“He beat up too many people,” Gus said. He pushed a button. A waiter stuck his head in the room. “Tell Prank I want him.”
I stood up. “Well, I'll be getting back to my girl.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Why you come out here? Why you get into trouble?”
“I thought I'd like to see the fun.”
He nodded. “Hokay. There be plenty fun. How many men Pug bring?”
“I didn't hear any more.”
“Hokay. We fix'em.”
I went to the door, then stopped. “He'll invent some excuse to get in. That's what he wants to do: get in and start the trouble.”
“He no get in.”
I went back to the bar. Ginger was waiting for me. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I took a bath.”
“I want another drink.”
I looked on the bar. She'd drunk both the old-fashioneds. I ordered four more. When the bartender brought them, I gave her one and kept three. “That'll even us up.”
She drank hers and reached for one of mine.
“Not scared, are you?”
“A little.”
“He'll never come out here.”
“He would if he knew.”
“Let's eat,” I said.
A waiter had set up a table for us in a corner of the porch. There was celery and olives and jellied soup in cups, and beside the table stood a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.
“I didn't order that.”
“Mr. Papas sent it,” the waiter said.
Ginger stared at me. “How come?”
“Gus is a friend of a friend of mine.”
She didn't believe me, but she didn't ask any questions. She didn't talk much while we ate. She was thinking. I knew what about. She was trying to figure out why I should want to make Pug Banta sore again.
“You're quiet.”
“I wish you had a chance of beating Pug. “Let's don't talk about Pug.”
“I wish somebody could beat him.”
“I'll beat him for you.”
“You haven't a prayer. He'll knock you off. “Maybe he'll get it first.”
“I wish,” Ginger said.
I poured champagne in the glasses. Then we had dinner. It was good. We ate black bass and drank champagne. The small man in the white suit was joined by some friends at the bar. There were two other men and a woman. They had a round of drinks, and then they went to a table near ours. They began dinner as we finished with coffee and frozen custard. I wondered if Gus Papas was taking my story seriously. I told Ginger I'd be back in a minute and went to the washroom. I went by way of the front entrance. I saw the door was fastened with heavy chain. By a window near the end of the room, standing under a moose head, was a guy with a rifle. He was watching the road. I walked into the washroom, rinsed off my hands, and went back to the table. The guy in the white suit was in my chair. He'd been talking to Ginger. He got up, holding to the back of the chair to balance himself. “I know you,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I saw you play for Notre Dame against Army. And later against Southern Cal.”
I felt the warm glow of being recognized, and at the same time I knew it was a bad idea. At that, the guy had a good memory. Fifteen years!
“You're wrong,” I said. “I never went to college.” He ignored me. “Best tackle I ever saw,” he said to Ginger. “Come have a drink at our table. I'll think of the name.”
“Smith,” I said. “And Mrs. Smith.”
“Best tackle ever lived. Can't think name. You have drink, Mrs. Smith?”
Ginger looked at me. “We'll be glad to join you,” I said.
He giggled happily. “I knew you would.” He led us over to the other table. “Meet Winnie and Jonesy and Peter Davison,” he said. The two men stood up. They were both middle-aged. The woman was a little younger. We sat down. “What have you been drinking?” asked the guy in the white suit.
“Champagne,” I said.
