More Oddments

by Bill Pronzini

  I bit down so hard on the stem of my briar that I felt it crack between my teeth. Keep bearing down, I told myself grimly. Don't let up for a second.

  HE WAS STILL THINKING ABOUT THE CASE, TRYING TO PUT THE PIECES TOGETHER, WHEN THE TELEPHONE RANG. IT WAS VELDA. "I'VE BEEN WORRIED ABOUT YOU, SAM," HER SOFT PURRING VOICE SAID, AND ALL AT ONCE HE FELT A BURNING NEED TO SEE HER. SHE WAS THE ONLY PERSON HE COULD TALK TO, THE ONE PERSON IN THE WORLD WHO UNDERSTOOD HOW HE FELT.

  "Sackett, Sackett!"

  But The Cranker's machine kept on soaring; The Cranker's words kept on racing across the board with relentless speed.

  WHEN SHE WAS SURE THE CAPTAIN WAS ASLEEP SHE GOT OUT OF THE BUNK AND PADDED OVER TO WHERE HIS UNIFORM LAY. SHE KNEW WHAT SHE HAD TO DO NOW. SHE ACCEPTED THE TRUTH AT LAST, BECAUSE THE WHOLE TIME SHE HAD BEEN COPULATING WITH THE CAPTAIN HER THOUGHTS HAD BEEN BACK ON DENEB, FULL OF THE SIGHT AND THE SMELL OF GREEN.

  "Gulp, Gulp, Gulp!"

  The lift from the six ounces of Fuel I'd had in the locker room was gone now and the tension was back, binding the muscles in my fingers and shoulders. The sun seemed to be getting hotter, drawing runnels of sweat from my pores, making my head throb. My words were still coming fast, but the images weren't quite as sharp as they'd been minutes ago, the quality level not quite as high. I didn't care. Speed was all that mattered now; I was willing to sacrifice quality for the maintenance of speed.

  CULP 6912, SACKETT 6671.

  Down by 241 now; The Cranker had only gained seven words in the last 800. But he had gained them, not I—I couldn't seem to narrow his lead, no matter what I did. I lifted my head, still typing furiously, and stared across at him. His teeth were bared; sweat glistened like oil on his gray skin. Yet his fingers were a sunlit blur on the keys, as if they were independent creatures performing a mad dance.

  CLENCHING THE CAPTAIN'S LASER WEAPON IN HER HAND, SHE MADE HER WAY AFT TO WHERE THE LIFECRAFT WERE KEPT. SHE KNEW THE COORDINATES FOR DENEB. SHE WOULD ORDER THE LIFECRAFT'S COMPUTER TO TAKE HER THERE—TAKE HER TO THE PROMISE OF THE GREEN.

  A feeling of desperation came into me. Time was running out; there were less than 500 words left to go in the quarter, less than 3000 left in the match. You could make up 250 words in the fourth period of a Face-Off, but you couldn't do it unless you had momentum. And I didn't have it, I couldn't seem to get it. It all belonged to The Cranker.

  The fans continued to shriek, creating a wild counterpoint to the thunder of our machines. I imagined I could hear Mort's voice telling me to hold on, keep cranking, and Dad's voice hoarse from shouting, and Sally's voice saying "You can do it, darling, you can do it!"

  CULP 7245, SACKETT 7002.

  Holding. Down 245 now, but holding.

  You can do it, you can do it!

  SLEDGE'S EYES GLOWED AS HE LOOKED AT VELDA'S MAGNIFICENT BOSOM. VELDA, THE ONLY WOMAN HE'D WANTED SINCE HIS WIFE LEFT HIM THREE YEARS BEFORE BECAUSE SHE COULDN'T STAND HIS JOB AND THE KIND OF PEOPLE HE DEALT WITH. THE PALMS OF HIS HANDS WERE WET, HOT AND WET WITH DESIRE.

  The palms of my hands were hot and wet, but I didn't dare take the time to wipe them dry. Only 150 to go in the quarter now.

