The Complete Crime Stories (27 page)

Then one night down to the poolroom they was having it some more about the head, and one says one thing and one says another, and Benny Heath, what's a kind of a constable around town, he started a long bum argument about how Hutch must of figured if they couldn't find the head to the body they couldn't prove no murder. So right in the middle of it Burbie kind of looked around like he always done and then he winked. And Benny Heath, he kept on a-talking, and after he got done Burbie kind of leaned over and commence to talk to him. And in a couple of minutes you couldn't of heard a man catch his breath in that place, accounten they was all listening at Burbie.

I already told you Burbie was pretty good when it comes to giving a spiel at a entertainment. Well, this here was a kind of a spiel too. Burbie act like he had it all learned by heart. His voice trimmled and ever couple of minutes he'd kind of cry and wipe his eyes and make out like he can't say no more, and then he'd go on.

And the big idea was what a whole lot of hell he done raised in his life. Burbie said it was drink and women what done ruined him. He told about all the women what he knowed, and all the saloons he's been in, and some of it was a lie 'cause if all the saloons was as swell as he said they was they'd of throwed him out. And then he told about how sorry he was about the life he done led, and how hope my die he come home to his old home town just to get out the devilment and settle down. And he told about Lida, and how she wouldn't let him cut it out. And then he told how she done led him on till he got the idea to kill the old man. And then he told about how him and Hutch done it, and all about the money and the head and all the rest of it.

And what it sounded like was a piece what he knowed called “The Face on the Floor,” what was about a bum what drawed a picture on the barroom floor of the woman what done ruined him. Only the funny part was that Burbie wasn't ashamed of hisself like he made out he was. You could see he was proud of hisself. He was proud of all them women and all the liquor he'd drunk and he was proud about Lida and he was proud about the old man and the head and being slick enough not to fall in the creek with Hutch. And after he got done he give a yelp and flopped down on the floor and I reckon maybe he thought he was going to die on the spot like the bum what drawed the face on the barroom floor, only he didn't. He kind of lain there a couple of minutes till Benny got him up and put him in the car and tooken him off to jail.

So that's where he's at now, and he's went to work and got religion down there, and all the people what comes to see him, why he sings hymns to them and then he speaks them his piece. And I hear tell he knows it pretty good by now and has got the crying down pat. And Lida, they got her down there too, only she won't say nothing 'cepting she done it same as Hutch and Burbie. So Burbie, he's going to get hung, sure as hell. And if he hadn't felt so smart, he would of been a free man yet.

Only I reckon he done been holding it all so long he just had to spill it.

Mommy's a Barfly

O
n the bar, in the space between the fat man's Tom Collins and the sailor's beer, a girl was dancing. She wore a white muslin blouse, a red print dress with shoulder straps, black shoes, and white socklets; she was an uncommonly pretty girl, she was known as Pokey, and she was four years old. As she danced, she smiled at the pianist, who thumped a tiny instrument that had been tucked under the bar, and held out her skirts. When the tune ended, she did a pirouette, bowed, and received a crackling hand. Then, from a booth, a woman came over, kissed her, and listed her down. She was a woman of medium height and undeniably arresting-looking­. She was dark, and there was something slightly gaunt about her figure and haggard about her face. She would have touched tragic beauty if there hadn't been something bummy about her.

When Pokey had run over to the soldier with whom the woman was sitting and climbed in his lap, the pianist clapped loudly and called for an encore. The bartender, who was also the owner of the place, said: “It's OK, Fred. She taps nice and she's sweet. But when she's using the bar for a dance floor I can't use it for a bar, and it's as a bar that it pays.”

“Says who?”

“The register.”

“So?”

“Sing me a song, Fred. Not no ‘Rosie.' Not no ‘Daisy.' And specially not no ‘Annie.' Something nice. Sing me a song about Paris.”

“Jake, have you become refined?”

“Them hop waltzes, they're beer music. But a nice song about Paris, that puts people in mind to drink B&B and other imported stock that shows a profit when you move it, it's OK.”

“Then that clears it up.”

But before Fred could sing about Paris, Pokey was back. When the fat man lifter her up, she said: “Mommy says if you want me to, I can dance once encore. And Fred, play ‘Little Glow-Worm.”

Pokey got a terrific hand that time. When she had returned to the booth, Jake made a beautiful drink of lemonade, sliced orange, cherries, and sugared mint, and carried it to Pokey. When he came back he said to Fred: “Mommy's no good if you ask me.”

“Nobody was asking you.”

“She's still no good.”

“She's good-
looking
, though, if you ask
me.
”

“
If
you like a good-looking barfly.”

“Aren't barflies OK? You knowing our clientele?”

“Why not?”

