The Jugger

There was silence on the line.

Younger said, 'Joe? Are you there, Joe?'

'What do you want, Younger?'

'Is that the way you spell your name or isn't it? Joe, there's no need to get touchy about this, all I want-'

'You know how I spell my name!'

'Well, let me just make sure I've got it straight here, I wouldn't want to-'

'You'd better cut this out, Younger. If you know what's good for you-'

'Joe? Is that you? What the hell are you talking like that for, Joe?'

'You know what I'm talking about, you son of a bitch, I'm talk-'

'Joe, you never talked like that to my face. Is that the way you felt about me all along? And here I thought we were friends, Joe. We always talked together so easy, there was never any secrets between us, no hard feelings-'

'This is harassment, Younger, that's what it is. You don't think I know the law?' The old man was making an obvious attempt at self-control; his voice trembled with the need to shout, but did not shout. 'I'll get me a lawyer, you son of a bitch, I'll have you-'

Younger said, pouring his voice into the telephone like maple syrup, 'You want to make a formal complaint against me, Joe? You sure that's what you want? You'd have to come down here to the station, if that's what you wanted, Joe. It's cold down here, you know that? Cold and hard, with bars on the windows, not nice and warm and soft and comfy like you got at home. You got old bones, Joe, old bones and old skin and old blood; you sure you want to come down to this place?'

'You can't get away with this. I know my rights. This is harassment; you can't get away with it.' But the trembling in the old man's voice was more pronounced now, and from a different cause.

Younger said, 'The way you get all excited, Joe, over nothing at all, somebody might think you had something to hide. That's no way to carry on.'

'If you think you've got something on me, then why don't you do something about it?'

Younger smiled into the phone, and let a few seconds go by before he answered, seconds for the old man to hear what he'd just said, hear the echo of his own words, hear what they sounded like. Then he said, 'What do you suggest, Joe?' His tone purred, like a cat.

There was silence again, until finally the old man said, 'Just leave me alone.'

'I'll leave you alone, Joe. All you have to do is tell me how to spell your name, that's all, tell me if I've got the right spelling here. That's all I called for, Joe.'

'Sure.' The old man sounded exhausted.

'Now, here's the spelling I got, Joe, I'll give it to you again. You listen close, and if it's-'

'I heard it the first time,' said the weary voice. 'You know it's wrong.'

'Well, that's what I figured, but I wanted to be sure. Now, how's the right spelling, Joe?'

'Do we have to go through this?'

'Just spell it out for me, Joe. Slow and clear, and I'll write it down here.' Younger smiled and picked up his cigar from the ashtray and said, 'I've got a pencil right here.'

The old man spelled out his alias, slowly, saying each letter as though he were too worn out to hold the phone, as though he'd fall over any minute. He spelled the false name, and when he was done Younger said, 'There, now, that wasn't so tough was it? Why'd you carry on like that, Joe? You get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?'

'Is that all?'

'For now, Joe.'

Younger hung up, and put the cigar between his teeth, and smiled to himself.

SIX

YOUNGER pulled to a stop in front of the old man's house. He rolled down the windows and turned the two-way radio up to full blast; nothing was coming from it right now but static. Then he got out a fresh cigar, unwrapped it, lit it, and settled down to wait.

After a minute the radio sounded off, a guttural voice, distorted so much by the extra volume that the words couldn't be made out. Younger just sat there while the voice thundered away, and then the voice stopped and there was just the scratching static again.

He didn't look towards the house. He didn't have to. He knew the old man was in there, and he knew the old man could hear that radio, and he knew the old man would have to look out and see him sitting here. Younger didn't have to watch the house to see a curtain rustle, see an old face appear in a window; he knew what would happen, without watching.

Still, nothing happened for a while. Every now and then the loud voice roared out words that couldn't be understood. Between times the static crackled away, and Younger smoked his cigar down to a stub and threw the stub out the window into the street.

Half an hour went by. Younger didn't move. Nothing happened.

Finally, the screen door on the old man's porch slammed open, crashing around into the wall. Younger