Sailor & Lula (6 page)

Harry Newman sat on a corner stool in Barney's Tavern, watching the ballgame on TV. An error by the Braves shortstop in the bottom of the ninth gave the game to St. Louis and Harry swore under his breath. He'd put a couple of Jacksons on Atlanta this morning on the long end of five to two; a good bet, he'd figured. Lousy luck was all it was, he thought. All the guy had to do was keep his glove down, flip the ball to second for the force, and that was it. Instead, the ball goes through, all the
way to the wall, two runners score, and that's the name of that tune.

Harry swallowed the last of his beer and slid off the stool. Barney came over behind the bar. “Tough luck, Harry,” he said. “You oughta know better. The Braves never have no good luck in St. Louis.” “Yeah, and I never have no good luck anyplace,” said Harry, as he headed out the door. “That guy,” Barney said to the customer who'd been sitting at the bar next to Harry, “he just don't know how to bet, is all. Loses ten times for every one he wins.” “Some guys are like that,” said the customer. “They never learn.”

Harry walked downtown, shuffling along, not sure of where he was headed. He almost bumped into someone, excused himself, looked up, and that's when he saw it: a bright yellow 1957 Buick convertible. It was cherry, in perfect condition, sitting in the front row of Al Carson's used-car lot. Harry went right to it and ran his hand over the right front fender, then stroked up and along the top. It was the most gorgeous automobile he'd ever seen.

“She's somethin', ain't she, Harry?” said Al Carson, who'd come up behind him. Harry didn't even turn around to look at the wizened little car dealer. He just couldn't take his eyes off the old Buick. “She sure is,” said Harry. “It looks brand-new.” “Just about,” said Al. “Only a fraction more than 15,000 miles on her in thirty years. A little old lady kept it in her garage. Only drove it to church on Sundays and to see her sister across town twice a month. Hard to believe, I know, but true.” “How much, Al?” asked Harry. “How much do you want for her?” “Three grand,” said Al. “But for you, Harry, make it twenty-seven fifty.” “I've got about forty bucks on me now, Al,” said Harry. “How about if you take that and I'll pay you a hundred a month?” “I don't know, Harry,” Al said, shaking his tiny bald head. “Your credit ain't been at the top of the list lately.” “Oh, come on, Al. I'll pay you. I will. I've just got to have this beauty.”

Harry walked around the car, opened the driver's side door
and got in. “Hey, what's this?” he said. “A telephone? They didn't have telephones in many cars over thirty years ago!” “Doesn't work, of course,” said Al. “Don't know that it ever did. Doesn't appear it was ever really hooked up to nothing. I bought the car from the old woman's son and he couldn't tell me about it, either. Just said he always thought it was odd, too. What'd the old lady need a phone in her car for, anyway?” Al laughed. “I guess I should charge you extra for it!”

Harry slid back out and handed his two twenties to Al. “Come on, Al. You can trust me for it. You know me. I ain't gonna go run nowhere and hide.” “You don't ever have enough dough to go nowhere!” said Al. “But I guess I can let you take it. Come on in the office and sign the paper and you can drive it out right now. She runs real good.”

Harry drove his cherry 1957 Buick all over town that day, showing it off to everybody, proud as could be. After cruising around the neighborhood a few times he decided to take it out into the country for a real spin, to cut it loose and see what she could do on the open road. Not far past the city limits it began to rain. Harry put on the windshield wipers and they worked just fine, humming away as they cleared the water from view. Harry gave the Buick the gun, hurtling along the highway like a yellow flame. Rounding a curve, however, the tires hit a slick spot and the Buick spun out of Harry's control. He fought to keep the car on the road but it wobbled, slid and finally flew off the side into a ditch. The impact knocked Harry out.

“This is the operator. How may I help you? Hello, this is the operator speaking. How may I be of assistance?” Harry came to slowly, awakened by the sound of a voice. Someone was speaking to him. But who? He shook his head, opened his eyes, and saw that the telephone receiver had fallen off the hook. “Hello? Hello? This is the operator. What number do you want?” The voice was coming from the car phone. Harry shook his head again. He thought this must be his imagination, that his head was full of cobwebs from the crash. But no, it was the operator talking.

