Some Came Running (57 page)

“The best idea yet,” he had said eagerly. Chrisamighty, he’d thought his eagerness was goin to start his feet to twitchin. “Allow me to buy you one.”

“Why, thank you, Vic,” she’d said.

“Hey there, Eddie!” he’d hollered. “Two more beers over here! Now, where was we?” he’d said, turnin back and clearin his throat. But one-armed Eddie was already there.

“Right here you are, Mister Herschmidt, sir,” Eddie’d grinned. “That’ll be forty cents.”

“Here you are, Eddie,” he’d said, and tossed him a quarter and two dimes on the tray. “And keep the change there!”

“Why, thank you, Mister Herschmidt!” Eddie’d bowed and clicked his hooks at him.

“Now, where was we at?” he’d said. “What was we talkin about?”

“You was tellin me how much of life you’d seen,” she’d said.

“Ahhh, yes!” he’d said. “All I said was I thought I’d seen a mite more than the average. Say,” he said, “don’t you think it’s gettin a mite hot in here?”

“I hadn’t noticed it none, Vic,” Old Jane’d said. “Do you feel warm?”

“Well, just a mite,” he’d said. “I was jist thinkin we might get out and take a little walk.”

“It’s purty cold out, Vic,” she’d said. “And I chill awful easy out.” And she’d dropped them eyelids again. Old Devil. He hadn’t knowed how to answer that. Ruther, he’d knowed but he was a little afeard to say so soon he had a way to keep her warm. Maybe that was what she was wantin him to say. But he hadn’t. So they had set there and drank beer for another half a hour. Until finally, he got up nerve enough to bring up the whiskey.

“What’s the use of us asettin around here tankin up on beer, Jane?” he’d said. “When I got a fifth of whiskey put away?”

“Well, I never been much on whiskey, Vic,” she’d said. “Though I guess a snort or two wouldn’t hurt me none, against the cold,” she’d giggled. “Where is it?”

“Never you mind,” he’d said, feelin purty sly. “But it ain’t in here. Let’s go git it.”

“Okay,” Jane’d said, smilin at him shyly. “Let’s do. Please help me with my coat, Vic?”

“Yessir! Yessir! I sure will, Jane,” he’d said. From the bar as they left, Eddie had give him a big wink and clicked his hooks at him like he was playin shamey-finger, but he’d ignored him.

“Now where’s this here whiskey?” Jane had said when they was outside. It
were
colder’n he’d remembered.

“It ain’t far,” he’d said with a chuckle just the same. “Jist folley me,” and he’d led her over across the tracks into the lumberyard.

“Well, ain’t you the foxy one!” she’d purred. “Got it right here close. And nobody’d ever find it in the world.”

He’d grinned. “I don’t know where we kin go to drink it.”

“Well, what’s the matter with right here?” she’d said.

“You mean here? In the lumberyard!” he’d said.

“No, silly!” she’d said, lowering them big eyelids again. She nodded her head back across the tracks. “Right there. Look at all them cars.”

“You mean one of them cars is your’n!”

“Hell, no!” Jane said. “I ain’t got no car!”

“Well you mean, go git in one of them other people’s cars?”

“Sure,” she’d said. “Why not?”

“What if they come out?”

“They won’t. They’re all in there drinkin and they won’t come out now till Old Smitty closes her up. I been—” She’d stopped.

So that was where she took all them old boyfriends of hers! he’d thought. He-he. He’d always wondered.

“I been sittin in that bar night after night and I never seen nobody leave,” she’d went on. “Not this near to closin. Come on,” she’d said.

“Hell; okay by me,” he’d said, and he had folleyed her back into the cinder parkin lot.

“Here’s a likely lookin one,” Jane’d said. It was a new car, a Chevie. “Nice big roomy backseat, so we can be comfterble—while we’re drinkin’,” she’d said, shyly. “Come on, let’s git in.” She was a nervy one. Real nervy.

“Here, you want a drink?” he’d said when they was inside and had shut the door.

“No,” she’d said, like with a little giggle. “You go first. Ain’t this cozy?”

“Sure is,” he’d said. He’d uncorked the bottle and took a little drink and then he’d handed it to her, before he’d risked puttin his arm around her.

“Say, you got real muscle in that arm,” she’d said.

“I ain’t as thin as I look,” he’d said.

“No, I just bet you ain’t,” she’d said, puttin her hand on his chest.

“How’s about a little kiss?” he’d said.

