This Side of Jordan (3 page)

Alvin looked for the Italian dance pair wearing sailor suits and saw they were far ahead of Joe and Patsy, just three couples off the lead and heading around the near turn. The oily Mexican pair were dead last and fading, but nobody had sponsored them, anyhow. From where Alvin was standing, it seemed that the sweetheart couple were set to win if they didn't trip up.

Turkel's orchestra finished playing just as the heat judge blew his whistle, ending the sprint. Half of the couples on the dance floor collapsed. Spectators cheered wildly with appreciation while a crew of trainers in white hospital dress rushed out of the dressing rooms, dragging several iron cots for those competitors most badly stricken with exhaustion. Alvin saw Patsy and Joe sitting on the railing near the orchestra platform. Patsy hung her head on Joe's sweaty shoulder. The skinny plumber's eyes were shut. A smartly-dressed Negro sitting just behind them in the loge seats was patting Joe on the back. Alvin guessed he didn't know about Dorothy.

A crowd was gathering near the microphone. The bald heat judge had climbed up from the dance floor and met Cheney and the emcee. Turkel watched for his cue to begin the music that would announce the winners of the sprint.

“Now you'll see,” said the fellow beside Alvin. He snuck a silver hipflask from his jacket and enjoyed a quick nip. Then he chuckled and hid it away again. “Why, I doubt any of these marathons are on the up-and-up.”

Alvin frowned. “Go on, tell me some more.”

“Fact is, the dance derby's just another dirty goldbrick game.”

“Oh yeah?”

The fellow took out his bag of peanuts. “I tell you, it's crooked as all hell.”

“Says you,” Alvin growled. He hated hearing bunk like this. Uncle Henry knocked the derby himself all through dinner last Sunday and he'd never been to one in his life.

The fellow grinned. “You think I'm a joykiller, huh?”

“You said it.”
Why didn't this fellow go take a hike?

“Well,” the fellow replied, eating a handful of peanuts, “it wouldn't bust me up to be wrong, but if I am, I'll eat your hat.” The emcee took the microphone in hand. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

A big cheer went up from the grandstand.

He raised a hand to quiet the audience. Cheney stood in close behind him with the contingent of derby sponsors flanking both men.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! PLEASE!”

Alvin saw Joe Norton shaking hands with the Negro at the loge seats. Patsy was moving forward to the orchestra platform. Joe Nor ton followed her past the iron cots. Elrod Tarwater, a policemen Alvin knew from downtown, stood at the corner of the orchestra next to that stout fellow Gus who'd punched Petey in the mouth out back.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, AREN'T THESE KIDS WONDERFUL?”

Another big cheer jolted the auditorium.

“YOU BET THEY ARE! AND WE'RE NOT FINISHED YET! NO SIRREE! NOT BY A LONG SHOT! THESE KIDS HAVE PLEDGED TO KEEP ON GOING SO LONG AS YOU COME OUT AND PULL FOR 'EM JUST AS HARD AS YOU'VE BEEN DOING ALL THIS WEEK! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THAT?”

The audience thundered their approval.

“NOW, OUR FINE TEAM OF FLOOR JUDGES…”

A flurry of boos cascaded down from the upper bleachers.

“… HAVE TABULATED THE OFFICIAL LAP RESULTS OF THIS EVENING'S SPRINT AND I MUST TELL YOU I'VE NEVER WITNESSED A TRUER EXAMPLE OF COURAGE AND PERSEVERANCE! THESE KIDS CERTAINLY PUT IT OVER FOR US, AND I TAKE NO JOY IN HAVING TO ELIMINATE ONE OF THESE BRAVE TEAMS, BUT, LADIES AND GENTLE MEN, RULES ARE RULES. THEREFORE…” The emcee reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a small white card. “FOLKS, LET'S GIVE A HEARTY FAREWELL TO OUR LOVELY FRIENDS FROM THE GREAT STATE OF INDIANA… BUDDY AND EILEEN ROMERO!”

Alvin sucked in his breath as a spotlight from the rafters high above the platform flashed down through the smoky haze to illuminate two contestants wearing blue navy sailor suits.

“Ha!” Alvin's friend cried. Wadding up his empty peanut bag, he began clapping with the rest of the auditorium. “Well, kid, can you feature that?”

Buddy and Eileen Romero looked shocked, tears falling now.

“Aw, what do you know?” Alvin mumbled, both angry and mystified.
Who got this wiseacre told the derby wasn't on the level?