Harry picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said. “Operator? I'm sorry, I...I've just been in an accident and I'm stuck in a ditch. I mean my car is stuck. I must have lost control in the storm and gone off the road. Yes, I'm all right, I think,” he told her. “Where am I?” Harry struggled around in the seat to look out the window. The rain had stopped. “About fifteen miles past the city limits, I guess. On the old Valley Road. Could you call a tow truck for me? Yes, certainly, Operator. I'll hold on.” Harry shook his head again and felt his shoulder, his legs. He seemed to be in one piece, not seriously hurt. Another voice came on the line. “Bud's Service Station? Right, yes, well, I've had an accident. She told you? Twenty minutes? Great, great. No, I guess I'll be here all right.” Harry hung up the telephone and stared at it.

Twenty minutes later a truck pulled up. The lettering on the sides of the doors of the cab said BUD'S TOW 24 HOURS. A large man, about fifty years old, with a two-day growth of beard and an unlit cigar stub stuck in his mouth, climbed down out of the cab and came over to where Harry was standing beside the Buick. The man wore a dark blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled partway up each meaty forearm. The name Bud was emblazoned above the left front pocket.

“They don't make these new buggies like the old ones,” Bud said, as he looked the Buick over. Harry laughed. “That's pretty good,” said Harry. “She was holding the road pretty well until that curve back there.” Bud grunted and bent down to look at the right front wheel that was twisted halfway around. Bud grunted again as he raised himself back up. “Yeah, I keep my daddy's old '36 Packard runnin',” he said. “Now that's an automobile that won't let you down so long as you take care of it. They just churn these babies out now in too much of a hurry. They don't make 'em to last. Well, let's see if we can get her out of this,” said Bud, as he walked back to the tow truck.

Bud had the Buick up and out of the ditch in ten minutes. “Hop up in the cab,” he told Harry. “We'll take her back to the station and get that wheel straightened out.” Harry and Bud
climbed into the truck and Bud started off toward town. He reached over and snapped on the radio. “Say,” he said, “I noticed that telephone in the car. You rig that up yourself? What is it, shortwave?” Harry nodded, confused. “No, er . . . yes, yeah, that's it.”

The truck radio buzzed as it warmed up and Bud fiddled with the dial as he drove. “Got to hear the game. Who're you bettin' on? The Braves or the Yanks?” “What?” asked Harry. “In the Series, it starts today, you know. I like Milwaukee myself. Spahn and Burdette are gonna be tough to beat in a short Series,” said Bud. “But I'm afraid of that crafty little lefty, Ford. I'm pretty sure of one thing, though.” “What's that?” asked Harry, still trying to figure out what was going on. “That bum Larsen won't pitch another perfect game like he did last year.” Bud laughed. “I'd bet the station on that!”

“But Larsen pitched his perfect game in the '56 Series!” said Harry. “That's right, pal,” Bud answered. “Like I said, last year. Probably nobody'll do that again in our lifetime, I'll bet.” Just then the radio kicked in, and the voice of Mel Allen, the New York Yankees' announcer, filled the cab of the truck. “Welcome to the broadcast of the World Series,” said Mel Allen in his unmistakable, mellifluous drawl. “It's a beautiful afternoon here on October second, nineteen hundred and fifty-seven, as the Milwaukee Braves and the New York Yankees prepare to do battle in the House that Ruth Built.”

Harry rubbed his head, unable to speak. Then he relaxed and began to smile, suddenly comfortable with the situation. “So whaddaya think?” asked Bud. “The Braves'll win it in seven games,” Harry said. “You can bet on it.” “That's what I wanted to hear!” said Bud, pounding a fist on the steering wheel. Harry just grinned and watched the road. As the truck passed the City Limits sign, Harry said, “I might put a few bucks down on the Braves myself. Yeah, I think I'll do just that.”