it was a girl. He grabbed for her again but the devil jabbed him and ran. When the lights went on all the girls and devils were gone. The customers guffawed and applauded.
“Come on,” Max said.
The captain had recognized him and was beckoning them to a ringside table. Roy sat down. Max looked around and bounced up.
“See a party I know. Be right back.”
The band struck up a number and the chorus wriggled out amid weaving spotlights for the finale. They were wearing red spangled briefs and brassieres and looked so pretty that Roy felt lonely.
Max was back.
“We’re changing tables. Gus Sands wants us with him.”
“Who’s he?”
Max looked to see if Roy was kidding.
“You don’t know Gus Sands?”
“Never heard of him.”
“What d’ye read, the Podunk Pipsqueak? They call him the Supreme Bookie, he nets at least ten million a year. Awfully nice guy and he will give you the silk shirt off his back. Also somebody you know is with him.”
“Who’s that?”
“Memo Paris.”
Roy got up. What’s she doing here? He followed Max across the floor to Gus Sands’s table. Memo was sitting there alone in a black strapless gown and wearing her hair up. The sight of her, so beautiful, hit him hard. He had been picturing her alone in her room nights. She said hello evasively. At first he thought she was still sore at him, but then he heard voices coming from the floor at the other side of the table and understood that was where she was looking.
A surprising semi-bald dome rose up above the table and Roy found himself staring into a pair of strange eyes, a mournful blue one and the other glowing weirdly golden. His scalp prickled as the bookie, a long stretch of bone, rose to his full height. The angle at which the spotlight had caught his glass eye, lighting it like a Christmas tree, changed, and the eye became just a ball of ice.
“S’matter, Gus?” Mercy said.
“Memo lost two bits.” His voice was sugar soft. “Find it yet?” he asked the waiter, still down on all fours.
“Not yet, sir.” He got up. “No, sir.”
“Forget it.” Sands flicked a deft flyer into the man’s loose fist.
He shook hands with Roy. “Glad to meet you, slugger. Whyn’t you sit down?”
“Tough luck, babyface,” he said, giving Memo a smile. Roy sat down facing her but she barely glanced at him. Though dressed up, she was not entirely herself. The blue eye shadow she had on could not hide the dark circles around her eyes and she looked tired. Her chair was close to Gus’s. Once he chucked her under the chin and she giggled. It sickened Roy because it didn’t make sense.
The busboy cleaned up the remains of two lobsters. Gus slipped him a flyer.
“Nice kid,” he said softly. Reaching for the menu, he handed it to Roy.
Roy read it and although he was hungry couldn’t concentrate on food. What did this glass-eye bookie, a good fifty years if not more, mean to a lively girl like Memo, a girl who was, after all, just out of mourning for a young fellow like Bump? Over the top of the menu he noticed Gus’s soft-boned hands and the thick, yellow-nailed fingers. He had pouches under both the good and fake eyes, and though he smiled a lot, his expression was melancholy. Roy disliked him right off. There was something wormy about him. He belonged in the dark with the Judge. Let them both haunt themselves there.
“Order, guys,” Gus said.
Roy did just to have something to do.
The captain came over and asked was everything all right. “Check and double check.” Gus pressed two folded fives into his palm. Roy didn’t like the way he threw out the bucks. He thought of the raise he didn’t get and felt bad about it.
“Lemme buy you a drink, slugger,” Gus said, pointing to his own Scotch.
“No, thanks.”
“Clean living, eh?”
“The eyes,” Roy said, pointing to his. “Got to keep ‘em clear.”
Gus smiled. “Nice goin’, slugger.”
“He needs a drink,” Max said. “The Judge gave him nix on a raise.”
Roy could have bopped him for telling it in front of Memo.
Gus was interested.
“Y’mean he didn’t pull out his pouch and shake you out some rusty two-dollar gold pieces?”
Everybody laughed but Roy.
“I see you met him,” Max said.
Gus winked the glass eye. “We had some dealings.”
“How’d you make out?”
“No evidence. We were acquitted.” He chuckled softly.
Max made a note in his book.
“Don’t write that, Max,” said Gus.
Max quickly tore out the page. “Whatever you say, Gus.”
Gus beamed. He turned to Roy. “How’d it go today, slugger?”
“Fine,” Roy said.
“He got five for five in the first, and four hits in the nightcap,” Max explained.
“Say, what d’ye know?” Gus whistled softly. “That’ll cost me a pretty penny.” He focused his good eye on Roy. “I was betting against you today, slugger.”
“You mean the Knights?”
“No, just you.”
“Didn’t know you bet on any special player.”
“On anybody or anything. We bet on strikes, balls, hits, runs, innings, and full games. If a good team plays a lousy team we will bet on the spread of runs. We cover anything anyone wants to bet on. Once in a Series game I bet a hundred grand on three pitched balls.”
“How’d you make out on that?”
“Guess.”
“I guess you didn’t.”
“Right, I didn’t.” Gus chuckled. “But it don’t matter. The next week I ruined the guy in a different deal. Sometimes we win, sometimes we don’t but the percentage is for us. Today we lost on you, some other time we will clean up double.”
“How’Il you do that?”
“When you are not hitting so good.”
“How’ll you know when to bet on that?”
Gus pointed to his glass eye. “The Magic Eye,” he said. “It sees everything and tells me.”
The steaks came and Roy cut into his.
“Wanna see how it works, slugger? Let’s you and I bet on something.”
“I got nothing I want to bet on,” Roy said, his mouth full of meat and potatoes.
“Bet on any old thing and I will come up with the opposite even though your luck is running high now.”
“It’s a helluva lot more than luck.”
“I will bet anyway.”
Memo looked interested. Roy decided to take a chance.
“How about that I will get four hits in tomorrow’s game?” Gus paused. “Don’t bet on baseball now,” he said. “Bet on something we can settle here.”
“Well, you pick it and I’ll bet against you.”
“Done,” said Gus. “Tell you what, see the bar over by the entrance?”
