Black Friday (8 page)

10

Later that night Hart sat with Mattone and Rizzio, they were in the living room playing poker. Charley was upstairs in his room, out cold on the bed with the empty gin bottle clutched in both hands. They'd tried to free the bottle from his grip when he'd passed out, but it was as though his fingers were bolted to the glass and finally they save it up. That was a couple hours ago, and now it was past eleven and the poker game had been in progress some ninety minutes. At this point the big winner was Mattone, with Rizzio a few dollars ahead and Hart's finances going down and down and getting close to nothing. Every now and then he'd get good cards but he couldn't do anything with them, he was distracted by sounds from upstairs where Frieda was hauling her belongings from one room to another. The sounds told him that Frieda was moving out of the room she shared with Myrna, taking her things into the room she would now share with him.

At half-past eleven Hart was down to three dollars and Mattone looked at the two bills and the silver and said, "You're nearly bankrupt."

"You want it?" Hart asked, pointing to the three dollars.

"Sure," Mattone grinned. "It's U.S. currency, ain't it?"

"Come on," Rizzio said to Mattone. "Deal the cards--"

"Wait," Hart murmured. He looked down at the three dollars. "Take it, Mattone. I'm giving it to you."

"No," Mattone said.

"Go on." He smiled at Mattone. "Take it."

"What is this?" Rizzio asked the two of them. "What goes on here?"

"He's offering me a gift," Mattone said.

Rizzio grimaced puzzledly. "I don't get it."

"I do," Mattone said.

"The hell you do," Hart told him. "You couldn't figure it if you had twice the brains you have."

"Listen, buddy." Mattone leaned forward just a little. "Do yourself a favor. Don't underestimate my brains."

"We gonna play poker?" Rizzio spoke impatiently.

"We're playing it now." Mattone was handling the deck, his fingers smooth on the cards, lightly shifting the cards from one hand to the other while he gazed intently at Hart's face. "I think this is bigger stakes than just cash."

"What in Christ's name goes on here?" Rizzio demanded.

"It's what they call bait," Mattone said to Rizzio. "He's tossing me a chunk of bait, that's all. If I nibble, he'll make it more. He'll wind up offering me a lot more than three dollars if I sign up with his team."

"What team?" Rizzio frowned.

"That team sitting there," Mattone said, pointing to Hart. "It's him and him and him. That's all he's got on his side. Just himself. He's looking for a team-mate."

"But--" Rizzio scratched the top of his head. "But that don't fit the picture. It ain't as if he's working alone. He's in with us, ain't he?"

Mattone pushed his eyebrows up. "Really?" he murmured, trying to be suave about it. "Where'd you get that flash?"

Rizzio shrugged stupidly. "Well, I just took it for granted--"

'The thing is," Mattone said, his voice like light oil, "never take anything for granted, Rizzio. Not in this house. Not when you're working for Charley."

"I thought--"

"That's another mistake you make," Mattone schooled him. "You always forget that Charley does all the thinking here."

Rizzio considered it for a moment, then nodded slowly and mumbled, "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Mattone said. He leaned back comfortably and continued to pass the deck from one hand to the other. He'd reduced the grin to a thin smile and had it floating toward Hart, using it like a feather to tickle Hart's chin.

There was another noise from upstairs. It was a tiny noise, just a slight scraping of something against the floor and Mattone didn't hear it, Rizzio didn't hear it, but Hart heard it distinctly and acutely and he thought: She's moving things around in that room, putting this chair here and that chair there, and it's a cinch you'll soon be hearing the sound of the bedsprings when she tries the mattress. You're in for some heavy work with that Frieda and this afternoon was just a light session compared to what it's going to be from here on in. You're really in for it now, you'll be doing it and hating it. All right let's walk away from that; it isn't bedtime yet. You're sitting here facing Mattone, not Frieda, and he's under the impression the only thing you got on your chest is him and his oily smile, his smooth talk that tries so hard to slide under your skin. He'd jump for joy if you'd start sweating and cracking up. I think if you let him take it far enough he could really get on your nerves. He's certainly a skunk and although the only way to deal with skunks is keep far away from them it stands to reason you can't put distance between yourself and this one here, so what's to do except get up there on the mound and pitch a few at his head. We'll see if we can get that smile off his face.