From the platform, the emcee called down to them. “COME ON UP HERE, KIDS! TAKE A BOW FOR ALL YOUR FRIENDS!”

Buddy Romero barked at a floor judge who quickly turned his back. Eileen Romero stumbled into one of the iron cots. Loud applause from the grandstand persisted. Both were showered with silver from the best-dressed people in the loge seats. Neither seemed to notice and continued forward without stopping to retrieve the coins.

Still clapping, the fellow told Alvin, “See, it really gets me how these sapheads won't play the game fair and square.”

Gus came to the front of the platform with another pair of trainers and helped Buddy and Eileen Romero up from the dance floor. A spray of coins greeted them there. The emcee waved to Turkel whose orchestra struck up a lively few bars of “Blue Skies.”

Alvin saw Buddy Romero receive a certificate and a handshake from Cheney while Eileen Romero wept. Gus escorted them to the back of the platform to a loud ovation. Then the emcee signaled Turkel for a drum roll. Cheney lit up a fat cigar. Those dance couples not passed out on iron cots milled about looking flummoxed and wan.

“Sorry, kid,” said the fellow beside Alvin, dumping the empty peanut bag under his bench seat. “I told you, it ain't copacetic.”

“Aw, phooey on you, too.” He was feeling sick again. His head hurt and his stomach was queasy.

Now the emcee spoke into the microphone with a big grin on his face. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

Alvin saw Petey in a crouch next to the platform bunting. What was he doing there?

“WELL, WE'VE HAD A REAL SURPRISE TONIGHT! THAT SPRINT WAS QUITE A GRIND, WASN'T IT?”

Joe Norton and Patsy were on the far side of the platform now. Alvin watched a photographer take a flash picture of them with one of the businessmen from downtown.

“YOU SEE, ALL OF OUR KIDS PROVED THEY'VE GOT THE PLUCK TO EARN A PRIZE IN THIS DERBY, BUT LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, TONIGHT ONE TEAM REALLY SHOWED THEIR TRUE COLORS WHEN WE TURNED ON THE HEAT!”

The popular sweetheart couple stood arm-in-arm on the dance floor directly in front of the platform, all pep and smiles.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET'S MEET OUR WINNERS…”

Another drum roll was summoned from Turkel's orchestra as a shower of silver coins rained over the beaming sweetheart couple.

“… FROM LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY AND JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA… JOE NORTON AND PATSY McCARDLE!”

The audience roared with delight. A cloud of balloons was released from the rafters. Firecrackers exploded here and there.

“Hey, they didn't win!” Alvin shouted. “That ain't fair! I tell you, they didn't win!”

“What'd I say?” The fellow beside him laughed aloud.

Down on the littered parquet dance floor, the sweetheart couple was still smiling for their sponsors, displaying the good sportsmanship and sunny dispositions they knew paid dividends in the long run. A woman wearing a gingham apron dress rose and blew them a kiss. Maybe they didn't win tonight, but the marathon was far from over, so the couple from Ohio persisted in waving brightly to their staunchest supporters. Alvin saw Petey sneak up onto the platform while everyone else's attention was drawn to Joe and Patsy crossing the stage past Elrod Tarwater under a blazing spotlight to the microphone where Arthur Cheney stood with his master of ceremonies and a shiny gold trophy. Alvin thought there must have been two dozen people up on the platform now, crowding closer and closer to the microphone, swarming about Joe and Patsy and Arthur Cheney and his emcee. People around the auditorium were shouting and whistling and stamping their feet as Joe raised the trophy high over his head and Patsy gave him a kiss for the cameras and Cheney lifted his own cigar in triumph. Through the crush of celebrants under the hot lights of the auditorium, Alvin saw Petey shove close enough to swing a small pocketknife in a balled-up fist hard down onto the back of Arthur Cheney's neck. Both Cheney and Petey disappeared into the crowd as the promoter fell. Tarwater knocked over the microphone. Alvin thought he heard Patsy scream. More policemen and trainers rushed forward from backstage.

Then the platform collapsed and the rest was pandemonium.

 

The evening breeze carried a honey scent of fresh blossoms from a shady home orchard in the next lot as Alvin watched ambulance attendants carry the injured on stretchers from the auditorium while dozens of police and firemen and newspaper reporters and derby patrons milled about.

