by Brad Smith
“I’ve had my problems with those Queen Street boys in the past,” Herm said. “Maybe I better give it a pass. They might not appreciate me walking in and taking their money.”
“What makes you think you’re gonna win?” Stan asked. “Awful damn cocky, ain’t you?”
“I’m dancing with this lady, Stanley,” Herm said. “Who plays at this game?”
“The fat man, for sure. Danny Bonner from River Street. Maybe the Callahans, maybe the Swede from the island. They come and go, you know.” Stan the elder nodded seriously. “You’re all right if you’re with me.”
“I ain’t going to back you, Stash.”
“Buy me a couple beers and I’ll watch.”
They left Chalk Johnson sleeping in his chair — better there than the alley — and walked out into the heavy summer night. Stan Jones the elder was a short, beer-bellied man and he had to hustle to keep up with Herm, who was lean and long-legged and who liked to fashion his pace after Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story. They walked south on Parliament, past Gerrard, by the old school where Herm had copped his first feel and gotten his first fat lip. Stan the elder was soon blowing hard with the effort of the walk; occasionally he reached out to touch Herm’s jacket sleeve in hopes of slowing the younger man down. They finally pulled up in front of Fred and June’s Diner, where Herm turned and placed his palm against Stan the elder’s dirty shirt front.
“I’d better go this alone,” he cautioned. “This guy’s a little funny about paying his debts. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m bringing in muscle.”
Stan was still puffing from the walk, but he pulled in his gut and drew himself up at the compliment. “I’ll be right here,” he assured Herm. “You know, just in case.”
Herm gave him a knowing wink and then strolled into the diner. The supper crowd had cleared out by now and the place was empty except for a couple bums sipping coffee at the counter. June was washing dishes in the back; Herm could see her peroxided head through the serving window. He waved to her without stopping and then went into the gents’. There, he pissed and washed his hands and then took several minutes to re-sculpt his hair. Before leaving he transferred two twenties and a ten from his left pocket to his right. He hit the street whistling an up-beat version of “The Streets of Laredo.”
“How’d you do?” Stan asked excitedly.
Herm showed the fifty from his pocket.
“Like a burglar, Stash,” he said. “My pal had a lucky day at the track. Picked three greys in a row, the stiff, and he’s rolling in dough like a baker’s fingers.”
Stan the elder was happy as a clam, showing his bad teeth all over the place. He was broke, true enough — and had been for years — but never mind, tonight he’d be playing in a big game. He’d be standing behind Herm, watching every card laid, every bet made, making note of the players and their expressions, winner and losers, too. As the two walked down Parliament, Stan began to practise his own stern poker face, rescued finally from these years in mothballs.
Herm sprang for beans and wieners for both of them at a grease joint on Jarvis, and then they took the streetcar down to Fat Ollie’s, arriving at eleven thirty. Stan the elder took the lead with authority then, walking round to a rear door and giving it a conspiratorial rap.
“Secret knock, Stash?” Herm asked gravely.
Stan thought it over and then said that it was. Inside the room he drew himself up — his full five foot three — and introduced Herm to five card players seated at a table in a room that might have been a warehouse at one time. The ceilings were high, with exposed rafters and bare lightbulbs. The walls were boarded and unpainted, the windows covered with paper.
It was Stan the elder’s moment — such was his life — and he made the most of it. Red-haired Billy Callahan, the younger of the brothers, was looking Herm over pretty good.
“I’ve heard of you,” he decided.
“What have you heard?” Herm asked.
Billy Callahan glanced at the others a moment. “Well, I hear you get a lot of mouth from booze and you’re a son of a bitch in a fist fight.”
Herm looked at the punk and tried to decide whether to walk out now or wait to be asked to leave. The big man, Fat Ollie, slipped his hands beneath his suspenders and puffed noisily on his Havana. He put his eyes on Callahan.
“And do you hear that he cheats at cards?” he asked.
“No, I never heard that,” Callahan admitted.
Fat Ollie laughed at some private joke and then turned to Herm. “Show us fifty dollars, Mr. Bell, and take a chair,” he said. “We play straight poker here — five card stud, jacks or better, straight seven. You wanna play wild cards, you got the wrong game.”
Herm tossed the fifty on the table and took off his jacket.