He heard Mattone saying, "You look lonesome, mister. I never seen anyone look so lonesome."

"It isn't that," he said. He looked down at the three dollars. "I was wondering about this," indicating the money. "Just trying to remember why I offered it to you."

"But I told you why," with the light oil dripping again, the smile ever so soft and thin. "You want me on your team."

Hart pretended a thoughtful frown. He spoke absently. "No, I don't think so. It couldn't be for that reason."

"Wanna bet?" And Mattone flicked a wink at Rizzio.

"What I think is--" Hart held onto the thoughtful frown, his voice vague as he imitated someone talking aloud to himself, "--maybe there was no reason at all."

"You can't fool me," Mattone sneered. "I ain't no imbecile like this one here," pointing to Rizzio. The pointing finger moved so that it aimed at the three dollars. "Three worms' on the hook, that's what it is. You're lonesome and you want company. You're scared and you want help."

"That would make sense," Hart said, still frowning thoughtfully, "except for a list of items we maybe ought to look at."

"All right," Mattone said. He tried to put a sneer in it. "Let's take a look."

"First thing," Hart said, "the girl. What's her name again?"

"Myrna. Her name is Myrna." And Mattone glanced sideways at his injured arm.

"Well, what I'm saying is," Hart said, "that's item one and we can cross it off; the girl doesn't scare me."

"You sure?" Mattone prodded.

Hart shrugged. He tossed it away with, "She tries anything, I'll clip her in the teeth."

Mattone was trying to be suave again, the oil coming back to his voice as he said, "That's a privilege reserved side.' This ain't no social club where all you gotta do is pay a fee to join up. This is what they call a very tight outfit, and as far as you're concerned I'm willing to bet--"

"Save your money," Hart spoke softly. And then he pitched it, "I get the wire from Charley I'm working Friday night."

"Friday--" Mattone blinked a few times. "Charley told you about Friday night?"

This is fun, Hart said to himself. He was nodding slowly, saying, "The Kenniston place."

Mattone looked at Rizzio and said, "You hear this?"

"So?" Rizzio made a meaningless gesture. "So I hear it. So what?"

Mattone had his mouth open but he couldn't talk.

Hart said, "That crosses off item two. I think it sorta louses up your theory that I'm scared. Don't you think so?"

There was no answer, not in words, anyway. Mattone made a straining effort to say something, but all that came out was a twisted grunt.

"Another thing you said," Hart went on, "you made the claim I'm lonesome and I want company. And that brings up item three. It's a little favor Charley did for me tonight, the kind of favor he wouldn't do if I was on the outside or even halfway in, or let's say ninety-nine percent in. He did something an Eskimo husband does when you're his guest, except the Eskimo gives her to you for only one night, and Charley's letting me have her on a permanent basis. He's--"

It didn't need more than that. Mattone had leaped up and the deck of cards was out of his hand, the cards flying off the table.

"You're--" Mattone wrestled with it, choked on it. "You've done it, haven't you? You've really moved in."

Hart didn't reply. He sat there looking at the dismay and defeat in Mattone's eyes. He wondered what showed in his own eyes. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with contentment. He told himself he mustn't let it show, and he tried to get it out of his eyes but before he could do that he heard a squeak from the mattress upstairs.

And he heard Mattone saying, "You don't seem happy about it."

He shrugged. So here it is, he said to himself. It shows and you know it shows, there comes a time when you just can't pretend.

The truth of it sent a slight quiver along his spine. Mattone was correct after all, you're scared and you're lonesome, there's no one on your team but you and you and you. It's a kind of starvation, and it isn't easy to take, that's for sure. Damn sure.