“Well, I don’t know if I should,” Jane’d said, takin a big healthy drink from the bottle.

“Why not?”

“Well, it ain’t very proper, is it? Out in a car like this.” She giggled. “You might force me to walk home!”

“Nah,” he’d said. “Nah, I wouldn’t. Come on, just one.”

“Well, all right.” She’d had a nice soft mouth, he remembered. It’d surprised him. “Ahhh!” she’d said, when he left her go. Then he’d corked the bottle and put both arms around her. Heh-heh.

“Another one?” he’d said.

“Well . . . yes!” she’d said.

When he’d left go of her the second time he’d been ready to come right out with it. And to hell with it! Risk everything! “Come on!” he’d said. “Let’s do it!” Ah, he’d been a terrier all right, by God, hadn’t he? He-he.

“Do what?” she’d said, playin innercent.

“You know what damn it! It!” he’d said.

“We shouldn’t. What kind of a girl will you think I am?” Old Jane’d said.

“I’ll think you’re a
damned
nice girl,” he’d said, about ready to explode.

“You won’t think I’m bad?” she’d said.

“Hell, no!” he’d exploded. “Hell, no! I’ll think you’re good!”

“All right,” she’d said. “But you’ll have to never tell.”

“Well, will we do it right here? in the car?” he’d said.

“Hell, yes!” Old Jane’d said. “You don’t want to do it out in the cold on the ground, do you?”

“Okay,” he’d said. “The hell with it!” He hadn’t cared much anyways by then.

She could really move around, that Jane, for such a big fleshy woman, and in a cramped car, too.

“You sure got wonderful muscles in your back,” she’d said afterwards, runnin them big hands across his back.

Gratitude, jist sheer gratefulness, had been a-wellin up in him all over—though he didn’t know why a man should be grateful to a damned woman, he thought, they got as much out of it as him—and he’d said gruffly to hide it: “I’m still a pretty tough old bird.”

“Yes, I bet you are,” she’d said. “We better git out of here. And I got to git on home.”

She was a fine woman, Old Vic thought smugly, by God, she was.

Ahead of him, the lights from Smitty’s broke up his reverie, and Old Vic increased his pace a little. He was gettin pretty winded. He sure did hope she was there. And none of them old devils of her’n with her.

As he burst into Smitty’s, Eddie was standin just inside behind the cigar and cigarette counter.

“Gimme a fifth of that there whiskey, Eddie!” he said, and then turned to look at the corner booth, and discovered it was empty.

“What’s the matter, Vic?” Eddie grinned. “You look like you been to a fire.”

“Where’s Old Jane Staley?” he said. “I thought she was out here.”

Eddie grinned. “She ain’t been here in severl days, Vic. Were you lookin for her?”

“Naw,” Vic said. “I ain’t lookin fer her. She’s just usually out here though, was all.”

Eddie sacked the whiskey and set it on the counter in front of him. “I don’t know what’s happened to her,” he offered, still grinning. “She was just in here one time after that night you and her was talkin out here.”

“Oh,” Vic said. “Oh, is that right?”

“Maybe she’s fell in love with you, Vic,” Eddie grinned.

“Who, that woman?” Old Vic said. “Nosiree. Not for Old Vic Herschmidt. I’m off of women. Women only cause a man trouble.” He was looking at the whiskey. He’d have to take it now, damn it.

“Maybe you got somethin there,” Eddie grinned.

“Well, gimme my bottle,” Vic said. “And I’ll be moseyin along home.” He put the money on the counter.

Walking back across town to the pensioner’s home, he drank a little of the whiskey; but it was small comfort. Now damn it all, what do you suppose could of happened to her? You reckon she catched a chill from that night?

At the home, he sneaked up and hid the bottle under the front porch, and then went and hid his money. What was left of it, he thought ruefully. There was a light on inside, and he was especially careful to make no noise while he hid his stuff. Old Lady Rugel was obviously waitin up for him, the old bitch.

When it was all hid, he walked loudly up the steps and across the porch. She was sittin in her damned rocker before the fireplace gas logs, which she never burned just the same.“Well!” she said, in her best chilly voice. “Where have you been to, Mister Herschmidt?”

“I been out, goddam it,” he said. “Where the hell do you think? And don’t gimme that Mister Herschmidt stuff like you never went to bed with me,” he sneered. “And now I’m agoin to bed, ‘Miz Rugel.’”

