Some Came Running (23 page)

There were seven players in the game. They were playing pea pool. A dollar a game. Four of them were dressed in overalls or work clothes and a couple of these wore those pleated “railroader” workcaps. Two others wore the nondescript uniforms of store clerks. They were all six of them young—that is, below middle age—and they all appeared to be thoroughly enjoying a slightly expensive night off from the wife and kiddies.

By contrast, ’Bama Dillert stood out like a thief in church. He did not have that married look of the others, and he had changed his clothes to a sharply pressed suit, the coat of which he did not take off to play, and which had the exact same narrow smalltownish cut as the other while still managing to look expensive. He also wore, pushed carefully back just to his widow’s peak, another semi-western hat, with the same deeply snapped brim and creases as sharp and meticulous as the press in the suit. He had shaved, and bathed, and evidently even cleaned his fingernails, and had on a dazzling clean white shirt and a tie that was a futuristic printmaker’s dream, all dots and radial stripes and triangles, but which nevertheless blended well with the suit. He obviously felt it to be a sophisticated outfit.

As Dave came up and leaned against the next table, ’Bama chalked his cue, studied the table, wrapped long fingers around the stick in a small tight bridge, bent to shoot exposing cuffs unsoiled by what was apparently hours of playing, made a crisp but accurate kiss shot across the end of the table, and stood up throwing out across the felt the small ivory pea whose number corresponded to the one on the ball he had just pocketed—all of this in what seemed to be one swift, concerted movement.

“Read it and weep,” he sneered in his high, contemptuous nasal.

“You son of a bitch,” one of the men in overalls said good-naturedly.

“I said weep,” ’Bama said. ‘‘Go ahead and cry, you sad bastard. Get it off yore chest.”

As he spoke, he went around the table and collected the six dollar bills the others had laid out on the edge; tall, thin, sway-backed, with that hanging belly appended to the abnormally curving spine, setting his feet down in that same slow jerky horse walk, languid, arrogant, hateful of even the money. He shoved the bills in his front pants pocket. “Rack ’em up!” he bawled, and banged with the butt of his cue on the floor several times, and walked over to stand by Dave. “How’s it goin, Dave?” he smiled sneeringly.

The houseman, the same one who had been reading
Motor Sports
, was already there with the rack before he even yelled. ’Bama paid for the next game, as winner.

“You ought to know you can’t leave that ’Bama have a set up shot,” one of the men in overalls said to one of the clerks.

“You got to leave him safe,” another said.

“You want to shoot in front of him?” the clerk said.

“I’d rather shoot in front of him than behind,” one of the men in railroader caps said.

“If I played that bastard safe,” the clerk said coldly, “I’d never get to shoot for my ball all night but that wouldn’t keep you from winnin.”

“’Bama, are you payin him to shoot that way in front of you?” the second clerk said.

“Course I’m payin him,” ’Bama said, pocketing his change from the houseman. He said it so quickly and matter of factly, that even though you knew it wasn’t true you had a momentary impulse to believe him. As if he knew this, a hint of a self-satisfied sly grin crept over the sneer, then crept off.

“I’ve been a-anticipatin all along that was what you was doin,” another of the overalls said.

“I’d be glad to accept some of my pay now,” the first clerk said coldly.

’Bama ignored both of them. He leaned back against the table, waiting for the houseman to collect all the peas and pass out new ones, and turned his narrow hazel eyes on Dave.

“How’d the dinner turn out?” he asked. Once again, there was that strange incongruous intimacy that was too great for the time they’d known each other, and was out of place in ’Bama’s character, in his voice. Dave wondered again why it was. Could Frank be that important in this town?

“All right,” he said.

“You get enough to eat?” ’Bama grinned.

“Too much,” Dave said. He was watching the other men waiting to get their peas from the houseman. “I met our girl,” he said.

“Who?”

“Gwen French. She was there for dinner.”

“Ohhhh! Yeah?” ’Bama said. “You make her?”

“I didn’t try,” Dave said. “I think Wally’s right. I don’t think it would be worth it.”

“Look, don’t tell me,” ’Bama grinned. “I’ve looked at them eyes. It might be hard work. I grant you that. But it’d be worth it plenty.”

“I don’t think so,” Dave said stiffly. He discovered that he did not like ’Bama talking about Gwen like that. Even privately.

