'You're absolutely right, sir. And I can see I'm wasting your time, and like my pa used to say: time is money. Matter of fact, I figure that scrubbing out those four barrels real good, then sweeping up your place, and washing the windows and stuff like that, would take me about… oh, about two hours. And I wouldn't be able to work for less than two bits an hour, so the whole job would cost you half a dollar, and the good Lord knows that half a dollar ain't chicken feed. Not in these hard times.'
Twenty-Mile's only licensed purveyor of Chief Wapah's Patented Tonsorial Rejuvenator snorted. 'If you think you could do all that work in two hours, boy, you been chewing on crazy-weed.'
Matthew looked at the barrels with a measuring eye. 'Hm-m-m, well, I'm pretty sure I can do it in two hours… three at the most. Tell you what. I'll do the job for six bits, and if it takes me all day, well then that's just skin off my own nose. I honestly don't believe a man could say fairer than that, do you, sir?'
'Six bits? Four barrels, scrubbed as clean as I want 'em? And my shop swept out? And my windows washed? And the trash dumped over the cliff, down across the tracks? And the sink scrubbed? You're saying you'd do all that for six bits?'
'Yes, sir, that's my price for the first two weeks. And after that, if you don't think that's fair-or if I don't-well then, we can work out some sort of agreement.'
'Hm-m. Yeah but, even at six bits, the fact is I don't need no help.'
'… plus advice.'
'What?'
'My price would be six bits plus some advice.'
'Advice? What sort of advice?'
'Well, sir…' Matthew smiled slackly and looked around in embarrassment. 'It's my hair, sir. I'm afraid I'm starting to lose it.'
'You?' The Professor regarded the boy's oak-brown, sun-glistered mop with a mixture of envy and irritation. 'It's your mind you're losing, boy, not your hair. You'll have that hair till hell freezes over.'
'I wish I could believe that, sir. But my pa, he was only forty-two years old when he died, and he was already getting a little thin on top. He used to say that early balding was a sure sign that a man was strong with the women! My ma'd get mad when he said that because he had a reputation for… well, you know. So along with six bits for doing your chores, I'll be wanting advice about what to do, if I want to have a head of hair like yours when I'm your age.'
'You want hair like mine, do you? Well then, here!' He snatched off his wig and thrust it toward the boy, who jumped back startled. In fact, he actually was a little startled to see that the Professor was a good two inches shorter without his thick salt-and-pepper curls.
The Professor sputtered with laughter, and Matthew stood blinking. 'Well sir, you fooled me, and that's for sure! I never in the world would of guessed!'
As he replaced his hair, still chuckling at the effect of his wit, Professor Murphy agreed to give their arrangement a try. 'In fact, you can start right now.' He tossed him the long-handled brush. 'What'd you say your name was?'
'Folks call me the Ringo Kid. Sir, would it be all right if I started first thing tomorrow morning? You see, I'm supposed to talk to the man who owns the hotel. What's his name again?'
'Delanny. And it ain't a hotel! He gives himself airs, calling that three-stall whorehouse a hotel.'
'Ain't that the truth? Some people do just love to give themselves airs. But I got to get me a little work from Mr. Delanny, too. Old B. J. Stone confided in me that there wasn't a real job to be had in Twenty-Mile, so I guess I've got to build me one out of bits and scraps. I'll be back bright'n early tomorrow, and seventy-five cents later, those tubs'll be cleaner than a… a… Gosh, I can't think of what you say things are cleaner'n a…'
'Whistle.'
'Whistle? I thought things were slicker than a whistle.'
'I always heard cleaner!'
'You know, sir, I believe you're right. I believe smart folks say cleaner'n a whistle, and only us country folks say slicker'n a whistle. Well then, I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning.'
MR. DELANNY HAD BEEN sitting at his table, laying out his usual game of solitaire, when he was interrupted by the young man's apologetic request to have a few words with him. The gambler looked slowly up from beneath the brim of the carefully brushed black hat he wore level on his head, and surveyed the boy with heavy-lidded, cynical eyes. But he listened, wryly amused, as the boy 'played out his trumps,' describing how everybody in town was doing their best to scrape up some chores for him to do. Behind the deserted bar, Jeff Calder stumped around on his peg leg, shifting bottles and glasses that didn't need shifting, his every gesture radiating irritation at the presence of this outsider begging for work. Just barely audible from somewhere above, a woman was humming in a husky contralto: a Negro spiritual. Matthew interrupted his pitch to tell Mr. Delanny that the song reminded him of the time his mother brought him to a traveling revivalist's tent, a 'Cathedral of Canvas,' where a man dressed all in yellow silk preached and sobbed and begged God to come down to heal those who believed, and punish those who didn't, while three Negro women stood behind him in white gowns, swaying and humming that very song. His ma had given a two-dollar bill (a lucky one, with the corner torn off) into the collection plate, and his pa had been so mad when he learned about it that he had slapped her around some. That was only last year, and now both his ma and pa were… gone.
'That was pretty slick,' Mr. Delanny said in his soft, phlegm-burred voice.
'Sir?'
'You know what you are, young man? You're a natural-born con. That was pretty slick, the way you picked up on one of my girls singing upstairs and parlayed it into telling me that your ma was religious, that your folks were dead, and that you were all alone in this cruel, cruel world.'
'Gee, sir, I don't understand what you're saying. I mean… My folks are dead!'
Mr. Delanny chuckled-and this brought on a bout of coughing that ended with his spitting into a large white handkerchief, then looking into it with clinical curiosity before folding it to conceal the blood. 'Oh, I don't doubt that your folks are dead. Nor that your ma was religious. It's the way you use those facts that reveals you to be a natural con.' Mr. Delanny's speech was slow and his diction precise. Everything about him, his gestures, his dress, his speech, had a precious theatricality. 'The successful con doesn't risk lying, except as a last resort. He uses the truth-selected bits of it- cleverly. It's a sleight of mind that can't be learned. You've got to be born with it. This world's divided into two kinds of people: the marks and the cons. And every human relationship-politics, business, romance-can be described in terms of who are the marks and who are the cons. And you, boy? You're one of Nature's own cons.'
'Well, ah… thank you, sir-I guess.'
'But there's one thing you better remember.'
'Sir?'
'Never try to con a con.'
'I don't understand, sir.'
'Oh, I think you do. Now, I don't mind your coming in here and trying out your line of patter. Matter of fact, it's amusing to see how you lay out your cards. But I wouldn't want you to think you were scoring on me. Professional pride, you know.'
'Yes, sir. I know all about pride. That's why I can't let people take care of me, and I've got to find ways to support myself.'
Mr. Delanny laughed again-and coughed. When he got his breath back, he said, 'You are some piece of work. You know perfectly well I've got you pegged, but you're still trying to score on me. Trying to con a job out of me.'
Matthew grinned. 'Well, sir, I really do need it.'
For a long moment, Mr. Delanny looked at him from beneath the rim of his black hat, a glint of wry amusement in the feverish eyes deep in their sunken sockets. He nodded. 'All right. I'll try you out. What's your name?'
'My name is… ' Matthew covered his hesitation with a clearing of his throat. '… Dubchek, sir. Matthew Dubchek.'
'That's your real name?'
'Yes, sir.'