“Wild cards are for old women and pansies,” he said, sitting down. “Straight suits me fine.”
He shook hands with Fat Ollie, then with the punk Billy Callahan and his freckle-faced brother Martin, and with Danny Bonner, who Herm knew a little from Lem’s Diner, and with the fifth man, a slick, dark-eyed stranger named Tony Broad.
The Callahans and Danny Bonner were drinking beer, Tony Broad had a bottle of bourbon, and Fat Ollie, Herm learned, was on the wagon for a month.
“Wife bet me a hundred I couldn’t keep off the sauce for thirty days,” Ollie said.
“You gonna make it?” Danny Bonner asked.
“Sure.”
“What’cha gonna do with the hundred?”
“Get drunk.”
Herm asked after the beer.
“Two bits a bottle,” Ollie told him. “Same for a shot of whiskey.”
Herm bought a bottle of beer for himself and another for Stan the elder and they began to play. First hand Herm drew to a pair of fours and caught the third, but got beat by Danny Bonner’s spade flush. Herm didn’t mind — you win early and you lose late.
Fat Ollie gathered the cards and began to deal. “Saw Dave Burns at the track today,” he said, shuffling. “Caught himself a twenty-five to one. Old Daytona had him five on the nose.”
Across the table Herm smiled. His money was winning and he wasn’t even holding it. Now that’s hot, you better believe.
They played straight seven. Herm bet a pair of nickels until the sixth card, then folded when Tony Broad bumped on what looked to be a high straight. It wasn’t and Danny Bonner won again, kings over sixes.
“Same guy wins ’em all,” Billy Callahan complained.
“Go on, cry me a river,” Danny laughed.
Stan the elder was standing so close Herm could feel his sour breath on his neck. Herm turned to hand Stan a cigarette and motioned him away from his chair. Stan the elder moved back, but continued to hover, a rank mother hen in whiskers.
“Went to see that movie last night,” Danny said, waiting for the deal. “Where those two guys dress up like broads, what’s it called — They Like It Hot? You should see those guys, with the lipstick and everything.”
“I don’t go in for that queer stuff,” Billy Callahan said.
“I saw that,” Herm said to Danny. “Some Like It Hot, it’s called. Pretty funny movie.”
“You go in for that queer stuff?” Callahan asked.
“How about the dame?” Danny asked of Herm. “Built like a brick shithouse.”
“Marilyn Monroe,” Herm agreed. “Great set of knockers.”
Herm won the next hand. Jacks or better, he drew to a pair of kings and caught a third, raised the bet to five bucks, had two callers and pulled in twenty-seven dollars. Stan the elder was pissing his pants at their good, fortune. He’d have stories to tell tomorrow down at the park.
“You guys want to talk about the movies, talk to Tony here,” Fat Ollie said then. “He makes ’em.”
Tony Broad smiled from behind his thick mustache. With everybody watching he decided to stand and remove his pinstripe jacket. He wore scarlet suspenders and matching garters at his elbows.
“You’re the guy who
makes the movies?” Danny Bonner asked.
“Not the movies you see down at the Bijou,” Ollie laughed. “These movies are for men only, you know what I mean? You don’t advertise in the newspapers for these movies.”
“Beaver movies,” Danny said excitedly. “A friend of my brother-in-law knew somebody who had one.”
“We call them stag films,” Tony Broad advised.
“I thought they made them movies out in California,” Callahan said.
“I make ’em all over,” Tony Broad told him. “I’ve made a few out there.”
“Got to keep moving in that business,” Ollie said. He was having a hell of a time with Danny Bonner; he liked to get the kid going.
And it was working — Danny wasn’t thinking about poker anymore; his hand lay scattered on the table. Fat Ollie was putting a match to his Havana and chuckling.
“You get to fuck all those broads or what?” Danny wanted to know.
“Sure he gets to fuck ’em, you jerk,” Callahan said to Danny. “That’s part of the deal, right?” And he looked at Tony Broad.
But Tony just showed his oily smile again. “Hey, let’s play some poker, boys,” he said. “I don’t want you guys pulling your rope, you’ll get the cards all sticky.”
“Who’s got openers?” Herm asked. Danny Bonner’s cards were still on the table.