“Okay,” ’Bama grinned. “You shoe yore own horse. Ain’t you gettin in on this one?” he nodded at the table.

Dave’s embarrassment came back, “I’m just watchin,” he said. “But I might play one. Later on.”

“You’d better get in now if you aim to. Because they’ll be closing up before long. They close at eleven, so they quit at ten-thirty.”

“Perhaps I will play a game then,” Dave said. “If there’s room.”

“Plenty of room, Mr Hirsh,” one of the clerks said.

“Why, thank you,” Dave said. He went to the nearest wall rack for a cue, cursing himself savagely for sounding so pompous and feeling a fool. He relieved himself by hunting with great diligence for a cue that felt good. He was committed to it now.

When he came back to the table ’Bama came over and stood beside him. “You follow me,” he said, some kind of an eagerness in his voice. “I was the last man to get in, so you’ll follow me. And since I won the last game, that means I break, so you shoot second.” Dave wondered if the jerk thought he didn’t know anything about pool at all. But it wasn’t that; ’Bama sounded more like a pleased host who was proudly and some what pathetically showing one of his rare visitors around his estate.

The houseman, having racked the balls and collected all the peas, began to rattle the black leather bottle. Occasionally, he banged the bottom of it down flat on the table rail. Finally, he let the peas out the neck of the bottle into his hand one at a time and shot them across the green expanse of felt to the players, who caught them, peered at them secretively, and then hid them. When they all had their peas, he put the bottle up and disappeared again, as suddenly and silently as he had appeared, without having said a word the whole time.

’Bama broke the rack, a snapping hard very clean shot like a striking snake that sent colored balls squirting out from the triangle in all directions and sank two of them into pockets. One of these belonged to the first clerk, who cursed coldly, and ’Bama grinned at him. He went on shooting and sank three other balls before he missed.

Dave, whose turn it was to shoot next, did not sink three balls during the entire game. Nor did he sink a total of three balls in any one of the other four games they played before quitting time. Nervousness plus extreme self-consciousness plus a great embarrassment plus a wild hunger to win every game all combined to make him play even worse than he should have with no more practice than he’d had. He played increasingly in a grim, dead-faced silence intended to conceal the way he felt but which instead only served to call attention to it.

Nobody offered him any encouragement. Neither did anyone offer him any sympathy. ’Bama was the only one who spoke to him at all, and he only between games. The rest did not look at him and maintained a blank-faced silence, leaning on their cues. He was twice as lonely as he had been outside walking around the square.

’Bama won three of the five games before the houseman finally closed them down. One of the clerks won one, and one of the country men won the other. Dave played along in all of them, actively hating every moment of it. When they stopped, all he felt was relief. By the time it took him to walk up front, his anger was replaced by an unutterable, almost unendurable melancholy. In this state, he thought about Gwen French.

She really wasn’t a very appetizing woman at all, when you thought about it objectively. And fifty-five hundred dollars! He wished to God he had not called Frank and committed himself now.

’Bama had gone back to the men’s room, and he sat down on one of the mahogany-stained benches to wait and lit a cigarette. The two whiskered old men had left, shuffling off to whatever miserable homes. He would have to look the Old Man up, he thought. He sat watching the falling snow through the big plate-glass windows. Beyond the windows, it filled the air between him and the courthouse, making it tangible. His own footprints outside were already dusted over.

Behind him, the others still were talking as the houseman continued turning the lights off. Then the four men in work clothes came past him and went out together.

“Christ,” one of them said, “it sure is snowin.”

A moment later the two clerks followed, each going his own way toward his own car, adding more footprints to the growing web.

’Bama came up behind him.

“Ready to go?” he said. He was folding a big sheaf of bills in half. He rolled it into a roll and snapped a rubber band around it. “All ones,” he laughed, and put it in his pocket.

“How much did you win?” Dave said.

’Bama studied him narrowly a moment, as if debating whether to tell him the truth. “’Bout thirty bucks.”

“That’s not a bad night’s work.”

’Bama studied him again. He had his topcoat on, a conventional ordinary light gray gabardine, and his hat was pulled forward now, about three quarters of the way down his forehead, a lot like a soldier wears a campaign hat, except for the long western crease and sharp snapped brim. “It ain’t bad,” he admitted; “for pool. But if I had to live on that, I’d starve to death damn quick.”

