Dog Soldiers (10 page)

T
he last man stood at the window, squinting as
though he saw his life
’
s resolution off at a great distance, bathed in light. When the ticket popped out, he spread his thick fingers over the smooth metal surface of the dispenser and groped for it unseeing.

A true groper, Marge thought. His fingers sought the pink ticket like blind predatory worms; finding it, they came moistly together, pressed it down, and slid it out of sight over the ledge. Marge identified with the ticket.

Every once in a while, Marge would steal a glance at the faces of her customers but for the most part she watched their fingerwork.

The last man paused for a moment at the rear of the booth to peer downward
through the glass. He had trans
ferred the ticket to his left
hand; the talented right was al
ready in his trouser pocket. Marge was not alarmed. She realized that the man wanted to see her ass. But Marge had hung her sweater over the back of her chair so there was nothing to see. She had not done it out of spite but merely for convenience.

“
C
’
mon, Jack,
”
Holy-o told the last man. Holy-o stood beside the tin doors and took tickets. He took the last man
’
s ticket, dropped the house stub in a wooden box, and closed the doors.

Holy-o had a trun
cheon in which he had carved de
signs — animal shapes and what he imagined to be the gods of his native Samoa. The truncheon hung by a leather thong from a screw eye in the oak ticket box. With the doors closed on the last man, Holy-o took his truncheon from its hook and stood out on the sidewalk in front of Marge
’
s booth, cradling the club in
his hands like a riot po
liceman.

Marge and Holy-o were waiting for the fellas to arrive.

The fellas arrived within two minutes of the last man. They double-parked their Thunderbird directly in front of the box office and climbed out briskly. They were well-groomed, clean-shaven young men with olive complexions. They both wore khaki half coats and one of them had a peaked waterproof cap with a belt that buckled in the back.

“
Hiya, Holy-o.
”
They came directly to the door of Marge
’
s booth.

“
Hiya, fellas,
”
Holy-o said.

Marge opened up while the fellas looked the street over. Sometimes when they came, the fellas would see people whose appearance troubled them. If the troublesome-look ing people were white, the fellas called them hard-ons. If they were black, they called them jigs. The fellas called the regular Third Street peop
le and the customers of the the
ater mooches or mushes. Marge was never sure which.

“
Hiya, sweetheart.
”
It w
as the one with the hat who car
ried the bag. Marge slipped her cash drawer out of its place and locked it.

“
Hi,
”
she said. She thought of him as Hat. Once when she had been really fucked up she had said,
“
Hi, Hat.
”
She had been so fucked up tha
t night she had been shortchang
ing herself instead of the mooches. Or mushes.

Hat had just looked at her.
“
Oh,
”
he had said,
“
you like my hat?
”

She followed Holy-o and t
he fellas into the darkened the
ater and they all went to Holy-o
’
s office to unlock Rowena and the candy-stand money. Holy-o kept Rowena and the candy money locked in his office until the fellas arrived. Until a year or so before, he had locked the candy complex up in the ladies
’
room after the last film went on but ladies had started coming to the theater — things being what they were — and he had been compelled to leave the ladies
’
room open.

Rowena stood with the candy till at her feet, pulling her green poncho about her shoulders as though she were cold. In fact, it was not at all cold in Holy-o
’
s office but it smelled
strongly of the grass Rowena had been smoking.

“
Hiya, sweetheart,
”
Hat said to Rowena.

Rowena was biting her lip, peering bemusedly through her square spectacles.

“
Hiya,
”
she said and broke up.
“
Hiya, Hat.
”

Rowena was really fucked up and, of course, Marge had told the story of what had happened the other night. Marge shook her head. Silly Rowena.

They spread the day
’
s gross on a sliding panel of Holy-o
’
s desk and the other fella counted it.

“
What is this?
”
Hat asked Holy-o.
“
Everybody likes my hat.
”
Holy-o shook his head in disapproval. Hat put the money in his bag.

“
It
’
s just a hat,
”
he said.
“
It
’
s my hat.
”

“
Right on,
”
Rowena said happily.

Hat looked up at Holy-o, blinked and stared at her. The smiling Rowena turned from the blank eyes of Hat to the stern gaze of Holy-o and back.

“
Right on?
”
Hat asked.
“
What
’
s right on? What do you mean, right on?
”

“
I mean right on,
”
Rowena said.
“
Just right on.
”
Her smile grew wider though less merry.
“
I don
’
t mean any
thing.
”

“
Right on,
”
Hat sang in falsetto as he carried the bag from the office. The other fella went with him.
“
Right on.
”
He was mimicking Rowena.

“
G
’
night, fellas,
”
Holy-o said.

“
G
’
night, Holy-o.
”

Holy-o was displeased.

“
What are you,
”
he demanded of Rowena,
“
dumb? What
are you, stupid?
”
He waved his arms about to disperse the
odor of grass.
“
And looka this place.
”

“
It
’
s just smoke,
”
Rowena said.

“
You
’
re gonna put your job in jeopardy,
”
Holy-o told her.

For the last minutes of the film, Marge and Rowena stood behind the last row of seats. On the screen, long-haired young people were smoking grass and eating each other out between tokes. The night
’
s house was mercifully well-behaved, silent except for i
ts hoarse expirations and a cer
tain rustle of cloth. When the lights came on, the girls re tired toward the door of Holy-o
’
s office; the mooches were filing up the middle aisle and the close presence of young women was sometimes difficult for them. Holy-o oversaw their going hence with his truncheon stuck in his breast pocket like a cigar.