The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  The idea sprang to my mind full-blown, and I acted instantly, walking bent at the waist across the graveled surface, past the searchlights, picking my way between ventilator outlets, ducking under wires strung over the roof. As I moved forward the air around me and the roof under my feet turned blood-pink from the neon glare of the enormous sign rising along the front of the building and soaring on past the roof. “Harold's Club.” I could read the great letters across the top of the sign above my head, feeling the neon heat on my face, and I could see the first two, “HA—,” of the letters running down out of my sight toward the street below.

  I squatted beside the balloon, looking it over. In shape it was a miniature dirigible, blunt-nosed plump-sided, with tail surfaces at the back; it was maybe twenty feet long and several feet taller than a man. I could see the lower edge of a small network of roping running over the balloon's top like a saddle; it narrowed at the sides to a heavy double rope cinched around the balloon, and this was tethered to a cable wound tight to a winch for the night. On each side of the dull-gray surface of the balloon, huge letters read “Harold's Club.”

  Still squatting beside the balloon, I shoved my canvas sack under my feet and began to tread on it, twisting my feet hard, in a tight, awkward circle, jouncing my weight up and down. Under my feet, inside the sack, I could feel the bands enclosing the thick packets snap, the mass of paper crushing and flattening. Then I picked up the sack, a miniature flattened pillow, and stood facing the balloon; its high sides, taller than I was, hid me from the street.

  I jumped, reaching with one arm for the top of the balloon, and caught the rope netting so that the balloon revolved toward me as I dropped. I pulled harder, turning the great bag till it lay on its side, its top surface facing me. Hooking my elbow through the netting, I held the balloon in place, canvas sack in my hand. With my other hand I shoved the plump pressure of the balloon away from the netting, then forced my sack underneath the ropes. I worked it smooth, adjusting its position, getting it neatly in place under the crisscross roping. Then I pulled out my hands, and the balloon swelled against the underside of my sack, and the sack was in place, jammed between the balloon and its net. It made a bulge but a smooth one, not overly conspicuous, and I gradually released the balloon, slowly paying out the rope on its side through my hands. When the balloon hung level once more, my sack was on its top, out of sight of all but the angels.

  Bending low again, I walked across the roof, back to the alley side, and sat down, my back to the parapet, listening. When they came up to take me — now or in the next minutes or hours — I would be more or less ready. I'd insist, through no matter what kind of questioning, that a partner had the money. I couldn't have said why, but now I felt safer.

  The voices and movements below continued; then a police car arrived, its siren on low and moaning only once, not loud, as it stopped. A car door opened, the murmur of voices rose for a moment or so, then the door slammed shut and the car went away, south toward Second Street.

  I could only wait to be caught. I wanted a cigarette but decided against the flare of the match. Time passed, and presently the alley below me was quieter. The sound of the swinging doors, I realized, was coming less frequently, and there were fewer people outside. In time the alley became silent and empty once again, except for occasional passing foot-steps. I began unbuttoning my shirt.

  I took it off, crammed my false beard and neckerchief into the crown of the cowboy hat, then wrapped the hat tightly in the shirt, tying the arms like a bundle of laundry. On my knees I tucked in the tails of my own white shirt tightly and neatly, then combed my hair with my pocket comb and dusted off my pants.

  I crawled to the south corner of the roof and peeked over the edge of the parapet. I heard steps approaching and stayed where I was. A man walked by; the instant he passed I held my bundle over the side, clear of the building, and opened my fingers. The bundle dropped; an instant later it hit almost soundlessly and lay in deep shadow a foot from the wall of the building.

  Saying the words over and over — Just ten seconds now, that's all I ask — I climbed over the parapet onto the iron rungs. Then I ran on tiptoe down the stairs, hung by my arms for a second, then dropped on my toes to the alley. Scooping up my bundle, I darted across the alley, lifted the lid of a restaurant garbage can, dropped the bundle inside, and replaced the lid. Lights swung into the alley from Second Street, a hundred and fifty yards south, and above the twin white headlights was a ruby-red spotlight.

