Hot Shot (18 page)

When I said that, he flipped his lousy lid and swung at me and missed and I swung at him and hit and knocked him back across the God-damn bed, and he bounced up and came back at me, and altogether we made so damn much noise that a couple of guys from the next room ran in and pulled us apart, and one of them said, “What the hell’s going on? What the hell’s the matter with you guys?” We couldn’t tell the truth, as you can see, so I lied and said it was nothing much, just a little disagreement, but now we had it out of our God-damn systems and everything would be all right. They patted us on the backs and said sure, they knew how it was and everything, and pretty soon they got out and went back to their own crummy room, but it wasn’t all right, not by a damn sight, and I knew right then he was going to play me a dirty trick, and I should’ve had my head examined for trusting him another God-damn minute.

I thought about it and wondered how to get him back to being the same old Micky, and one of the things I thought of was to go and find this Helen and make her or something and break it up between them, but I wasn’t sure it would work out just right, because you never can tell exactly how a guy will react to having his girl made by a friend, and besides, to tell the truth, I had Candy on my mind and couldn’t put my heart in it. Anyhow, as it turned out, I wouldn’t have had time, because there was a heavy non-conference game coming up, and the night before the game Candy called me and told me to come downtown, and I went, and she said, “Franzie can take this team and seven and get plenty of takers, so he says for you to keep it under that,” and I said I’d try.

She said, “What the hell you mean, try?” and I said, “I mean there may be complications in it,” and she said, “Junior, you don’t know anything about complications until you foul up on one of these deals. Explain yourself. What the hell you mean, complications?” and I told her about how old Micky had been set on his tail by this Helen doll, and how he was thinking about backing out on his agreement with Francis Z. Ketch because of it, and Candy said, “Believe it or not, Junior, I wouldn’t want you to get hurt in this thing, in spite of feeling personally that it would do you good to get slapped around a little, and so maybe we’d better get in touch with Franzie and get you off the hook ahead of time just in case something goes wrong.”

“Well,” I said, “I sort of hate to put the finger on old Micky right now because I’ve got an idea he may come out of it, and anyhow, I’m pretty damn sure I can talk him into sticking one more game at least,” and she said, “It’s your funeral, Junior, and don’t expect me to send flowers,” and I said, “You talk like I’m practically in the God-damn morgue or something.”

She said, “Famous last words, Junior,” and I said, “Well, in that case, I’d better start living up what’s left to live in a hurry,” and she said, “My God, we went through
that
routine the last time you were here. I’d think you’d be absolutely
limp!”
but the truth is, she didn’t think any such damn thing and was pretty good at living it up herself, and that’s the big reason we hit it off so damn good, and in my opinion it’s a crying shame it had to end up the way it did, which I’ll tell about, and all because that damn Micky had to go off the deep end over a doll who was all cluttered up with high standards and stuff like that.

I didn’t have a chance to talk to Micky the next day, and as a matter of fact I didn’t have a chance to talk to him until we were in the locker room in the field house just before the game. I got him in a corner and told him how the spread was fixed and what it was supposed to be, and the son of a bitch just looked at me with his eyes all snotty and didn’t say a damn word, and I had a feeling right then that he was going to do me the dirty, and damned if he didn’t. I don’t intend to go into it much because, to tell the truth, it’s sort of painful to remember, and I don’t like to think about it, but I could tell from the beginning that the bastard was out to make it a big night, and the worst of it was, he happened to be hot and couldn’t miss and was popping the damn ball through the bucket from all angles. The other team called a time out after a while, and I whispered to Micky, “What the hell you trying to do, you crazy bastard?” and he looked at me with these snotty eyes and said, “Go to hell,” and I said, “You’ll think go to hell if you get fouled up with Francis Z. Ketch,” and he said, “Francis Z.

