every idea she ever had about you. It ain’t your fault she’s married now to a grand guy and’s got the cutest little kid of her own you ever laid eyes on. Oh, no, you done your best to land that girl in a crib house.”
She stopped for breath, then went on in a different tone, “Oh, for God’s sake, Stan, come in the house and let me fry you a slice of ham. You look like you ain’t had a meal in a week.”
The hobo wasn’t listening. His knees had sagged; his chin scraped the fence rail and then he sank in a heap, like a scarecrow lifted from its pole.
Zeena dropped her gloves and began to climb the fence. “Joe, go down and hold the gate open. Stan’s passed out. We got to get him in the house.”
She lifted the emaciated body easily in her arms and carried it, legs dangling, toward the cottage.
Morning sun struck through the dotted curtains of the kitchen, falling on the golden hair of a man at the table, busy shoveling ham and eggs into his mouth. He stopped chewing and took a swallow of coffee.
“… that skull buster was known all the way up and down the line. He beat two old stiffs to death in the basement of the jug last year. I knew when he got me up that alley that the curtain was going down.”
Zeena turned from the stove with a skillet in one hand and a cake turner in the other. “Take it easy, Stan. Here’s some more eggs. I reckon you got room for ’em.” She filled his plate again.
Near the door Joe Plasky sat on a cushion, sorting mail into piles by states. It came in bundles; the mailman left it in a small barrel out on the road. On the barrel was painted: “ZEENA- PLASKY.” They had outgrown an R.F.D. box long ago.
“He started working me over with the club.” Stan paused with a forkful of egg in the air, looking at Joe. “So I let him have it. I clamped the
Zeena stopped, holding the cake turner. She said, “Oh, my God.” Then her eyes moved to Joe Plasky, who went on calmly sorting mail.
Joe said, “If it happened the way you tell it, kid, it was him or you. That Jap choke is a killer, all right. But you’re a hot man, Stan. You’ve got to move quiet. And fast.”
Zeena shook herself. “Well, he ain’t moving till we get him fed up some. The boy was starved. Have some more coffee, Stan. But, Joe, what’s he going to do? We can’t-”
Joe smiled a little wider but his eyes were dark and turned inward, thinking. Finally he said, “They got your prints up there?”
Stan swallowed. “No. They don’t print you on vag and peddling falls. Not in that town, anyway. But they know it was a blond pitchman working horoscopes.”
Joe thought some more. “They didn’t mug you?”
“No. Just a fine and a boot in the tail.”
The half-man acrobat pushed aside the piles of letters and hopped over to the stairway, which led to the attic bedrooms. He swung up the stairs and out of sight; overhead they could hear a scrape as he crossed the floor.
Stan pushed back his plate and took a cigarette from the pack on the window sill. “Zeena, I’ve been living in a goddamned nightmare-a dream. I don’t know what ever got into me. When vaudeville conked out we could have worked the night clubs. I don’t know yet how I ever got tangled up with the spook racket.”
The big woman was piling dishes in the sink. She was silent.
Stanton Carlisle’s voice went on, getting back something of the old resonance. “I don’t know what ever got into me. I don’t expect Molly ever to forgive me. But I’m glad the kid got herself a good spot. I hope he’s a swell guy. She deserves it. Don’t tell her you ever saw me. I want her to forget me. I had my chance and I fluffed, when it came to Molly. I’ve fluffed everything.”
Zeena turned back to him, her hands shining from the soapy water. “What you going to do, Stan, when you leave here?”
He was staring at the ember of his cigarette. “Search me, pal. Keep on bumming, I guess. The pitch is out. Everything’s out. Good God, I don’t know-”
On the stairs Joe Plasky made a scraping noise, coming down slowly. When he entered the kitchen he held a large roll of canvas under his arm. He spread it on the linoleum and unrolled it in two sections-gaudily painted banners showing enormous hands, the mounts and lines in different colors with the characteristics ascribed to each.
“Sophie Eidelson left these with us last season,” he said. “Thought maybe you could use ’em. McGraw and Kauffman’s is playing a town down the line from here-be there all this week. There’s worse places to hole up in than a carny.”
Zeena dried her hands hastily and said, “Stan, give me a cigarette, quick. I’ve got it! Joe’s got the answer. You could work it in a Hindu makeup. I’ve got an old blue silk kimono I can fix over for a robe. I reckon you know how to tie a turban.”
The Great Stanton ran his hands over his hair. Then he knelt on the floor beside the half-man, pulling the palmistry banners further open and examining them. In his face Zeena could see the reflection of the brain working behind it. It seemed to have come alive out of a long sleep.
“Jesus God, this is manna from heaven, Joe. All I’ll need is a bridge table and a canvas fly. I can hang the banners from the fly. They’re looking for a pitchman, not a mitt reader. Oh, Jesus, here we go.”
Joe Plasky moved away and picked up a burlap sack containing outgoing mail. He slung it over his shoulder and held the top of it in his teeth, setting off for the door on his hands. “Got to leave this for the pickup,” he said, around the burlap. “You folks stay here-I’ve got it.”
When he had gone Zeena poured herself a cup of coffee and offered one to Stan, who shook his head. He was still examining the banners.
“Stan-” She began to talk as if there was something which had to be said, something which was just for the two of them to hear. She spoke quickly, before Joe could return. “Stan, I want you to tell me something. It’s about Pete. It don’t hurt me to talk about him now. That was so long ago it seems like Pete never hit the skids at all. Seems like he died while we were still at the top of the heap. But I got to thinking-a kid will do an awful lot to lay some gal he’s all steamed up about. And you were a kid, Stan, and hadn’t ever had it before. I expect old Zeena looked pretty good to you in them days, too. Pete wouldn’t ever have drank that bad alky. And you didn’t know it was poison. Now come clean.”
The Great Stanton stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. He moved until the sun, shining through the window of the kitchen door, struck his hair. Soap and hot water had turned it from mud to gold again. His voice this time filled the kitchen; subtly, without increasing in power, it vibrated.
“Zeena, before you say another word, do me one favor. You remember Pete’s last name?”
“Well-Well, he never used it. He wrote it on our marriage license. Only I ain’t thought of it for years. Yes, I can remember it.”
“And it’s something I could never guess. Am I right? Will you concentrate on that name?”
“Stan- What-”
“Concentrate. Does it begin with
She nodded, frowning, her lips parted.
“Concentrate.
“Oh, my God!”
“The name was
Joe Plasky pushed at the door and Stan moved aside. Zeena buried her mouth in the coffee cup and then set it down and hurried out of the room.
Joe raised his eyebrows.
“We were cutting up old times.”
“Oh. Well, in that outfit I know McGraw a little-only you better not use my name, Stan. A guy as hot as you.”
“What’s calluses on the ends of the fingers, left hand?”
“Plays a stringed instrument.”
“What’s a callus here, on the right thumb?”
“A stonecutter.”
“How about a callus in the bend of the first finger, right hand?”
“A barber-from stropping the razor.”
