Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

  And I won’t even consider offing her as well. It would make the whole thing much easier, mind you, if I could get rid of them both and make it look as though one killed the other, but I could never go through with that. Still, there has to be some way to separate the two of them long enough for me to pull off the one.

  “You have a death wish tonight or what?” Gloria says, shaking her head at the tiles I’d set down. “You could have put the S on the end of my THWART and put the H-E down that way and got a double word score on top of THWARTS. Geez, Toby, it’s no fun when you don’t try.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I was thinking about my act. Something I could maybe add to it.”

  “Well, maybe we should play another time if you can’t devote any attention to anyone other than yourself.” She stands up and smooths her dress, shoots me a disappointed look, and then walks to the coatrack and grabs her coat, which is still sopping wet. I know she won’t make it as far as the door before she turns around and tries to hook me with another tactic. Some nights I’m all right with letting it all play out. I sit there and look disinterested and let her run through all her boo-hoo bits until she gets tired of her own routine and returns. Tonight isn’t like that, though. Tonight is one of the rare nights where I find myself compelled to play along and reel her back in.

  “Oh, come on now. Put that coat back where it belongs and come back here.” I sit up and give her vacant seat a pat. It’s nice and warm. “I’m sorry, Gloria, really. I shouldn’t let myself drift like that. I’ll stop, I promise. I prefer your company to my own any day.”

  She walks back to the table, her lips pursed, her hips moving with the slightest sway. When she sits back down, she looks me in the eyes. Some might call the smile Gloria flashes me half-assed, but I’d call that fraction naïve.

  “Thin ice, Toby.”

  I nod and reach across the table and give her arm a pinch. I point to her empty glass.

  “Sure. But you have anything other than bourbon? Anything lighter?”

  I make her a rye and ginger ale. She ends up drinking those for the rest of the night. After kiboshing our first attempt, we get two more games in before heading to bed. Gloria’s out pretty quick. My body is tired, but my mind is buzzing, making up for lost time. Before leaving Pensacola for Montgomery, we have two off-days. There will be a lot of people heading to the city tomorrow if the weather lets up.

  Eyes on the ceiling, I recall my run-in with Genevieve in Dallas. She was alone then and she told me Andrew was off at the track. I’d never seen him at the track before in any city, but maybe he’s just beginning to take an interest in the races. The two of them go to the city on every off-day, regardless of where we are. I decide that I need to take every chance I can get to go to the city as well. I’ll hit the track, see if I run into Andrew, see if he makes a pattern of leaving her for a few hours at a time or if Dallas was a one-off.

  ONE OF THE THINGS I LOVE ABOUT THE TRACK IS YOU SEE all sorts there. Monocled men and pearl-throated women who puff through skinny ebony cigarette-holders; crumbling ancients; fresh-faced college brats trying to make tuition in a single afternoon; thrill-seeking housewives on a grocery store detour; desperate working stiffs whose wettest pipe dreams involve flipping their boss a nickel and telling him to shove it up his ass because they’re through. I’ve met some interesting folks down at the track, but you have to be careful there, too. Some really shady people spend their time down at the track.

  I GOT A LIFT TO THE CITY FROM A LOCAL NAMED BUD WHO was keen on learning about the circus. After catching what ended up being our last show in Pensacola, he drove back up to Rowland’s in the rain yesterday afternoon in hopes of befriending a performer who would regale him with wild circus tales. He didn’t find one. I noticed him sniffing around the place this morning and I told him if he gave me a lift to town, I’d talk his ear off. He had a ghastly green 1945 Studebaker truck and a right eye that thought every day was Sunday. He hung on my words like they dangled over shark-infested waters, and he didn’t ask me to chip in for gas.

  There are a couple of cars and trucks that the circus owns, but they’re normally not enough to accommodate everyone who wants to go to the city. The crew will sometimes pay a few locals to chauffeur, but usually someone (a Syc, in most cases) will drive to the city and back until everyone who wants to go has been dropped off. Because I’m a respected veteran around here, I usually get dibs on the first rides in, but today I didn’t feel like sharing a car with anyone I knew.