Ketch can go to hell, too, as far as I’m concerned,” and I knew I’d had it, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I kept on trying, though, and wouldn’t pass to the bastard even when I saw him open for a shot, but old spooky Carboy kept feeding them to him from the slot, and as a matter of fact I had to look so damn bad trying to keep the score down that old Umplett finally jerked me, the son of a bitch, and it was the first time I’d ever been jerked except once in a while for a short rest. He wouldn’t even look at me when I went over and sat down on the bench, but I could tell he was smelling something and hating my guts, and I rode the God-damn bench the rest of the game, and I won’t tell you the final score but will just say that the spread was a hell of a lot too wide to win any money for Francis Z. Ketch, and as a matter of fact lost him a hell of a potful. The God-damn maniac spectators were going crazy and raising hell, and the lousy band started playing what they called the victory march, but from my point of view there was damn little to celebrate, and I went in the dressing room feeling lower than a snake’s belly and wondering if Francis Z. Ketch could blame me for what had happened, even if it wasn’t my God-damn fault whatever.

I showered and got dressed in a hurry, and I was sitting on the bench by my locker putting on my lousy shoes when Micky came up and looked down at me and said, “Now what do you think?” and I looked up at him and said, “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re a dirty, double-crossing son of a bitch, but you better quit worrying about what I think and start worrying about what Francis Z. Ketch thinks, and I wouldn’t be in your shoes for all the God-damn dolls with high standards between here and Texas,” and as a matter of fact I didn’t even particularly like the idea of being in my own shoes, but I didn’t say so.

He turned and walked away without saying anything more, and the next morning he moved all his crummy stuff to another room in the frat house, and as far as I was concerned it was good riddance of bad rubbish, as the saying goes. I kept thinking all day I’d get some kind of word from Candy about how Francis Z. Ketch was feeling about the way the game came out, and I cut all my stinking classes just to hang around the phone, but I didn’t hear a damn word. I went to basketball practice when the time came, and old Umplett didn’t have a damn word to say, either, which was a relief, and when I got back, the guys at the house said there still hadn’t been any call for me, and I was just about to decide that Francis Z. Ketch was going to be reasonable about it when the phone rang, and it was Candy, and she said, “You better get down to my apartment in a hurry, Junior,” and I got in the Crosley and went.

When I got there, she opened the door and let me in, and I said, “Hi, doll,” and she said, “You forget the schedule, Junior. This is strictly business,” and I looked past her and saw no one but Francis Z. Ketch himself in a chair and knew that it damn well was. He had his little hands folded across his pot and this little smile on his stinking little mouth, and he said, “Well, Skimmer, it seems there’s been a misunderstanding,” and I said, “Well, it wasn’t exactly a God-damn misunderstanding,” and he said, “You can call it what you like, but I lost a great sum of money, which disturbs me greatly, and I’ll confess that there’s nothing in the world disturbs me quite so much as losing a great sum of money, especially when it’s due to the defection of a trusted associate.”

I didn’t quite get the meaning of all the words, but I damn well got the
general
meaning, you can bet your butt on that, and I got this God-damn cold feeling that he gave you with his soft voice and his stinking little red smiling mouth, and I said, “Well, I did my damnedest to keep the spread down, and even got jerked out of the game for looking so lousy doing it, and the truth is, that damn Micky Spicer met a girl with high standards and wouldn’t have any part of it,” and he said, “Are you suggesting that Spicer refused to cooperate?” and I said, “Well, if you’ve got any doubts, you can look at the Goddamn box scores in the paper, and I’m not suggesting a damn thing but saying it right out.”

He sat there looking at me and started flipping his crummy underlip with one finger like he was thinking about it, and after a while he said, “Why wasn’t I informed in time to avoid this fiasco?” and I said, “To tell the truth, I didn’t think he’d do me the dirty when it came right down to it, and I didn’t find out for sure he was going to do it until the game started,” and he nodded and said, “I’m inclined to believe that you personally have been guilty of nothing more than stupidity, which was a calculated risk I accepted in the beginning. This Spicer fellow, however, seems to have pulled a deliberate double-cross. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, and I think it’s time I had it. You can be of some assistance in the matter.”

I said, “How’s that?” and he said, “Why, you can simply persuade him to come downtown for the purpose,” and I said, “The hell I can. He’s got his nose hard and moved out of our room and won’t have a damn thing to do with me, and I couldn’t persuade him to take a new automobile as a gift,” and he said, “Well, I can see how that might be true, under the circumstances. Perhaps, to avoid any further bungling, I’d better send Conky to get him. Conky is the most persuasive fellow at my command, and I’m sure he can convince Spicer that he shouldn’t deny me the pleasure of meeting him.”