  HE TOOK HER INTO HIS ARMS. THE FEEL OF HER VOLUPTUOUS BODY WAS EXQUISITE. HE CRUSHED HIS MOUTH AGAINST HERS, HEARD HER MOAN AS HIS HAND CAME UP AND SLID ACROSS THE CURVE OF HER BREAST. "TAKE ME, SAM," SHE BREATHED HUSKILY AGAINST HIS LIPS. "TEAR MY CLOTHES OFF AND GIVE ME YOUR HOT

  I tore page twenty-six out of the typewriter, slapped in page twenty-seven.

  LOVE. GIVE IT TO ME NOW, SAM!"

  SLEDGE WANTED TO DO JUST THAT. BUT SOMETHING HELD HIM BACK. THEN HE HEARD IT—A SOUND OUT IN THE HALLWAY, A FURTIVE SCRABBLING SOUND LIKE A RAT MAKES. YEAH, HE THOUGHT, A HUMAN RAT. HE LET GO OF VELDA, PULLED OUT HIS FORTY-FIVE, AND SPUN AROUND IN A CROUCH.

  My machine locked the instant after I touched the period key; the Line Editor's horn sounded.

  The third quarter was over.

  I sagged in my chair, only half aware of the crowd noise swelling around me, and peered up at the board. The printout and the numerals blazed like sparks of fire in the sunlight.

  CULP 7500, SACKETT 7255.

  A deepening fatigue seeped through me, dulling my thoughts. Dimly I saw The Cranker leaning forward across his typewriter, head cradled in his arms; his whole body heaved as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. What were the New-Sport announcers saying about him on the TriDjm telecast? Did they believe he could maintain his grueling pace for another full quarter?

  Did they think I still had a chance to win? Down 245 with only 2500 left..

  Gulp took his Fuel sitting down this time, with his head tilted back and his throat working spasmodically. I did the same; I felt that if I stood up my knees would buckle and I would sprawl out like a clown. The game plan called for no more than three ounces at the third-quarter break—none at all if I could hold off—but neither Mort nor I had counted on me being down as far as I was. I took a full six ounces, praying it would shore up my flagging strength, and even then I had to force myself not to make it nine or ten.

  Only it didn't do anything for me, as it had at halftime and as it usually did in competition. No lift at all. My mind remained sluggish and the muscles in my arms and wrists wouldn't relax. The only effect it had was to make my head pound and my stomach feel queasy.

  With a minute of the time-out left I loaded my pipe, put a match to the tobacco. The smoke tasted foul and made my head throb all the more painfully. I laid the pipe down and did some slow deep-breathing. On his side of the Line Gulp was lighting a fresh cigarette off the butt of an old one. He looked shrunken now, at least ten years older than his age of 57—not formidable at all.

  You don't awe me anymore, I told him mentally, trying to psych myself up. I can beat you because I'm as good as you are, I'm better than you are. Better, old man, you hear me?

  He didn't look at me. He hadn't looked at me once during the entire Face-Off.

  The Head Editor's red flag went up. I poised my hands at the ready, shaking my head in an effort to clear away some of the fuzziness. The screaming voices of the fans seemed almost hysterical, full of anticipation and a kind of hunger, like animals waiting for the kill.

  All right, I thought, this is it.

  The red flag dropped and the claxon blared.

  ALL RIGHT, SLEDGE THOUGHT, THIS IS IT. HE And my mind went blank.

  My hands started to tremble; body fluid streamed down my cheeks. Think of a sentence, for God's sake! But it was as if my brain had contracted, squeezed up into a tiny clotted mass that blocked off all subconscious connection.

  The Cranker's machine was making thunder again.

  HE

  Nothing.

  "Come on, Sackett! Hack it, hack it!"

  HE

  HE

  Block. I was blocked.

  Panic surged through me. I hadn't had a block since my first year in the semi-pro Gothic Romance League; I'd never believed it could happen to me in the Bigs. All the symptoms came rushing in on the heels of the panic: feeling of suffocation, pain in my chest, irregular breathing, nausea, strange sounds coming unbidden from my throat that were the beginnings, not the endings of words.

