suitable for a full evening’s performance gimme a rye and plain water, yeah, a rye make it a double.
It’s nothing, I caught it on a nail, doc. No charge? Fine, doc. Gimme a rye-yeah, and plain water better make it a double rye and plain water seeping into the tire tracks where the grownups were everywhere.
I ain’t pushing, bud, let’s have no hard feelings, I’m your friend, my friend I get the impression that when you were a lad there was some line of work or profession you wanted to follow and furthermore you carry in your pocket a foreign coin or lucky piece you can see Sheriff that the young lady cannot wear ordinary clothes because thousands of volts of electricity cover her body like a sheath and the sequins rough against his fingers as he unhooked the smoothness of her breasts trembling pressing victory into we’ll make a team right to the top and they give you a handout like a tramp at a back door but the doors have been closed, gentlemen, let them look for threads till Kingdom Come and the old idiot gaping there in the red light of the votive candle oh Jesus you frozen- faced bitch give me that dough yeah make it a rye, water on the side…
You could hardly see the platform for the smoke and the waiter wore a butcher’s apron his sleeves were rolled up and his arms had muscles like Bruno’s only they were covered with black hair you had to pay him every time and the drinks were small get out of this crummy joint and find another one but the dame was singing while the guy in a purple silk shirt rattled on the runt piano the old bag had on a black evening dress and a tiara of rhinestones
She drew the mike toward her and her tits bulged on each side of the rod Christ what an old bag…
She rubbed her belly against the microphone…
“Waiter-waiter, tell the singer to let me buy her a drink…”
“Whew, I’m all winded. Ya like that number? The old ones always the best, ain’t they? Thanks, sport-same as ever for me, Mike. Ain’t I seen you in here before, honey? Gee, you been missin’ a good time…”
All hallways look alike and the lights burning black dressers and yellow bedspreads kiss me “Yeah, sure, honey, keep your pants on long enough for me to catch my breath. Them stairs- whew!”
Smell of face powder sweat perfume “Yeah, honey, I’ll peel. Wait a minute, can’t you? Never mind a chaser, just lean on the bottle, sport. Boy, this ain’t bad. C’mon over and get friendly, honey, mamma’s going to treat you right. Gee, ain’t you the handsome one! Hey, honey, how about giving me my present now, huh? Where’d you get all them dimes? Holy gee, you musta stuck up a streetcar company. No more jumpsteady for me, honey, let’s ‘make a baby’-I got to get back.”
Groping in the dark he found it, lying on its side there was still a drink in it oh Jesus I got to get out of here before they see this room…
The sun blinding him, feel in the lining, maybe some of them slipped down…one more roll of dimes…tie them in the tail of the undershirt this damn fleabag’s a fleabag but the bottle don’t need any corkscrew and to hell with water I fixed ’em all, the bastards, they’ll never find me…covered my tracks too smart for ’em the bastards I bashed him right in the face and he fell back on the divan with his mouth hanging open the old bastard never knew what hit him but I’ll slip them yet and work it in a Hindu outfit with dark makeup but there was one more drink the damn thieves somebody sneak in here and lap it up let me out of here got to get air oh Jesus the goddamned chairs are sliding back and forth back and forth and if I hold on tight to the carpet I won’t slide and hit the wall with his fist beating away on the mantelpiece she sits straight up on the edge of the sofa looking at herself in the glass sign in front of the church when they boarded up the attic door and his hands bunching up the tablecloth as I rammed it into him, Gyp. That fat bastard I hope I blinded him following the star that burns in his lantern head down from the living wood.
In the office trailer McGraw was typing out a letter when he heard a tap on the screen door. He shaded his eyes against the desk lamp and said out of the side of his mouth, “Yeah, what?”
“Mis’er McGraw?”
“Yeah, yeah. What d’ya want? I’m busy.”
“Wanna talk t’you, ’bout a ’traction. Added ’traction.”
McGraw said, “Come on in. What you got to sell?”
The bum was hatless, shirt filthy. Under his arm he carried a roll of canvas. “Allow me t’introduce myself-Allah Rahged, top-money mitt reader. Got m’banners all ready t’go t’work. Best cold reader in the country. Lemme give you demonstration.”
McGraw took the cigar out of his mouth. “Sorry, brother, I’m full up. And I’m busy. Why don’t you rent a vacant store and work it solo?” He leaned forward, rolling up the paper in the typewriter. “I mean it, bud. We don’t hire no boozers! Jesus! You smell like you pissed your pants. Go on, beat it!”
“Jus’ give me chance make a demonstration. Real, old-time, A-number-one mitt reader. Take one look at the mark, read past, present-”
McGraw was letting his cold little eyes slide over the man whose head came within an inch of the trailer roof. The hair was dirty black, but at the temples and over the forehead was a thin line of yellow. Dyed. A lammister.
The carny boss suddenly smiled up at his visitor. “Take a seat, bud.” From a cupboard behind him he lifted a bottle and two shot glasses. “Have a snort?”
“I thank you, sir. Very refreshing. I’ll need only a fly and a bridge table-hang my banners on the edges of the fly.”
McGraw shook his head. “I don’t like a mitt camp. Too much trouble with the law.”
The bum was eyeing the bottle, his red eyes fastened on it.
“Have another? No, I don’t like mitt camps. Old stuff. Always got to have something new. Sensational.”
The other nodded absently, watching the bottle. McGraw put it back in the cupboard and stood up. “Sorry, bud. Some other outfit, maybe. But not us. Good night.”
The rum-dum pushed himself up, hands on the chair arms, and stood, swaying, blinking down at McGraw. Then he ran the back of his hand across his mouth and said, “Yeah. Sure.” He stumbled, reached the screen door, and pulled it open, gripping it with his hand to keep his balance. He had forgotten the soiled canvas banners with their gaudily painted hands. “Well, so long, mister.”
“Hey, wait a minute.”
The lush was already back in the chair, leaning forward, his hands spread against his chest, elbows on the chair arms, head lolling. “Hey, mister, how ’bout ’nother li’l shot ’fore I go?”
“Yeah, sure. But I just happened to think of something. I got one job you might take a crack at. It ain’t much, and I ain’t begging you to take it; but it’s a job. Keep you in coffee and cakes and a shot now and then. What do you say? Of course, it’s only temporary-just until we get a real geek.”
WILLIAM LINDSAY GRESHAM
WILLIAM LINDSAY GRESHAM was born in Baltimore on August 20, 1909. His family moved briefly to Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1916, then to New York City, where he graduated from Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn in 1926. Gresham’s was a tortured mind and a tormented life, and he sought to banish his demons through a maze of dead-end ways, from Marxism to psychoanalysis to Christianity to Alcoholics Anonymous to Rinzai Zen Buddhism. From these demons came his novel