  Bud got his truck in gear the second Genevieve and Andrew’s ride took their first inch, and he was able to follow discretely, like I asked him to, until we hit the city. Their car stopped at the Hotel San Carlos. I had Bud drop me off at the end of the block, and once they went in, I waited a few minutes to make sure they were staying and then went and got myself a room at the Lighthouse Hotel, which was a cheaper joint only a short walk away.

  I decide to make six my new lucky number when a beauty named Bartholomew wins me thirty-eight dollars. I wasn’t going to come all this way without placing a single bet. I’ve been here for a couple hours, since 4:00 p.m., figuring that if Andrew were to come here it wouldn’t be first thing after arriving in the city. It’s a crowded place, but I’ve been vigilant and I’m pretty sure he isn’t here yet. The next races start at 7:00—an hour from now—so I head back to the entrance and find myself a good spot to stand with a newspaper and watch people without being spotted myself.

  The Pensacola Journal has a pretty good funny pages section. I’ve missed the last few installments of Dick Tracy, but it looks like Crewy Lou is still working at turning over some stolen diamonds. I don’t want to invest in any real news, since losing myself in even a short article could mean missing Andrew.

  6:30: No sign of him. Four men have asked me for directions to the restroom. The first three got them, the fourth one had this entitled way about him, so he got his question answered with another question: “I look like I work here, pal?”

  6:52: Nothing. Still. Betting is closed, so it’s unlikely he’ll come through the front now. And though I’m positive he hasn’t walked through the entrance since I’ve been here, I do a couple laps of the place just in case, checking the restrooms and all of the food stands, to be sure he didn’t slip me by.

  He’s nowhere to be seen.

  Tomorrow I’ll come back.

  Maybe he and Genevieve are enjoying the city and the track is only a place he goes when he gets bored? Or maybe that time in Dallas was a one-off; he tried the track, went and lost a bunch of money because he doesn’t know shit about picking a winner, and left, never to return. That may very well be the case, but I have to check again tomorrow. If I’m to go through with it, it has to be in the city, and it has to be when he’s away from Genevieve. So where do I do it if not the track?

  THE NIGHTTIME BAY VIEW FROM THE SECOND FLOOR OF the Mockingbird Bar and Grill almost makes up for the place’s drab décor. The walls, which look like they were built from wood salvaged from five different barns, are covered in porcelain enamel signs advertising beers, cigarettes, and extra cheap, stiff drinks for ladies every Thursday night until ten p.m. Flashing neon from outside—a profile of a blue-and-pink bird with its wings flapping up and down—flickers in the top corner pane of our window. The dimness of the room seems strategic, and I wonder how my beer glass would look in more honest lighting.

  Gloria doesn’t seem to mind the Mockingbird’s dinge. She sips her gin and tonic, excitedly recounting her day in the city to me. Her and two other spec girls got a room to share down by the Saenger Theatre. They took in an early show and spent the rest of the day at the beach. She’s got the colour in her face to prove it. Any lulls in her telling are filled with her humming the tune of “On Moonlight Bay.”

  “You should have come, Toby,” she says. “At least to the picture.”

  “I don’t like musicals. They’re not realistic. People breaking into song and dance at the drop of a hat—who does tha
t?”

  “That’s the fun of it! It’s all one big fantasy world. And don’t tell me you don’t like Doris Day.”

  “All right, I’ll keep that to myself.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re no fun,” she teases.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  A waiter comes by and takes our order. Gloria gets deviled crab and I get swordfish, because how many chances do you get to eat a fish that’s part sword?

  “If you didn’t go to the movies, what did you do all day?” Gloria asks me once our second round of drinks has arrived.

  “I told you, I was at the track.”

  “Yes, but all day?”

  “Yes, ‘all day,’” I say, a note of irritation creeping into my voice.