  A volley of boos thudded against my eardrums, like rocks of sound stinging, hurting. I could feel myself whimpering; I had the terrible sensation of imminent collapse across my typewriter.

  The stuttering roar of Gulp's machine ceased for two or three seconds as he pulled out a completed page and inserted new paper, then began again with a vengeance.

  A fragment of memory disgorged itself from the clotted mass inside my head: Mort's voice saying to me a long time ago, "To break a block, you begin at the beginning. Subject. Object. Noun. Verb. Preposition. Participle. Take one word at a time, build a sentence, and pretty soon the rest will come."

  Subject.

  Noun. Pronoun.

  HE

  Verb. Verb.

  WENT

  HE WENT

  Preposit
ion.

  TO

  HE WENT TO

  Object.

  THE DOOR AND THREW IT OPEN AND THE FAT MAN WAS THERE, CROUCHED AT THE EDGE OF THE STAIRCASE, A GUN HELD IN HIS FAT FIST. SLEDGE FELT THE RAGE EXPLODE INSIDE HIM. HE DODGED OUT INTO THE HALLWAY, RAISING HIS FORTY-FIVE. THE BIG MAN WOULD FEEL SLEDGE'S FIRE IN HIS FAT PRETTY SOON NOW.

  "Sackett, Sackett, Sackett!"

  It had all come back in a single wrenching flood; the feeling of mind-shrinkage was gone, and along with it the suffocation, the chest pain, the nausea. But the panic was still there. I had broken the momentary block, I was firing again at full speed but how much time had I lost? How many more words had I fallen behind?

  I was afraid to look up at the board. And yet I had to know the score, I had to know if I still had any kind of chance. Fearfully I lifted my eyes, blinking away sweat.

  CULP 8015, SACKETT 7369.

  The panic dulled and gave way to despair. 650 words down, with less than 2000 to go and The Cranker showing no signs of weakening. Hopeless—it was hopeless.

  I was going to lose.

  Most of the fans were standing, urging Gulp on with great booming cries of his name; they sounded even hungrier now. It struck me then that they wanted to see him humiliate me, pour it on and crush me by a thousand words or more. Well, I wasn't going to give them that satisfaction. I wouldn't be disgraced in front of Mort and my girl and family and thirty million TriDim viewers. I wouldn't quit.

  In a frenzy I pounded out the last few lines on page thirty, ripped it free and replaced it. Action, action—draw the scene out for at least three more pages. Adjectives, adverbs, similes. Words. Words.

  SLEDGE KICKED THE FAT MAN IN THE GROIN AND SENT HIM TUMBLING DOWN THE STAIRS LIKE A BROKEN SCREAMING DOLL, SCREAMING OUT THE WORDS OF HIS PAIN.

  Agony in my head, in my leg, in my wounded forefinger. Roaring in my ears that had nothing to do with the crowd. GULP 8566, SACKETT 7930.

  Gain of 20—twenty words! I wanted to laugh, locked the sound in my throat instead, and made myself glance across at Gulp. His body was curved into a humpbacked C, fingers hooked into claws, an expression of torment on his wet face: the strain was starting to tell on him too. But up on the board, his prose still poured out in letters as bright as golden blood.

  SHE WAS SO TIRED AS SHE TRUDGED ACROSS THE DUSTY SANDS OF DENEB, SO VERY TIRED. BUT SHE HAD TO GO ON, SHE HAD TO FIND THE GREEN. THE BRIGHT GREEN, THE BEAUTIFUL GREEN, IT SEEMED AS IF THERE HAD NEVER BEEN ANYTHING IN HER LIFE EXCEPT THE SEARCH AND THE NEED FOR THE GREEN.