The smart-mouthed fellow in the blue cassimere suit lit a cigarette in the shadows. He and Alvin had departed the auditorium together through a side door under the old bleachers just ahead of a panicked crowd. Alvin held onto his sack of popcorn and ate a salty handful as his new friend tossed the dead match away into the scruffy grass.
Maybe this fellow ain't half bad
, he thought.
He didn't charge me a dime to find out the derby was a cheat. Now I got something to tell Frenchy he probably don't even know.

Cousin Frenchy.

He'd slipped Alvin the dope about Doc Hartley coming out to the farm for a chat with Alvin's mom and pop.
Everyone knew Alvin didn't look too good. He'd lost weight and color, and wasn't he coughing again? He couldn't work hardly at all in the fields, got tired too soon, wasn't even strong enough to push a loaded wheelbarrow from one end of the yard to another. He needed treatments again. He was having a relapse. If he didn't go back into the sanitarium, he might not be around for Christmas.
Alvin had no intention of returning to the sanitarium, even though when he woke during the night, his bed sheets were damp with sweat and sometimes he coughed so hard he choked. But the sanitarium doctors had promised him he was cured, that all he needed was lots of sunshine and fresh air and a little rest from time to time. They had lied to him, so he didn't trust them any longer, and if he was going to croak, he didn't want it to be in one of those cold wards that had already stolen a year of his life.

Alvin watched as one of the ambulances left the auditorium for Mercy Hospital downtown. A gust of wind rippled through the dark maples overhead. More people came outdoors.

“That was a close shave,” his new friend said, flicking ash off his cigarette.

“That kid Petey's off his head.”

“They're all cuckoo, if you ask me.”

“You ain't by yourself.”

The fellow approached him with a smile. “Say, we haven't really met, have we? My name's Chester Burke.”

He offered a firm handshake, which Alvin accepted.

“Alvin Pendergast, sir. Pleased to know you.” That was sincere, too. He liked this fellow because he'd been friendly, unlike most people Alvin knew.

“I guess you're local, aren't you? Live in town?”

Alvin nodded. “We got a farm three miles north of here off Wasson Road. It ain't that far.”

“Gee, I'll bet that's hard work,” Chester said, after a drag off his cigarette. Another ambulance arrived.

“Sure it is,” Alvin replied, watching several attendants hurry out to meet it. They reminded him of those fellows who helped carry the dead out of the consumption wards in the sanitarium.

“My uncle hired me onto his hog farm one summer when I was about your age, but I funked it after a month and went home.”

“Slopping hogs don't stir you up much.”

A tiny woman in a net frock stood behind the attendants as another of the injured was hoisted into the ambulance.

Chester chuckled. “You aren't sore on farming, are you?”

“Naw, it's a panic.” Of course he hated it, and everyone in the family knew it, too. They said he was just lazy even when he wasn't sick, which was sort of true, but who's got a smile and a jump in his step for something he can't stand?

“Well, I learned myself a long time ago that it can go pretty hard with a fellow who supplies the sweat on somebody else's safety valve.”

Alvin watched Chester take out the silver hip flask again, unscrew it and tip it toward his mouth. Nothing came out. Chester frowned and shook it over the grass and saw it was empty. Then he grinned at Alvin. “Say, is there any place a fellow can get a drink around here?”

Another loaded ambulance left the auditorium, siren wailing across the windy night. Looking over his shoulder, Alvin told Chester, “See this road here?”

“Sure.”

“Well, if you follow it down two blocks to an alleyway just past a big blackberry patch, you'll see the old Wickland house on the corner there. Go past it all the way to the end of the alley where you'll find a little gray shack under a big hackberry tree. It belongs to a lady named Marge Bradford, and it's the only place you
can't
get a drink in this town.”

Then Alvin laughed.

So did Chester. “That's a swell joke, kid. I like you. I suppose not all farmers are hicks, are they?”

“My uncle Rufus says farmers raise corn, corn makes whiskey, whiskey makes Prohibition agents, and Prohibition agents raise hell.”

Chester laughed again. “Why, that's a good one, too.”

Alvin grinned, starting to feel better somehow. “He's a jokey old bird.”

The thick maples swayed in a cold wind gust. Chester asked, “Have you had any supper tonight, kid?”

“I ate a sandwich.” He didn't have much appetite today.

“Well, are you still hungry a little? Reason I ask is, I thought maybe you and me'd find a night lunchroom somewhere and have ourselves something to eat. If you've already had your supper, I'll set you up to a piece of pie. What do you say? I haven't eaten since noon and I'm getting an awful bellyache.”