’d make nothin.”

  “Then why do it?”

  Underneath the hat ’Bama’s chin moved in a grin. “I would just like to do it,” he said, in that lazy voice. “That way, you would be sole owner of the taxi service, see? Huh-huh-huh. A profitable, respectable business. Wouldn’t Frank scream? —You could pay me back out of yore gamblin winnings; or you could pay me out of the profits of the business. Either way would be all right.”

  “Well, hell—” Dave said. “Frank’s share would cost eight or nine thousand. You ain’t got that much money.”

  “I got it,” ’Bama said, raising his hat brim and grinning.

  “You mean to tell me you got that much cash stashed away in a bank in this town? I don’t believe it.”

  “No,” ’Bama said. “I ain’t got it stashed away in a bank in this town. But I got it. And you can have it if you want it. Just let me know about a week ahead of time.”

  “But why. Why would you be willing to do it.”

  ’Bama grinned at him again. Then he let the hat drop back down. “Because it would tickle hell out of me,” he said and laughed. And then he pushed the glass of whiskey up under his hat again. “And I don’t figure I’d be takin no chance on losin the money. Because I’m pretty sure yore honest enough to pay it back. Why the hell not do it?”

  Dave had not answered. He was still trying to digest the whole thing.

  “Well, I got to go,” ’Bama said, gathering his long frame and getting up. “Got to get some shut-eye. Thanks for the whiskey.”

  “You paid for it,” Dave said.

  “But either way,” ’Bama said from the door, “you and me ought to get together on this gamblin deal. Always providin it wouldn’t hurt yore writin. We could sure make us a lot of money, while the luck lasted.”

  “Why the hell are you so damned interested in my writing?” Dave said.

  “I don’t know,” the tall man said, “why do you like my gamblin? I guess, maybe it’s because yore the only writer I ever met, outside of Wally Dennis,” he grinned. “Maybe I want somebody to write a book about me. Who knows?” He laughed a little. “Or maybe it’s because I’m interested in how you going to make out with that schoolteacher of Wally’s? See you.”

  Feeling drunk and too sleepless to sleep, Dave had gone right to bed and lain there thinking he had to get up and work tomorrow on the book, he had to, whether he felt like it or not. As an afterthought, he had got up again and drunk four large glasses of water, hoping that would help keep him from having a hangover tomorrow—or today, rather. The book: the damned book; it had become a point of personal honor with him now. Not only because of that damned Wally Dennis, and Frank and Agnes, but because of that son of a bitching ’Bama, too, now. He had to write now. Or be a laughingstock. But could he? As he lay back down, the familiar loneliness of the Stephen A Douglas Hotel had overwhelmed him. Oh, Gwen, Gwen. If you only knew how much I love you, how much I need you. It was the next to last thought he had had before he slept. The last one had been that ’Bama apparently knew all about that, too.

  Back in the taxi office, Dave was startled: Had he really thought that then? About Gwen? Or did he only think he had thought it, now.

  Outside the office window one of the cabs turned into their cinder parking lot, and his eyes registered it automatically, without its ever reaching the main part of his brain which still churned along about its love affair like a ship’s propeller out of water.

  Out of all of it, ’Bama and his offer were the only bright spot. And that one, he thought sourly, a bright spot which he could make so little sense of that it frightened him to think of availing himself of it. Inertia was better. No wonder he was getting to hate everything.

  If only a few of them would understand. If only one would! Well, write the book; make them understand. But understand what? Me! That’s what! Dave Hirsh! To understand Dave Hirsh is to love him. What great brain once said that? Was it Einstein? Must have been.

  Convulsively, Dave flung the chair back on its casters, riding it as it rolled, and swung around to the interior of the room. Albie did not even look up from his comic book.

  He wished Frank hadn’t come over here today, damn it all. Next to the telephones, he guessed he hated Frank the worst. Frank who had thought up this damned stupid taxi service idea in the first place.

  Well, it was a fight to the finish. And he was not giving up. He was not going to let Frank be able to say he couldn’t make it, didn’t have what it took, he thought with blooming confidence. And wouldn’t Frank just love to be able to say it!

