Roughneck (18 page)

       Pop had always been a rabid and knowledgeable baseball fan. And, at this time, baseball betting books ran wide open in Oklahoma City. The gambling was unorganized—the syndicate boys who tried to move in got the fast heave-ho. But a "local" who wanted to set up a small book was unmolested, nor was he required to pay off to the authorities.

       I asked Pop if he would be interested in such an enterprise. He was not only interested but enthusiastic. I talked the proposition over with an acquaintance of mine, a man who ran a pool hall-beer parlor, and found him glad to oblige. He wouldn't take any cut from the book, he said. He had plenty of space for the setting up of a blackboard and Western Union ticker, and the betting would bring him trade.

       So the installations were made, and, with a hundred dollars in cash, Pop began business. Like all books around the town, he took the long end of the bets: six to five, say, regardless of the team bet on. And the wagers were limited to a five-dollar top. Operating in this way, he was certain to win—he could not possibly make any serious inroads into his hundred. It was more as a formality than because I had to leave town for a week, that I asked the proprietor of the establishment to take care of him if he needed anything.

       The week passed. Pop called on me my first morning back in the office. The betting had gone fine, he said absently. He had managed the bets as he should and wound up each day a modestly comfortable winner...

       But he was broke.

       "But you couldn't be!" I said. "Even if you'd lost every day you couldn't be. Did you"—I looked at him sharply—"did you give it away? Have some of your old friends been around to see you?"

       Pop immediately took umbrage at my tone. Certainly he'd given nothing away, he said; his friends were not beggars. Perhaps he had seen fit to extend a few "small loans," but—

       I was pretty bitter about it. Pop's generosity with his "friends" was largely responsible for reducing him from millionaire to pauper, and for years during my childhood it had forced us—his family—to make our home with relatives.

       "All right," I said at last. "It took every penny I had to set you up, but I'll refinance my car and bankroll you again. But this time, Pop..."

       "I know," he said, a little testily. "You don't need to say anything more on the subject."

       "I'm going to make sure of it," I said. "If any of those bums come around you again, there's going to be trouble."

       I arranged for the loan by telephone. Then, leaving Pop stiff-necked and hurt, I went to see my beer parlor friend.

       I was pretty sure of the identity of the men who had "borrowed" from Pop. Relatively young and able-bodied, they simply sponged because they preferred not to work; they were the kind who would beg with a bankroll in their pockets. I described the pair and the proprietor of the place nodded grimly.

       "They've been around, all right. Showed up the first day your dad operated, and they've been here every day since. Two of the worst chiselers I ever seen. Why, I'd never seen the characters before, but they even tried to put the bite on me!"

       "I'll tell you what," I said. "I'm going to sit in your back room for a while this afternoon. If they show up today, they'll get worked over with a pool cue."

       "Well, now—" He scratched his head uneasily. "Don't think I could let you do that, Jim. Run a nice clean store here, never no trouble or anything, and I want to keep it that way. Anyhow—"

       "All right. I'll catch 'em outside, then."

       "—anyhow," he continued, "it wouldn't do much good. I dropped some pretty strong hints to your dad, and it didn't stop him. Just got huffy with me. I reckon he's been a pretty big man at one time, huh? Well, he can't get over the idea that he ain't one now—and maybe it's just as well that he can't. Prob'ly couldn't live with himself any other way."

       "But look," I said, "I can't let him—"

       "Better forget about this book or anything else where he's got to handle money. Know it cost you a nice little wad for that ticker and everything, but—oh, yeah, speaking of money..."

       He punched the keys of his cash register, took several small slips of paper from the drawer. They were I.O.U's—Pop's. The total just about equaled the pending loan on my car.

       "Didn't think I ought to do it, Jim," he said apologetically, "but you said to take care of him, y'know, an' I done it."

       I paid him, of course. And subsequently, unable to meet the loan, I lost my car. Needless to say, Pop's book did not reopen.