  To stay here in the alley, alone, available for questioning by the police coming toward me, was impossible. To start running was insane, and there wasn't a fraction of the time I needed to walk ahead and turn into Douglas Alley. I did the only thing possible; the police-car headlights swung into the alley, sweeping the walls, and in the moment before they straightened to bear down on me I darted across the dark alley, opened the swinging doors before me, and stepped back into Harold's Club.

  The white glare struck my eyeballs; for a moment, after the dark of the alley, I couldn't see what was waiting for me, but I had to walk on. I felt a queer sense of calm, resigned to whatever was going to happen; events were in control of me now, not the reverse.

  The gambling was in full swing; the place looked exactly as it always did; I think an ax murder could take place in a busy Reno casino and play would be resumed within ten minutes, the patrons stepping over the body to get at the tables. The tables were crowded, people packed tight around them, the dice rolling, the wheels spinning, the cards flashing; and just like the Gulf Stream, the sluggish tides of people in the aisles never stopped moving. There is always an air of sustained excitement on a busy day in a place like Harold's Club; if there was additional excitement in the air now, I couldn't tell it.

  Beside me a woman turned from a slot machine, her face set and angry, and I took her place, bringing a handful of change from my pocket. It seemed important to be busy, a player here, not the watchful bystander who could seem to someone like the criminal drawn to the scene of his crime. I wasn't going to shoot craps, though, or play roulette, blackjack, or anything else that could bring a glance to my face. Alone with the slot machine, my face to the wall against which it stood, I picked out the nickels from my change and began feeding them in, pulling the lever. Irrationally I felt safe and untouchable as long as I was a player here; and when the machine took the last of my nickels with no return, I stepped a few paces down the row to a dime machine, selecting the dimes from my change.

  Then an insane thing happened. A preposterous kind of coincidence that couldn't possibly occur now happened. I fed in the first, then the second, of the three dimes I had found. I dropped in the third, and — Harold's Club advertises the most generous slot machines in the world —clunk, clunk, clunk, one after the other, the three bars that meant jack pot dropped into place behind the little glass window. I was petrified. Here, as in other Reno casinos, the machine doesn't pay off when you hit a jack pot. Instead you shout, Jack pot! and one of the change girls appears, verifies that you have one, screams, Jack pot!, and then pays you off in cash, while everyone looks at you and maybe your neighbors at the next machines even congratulate you.

  I had to get those three bars off that machine, and I pawed desperately through the change in my hand for another dime, the woman at my one side, the man at the other, oblivious to everything but the whirling discs of their own machines. I found quarters, a half dollar, pennies, but no dime. Leaning forward over the machine, hiding those bars, the hope of every player in Reno but me, I tried to think what to do. To call the change girl for more dimes was impossible; she'd notice the jack pot. I had to leave the machine, yet if anyone took my place and saw those three bars soon enough to remember I had been playing, he'd certainly call after me, Hey, mister! You got a jack pot! Hey, you!

  For a moment, standing over that machine, I thought of turning to the doors I'd come through while I still had the chance, pushing through, then running. But if the police were still outside— I d
idn't have the nerve. I turned quickly away, pushing blindly into the crowd, trying to get distance between me and that machine. But hurrying was impossible; my skin flinching from the voice I expected, I had to go along with the crowd. Six slow steps, seven, then eight; suddenly I sucked in a gasping gulp of air; unconsciously I'd been holding my breath.

  I never knew what happened, what the next player to step up to that machine must have thought when he saw the impossible: a jack pot with no one to claim it. Maybe he was quick-thinking enough to wait, making sure no one returned to dispute him, then claim it for himself; maybe he dropped in his dime without even glancing at the little glass window.

  It was impossible now to stay here. I'd meant to wait around for an hour or more, realizing, strange as it seemed, that I was probably safer in Harold's Club than anywhere else I could get to. But I couldn't take it now; I had to get out of here, into the outside air and the night, even if the streets were alive with cops picking up every possible suspect.

  The crowd carried me along, on past the cashroom — I didn't even dare glance at it — past the escalator; then I pushed through the plate-glass doors and stepped onto the sidewalk of Virginia Street. A few doors south, in a little magazine shop, I saw a popcorn stand, and bought a sack. Then I sauntered along, gawking like any tourist; a man eating popcorn, it seemed to me, couldn't look guilty of anything.