In response to a blonde girl's request, Fred sang “Night and Day,” then said reflectively: “I don't say a lot of them wouldn't look good on a rock pile, but they're the only clientele we got, so it's up to us to be broad-minded.”

“Why ain't that kid home in bed?”

“Maybe she's not sleepy.”

“At ten o'clock at night she's not sleepy and she's only four years old? You know when they get tucked in at her age? She ought to been in bed with all the prayers said and doll-baby's night diaper put on and the light put out three hours ago.”

“I give up. What's the answer?”

“Mommy.”

“Well, she likes booze. Don't we all?”

“And that's not all she likes.”

“Quiz Kid, what is it now?”

“Fred, it's the twentieth century and there's a war going on and, like you say, with this here clientele we got to be broad-minded,
but
—a married woman out with a soldier cuts up the same any time, any place, and any war, and when a little kid gets mixed up in it it's not pretty.”

“You got this woman all wrong.”

“No, I haven't”

“You thinking about Willie?”

“I don't think much of Willie either, so far as that goes. Every night they come in here with Pokey, and OK, you say he don't know better. Well if not, why not? Even them rats out back don't bring little Sissie Rat in here. Speaking of her, when she's in here with a soldier the first night Willie don't show, that's all I want to know.”

“You're doing great, except for one thing.”

“
What
?”

“Kind of changes things around.”

Jake stared at the man who now held Pokey in his lap, then said incredulously to Fred: “You mean that good-looking sergeant is the one she's married to and that other pie-faced runt is her …
sweetie
?”

“Talk louder, so they can all hear.”

“I'm asking you.”

“Why me? She's the one.”

After Fred had sung “Lady Be Good,” the soldier came over. He was a big, smiling man, with jet-black curly hair and a face burned the color of dark mahogany. He said to Fred: “You like my daughter, I notice.”

“Your daughter is my one and only.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Shoot.”

“Take care of her a little while, will you?

At Fred's puzzled look, he made a sheepish face. “So I can see my wife. Since I went away she only keeps a small apartment and—”

“I got it. It's OK.”

The soldier had been holding his hat in his hand. From it a little trickle of sand ran out on the bar. He laughed, said: “No trouble to see where I've been. I bumped into them on their way to the beach, so of course we couldn't disappoint Pokey. But, being as you're taking her for a little while, it's kind of a nice wife I've got, so—”

Smiling, he went back to the booth. Jake, who had been nearby, said: “That's what
he
thinks.”

“Look: He says she's nice and he don't think. He
knows
.”

“He's kidding hisself. You see what I see?”

“I don't see a thing.”

“Neither does he, but I do. Fred, a wife that's wig-wagging for more Scotch in the last two hours of twenty-four-hour leave, and he hasn't even been home yet—she's not nice.”

Jake served the Scotch, went back to his station beside the piano. The soldier looked at the drink in surprise. Then his face darkened. Then he started to say something, but looked at the child in his arms and checked himself. Then he got up, came over with Pokey, kissed her, nodded to Fred, and set her on the bar. Then he went back to the booth, started somewhat grimly to talk.

Pokey, her face pasty by now, her stance uncertain, her brown eyes yellow from lack of sleep, blinked uncertainly, then spread her skirts as though to dance. Fred struck a chord, but Jake lifter her down, said: “Fred, get me that cushion.”

“That—?”

“Cushion. From the booth. On the end.”

The cushion, when Fred came back with it, was leather, but stuffed full and soft. Jake put it under the bar, first clearing out several cases of bottles. Then he went out the door with “his” and “her” pictures on it and came back with his street coat. Then he beckoned Pokey, who was watching him, as was everybody except the couple in the booth. Fred said: “You going to put her
there
?”

“I am.”

“One awful place.”

“You know a better one?”

“What's the matter with the back room?”

“Was you ever put in a back room?”

“Anyway it's quiet.”

“Quiet she don't have to have. Love, she does. Listen, she ain't no rag doll. She's a little thing four years old that gets scared and feels lonesome and wants to cry and so would you if you wasn't no bigger than she is that noise you et paid for, she'll sleep right through it, so keep right on and don't feel no embarrassment on
her
account if that's what's bothering you.”

“Don't she get a pillow?”

“Pillows is out of date.”

“Just asking.”

“Now you know.”

Jake stooped down, put his arm around Pokey, loosened her dress, took the ribbon from around her hair, tied it to a shoulder strap so it wouldn't get lost. Then he picker her up, put her on the little bed, spread his coat over her. It just covered her feet. Behind him, a light over the register glared down in her eyes. He turned it off. Pokey stared sleepily at Fred, said: “Play ‘Little Glow-Worm.'”

Fred played it softly and a woman at the end of the bar, who could see Pokey from where she sat, sang it. But before the little glow-worm had given its first glimmer, Pokey was asleep. The soldier in the booth stared into his glass and occasionally said something in a short, jerky way, but the woman made no move to go.