  “There’s no need to be rude about it,” she scolds. “And I don’t mean to pry, but I don’t see how a person can spend the entire day at the races. That sounds like such a bore.”

  I say, “Doris Day loves the races.”

  Gloria’s eyes light up and she clasps her hands together. “Does she?”

  I shrug and take a drink.

  “Oh, you’re just being mean.” She reaches across and gives me a poke in the chest.

  Our food arrives quickly. We dig in. Gloria seems impressed by her deviled crab, and my swordfish is okay, but I expected more from something that looks borderline mythological. It’s a little tough, and a little dry, but maybe my palate isn’t refined enough to appreciate such a creature. After eating, I go to the restroom and wash off the fish smell that climbed up my utensils and onto my hands. When I come back a moment later, some chrome-dome in a rumpled suit is trying to sweet-talk Gloria.

  “Take a walk before your hand gets jealous, pal.” I remove his hand from the back of her chair.

  “Easy, mister. No need to get rude. We’re just having a conversation. That okay with you?”

  “What are you asking me for? She’s the one you’re talking at.”

  Gloria pipes in: “Toby, this slimeball told me he’s been watching me all night and says I ought to ditch you and let him take me for a drink.”

  Baldy’s demeanour jumps from calming to defensive. He raises his hands, two pudgy white flags, and takes a step back. “Apologies. I guess we had a miscommunication, me and her,” he says.

  My fist tightens around his tie. I yank him forward and ram my head into his face.

  ARMS LINKED, WE WANDER THE STREETS OF PENSACOLA, its balmy gulf air breathing over us as we search for the right spot to grab one last drink before calling it a night. We’ve passed some dives and we’ve passed some ritzers, but that just-right spot has eluded us so far. Gloria is swooning. You’d think me head-butting that perv was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for her. She keeps going on about how shocked all the other diners looked when the chump crumbled. “Don’t believe anyone who tells you chivalry’s dead,” I tell her, patting her arm.

  After about a half-hour of walking, we’ve still found nothing decent, and I start to get a bit antsy. There’s a liquor store at the end of the block, so I beeline over and grab us a quart of rum. We pass it back and forth, but we don’t make much of a dent before we find ourselves in front of Gloria’s hotel.

  “Shoot, Toby, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier—I’m sharing a room with Mary and Angela. You won’t be able to come up. How far is your place from here?”

  “Maybe we ought to take a night off,” I say. “I’m beat.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s fine.” She sounds as disappointed as she looks. It’s nice to be wanted, but I need my rest. I’ve decided I’ll spend the whole day at the track tomorrow, sober, and I’ll need to be as alert as can be.

  Gloria points to my forehead. “You’re bleeding a little bit.”

  I dab the spot and my fingertips come back red. “Shit. Bastard’s tooth must have nicked me.” It’s nothing major, just a wet coin-slot in the middle of my head. Pop a nickel in and I’ll do a little jig.

  She gives me her handkerchief and I fold it into a square and hold it over the tiny gash as we say our goodnights.

  I chuck the handkerchief in the first trashcan I see once I’m out of sight of her hotel. A cut like this heals faster when you let the air get at it.

  THE FIRST RACE STARTS AT NOON, SO I HEAD TO THE TRACK around eleven and grab myself a paper and a cup of coffee. People are still trickling in, but the place isn’t too busy this time of day. The bigger crowds on weekdays will start to show after four o’ clock, since a lot of regulars will be at work during the earlier races. Mind you, looking around the track, I get the impression that some of the folks floating around right now are at work, too.

  I’d look extra fishy standing near the entrance with a newspaper when the place is this empty, so after I place a bet, I find a good leaning spot just inside the first entranceway to the stands. This way I’ll have my back to anyone walking past me, so there’s less of a chance I’ll be spotted, and, in turn, I’ll be able to scope the back of anyone who passes me by.