       There was nothing much wrong with Pop physically, according to the doctors. But no man who feels useless and can see nothing to look forward to can long remain in good health. Pop's condition worsened rapidly. He came to require a great deal of looking after. When I, with my grant-in-aid about to expire, decided to go to California, he was in no condition to make the long trip.

       This posed quite a problem, for Freddie's job was about to play out and she and Mom also wanted to make the move to California. Finally, since no other solution offered, Pop entered a small sanitarium.

       We hoped that he would be able to come out on his own in a month or so. If that proved impossible, we meant to have him brought out with a nurse in attendance, just as quickly as we could get the necessary money.

       For the time being, we had no such sum and no way of getting it. The car I drove was borrowed from a friend; he himself had borrowed it from his brother while on a visit to California. As payment for its use on the trip, I was to return it to that brother, a San Francisco car dealer.

       Well, we arrived in San Diego where I intended to headquarter. After getting the folks settled there, I headed on toward San Francisco. It was only about five hundred miles distant—an easy day's drive, I supposed. But to one unfamiliar with the fantastic California traffic, five hundred miles can be a very long way. It was noon before I reached Los Angeles. Hours later, not long before sunset, I was just edging out of the city.

       Being very short on money and still shorter on time, I had picked up a snack to take with me at a highway-side delicatessen. It consisted of cheese, crackers, a dill pickle and a bottle of port wine. I opened these purchases, now that I was through the city traffic, and ate and drank as I drove.

       Not since I was a child at my grandfather's house had I drunk any wine. And this, by comparison, seemed wonderfully mellow and mild. I gulped it down, feeling the tenseness flow out of me as it flowed into me. I came to another wayside store and purchased another bottle. It sold for twenty-five cents a quart, cheaper than almost any drink but water. Since it was drawn from a keg into an unlabeled bottle (you can't buy it that way any more), I could only judge its potency by taste. And my taste said it was innocuous.

       The error had almost fatal consequences.

       Without realizing it, I drifted into a rosy haze. I came out of it just in time to keep from going off the highway. I stopped the car immediately, and rubbed my eyes. They didn't want to focus, it seemed, while my head showed a stubborn tendency to nod. I drove on slowly, intending to fill up on black coffee at the first lunch stand I came to.

       Mile after mile passed. No lunch stand appeared. Night came on and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open, then suddenly, a few hundred yards ahead of me, the headlights picked out the figure of a man.

       He was signaling for a ride. Possibly, I thought, he was the answer to my predicament. I slowed the car to a crawl, looking him over.

       Young—seventeen or eighteen, perhaps. Pretty hardbitten and rugged looking...but what of it? I had looked a hell of a lot worse many times.

       I came even with him and stopped. "How far you going?" I called blearily.

       "San Francisco." He hesitated with his hand on the door. "I mean, almost to San Francisco. A little place this side of—"

       "Can you drive? Well, pile in, then," I said; and he piled in.

       He was a fast driver but a good one. After watching him a few minutes, I uncorked the wine and leaned back.

       "Sure glad you stopped for me, mister," he said. "It was beginning to look like I was going to have to stand there all night."

       "Glad to have you along," I told him. "But how come you're out on the highway this late?"

       "CCC camp." His face tightened with bitterness. "You know, relief work. Thirty bucks a month to your family, and they treat you like you were a convict. They kicked me out tonight."

       "That's too bad. How did it happen?"

       "Well, I had this knife, see, and this other kid claimed it was his. And me and him got to fighting, so they kicked 'me' out."

       I murmured sympathetically. He went on talking.

       He didn't know what his folks were going to think of him. Probably that he was just no good, and probably they would be right. He'd quit high school to work two years ago and since then he'd had three jobs—not counting the CCC—and they'd all blown up on him. The guy he was working for would go out of business or he'd get jumped about something he hadn't done, or—well, something would happen. It looked like there just wasn't any use in a fellow trying to do the right thing. The harder he tried the harder he got it in the neck.

       "You've just hit a run of hard luck," I said. "Just stay in there pitching, and you'll come out of it."