“What about this Marion Monroe?” Danny wanted to know. “You meet her out in Hollywood?”
“Marilyn Monroe?” Tony Broad asked. “Yeah, I might’ve met her. That’s right, I did meet her, at a party one time. I remember now, she stripped her clothes off and jumped into the swimming pool.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Danny said.
“Open for a deuce,” Fat Ollie said. “Look at your cards, Danny boy.”
Herm won again, queens over tens. Danny Bonner was thinking about the actress Marilyn Monroe swimming naked in a pool and he folded a pat straight.
And the game went on.
Stan was closing in again, so Herm bought him another beer, and a shot this time, and by two o’clock Stan was down for the count, sleeping on a couch in the corner. Herm had the old man off his back and it had only cost him six bits to do it.
By three in the morning Herm was up $150. Only Billy Callahan was losing heavily; he was getting lousy cards and he was a bad player to boot. His brother Martin, the freckle-face, said not a word all night, not even to bet. When he won, he pulled his money in and neatly stacked and counted it each time.
At some point Tony Broad began to win more than he lost and Herm decided to watch him, and to let him know he was being watched.
“Straight seven,” Fat Ollie called. “And somebody pull the blind over that broken window. Be light in an hour and I don’t want to know when it is.”
“Amen,” said Martin, and Herm knew the freckle-face wasn’t a mute anyway.
Ollie dealt. Herm rode a pair of tens through the sixth card. Billy Callahan had a pair of sevens showing and he was betting them. Fat Ollie declined to chase a three flush, and Bonner and Tony Broad got out early. Callahan bet ten dollars, and his brother tossed his hand. Herm called the bet and waited for his hole card.
“Down and dirty,” the fat man said and he delivered.
Herm let the card lie while Callahan checked his and threw another sawbuck into the pot. Herm flipped the corner to see his third ten and doubled the bet.
“That two pair’s gonna shit on you this time,” Callahan said and he bumped back.
Herm came back with the final raise — three bump limit at the fat man’s — and it was a hundred-dollar pot. Callahan produced his third seven and leaned forward to stick it under Herm’s nose.
“Lucky sevens,” he laughed. “My kind of cigarette.”
Herm rolled his hole cards. “Thirty days,” he said.
Callahan stared at the cards. “You cocksucker,” he breathed. “I’m bust.”
Herm shrugged to show that he didn’t give a shit and pulled in the pot.
“You’re hotter than a three-dollar pistol, kid,” Fat Ollie said.
“Been that way all day, Ollie,” Herm admitted. “I hit three in a row at Greenwood this afternoon. Three greys — boom, boom, boom.”
“Always liked a grey horse myself,” Ollie said.
“I always liked ’em, too,” Herm said. “Lately, they haven’t liked me much. I been in a slump now, maybe six months. Ever since I dropped a couple yards on the Cochrane fight. Got so I wouldn’t bet on the sun coming up in the morning. Never had a dry spell like this.”
Ollie saluted with his cigar. “Well, I believe you’re over it now,” he laughed. “How ’bout letting the rest of us in a little?”
“Not if I can help it,” Herm said grinning. “Not if I can help it.”
“I saw him today,” Danny Bonner said suddenly.
“Who’d you see?” Ollie asked.
“Tommy Cochrane.”
“Bullshit.” This from Billy Callahan, still sulking.
“Over at Lem’s,” Danny insisted. He looked at Herm. “You go to Lem’s, right? I was there having the chili special they have on Wednesdays. I tell you, for four bits you can’t beat it — a big bowl of chili and four pieces of toast. And that chili is a meal by itself, it stays with you all day.”
“So does the clap,” Tony Broad said.
“Never mind the restaurant review, kid,” Ollie said to Danny. “What makes you think you saw Tommy Cochrane?”
“Well, I’m sitting at the counter waiting for my chili, shooting the breeze with Bucky, the cook,” Danny said. “And I sees this nigger sitting in a booth in the corner. So I says to Bucky, ‘What’s a nigger doin’ in here?’ Right? I mean, you never see any niggers in Lem’s.”
“Get to the point, kid,” Ollie said. “Before your chili gets cold.”