  Before long the gambling heart of town and its protective crowd were behind. The store windows beside me — the little jewelry shop, the florist's, the hat shop — and the movie and J. C. Penney's ahead were dark. A group of young airmen in blue uniforms approached, then passed me; and now in the darkened blocks ahead, clear to the lights of the El Cortez Hotel, there was no one in sight. From behind, approaching, I heard a car, and didn't dare turn my head. The car passed, a taxicab; and there was another car behind it. Then it passed too, a patrol car, two uniformed cops in the front seat. They didn't so much as glance at me, and now I knew that for the moment I was safe.

  A block further on I stopped at a filling station, dark and locked. But the little green outside phone booth I'd remembered stood open, I looked up Mrs. Kressman's number, dropped in the dime I'd gotten in change at the popcorn stand, dialed, and when Mrs. Kressman answered asked to speak to Tina.

  Perhaps thirty seconds later Tina reached the phone; I could picture it, a wall pay phone in the hall beside the living room where Mrs. Kressman spent her evenings. Don't say anything, Tina, don't say my name, don't say a word, just listen — I spilled the words out the moment she spoke. This is Al, and I'm okay. I'm perfectly okay, Tina, everything's fine, and I'll see you in just a few minutes. I heard her long sigh of relief. Now, Tina, say, Yes, Mr. Baxter, I'll be sure to do that. She repeated the words. Listen, I went on, I want to know your room number, but don't say it out loud; is it room one? Tina said no, and I said, Room two? She said no. I said, Three? and Tina said, That's right, Mr. Baxter.

  I knew the layout of Mrs. Kressman's house; room three was on the ground floor next to the kitchen, the cheapest room. Go back to your room, I said, and raise the window. Take a good couple of minutes to do it, an inch at a time; don't make a sound. And leave your light off.

  Okay, Mr. Baxter. I could tell she was grinning. It'll be nice to see you in the morning.

  Another block and I turned right onto a quiet, tree-lined, small-town street. Lights were on in living-room windows; I saw a woman knitting, saw a man asleep in an easy chair, hands clasped on his chest; and the air all around me hummed with the summer sound of locusts. I turned in at Mrs. Kressman's as though I belonged there, following the walk around the side of the house. I walked boldly, but my feet made no sound. At the back Tina's window was up, and I crawled through, turned and closed it, then pulled down the shade. Then the light clicked on, and Tina stood there, her eyes wide and bright with relief. She stepped toward me fast, and I grabbed her to me.

  We whispered and murmured — just words and names and fragments of sentences — holding each other tight. I kissed her, long and hard; then we both sighed and drew back to look at each other. Then I told Tina, sitting beside her on the bed, what had happened, talking quietly in a semiwhisper. We tried to guess what had happened to the others, but we didn't know; there was nothing we could do for them now; and if they were caught and the police arrived here for us tonight, there was nothing we could do about that either. It was when we'd said that, that I looked at Tina and said, They don't just get divorced in Reno; there are more marriages than divorces. Eyes smiling, she waited. You can get married without any wait in Nevada; how about it, Tina? Tomorrow morning?

  She nodded, eyes shining.

  It's unfair to you, I said. God knows what'll happen; I could be arrested five minutes after, or even tonight.

  She just shook her head. It's past the time for talking like that, she whispered. One time during the night when I woke up, it was very late, very dark and quiet, the world asleep. Tina lay sleeping in her bed, facing me in my chair. I could hear her breath, slow and regular. For I don't know how long, I sat motionless, feeling the wonder and awe of Tina so close in the same room, in the trusting helplessness of sleep, and it seemed to me I couldn't possibly have deserved anything so wonderful. And now it did matter what happened tomorrow. I wished we were free, ten thousand miles from here, alone and together like this, and the thought of being caught was unbearable.

  The next morning the sky was a strong, deep blue; the mountains chocolate-brown and visible for countless miles, the highest peaks sugar-white and shining with snow; the sun lying yellow over everything. I left Mrs. Kressman's very early, the way I'd come in, and walked downtown. I had coffee and toast; then later when the stores opened I bought a new white shirt, shorts, socks, wash pants, and a handkerchief at Montgomery Ward's; then I got a shave at the Riverside Hotel barbershop. After that I paid admission to the Riverside swimming pool. I didn't go into the pool, but in the showers I had a long twenty-minute bath and shampoo, finishing with a cold shower — snow water direct from the mountains and so cold. I couldn't breathe. Then I bundled up my old clothes and put on my new ones, ready for anything, wanting to live forever, and so hungry I couldn't stand it.