“You look like you do all right.”

’Bama grinned. “Well, it ain’t because I’m holding down no high-payin job at the damned Sternutol Chemical.”

“I thought it was,” Dave said.

’Bama grinned again. The word
gambler
had not been mentioned, but he was still obviously flattered. He put his foot up on the next bench and lit a cigarette from a pack in his topcoat pocket. “I had a heavy date over at the Eagles Lodge tonight with a poker game until I met up with you,” he grinned. “I figure I just about made my ante money.”

“It must be a good game.”

“We have some good ones around here. Now and then.” He grinned in that style he evidently thought was wicked. Then he moved his head. “Well, you ready to go?”

“Sure. Anytime. I’ve just been sitting here watching it snow.”

Without moving his feet ’Bama swung his torso around to look. “Yeah, it is pretty, ain’t it?” he said, trying to sound interested. He took his foot down and crushed the half-smoked cigarette under a sharp-pointed toe. Then he walked over to the windows and stood looking out. “Use to snow some down in Alabama where I come from, but never nothin like it does up here.” He stood there with his hands in his topcoat pockets. “I figured you’d never get up here tonight,” he said to the windows. “I figured you’d still be down to yore brother’s having that big shindig welcoming home party.”

“Well, I’m not,” Dave said.

“Yeah,” ’Bama grinned, swinging around. “I can see that.”

“I came straight here from there,” Dave amended.

“What’s the matter?” ’Bama said, coming back grinning to the bench. “You have an argument?”

“No. Me and Frank never argue. We understand each other.”

“If you do, yore the first two brothers ever did,” ’Bama said. “Me and my brother been fightin about the goddamned Sternutol Chemical for ten years ever since I come here.”

Dave looked at him questioningly and he moved his head toward the east.

“He works out there.”

“Oh.”

“And he thinks I oughta work there,” ’Bama grinned. “But I ain’t about to.”

“You don’t look like you need to.”

“Damn right, I don’t.”

“Then why’re you worrying?”

“Awww,” ’Bama said. “He’s a poker player himself. Used to live off of it till he got married. Now he plays over at the Moose Lodge all the time. I play there. But he thinks I ought to have a steady job. It’s his wife. He thinks it ain’t respectable, now, unless you work.”

The lights were all off now except the one above them, and the houseman pottering around back in the dark interior, probably putting the rubberized covers on the tables. Now he came up over on the other side by the cigar counter carrying a case of Cokes and began replenishing the soft drinks chest.

“I guess we’d better get out of here,” Dave said. He looked up at the near wall where there was a big blackboard with the collegiate basketball scores and the high school scores for the Wabash Valley and Eastern Illinois Leagues. Indiana had won. Bradley had won. So had Parkman, but so had its two arch rivals, Paris further north and Robinson further south. “Before we get thrown out,” he said.

“Sit still,” ’Bama sneered, “yore all right.” He opened his topcoat exposing a pint bottle in the side pocket. “I just bought him a drink. I got to stay on the good side a my business acquaintances. He won’t throw us out.”

“But does that include me, too?” Dave grinned.

“It does as long as yore with me. We kin sit here till two,” ’Bama boasted. “If we want to. Although I don’t know why the hell we’d want to.”

“I don’t, either,” Dave said. “To keep from going home, I guess. Let’s get on down to Smitty’s.”

’Bama snorted. “It’s always the same old answer, ain’t it? Evidently, what you need is a woman. Well, that’s where we’ll find them.”

“Only about like I need to breathe, is all,” Dave said.

“Hell, what you need is a wife. Why don’t you get married?”

“Why don’t you?”

“I am,” ’Bama said.

When Dave didn’t answer, the tall Southerner said: “I been married since I was nineteen down in Alabama. I got two kids.”

Dave still couldn’t think of anything to say. “I just figured you were single,” he said finally.

“Why? Because I run around?” The tall man snorted; then went on with cheerful cynicism. “Way I see it, a guy almost has to be married. The trouble with women is the nice women won’t put out and the others don’t do you any good when they do. They put out to everybody. And if the nice ones do put out to you, something happens to them and they seem to stop being nice ones after a while. I didn’t make the rules.”