  If he wanted to go on giving the Old Man money, he would. Despite his promise. And he was not going to take advantage of the opportunity to work Frank that ’Bama offered, either. He was above such dealings. They were against his principles. No, by God, he was going to prove he was a successful businessman. To Frank, and to all the rest of the Rotarian sons of bitches in this town.

  The way they all treated you so delicately, as if they thought they were handling eggshells: “You’re really comin along fine with that taxi service, aren’t you, Dave?” “You’ve really got quite a thing started with your taxi service, haven’t you, Dave boy?” As if every Rotarian son of a bitch of them was still astounded he had stayed this long, and expected him to blow up and leave any minute, but were hoping sanctimoniously that he wouldn’t.

  Well, he would fool them all. He’d stay with her. He’d stay until he’d made an incontrovertible success of her. And then when they thought they had him hooked, he’d take his share and sell out and leave them holding the deflated balloon of their damned illusions. And thanks to ’Bama, he had the means of making Frank buy him out, now. All he had to do was tell him.

  The state of euphoria stayed with him the rest of the afternoon till six o’clock. But then, in the time it took him to drive home to the Douglas, the thought of sitting alone in that damned, forsaken little room changed it just as suddenly back into an acute depression. What he needed was a lay, a woman. He hadn’t had one in over six weeks now.

  And after shaving and changing his shirt, he went back out, to go to Smitty’s and look up ’Bama.

  The brassiere factory girls would be there, and if worst came to worst he could always take that Rosalie out again.

  Book Three

  The Craft

  Chapter 31

  ’BAMA WAS NOT THERE, but practically everybody else was. The tension, vague fear, and that almost unbearable feeling that nobody on earth loved him, which had made him almost run down the stairs of the hotel, all left him as he parked under the dimly lit windows of the backbar, and got out and went around front and in the door. He quite suddenly felt excited, and anticipatory, and in some way, vastly relieved.

  It was almost as if this were the same night he had been here before, and instead of having been away almost two months, had merely stepped outside a minute. Dewey and Hubie were here, and Raymond, and the same five girls, plus some others and their fellows he did not know. The same people, even, seemed to be sitting at the bar; and Old Jane Staley was in the corner booth with two old men. For a moment, he had a peculiar feeling that none of them had left, but had been here all that time, the perpetual hard-core nucleus of a never-ending party.

  Even Edith Barclay was in the same back booth with her boyfriend, Harold Something. Dave was pleased to find he could not recall Harold’s last name. Over the heads, he caught Edith’s eye and grinned and waved arrogantly at her. She merely nodded, distantly.

  Grinning back at her even more arrogantly, he walked on over to the booth where Dewey and Hubie sat crowded around the table with their own two girls, plus Rosalie, Mildred Pierce, and the shapeless Ginnie, seven in all.

  “Wall,” Hubie drawled from where he sat squeezed between Rosalie and his own girl, Martha; “look who’s here. If it ain’t God’s gift to the VFW. I bet God’s gift to the VFW kin tell us, Dewey.”

  “Tell you what?” Dave grinned. He suddenly felt fine. “Can I sit down
?”

  “Sure. Get a chair from one of the back tables,” Dewey Cole said from the end of the opposite seat where, as the fourth person, he had managed to perch one of his spare buttocks on the very end of the plywood. His other hung out in the air, where his leg was propped straight out to hold him up. His blue eyes shone happily. Next to him was his girl, Lois, and beyond her, Mildred Pierce, and squeezed into the corner the vague-eyed dumpy Ginnie. The table was jammed with beer bottles in all stages of emptiness.

  Dave went back past the bar to get a chair. From the next booth back, the occupants of which were evidently a part of Dewey’s party and had been talking back and forth across the high booth back with them, a huskily built girl rared up and said something indistinct to Dewey across the head of Hubie. Everybody laughed, and he instinctively wondered if they were laughing at him. Next to her in the booth, he recognized the long horseface of Gus Nernst, erstwhile caretaker of Raymond Cole, and exchanged nods with him. At the rear, Raymond Cole himself sat at a table between two other men whom Dave did not know, but both of whom looked as muscular and as dumb as Raymond himself. All three sat drinking and staring down into their beer glasses without speaking, almost as if each was sitting alone at a different table. At least they did until Raymond looked up and saw Dave.

  “Hello, there!” he said in a friendly shout. “How are you?”