11

But later of course it was pretending again when in the bed with Frieda. Somehow it was easier than it had been in the afternoon, but that was due to the darkness of the room, in the afternoon the daylight factor had handicapped him because every now and then she wanted him to look at her. Now in the dark she couldn't ask him to do that, except at one point she murmured maybe they ought to switch on the lamp. He didn't say anything, but kept her too busy to execute the idea.

The sighs that came from his lips were sheer pleasure. But if she'd switched on the lamp and seen the look on his face it would have gone bad, because the look on his face was the tight-wrinkled grimace of doing something extremely unpleasant. There was no way to rub off the grimace; it would stay there just as long as the ordeal went on, the hammering ordeal of feeling the insistency of her fat arms around him, her gasping and moaning that was inexhaustible. From time to time he'd wonder what the clock showed. Its illuminated face was on the table across the room but he couldn't even turn his head to look, she was holding him too tightly.

Yet all at once she loosened her hold and mumbled, "Cigarette," and he rolled away from her, an almost frenzied motion like a fish rolling out of a loosened net. The cigarettes and matches were on the floor and as he reached down blindly he almost fell off the bed.

He heard her saying, "Whatsa matter? You tired."

"Me?" He held back a crazy laugh. "I haven't even started yet."

She took him seriously. She said, "I knew it the first time I put eyes on you."

He handed her a lit cigarette, took a long puff from his own. He was resting flat on his back and gazing across the room at the clock whose green numbers showed twenty minutes past three.

"Tell me something," she said.

"Like what?"

"Anything," she said. "Just talk to me."

"All right." He thought for a moment. And then, not too sure of where it would go, "Ever hear of Indianapolis?"

"Where they teach the sailors?"

"No," he said. "Not Annapolis. Indianapolis."

"So?"

"It's where they have the big race. The auto race."

"On the fourth of July?"

"Memorial Day."

"That's what I said. The fourth of July?" She sounded rather sleepy. Or maybe it was because she had no interest in the topic.

He said, "It's May thirtieth. You're getting your holidays mixed up."

"What?" And then, motedistinctly, "What the hell are we talking about?"

"Indianapolis," he said. "The five-hundred-mile race on Memorial Day."

"You were in it?" Sleepily again. "You a racing car driver?"

"No," he said, "just a spectator. I guess you'd call me a fan. This thing at Indianapolis is something to see and every chance I had I'd go there. I remember one year I was lucky and made friends with some mechanics, and they let me hang around the pits. The pits are wherethe cars come in for fuel and repairs. It's all very interesting, the way they change a tire in thirty seconds, and when it's the engine they jump right into it and it's fixed in no time at all. And they--"

"All right, all right. What's the point?"

As though she hadn't spoken, he went on, "--they cater to that car as though it's something alive. It's a very expensive piece of engineering, and when you look at the motor, you know it's something out of the ordinary. You know that's stamina there, that's real stamina, it'll never wear out."

She blew some smoke out of her mouth. She didn't say anything.

Hart said, "What happens, though, some drivers are too anxious and they forget the race is for five hundred miles, they force it too much, and after a hundred laps or so it can't take the strain and there's a breakdown. Sometimes it's a serious breakdown, the kind they can't fix in the pits. So then the car is out of the race, and it's a pity, really. You see the driver biting his lip to keep from crying like a baby. But of course he has no one to blame but himself."

She remained quiet for some moments. And then, her voice low but not at all sleepy, "You making stipulations?"

"Not exactly."

"Come on, come on." She sat up, looking down at him in the darkness. "Let's not play party games. You wanna tell me something, come on and tell me."

"Well--" and he paused for a timing effect, "I don't want to spoil anything--"

"Be careful, mister." It was a definite..warning, as though she had a can of lye in her hand. "Be very careful."

"I'll try my best," he said.