  Easter Sunday lets me down. I put ten whole dollars on him, and the way he runs, well, maybe he should have been named Good Friday. Him and a chocolate-brown gelding named Young Goodman start the race looking like they’ll be fighting it out over first, but after about fifteen seconds, Easter Sunday throws in the towel and decides he only wants to play for fun. When the race is done, I notice I’ve bit the hell out of the rim of my paper coffee cup.

  Every time someone passes me, I peer over my shoulder to assess. 12:50 and no Andrew. I make sure to keep half an eye on the races so as not to appear conspicuous. I’ve snuck off twice, once to get another coffee and once to use the restroom, but I was quick about it, so there’s only a slim chance I’d have missed him if he came by. And that’s a big ‘if.’

  I only got here early as a precaution. I didn’t really expect him to come so soon in the day. Still, by the time the 1:30 race starts, I find I’m beginning to get restless. I quash the feeling the best I can. I go and make another bet (my last for the day), and walk around for a bit, seeing if I can spot Andrew anywhere. The track is slowly getting busier, so it takes more and more time to scan the crowd. He’s nowhere to be found, though, so I return to my post like a good little sentinel and continue to wait, doing my best to remain incognito.

  Four o’ clock hits and I’m really getting impatient. I’ve smoked all my cigarettes. I’ve binged on shitty racetrack food—a hot dog with mustard, popcorn, and soda—but resisted the urge to buy a beer. The food’s not sitting very well, and I’m starting to feel nauseous. A couple people have tried to strike up conversation, but I channel my inner Wally Jakes (which isn’t too hard when you’re already cranky and feeling like garbage) and they split pretty fast.

  I’m at a point in my day where I’m starting to lose my powers of discretion, so for the last little while, every time I notice someone coming through the front gate, I turn around to see who it is instead of being sneaky about it. Around 5:30, about twenty minutes after I told myself I was wasting my time and should only give it another hour, Andrew shows. I’m facing him when he strolls through. It doesn’t register that it’s him at first, so I continue to stare in his direction. Then, my brain decides it’ll wake up and process some information. In the span of one or two seconds, I think, I know that face, who is it? It’s Andrew, I work at the same circus as he does. I don’t like him. Why does his presence seem so significant right here and right now? Oh, shit! Because I’ve been waiting for him all damn day!

  Quickly, I turn around. He breezes right by without noticing me, which isn’t too surprising when you consider who he is. I get a good look at his getup as he passes: a cheesy brown suit with a pink shirt, a striped red-and-white tie, and a matching pocket square. I move away from the stand entrance and cross the corridor, situating myself against the brick wall where I can blend in with the other congregators, and watch him walk to the wagering windows and place a bet. The clerk hands him his ticket and he stuffs it in his breast pocket and walks
away from the window, heading back in my direction. I open my newspaper and cover most of my face with it, doing my best to look absorbed. It’s a good thing I moved from my original spot at the entrance to the stands, because that looks to be exactly where Andrew’s going.

  Only it isn’t where he’s going.

  He walks by me, again without noticing, then goes right past the entrance to the stands and continues down the corridor. For a second, I think maybe he’s grabbing some coffee, but then he walks past the coffee stand, too. My eyes follow him as he strolls down the curving line of the circular corridor, until he’s right back where he started—back at the entrance to the track.

  He leaves the track.

  Right away, I rush to the wagering window and elbow my way up to the kiosk that Andrew was just at. “That fella in the ugly brown suit that was just here—did he place a bet?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Never mind what it is to me. If you want me out of your hair answer, yes or no. Did he place a bet?”

  The clerk removes his glasses, closes his eyes and pinches the area between his brows. Maybe I’m the last straw on a particularly straw-heavy day. “The man in the brown suit with the pink—”

  “Yeah, the pink shirt.”

  “Yes,” the clerk says, “yes, he placed a bet. That’s what people do here. They place bets. Now, do you want to place one, or—”

  “Do bettors have to collect their winnings right after the race, or do you give them a certain window where they can come back and cash in?”

  The guy sighs and smears his palm up his forehead and through his greasy hair like I’m the meanest thorn in his knotted crown.