  I imagined again the urgent cries from Sally, from Mom and Dad: "Don't give up, Rex! There's still hope, there's still a chance." Then they faded, and everything else seemed to fade too. I was losing all track of time and place; I felt as if I were being closed into a kind of vacuum. I couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything but the words, always the words appearing like great and meaningless symbols on the paper and in the sky. It was just The Cranker and me now, alone together in the stadium. Winning and losing didn't even matter anymore. All that mattered was the two of us and the job we were compelled to do.

  Finished page out, new page in.

  THE FAT MAN SAT BLEEDING AGAINST THE WALL WHERE SLEDGE'S SLUGS HAD HURLED HIM. HE WAS STILL ALIVE BUT NOT FOR LONG. "ALL RIGHT, SHAMUS," HE CROAKED, "I'M FINISHED, IT'S BIG CASINO FOR ME. BUT YOU'LL NEVER GET THE DIAMOND. I'LL TAKE IT TO HELL WITH ME FIRST."

  Carriage return, tab key.

  The board:

  CULP 8916, SACKETT 8341.

  And The Cranker's prose still coming, still running:

  THE BEAST LOOMED BEFORE HER IN THE THICKET AND SHE FELT HER HEART SKIP A BEAT. SHE FELT DIZZY, AS IF SHE WOULD FAINT AT ANY SECOND. I CAN'T GO THROUGH WITH THIS, SHE THOUGHT. HOW CAN I GO ON LIKE THIS? I NEED

  Culp's machine stopped chattering then, as if he had come to the end of a page. I was barely aware of its silence at first, but when five or six seconds had passed an awareness penetrated that it hadn't started up again. The noise from the stands seemed to have shifted cadence, to have taken on a different tenor; that penetrated too. I brought my head up and squinted across the Line.

  The Cranker was sitting sideways in his chair, waving frantically at the sidelines. And as I watched, one of his Seconds came racing out with a container of Fuel. The Head Editor began waving his blue-and-yellow flag.

  Fuel penalty. Culp was taking a 20-second Fuel penalty.

  It was the first crack in his rigid control—but I didn't react to it one way or the other. The crack was too small and it had come too late: a 20-second penalty at this stage of the game, with the score at 8960 to 8419, wouldn't make any difference in the outcome. It might enable me to cut the final margin to 400 or less, but that was about all.

  I didn't watch The Cranker take his Fuel this time; I just lowered my head and kept on punching, summoning the last reserves of my strength.

  "Gulp, Gulp—give us the pulp!"

  As soon as the chant went up from his rooters, I knew that the penalty time was about to elapse. I raised my eyes just long enough to check the score and to see The Cranker hunched over his typewriter, little drops of Fuel leaking down over his chin like lost words.

  CULP 8960, SACKETT 8536.

  His machine began to hammer again. The illusion that I was about to collapse returned, but it wasn't the result of another block; it was just exhaustion and the terrific mental pressure. My speed was holding and the words were still spewing out as I headed into the final confrontation scene. They seemed jumbled to me, incoherent, but there was no lock and no penalty flag.

  SLEDGE KNEW THE UGLY TRUTH NOW AND IT WAS LIKE A KNIFE CARVING PIECES FROM THE FLESH OF HIS PSYCHE. HE KNEW WHO HAD THE MICAWBER DIAMOND AND WHO HAD HELPED THE FAT MAN MURDER HIS PARTNER.

  Thirty-five pages complete and thirty-six in the typewriter.

  CULP 9333, SACKETT 8946.

  Less than 700 words to go. The Prose Bowl was almost over. Just you and me, Cranker, I thought. Let's get it done. More words rolled out—fifty, a hundred.

  And all at once there was a collective gasping sound from the crowd, the kind of sudden stunned reaction you hear in a packed stadium when something unexpected has happened. It got through to me, made me straighten up.

  The Head Editor's brown-and-orange penalty flag, the one that meant "Confused Narrative," was up and semaphoring. I realized then that The Cranker's machine had gone silent. My eyes sought the board and read his printout in disbelief.