He got up then and got his hat and said good-by and left, and he wasn’t fooling me any with his polite talk and stinking little smile, not a damn bit, and I knew that whatever he had in mind for Micky might be a pleasure to him but none at all to Micky, and I felt a little bad about it and wished it didn’t have to happen, but I didn’t really figure it was any skin off my butt, after all, because the simple truth is, the son of a bitch brought it on himself and deserved it.

After Francis Z. Ketch was gone, Candy said, “Well, that was a close shave, Junior, and it’s damn lucky you had a sucker,” and I said, “It seems to me that I was the sucker, not getting a damn cent for this game in spite of trying my best, and it seems like the least you could do to make up for it would be to put me on the schedule for tonight,” and she said, “Well, you may get slapped down now and then, but you sure bounce up in a hurry, I’ll have to admit, and it might be a good idea to put you on the schedule, at that, because the way things are looking at the moment, it could damn well be your last turn,”, and as it happened, that’s the way it turned out, and I wish it hadn’t.

The next afternoon, Micky wasn’t at practice, and I wondered about it but didn’t say anything. I was feeling nervous as a whore in church, to tell the truth, and after practice was over I went and got something to eat in a joint and walked around some and wound up in a stinking movie, and when I finally got back to the frat house it was pretty late, and no one but old Umplett himself was sitting in my room waiting for me. It scared the hell out of me to come onto him like that all of a sudden without any warning, him just sitting and looking at me with his God-damn sick eyes full of that damn unreasonable hate of his, and I said, “Well, hello, Coach,” and he said, “Don’t bother pretending to be glad to see me, and in fact don’t even talk to me any more than’s absolutely necessary,” and I said, “What the hell’s the matter?” and he said, “You know damn well what’s the matter,” and I said, “Like hell I do,” and he said, “Well, in that case, just come along with me and I’ll damn well show you.”

I followed the sour son of a bitch downstairs and out to his car, and I didn’t like it, and as a matter of fact I was a hell of a lot more worried than I’d ever been or intend to be again. He didn’t say another damn word, and I didn’t, either, and we rode downtown to a hell of a big building with a drive going up in front of it to a parking area, and we went up the drive and parked and got out, and I could see the building was a hospital. Well, I knew damn well what had happened then, that Francis Z. Ketch had had the pleasure of meeting Micky Spicer, though maybe it was more or less by proxy, as they put it, and whatever way they put it, it sure hadn’t been any God-damn pleasure for Micky.

Old Umplett and I went inside and up in the elevator and down a hall to the room where they’d put old Micky, and I wouldn’t even have recognized him if I hadn’t known damn well who it was, and he was in bed with his head all in bandages like one of these God-damn sultans or something, and one arm in a cast and lying on top of the sheet that covered him, and I could see that he was in a hell of a bad way and wasn’t even conscious, in fact. We stopped just inside the door and looked at him, and a nurse was beside the bed and came over and said, “No one is allowed in here for the present. I’m sorry but you’ll have to leave,” so we backed out in the hall, and I said, “What the hell happened to him?” and he looked at me with these damn eyes of his and said in this soft, sarcastic voice, “Oh, that’s right. You don’t know anyhing about it yet, do you? Well, I know Spicer was a buddy of yours and that you’re naturally worried all to hell about him, so I’ll explain it to you. He was in an accident. He was wandering around down in one of those narrow streets near the river for some crazy reason or other, and he got smeared by a hit and run driver. The cops had a wild idea he’d been beaten up and thrown out of a car, but I managed to convince them it couldn’t have been anything like that.”

He stopped and stood looking down at the floor, and for a minute I had an idea he was going to spit, which would have been a hell of a thing to do in a hospital, but he didn’t and then he looked up at me again and said very softly, “You see, it’s like this. This year I got the national champs. This year I got the champs as sure as hell, and nothing, nothing in the God-damn world, is going to get in the way or stop us or keep us from
being
champs. It’ll be tougher now than it might have been otherwise, because Spicer’s got a busted arm and a fractured skull and won’t play another game this season, but we’ll be national champs just the same, and I’ll tell you why. We’ll be champs because of you, Scaggs. We’ll be champs because you’re a sharpshooting, ball-hawking natural, whatever else you are or aren’t, and from now on you’ll play basketball each game and every game like you never played it before, and if I get the idea you’re letting me down one little bit, God save your soul!”