  The Reno paper was out, stacked on the stand in the lobby as I left, and I bought one, then walked to Cal-Neva in town; on the way I dropped my old clothes into a city trash basket.

  Tina was waiting at a table, her little suitcase on the floor, wearing a white off-the-shoulder linen dress, and her eyes were brilliant. Then we ordered breakfast: scrambled eggs and sausages and those wonderful fried string potatoes they serve in the West. While we were waiting for our breakfast to be served, I opened the paper.

  There was a story on the robbery, and I pointed to it, and we read it together. It wasn't a big story, two short columns and a headline across them on the lower right-hand corner of the first page. It was a vague, very guarded story referring to an attempted holdup. It said nothing about how it was done, didn't mention our cart, and referred to four men in disguise. It said very few of the patrons saw anything happen, that almost no one realized a robbery was going on, and that play continued as usual. The story didn't exactly say it, but it gave the impression that the men would soon be caught and that the whole thing wasn't too important or worth much mention; I supposed that the police, for reasons of their own, had asked that it be handled that way. I was certain that if Guy, Brick, and Jerry had been caught, the story would have said so, and I whispered that to Tina and she agreed; we felt wonderful.

  Tina said, I wish Guy and Jerry could be our witnesses.

  For a moment I thought about it, wondering if it wasn't possible, but the answer had to be no. Wish they could, but—

  But it doesn't matter. Oh, Al, let's hurry! She was radiant.

  Our breakfast arrived, and we finished it quickly, not even drinking our coffee. At a South Virginia Street jeweler's — the one with the big clock out on the sidewalk — we bought a plain gold ring for five dollars. Within twenty-five mi
nutes, in an office at the big white courthouse building four blocks farther on, we were speaking the words, the impressive, important words, that made us married.

  There are a lot of things to do besides gamble in and around Reno, and we bought tickets for a visit to Virginia City, some twenty-odd miles away. The bus wasn't due to leave for an hour; so we walked out into the residential area, past various boardinghouses. At the first pleasant-looking place with a “Vacancy” sign, we looked the room over; it was nothing special but nice enough and had its own bathroom. We took it, paying for a week in advance; we told the landlady we'd just arrived by bus. When I signed the register “Mr. and Mrs. Al Mercer, Chicago,” I couldn't help grinning, and the landlady nodded complacently and said, You can't beat Reno for a honeymoon.

  There are a hundred and ten thousand square miles of Nevada, and a hundred and sixty thousand people live there. With more than half a square mile for every person, it's very easy to get the whole countryside to yourself. Ten minutes out of Reno our bus was the only moving thing as far as the eye could see. Tina and I sat in the back seat by a window, holding hands, the bus always climbing, through the hills toward Virginia City. There was nothing but dry sage, hills, mountains, and blue sky; not a fence now, not a house; nothing but the road to show that a human being had ever been there before. The sun was yellow and hot, and we knew that all we were seeing had looked exactly the way it did now ten thousand years before.

  In Virginia City we left the other passengers and walked through the silent, crumbling back streets. Virginia City is a ghost town; eighty years ago forty thousand people lived there, and mined and fought for the millions in silver they dug out of these hills from the famous Comstock Lode. Now, surrounded by the still raw-looking old slag heaps, maybe five hundred people live in the dead town, running bars, restaurants, and curio shops for tourists. Off the main street we walked past empty old houses, gray and paintless, their windows gone, their porches sagging, their once expensive ornamental porch railings hanging twisted and loose. We stared at roofless walls that had once held a family, trying to imagine it. At one end of town we walked up a broken flight of stone stairs leading to nothing but weeds, rubble, and humming insects, the house that had stood there long since gone. All the time we walked terribly conscious of each other, holding hands, turning often to look and smile at each other. And presently we just sat on the side of a hill in the sun, in sight of the bus parked on the main street below, looking across it out into the vast space before us, toward the brown, lavender-shadowed hills rising endlessly, like waves, farther than we could see, even, in the thin, brilliant air.