       "Yeah," he muttered. "It's pretty easy for you to talk. A swell car an'—" He caught himself. "Sorry, mister. Feeling pretty sorry for myself, I guess."

       He lapsed into silence for a time. I grinned, boozily, in the darkness.

       'Easy for me to talk.' Me with "my" swell car and my one good suit of clothes and little more than enough money for a wildcat bus ticket back to San Diego! My plight was many times worse than this youngster's. I had driven myself too hard, too long; I had become soul-sick with the drivel!—the unadorned commercial writing—which I had poured into the popular magazines. And now I could do no more, even if my life depended on it.

       Yet if I did not do that...?

       It was quite a question. What does a man of thirty-five do who has lost his one negotiable talent? What does he do, this man, with his history of alcoholism, nervous exhaustion, tuberculosis and almost uninterrupted frustration? What about his wife and three children? What about his father, whom he has promised to—

       Abruptly, I cut off this chain of thought. Pop had cried when we left him.

       But—I took a long drink of the wine—this was certainly a good joke on my hitchhiker. I should be envying him, instead of the other way around.

       "...kind of work you do, mister?"

       "What?" I said. "Oh, I'm a writer."

       "Must be pretty good money in that."

       "Well, I've made quite a bit," I said.

       "How do you—uh—how do you do it, anyway? Just drive around the country looking at things until you get an idea, and—"

       I laughed, choking on the drink I was taking. He gave me a sour look.

       "I don't get it, by gosh," he said. "Me, I don't drink or smoke or, well, anything like that. Never even could afford to take a girl to a show. And all these other people, they go zipping around in big cars havin' a heck of a time for themselves an'—. It just ain't right, mister. You know it ain't!"

       "Things will get better for you," I said. "They can get just so bad and then they have to get better."

       "Yeah? What if they don't?"

       "Then you'll probably be dead anyway, and it won't matter."

       I was drowsy, more than a little weary of the conversation. Unconsciously, and quite unfairly—for no two people are alike—I was comparing his situation with the one I had been in at his age. And I felt that he was rather too ready to despair.

       He was silent for fifteen or twenty miles. Finally, he said, hesitating: "You—uh—you like to take a shortcut, mister? Up through the mountains?"

       "Suits me," I shrugged.

       Silence again. Then: "I r-reckon you're pretty tired, ain't you, mister? You want to go to sleep, I'll wake you up when we get there."

       "Well, thanks," I said. "I think I'll do that."

       I took the last drink in the bottle, and tossed it out the window. I leaned back and was instantly asleep.

       At what seemed to be only a moment later, but which was actually several hours, I suddenly woke up.

       The car was stopped, motor off, lights extinguished. I rubbed my eyes, tried to penetrate the darkness.

       "What the hell?" I grunted. "Why are you stopped here?"

       His head was slightly turned away from me; one hand was in his pocket. "I—I t-tell you, mister," he stammered tensely. "G-gonna tell you somethin'. I—I—"

       "Well, go ahead, dammit," I said, my head still fuzzy with the wine. "Spit it out!"

       "I g-gotta—" His voice broke in a sigh. "I g-got to go to the toilet."

       I laughed, not very pleasantly. "That's an idea but let's not make a production out of it. Come on! What's the matter with you, anyway?"

       He levered the catch on the door.

       I climbed out the door on my side.

       And fortunately I held onto it. For at my second step my foot came down into empty space.

       I gasped, and flung myself backward. Too frightened to speak or cry out, I peered around me in the pale, near-lightless light of the quarter moon.

       We were in the mountains—high among them. And I was standing on the brink of a precipice, on a triangular strip of road bounded on one side by the cliff and on the other by the car.

       It was a bad spot to get in: there was no getting past those cut-in front wheels.

       It was a very bad spot: there was no getting out the other way, at the base of the triangle.

       For the kid was standing there, silently, one arm shakily outthrust, and the dim moonlight sparkled wickedly on the long blade of his knife.