“I see that you are drunk agin,” Old Lady Rugel said. “And please do not use that nasty talk in front of me. It won’t do you no good. You cannot make me mad. I’ll pray for you tonight.”

“Aw, damn and hell and God and Jesus,” Old Vic said. “An’ why the hell don’t you turn on them damned gas logs, if you’re goin to sit before ’em. Are you too tight to spend the gas?” He turned back to the stairs in the hall.

“Mister Herschmidt!” Old Lady Rugel cried behind him. “May God forgive you!”

He went on up the stairs. He-he. Let her stew, the mealy-mouth old bitch. Damn them all, the sons of bitches, he thought ruefully, everybody. Especially Frank.

F
RANK FELT DAMNED RIGHT
enough, when he finally heard about it. He may or may not have been subconsciously aware of his old man’s Benediction, but he was convinced that the old bastard had gone and done this thing deliberately, just to cause his eldest son embarrassment. Damned was exactly how he did feel. Damned to a life of being the perpetual laughingstock and punching bag of Parkman. It was hard to imagine what terrible evil deed he must have committed in his life, to be cursed with the father he had had forced upon him. But whatever it was it must have been really something.

Frank could think of so many men, hundreds in fact, who would have made him a decent father. And instead, what did he have? Not only the orneriest, most vicious, most irresponsible—but also apparently one of the longest-lived. You’d think the very least the old son of a bitch could do was die. Now everybody in town would be laughing at him behind his back over this family escapade. And after he’d just cleaned up Dave’s.

Actually, Frank did not learn the news until a couple of weeks after the night Old Vic had tried unsuccessfully to get hold of Jane again. And he probably would not have learned it then, if he had not gone into Ciro’s for a beer with Judge Deacon just after work to discuss some business. Judge had gotten over his pique about the taxi service and was apparently back on the best of terms again—if you could even use that phrase in connection with Judge, Frank thought. Frank was still leery of him just the same.

Well, there had been a bunch of those girls from the brassiere factory in there, that bunch which ran around with Dewey Cole and Hubie Murson. And he had just happened to overhear. They were talking about the Old Man and Jane Staley.

Actually, it wasn’t scandal. It wasn’t even gossip. The girls just thought it was cute. And probably no one else in town, except that bunch who hung around the bars, knew about it. But that didn’t make it any more palatable to Frank. He would bet the whole town would hear about it eventually.

The judge apparently read his face, because he grinned in that malevolent way of his and said in his sneering voice:

“You mean you ain’t heard about Jane and Old Vic, Frank? Why, that’s the newest hottest love affair on The Strip.” That was what the judge called the run from Ciro’s to Smitty’s.

“Is that right?” Frank said, and passed it off. But later on he thought of mentioning it to Agnes when he got home that night, and discussing it with her. He was beginning to get over his serious loss, in Geneve, a little. But Agnes had been needling him about his family for years and comparing it to hers. Whenever she was mad at him. And anyway she was still being too damned kind to him because of her triumph over Geneve. And that meant she would be sympathetic with him about the Old Man now. Although she sure wouldn’t like it. Any more than he did. He didn’t think he could endure her sympathy, so he decided not to mention it at all.

He had already decided not to tell his mother. It would only upset her needlessly and call forth that cold, frightening anger which any mention of the Old Man always caused in her. He was still going up to see her once a week in the apartment he had leased for her at the Wernz Arms, and had been trying to get Dave to go up with him, too. She was a strong old woman, he thought fondly, the kind that had made this country great; like the Pioneer Mother. She had raised a big family and worked hard all her life, and it was time she had a little luxury and rest. She would almost certainly find out about the Old Man and Jane Staley from the members of her church anyway; but at least he would not be there to see it.

From what he could find out—largely through his new spy Albie Shipe—the two old reprobates had only been out once or twice apparently, and it was nothing serious and all this talk about a love affair was only amusement on the part of the brassiere factory girls and the judge. But if it got to be general knowledge in town, Frank didn’t know what in hell he would do. Finally, for lack of anyone else, he talked about it to Edith Barclay at the store. There was just an off chance that she might be able to handle her grandmother. If anyone could handle her at all, Edith could.

“I hear my old man and your grandmother are steppin out together now,” he said, trying to make it sound like an easy laugh.

He must have failed, because Edith turned around and looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry if it’s causing you any embarrassment, Mr Hirsh.”

“Embarrassment! Who, me?” he said. “Hell, no. I think it’s amusing.”