Run With the Hunted (63 page)

The doctor smiled at Harry. “Gloria has made a
remarkable
recovery!”

“Yes,” Harry said, “I've noticed.”

“I think it will only be a matter of a
little
more time and then Gloria will be home with you again, Harry.”

“Doctor?” Gloria asked. “May I have a cigarette?”

“Why, of course,” the doctor said pulling out a pack of exotic cigarettes and tapping one out. Gloria took it and the doctor extended his gold-plated lighter, flicked it into life. Gloria inhaled, exhaled....

“You have beautiful hands, Dr. Jensen,” she said.

“Why, thank you, my dear.”

“And a kindness that saves, a kindness that cures....”

“Well, we do the best we can around the old place …” Dr. Jensen said gently. “Now, if you'll both excuse me, I have to talk to some of the other patients.”

He lifted his bulk easily from the chair and made his way toward a table where another woman was visiting another man.

Gloria stared at Harry. “That fat fuck! He eats the nurses' shit for lunch....”

“Gloria, it's been wonderful seeing you but it was a long drive and I need some rest. And I think the doctor is correct. I've noticed some progress.”

She laughed. But it wasn't a joyful laugh, it was a stage laugh, like a part memorized. “I haven't made any progress at all, in fact, I've
retrograded
....”

“That's not true, Gloria....”

“
I'm
the patient, Fishhead. I can make a better diagnosis than anybody.”

“What's this ‘Fishhead'?”

“Hasn't anybody ever told you that you have a head like a fish?”

“No.”

“Next time you shave, take a look. And be careful not to cut off your gills.”

“I'm going to leave now … but I'll visit you again, tomorrow....”

“Next time bring the conductor.”

“You sure I can't bring you anything?”

“You're just going back to that motel room to fuck some whore!”

“Suppose I bring you a copy
of New York?
You used to like that magazine....”

“Jam
New York
up your ass, Fishhead! And follow it with
TIME!
”

Harry reached across and squeezed the hand she had hit herself in the nose with. “Keep it together, keep trying. You're going to be well soon....”

Gloria gave no sign she had heard him. Harry got up slowly, turned and walked toward the stairway. When he got halfway up the stairs he turned and gave Gloria a little wave. She sat, motionless.

They were in the dark, going good, when the phone rang.

Harry kept going but the phone kept going. It was very disturbing. Soon, his cock went soft.

“Shit,” he said and rolled off. He switched on the lamp and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

It was Gloria. “You're fucking some whore!”

“Gloria, do they let you phone out this late? Don't they give you a sleeping pill or something?”

“What took you so long to answer the phone?”

“Don't you ever take a crap? I was in the middle of a good one, you get me in the middle of a good one.”

“I'll bet I did.... You going to finish it after you get me off the phone?”

“Gloria, it's your god-damned extreme paranoia that has put you where you are.”

“Fishhead,
my
paranoia has often been the forerunner of an approaching truth.”

“Listen, you're not making any sense at all. Get yourself some
sleep
. I'll come see you tomorrow.”

“O.K., Fishhead, finish your FUCK!”

Gloria hung up.

Nan was in her dressing gown, sitting on the edge of the bed with a whiskey and water on the night table. She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs.

“Well,” she asked, “how's the little wifey?”

Harry poured a drink and sat down beside her.

“I'm sorry, Nan....”

“Sorry for what, for who? For her or me or what?”

Harry drained his shot of whiskey. “Let's not make a god-damned soap opera out of this thing.”

“Oh yeah? Well, what do you want to make out of it? A simple roll in the hay? You want to try to finish? Or would you rather go into the bathroom and beat it off?”

Harry looked at Nan. “God damn it, don't get smart. You knew the situation as well as I did.
You
were the one who wanted to come along!”

“That's because I knew if you didn't take me you'd bring some whore!”

“Oh shit,” said Harry, “there's
that
word again.”

“What word? What word?” Nan drained her glass, threw it against the wall.

Harry walked over, picked up her glass, refilled it, handed it to Nan, then filled his own.

Nan looked down into her glass, took a hit, put it down on the nightstand. “I'm going to phone her, I'm going to tell her everything!”

“Like hell you will! That's a
sick
woman.”

“And
you're
a sick son-of-a-bitch!”

Just then the phone rang again. It was sitting on the floor in the center of the room where Harry had left it. They both leaped from the bed toward the phone. On the second ring they both landed, each grabbing a piece of the receiver. They rolled over and over on the rug, breathing heavily, all legs and arms and bodies in a desperate juxtaposition, and reflected that way in the full-length mirror overhead.

