mass of bills. Memo was adding the figures with an adding machine.
Gus got up quickly when he saw Roy. “Nice goin’, slugger,” he said softly. Smiling, he advanced with his arm extended. “That was some fine show you put on today.”
Roy slugged the slug and he went down in open-mouthed wonder. His head hit the floor and the glass eye dropped out and rolled into a mousehole.
Memo was furious. “Don’t touch him, you big bastard. He’s worth a million of your kind.”
Roy said, “You act all right, Memo, but only like a whore.”
“Tut,” said the Judge.
She ran to him and tried to scratch his eyes but he pushed her aside and she fell over Gus. With a cry she lifted the bookie’s head on her lap and made mothering noises over him.
Roy took the envelope out of his pocket. He slapped the Judge’s wig and eyeshade off and showered the thousand dollar bills on his wormy head.
The Judge raised a revolver.
“That will do, Hobbs. Another move and I shall be forced to defend myself.”
Roy snatched the gun and dropped it in the wastebasket. He twisted the Judge’s nose till he screamed. Then he lifted him onto the table and pounded his back with his fists. The Judge made groans and pig squeals. With his foot Roy shoved the carcass off the table. He hit the floor with a crash and had a bowel movement in his pants. He lay moaning amid the betting slips and bills.
Memo had let Gus’s head fall and ran around the table to the basket. Raising the pistol, she shot at Roy’s back. The bullet grazed his shoulder and broke the Judge’s bathroom mirror. The glass clattered to the floor.
Roy turned to her.
“Don’t come any nearer or I’ll shoot.”
He slowly moved forward.
“You filthy scum, I hate your guts and always have since the day you murdered Bump.”
Her finger tightened on the trigger but when he came very close she sobbed aloud and thrust the muzzle into her mouth. He gently took the gun from her, opened the cylinder, and shook the cartridges into his palm. He pocketed them and again dumped the gun into the basket.
She was sobbing hysterically as he left.
Going down the tower stairs he fought his overwhelming self-hatred. In each stinking wave of it he remembered some disgusting happening of his life.
He thought, I never did learn anything out of my past life, now I have to suffer again.
When he hit the street he was exhausted. He had not shaved, and a black beard gripped his face. He felt old and grimy.
He stared into faces of people he passed along the street but nobody recognized him.
“He coulda been a king,” a woman remarked to a man.
At the corner near some stores he watched the comings and goings of the night traffic. He felt the insides of him beginning to take off (chug chug choo choo…). Pretty soon they were in fast flight. A boy thrust a newspaper at him. He wanted to say no but had no voice. The headline screamed, “Suspicion of Hobbs’s Sellout — Max Mercy.” Under this was a photo Mercy had triumphantly discovered, showing Roy on his back, an obscene bullet imbedded in his gut. Around him danced a naked lady: “Hobbs at nineteen.”
And there was also a statement by the baseball commissioner. “If this alleged report is true, that is the last of Roy Hobbs in organized baseball. He will be excluded from the game and all his records forever destroyed.”
Roy handed the paper back to the kid.
“Say it ain’t true, Roy.”
When Roy looked into the boy’s eyes he wanted to say it wasn’t but couldn’t, and he lifted his hands to his face and wept many bitter tears.