"Is that for a laugh? If it is, I'm not laughing."

"Look--" and again he timed it, used the tiny interval of quiet to drag at his cigarette. "Whaddya say we drop it?"

"No." She sat up straighter. "This deal is for keeps an4 we're gonna settle all issues right at the beginning."

"For keeps," he murmured thoughtfully. "That's a lot longer than five hundred miles."

"You'll last it out," she said. "I'm not worried about that."

"It's more than just that," he said. "On my side everything checks, I know exactly where I stand. But you sound as though you're not sure--"

"Me?" Her voice was harsh with a sort of fishwife intimacy. "Did I bring up this thing about Annapolis?"

"I'll tell you, Frieda," he said conversationally. "It's your driving technique I'm getting at. It started me to thinking about that racing car. About the way it breaks down when you push it too fast. Or maybe--you're doing it deIiberately."

"Doing what?"

"Getting all you can while the getting is good."

"Whadda ya mean? You mean I'm worried you'll change your mind?"

"No, that isn't what I mean."

"Then what the hell do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe you're worried about yourself. That maybe you'll change your own mind."

"And toss you overboard?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"But why would I do that?" Her voice lowered just a trifle, there was a trace of uncertainty in her tone. "Why would I give you up when I know you fill the bill completely, when I got what I been looking for, all them months and months of waiting, and then it comes along and I get it, so now I have it and why should I give it up?"

"I can't tell you. I'm waiting for you to tell me."

"Now look, she said, "this talk is getting on my nerves."

"All right. Let's go to sleep."

There was an ashtray on the floor and he took the stubs of their cigarettes and mashed them in the tray. Then, settling himself on his side, he worked his head comfortably into the pillow. Frieda remained sitting up, staring into the dark. After a while, she was reaching over the side of the bed,' going for the cigarettes and the matches and the ashtray.

Hart was drifting into sleep and going down and getting the good cloudy feeling that comes just before the slumber takes hold, and then he heard the noise of a match against a matchbook. He smiled dimly and thought, There's nothing like tobacco to steady the nerves.

And a little while later he heard it again, match against matchbook. His eyes were open now because he wanted to stay awake, he liked this noise she was making striking matches. Now there was a lot of smoke around the head of the bed and he inhaled it, sensed the thickness of it and knew she was taking long, thirsty drags.

He was counting it off each time she struck a match, and now she was on the fifth cigarette. He said to himself: Let's figure seven or eight minutes for each cigarette; that makes it around forty minutes she's been sitting there with her problem, the way she's eating up that smoke she's nowhere near getting it solved, or maybe she has it solved already and she doesn't like what came out in the answer. One thing for sure, it's no fun for her. I'll tell you something here, it begins to look as though Charley was right when he said she really went for you, went a long ways deeper than just wanting you for this horizontal business, I'm ready to think she's got what they call the real feeling, and that's bad no that's good no that's bad, oh make up your mind, for Christ's sake, get your strategy straight, will you? This is a fine time to take your hands off the wheel, like on the north turn at Indianapolis--and what got you started with Indianapolis, anyway? You fell right into trouble with that one. And tried to climb out and fell in deeper when you put the problem in her lap, putting a smile on your face when you thought you had her backed up in a corner, when all the time it's you who's pressed against the wall, it oughta be you sitting up and chewing on cigarettes, and there she goes lighting up number six--

A few moments later her hand was on his shoulder.

"You sleeping?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

"Wake up," she said. She shook him.

He imitated a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Come on, wake up. We're getting dressed."

"What?" He frowned, his eyes aiming across to the clock that stated ten minutes past four. He said, "Are you kidding? It's still dark outside."

"That's good," she said. "That's perfect."

He sat up slowly. He stared at her. She was dragging at the cigarette and the glow of the burning end was intensified, he could see the expression on her face and it was somewhere between calm and frantic purpose.

She said, "Let's hurry and get dressed. We're checking out of here."