“All right, all right,” Danny said. “Now Bucky says, ‘You better watch what you say ’bout this particular nigger, ‘cause he happens to be sitting with Tommy Cochrane.’ So I can’t see Cochrane because of the booth, so I gets up and takes a walk to the can and when I come out I get a good look at him and, sure as hell, it’s Tommy Cochrane in the flesh.”
“Did you talk to him?” Ollie asked.
“I don’t know the man,” Danny said.
“But you talked to him,” Ollie insisted. “You’d talk to the devil himself if you could hold him down long enough.”
Danny shrugged. “I told him the chili was always good on Wednesdays.”
Fat Ollie laughed and banged his hand on the table. “You son of a bitch, Danny boy! You’re a piece of work, by God. Recommended the chili to Tommy Cochrane, did you?”
“Did you ask the cocksucker why he went down in the Rinaldi fight?” Billy Callahan demanded. He was broke and out of the game. Pissed off. He’d tried to borrow money from his brother and hadn’t gotten as much as a word in reply.
“I was at that fight,” Tony Broad announced. He cupped his hand and made a diving motion. “Johnny Weismuller, know what I mean?”
“I don’t know about that,” Herm said.
“I do,” Tony Broad said. “I was there, my friend.”
Herm wasn’t sure he wanted to be Tony Broad’s friend.
“Why would he take a dive?” Danny Bonner asked. “If he beats Rinaldi, he gets a title shot. Why would he throw that away?”
“Money, you idiot,” Callahan said. “Why do you think?”
“They paid him enough to give up a title shot?” Danny wondered.
“Why not?” Tony Broad said. “What’s Cochrane gonna do with a title shot? Patterson would kill him. I know — the champ happens to be a friend of mine.”
Danny, of course, was impressed. “You know Floyd Patterson?”
“Sure I know him,” Tony said. “I’ve had the gloves on with him a half a dozen times. I’ll admit that he can hit. He’s good. He’d take this fucking Cochrane’s head off.”
“Maybe he would,” Herm said. “And maybe he wouldn’t. Tommy Cochrane
is no stiff. He’s got heart.”
“Yeah, and you know what else he’s got,” Callahan laughed. “A pocket full of money ‘cause dopes like you bet the farm on him.”
“He didn’t look like he had a pocket full of money today,” Danny said thoughtfully. He looked at the fat man. “What do you think, Ollie? You think he went in the tank?”
“I don’t know, Danny boy,” Ollie said. “That’s a hard thing to answer. It’s not easy to say what a man might do. Sometimes a man doesn’t know what he’s going to do until he does it.”
“Let’s play cards,” Herm said then. “I got this lady friend who’s getting impatient.”
“Where is she?” Danny asked.
“She’s right here, boys. She’s right here.”
SIX
She spent the afternoon looking for a room, walking to save bus fare, the Telly tucked beneath her arm, soft lead pencil handy behind her ear as she went down the list of rooms to let. The day was a scorcher and she wore a yellow cotton dress and flats and no stockings. After checking out a half-dozen places that barely qualified as rat traps, the heat grew worse and she pulled her dark red hair into a pony-tail and fastened it with an elastic.
She finally found a third-storey room on Baldwin — the joint was far from perfect, but then her standards had dropped some since morning. She was sick of the heat and sick of looking and she was ready to rationalize that she didn’t really need much anyway.
The room was clean, with a double bed and a large dresser and small closet. The bathroom was down the hall and she was to share with two other girls. No drinking, no smoking, no men. Sort of what Lee had always imagined hell to be like. But it would suit her for now — it was a ten-minute walk to the Blue Parrot and above all it was cheap — twenty a week. The market on Kensington was a block away, and she could shop there, maybe even sneak a hot plate into her room, although Mrs. Royce, the landlady who looked like an over-the-hill fullback, had advised her that cooking was not allowed.
She paid for a week in advance and then walked to the old Canfield Hotel to pick up her bags. She’d been in town a couple days and she’d decided to stay at the Canfield — not for any sentimental reasons (hell, no) but to avoid any contact with her dear mother. Showing up broke and out of work on the old girl’s doorstep would just lay herself open to a lot of grief that she could live without right now. As of today she had a place and a job. In a couple of weeks she’d give her mother a call and announce that she was home — not that Toronto felt like home anymore, but you had to fix the name to something, she guessed.