  "I WANT YOU," SHE SAID TO THE CREATURE, "I WANT YOU AS THE SHORES OF NEPTUNE WANT THE RESTLESS PROBING SEAS AS THE SEAS WANT THE DEPTHS GARBAGE GARBAGE

  I kept staring at the board, still typing, my subconscious vomiting out the words of my prose. I couldn't seem to grasp what had happened; Culp's words made no sense to me. Some of the fans were booing lustily. Over in G Section, the Sackett Boosters began chanting with renewed excitement.

  "Do it, Rex! Grind that text!"

  The Cranker was just sitting there behind his machine with a strange, stricken look on his face. His mouth was open, his lips moving; it seemed like he was talking to himself. Babbling to himself?

  I finished page thirty-six, pulled it out blindly, and reached for another sheet of paper. Just as I brought it into the platen, Culp's machine unlocked and he hit the keys again.

  But not for long.

  I CAN'T WRITE THIS SHIT ANY MORE

  Lock into silence. Penalty flag.

  I understood: The Cranker had broken under the pressure, the crack had become a crevasse and collapsed his professional control. I had known it to happen before, but never in the Prose Bowl. And never to a pulpeteer who was only a few hundred words from victory.

  CULP 9449, SACKETT 9228.

  The penalty flag came down.

  GARBAGE

  And the flag came back up, and the boos echoed like mad epithets in the hot afternoon.

  Gulp's face was contorted with emotion, wet with something more than sweat—something that could only be tears.
He was weeping. The Cranker was weeping.

  A sense of tragedy, of compassion touched me. And then it was gone, erased by another perception of the radiant numerals on the board—GULP 9449, SACKETT 9296—and a sudden jolt of discovery, belated by fatigue. I was only down by 150 words now; if The Cranker didn't recover at the end of this penalty, if he took yet another one, I would be able to pull even.

  I could still beat him.

  I could still win the Prose Bowl.

  "IT WAS YOU ALL ALONG, VELDA," SLEDGE HAMMERED AT HER. "YOU SET MILES UP FOR THE FAT MAN. NOBODY ELSE BESIDES ME AND MICAWBER KNEW HE WOULD BE GUARDING THE DIAMOND THAT NIGHT, AND MICA WBER'S IN THE

  CLEAR."

  Penalty flag down.

  ALL GARBAGE

  Penalty flag up.

  Virgin paper into my typewriter. Words, sentences, paragraphs. Another half-page completed.

  SHIT, The Cranker's printout said. A rage of boos. And screams, cheers, from G Section.

  SACKETT 9481, CULP 9449.

  I'd caught up, I'd taken the lead.

  VELDA REACHED INSIDE THE FRONT OF HER DRESS, BETWEEN HER MAGNIFICENT BREASTS.

  "YOU WANT THE DIAMOND?" SHE SCREAMED AT HIM. "ALL RIGHT, SAM, HERE IT IS!" SHE HURLED THE GLITTERING STONE AT HIM, THEN DOVE SIDEWAYS TO HER PURSE AND YANKED OUT A SMALL PEARL-HANDLED AUTOMATIC. BUT SHE NEVER HAD THE CHANCE TO USE IT. HATING HER, HATING HIMSELF, HATING THIS ROTTEN PAINFUL BUSINESS HE WAS IN, SLEDGE FIRED TWICE FROM THE HIP.

  "Sackett, hack it! Sackett, hack it!"

  More words. Clean page. More words.

  SACKETT 9702, CULP 9449.

  The Cranker was on his feet, stumbling away from his machine, stumbling around in circles on the lonely field, his hands clasped to his face, tears leaking through his shaky old fingers.

  TEARS LEAKED FROM SLEDGE'S EYES AS HE LOOKED DOWN AT WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND TREACHEROUS VELDA LYING ON THE FLOOR. ALL HE WANTED TO DO NOW WAS TO GET OUT OF THERE, GO HOME TO SALLY, NO, SALLY HAD LEFT HIM A LONG TIME AGO AND THERE WAS NOBODY WAITING AT HOME ANY MORE. HE WAS SO TIRED HE COULDNT THINK STRAIGHT.