—
S
EPTUAGENARIAN
S
TEW

of late

I've had this thought

that this country

has gone backwards

4 or 5 decades

and that all the

social advancement

the good feeling of

person toward

person

has been washed

away

and replaced by the same

old

bigotries.

we have

more than ever

the selfish wants of power

the disregard for the

weak

the old

the impoverished

the

helpless.

we are replacing want with

war

salvation with

slavery.

we have wasted the

gains

we have become

rapidly

less.

we have our Bomb

it is our fear

our damnation

and our

shame.

now

something so sad

has hold of us

that

the breath

leaves

and we can't even

cry.

there he is:

not too many hangovers

not too many fights with women

not too many flat tires

never a thought of suicide

not more than three toothaches

never missed a meal

never in jail

never in love

7 pairs of shoes

a son in college

a car one year old

insurance policies

a very green lawn

garbage cans with tight lids

he'll be elected.

near the corner table in the

cafe

a middle-aged couple

sit.

they have finished their

meal

and they are each drinking a

beer.

it is 9 in the evening.

she is smoking a

cigarette.

then he says something.

she nods.

then she speaks.

he grins, moves his

hand.

then they are

quiet.

through the blinds next to

their table

flashing red neon

blinks on and

off.

there is no war.

there is no hell.

then he raises his beer

bottle.

it is green.

he lifts it to his lips,

tilts it.

it is a coronet.

her right elbow is

on the table

and in her hand

she holds the

cigarette

between her thumb and

forefinger

and

as she watches

him

the streets outside

flower

in the

night.

It was a warm night at the quarterhorse races. Ted had arrived carrying $200 and now going into the third race he was carrying $530. He knew his horses. Maybe he wasn't much good at anything else but he knew his horses. Ted stood watching the toteboard and looking at the people. They lacked any ability to rate a horse. But they still brought their money and their dreams to the track. The track ran a $2 exacta almost every race to lure them in. That and the Pick-6. Ted never touched the Pick-6 or the exactas or the doubles. Just straight win on the best horse, which wasn't necessarily the favorite.

Marie bitched so much about his going to the track that he only went two or three times a week. He had sold his company and retired early from the construction business. There really wasn't much else for him to do.

The four horse looked good at six-to-one but there was still 18 minutes to post. He felt a tug at his coat sleeve.

“Pardon me, sir, but I've lost the first two races. I saw you cashing in your tickets. You look like a guy who knows what he's doing. Who do you like in this next race?”

She was a strawberry blonde, about 24, slender hips, surprisingly big breasts; long legs, a cute turned-up nose, flower mouth; dressed in a pale blue dress, wearing white high-heeled shoes. Her blue eyes looked up at him.

“Well,” Ted smiled at her, “I've usually got the winner.”

“I'm used to betting on thoroughbreds,” said the strawberry blonde. “These quarterhorse races are
so fast!
”

“Yeah. Most of them are run in under 18 seconds. You find out pretty quick whether you're right or wrong.”

“If my mother knew I was out here losing my money she'd belt-whip me.”

“I'd like to belt-whip you myself,” said Ted.

“You're not one of those, are you?” she asked.

“Just joking,” said Ted. “Come on, let's go to the bar. Maybe we can pick you a winner.”

“All right, Mr.—?”

“Just call me Ted. What's your name?”

“Victoria.”

They walked into the bar. “What'll you have?” Ted asked.

“Whatever you're having,” said Victoria.

Ted ordered two Jack Danielses. He stood and knocked his off and she sipped at hers, looking straight ahead. Ted checked her ass: perfect. She was better than some god damned movie starlet, and she didn't look spoiled.

“Now,” said Ted, pointing to his program, “in the next race the four horse figures best and they are giving six-to-one odds …”

Victoria let out a very sexy, “Oooh … ?” She leaned over to look at his program, touching him with her arm. Then he felt her leg press against his.

“People just don't know how to rate a horse,” he told her. “Show me a man who can rate a horse and I'll show you a man who can win all the money he can carry.”

She smiled at him. “I wish I had going what you've got going.”

“You've got plenty going, baby. Want another drink?”

“Oh no, thank you …”

“Well, listen,” said Ted, “we better bet.”

“All right, I'll bet $2 to win. Which is it, the number four horse?”

“Yeah, baby, it's the four …”

They placed their bets and went out to watch the race. The four didn't break well, got bumped on both sides, righted himself, was running fifth in a nine horse field, but then began to accelerate and came down to the wire bobbing heads with the two-to-one favorite. Photo.