For the next hour, the place was a blue twilight, with Fred's voice hovering over it in songs that didn't seem to end but rather to trail off into pure sadness. Then the spell was broken by the jangle of the phone. Jake answered, but the woman in the booth was there almost as soon as he was and took the receiver from him with eager hands and spoke in low, indistinguishable tones. The soldier came over, had a look at Pokey when Fred pointed her out, said: “Gee, that's sweet of you. I guess she'll be all right there till my bus leaves. We didn't go home. My wife's been expecting this call. From the USO. Sometimes they need her on the late shift and she gave them this number. She had to stand by.”

“We all have to do our share.”

“That's it.”

The woman returned to the booth and the soldier joined her. It was some time before Jake, who did a little visiting with is customers, returned to the piano. Then he said: “This is murder, plain murder. Every person in this room know what's going on except two people. One's that sergeant, because he's stuck on her. The other is this kid under the bar, because she's asleep.”

“Was that Willie? That called?”

“What do you think? That couple up there the ones drinking rye and soda, even made a bet that it was him, and they're sore because I won't tell them. It's so raw it burns my stomach. First give the husband a runaround at the beach all day, then have the sweetie call in to find out when the bus leaves, then at one minute after twelve meet him outside, and then her and him put Pokey to bed. I wouldn't ask much to kick her out.”

“Oh you couldn't do that.”

“Why not?”

“All God's chillun, you know. Maybe she came for a good time too.”

“Be a funny kind of heaven with her flying around in it. If she's got wings, why hasn't she got a heart?”

“For Willie, maybe she has.”

“I wish he didn't look quite so much like a dignified weasel.”

“I wish that damned bus would
go
.”

Fred began to sing again and little by little the blue twilight came back. The couple in the booth were friendlier now and the soldier, who had been drinking beer, ordered double Scotch. Then abruptly Fred broke off in the middle of a song, looked at his watch. With a look of alarm, he pointed his finger at the soldier, said: “Hey!”

“Yeah?”

“It's five minutes to twelve.”

The soldier got up, came over to the bar, picked up his hooker of Scotch, downed it in a series of gulps. After a second in which he seemed to be strangling, he said: “So what?”

“Your bus is coming.”

“Whose bus?”

“Did you forget you're standing reveille?”

“Me and who else?”

“Listen sergeant, you like those three stripes?

“Not to the point of being silly about them.”

“You like that extra dough they bring in though, don't you ? For the little woman overt there? And the little woman under here? Pokey? So she can have a nice warm coat for school, with a little fur collar on it? And peppermint for Christmas? And—”

“Shut up.”

“I won't shut up.”

“You will or I'm socking you.”

“OK then, I clam.”

Weaving a little, the soldier went back to the booth. The woman stared at him, looked at her watch. Then she came over to the bar. “What did he say?”

Fred made no answer. Jake swabbed a section of bar, then looked her straight in the eye and spoke slowly, quietly, deliberately; “He said he's going AWOL so he can be with a woman that's been two-timing him for a month, that didn't think enough of him even to bring him home when he came all the way up here to see her, and that needn't come back in this bar after tonight, if she don't mind.”

How much of this after “AWOL” she actually heard, it would be hard to say. Her great black eyes opened in horror, and even after Jake had finished she stared at him. Then, breathlessly, she said: “I'll be back in a minute,” and hurried out to the street.

Jake said: “It's so raw it stinks.”

In a few minutes she was back, but instead of going to the booth, she flitted through the door with the pictures on it. The soldier ordered another double hooker of Scotch. Jake served a single, with soda. The soldier asked: “What time is it?”

“Little after twelve.”

“I was supposed to catch a bus.”

“It left. I seen it go by.”

“OK.”

Jake returned to the bar and Fred sang several songs. Then a woman came out of the door with the pictures on it, walked quickly around to where Jake was, leaned over, and said quietly to him: “You better get back there.”

“Back where?”

“Ladies' room.”

“What for?”

“There's trouble.”

Conversation stopped and the row of people perched on stools looked at each other, then looked at Jake as he walked to the door, opened it, and disappeared. The soldier wig-wagged for Scotch. Fred took a bottle to the booth, poured a drink, came back to the piano. After some minutes, Jake reappeared, went to the phone, made a call. When he came back to the bar, he said loudly: “OK, folks, one on the house—what'll it be?”

Two or three ordered refills and the rest took the hint and began to talk. Two men paid their checks and left. When Jake got back to the piano, Fred said: “Where's Mommy?”

“Flying around.”

“
Where
?”

“Heaven. Or will be soon.”

“… Why?”

“She's going to be dead.”