“You can drop dead! Both of you!”
He stared at the gun as it tightened in my hand. “No... no... no, Rick... you... you wouldn’t... you...”
“I wouldn’t, huh?”
“Give me a break, Rick... please... please... give me a break...”
“Rot in hell, you jerk!” I squeezed the trigger and it sounded like a cannon going off down there. My arm jerked back and the shock went clear up to my skull, and Manny, he got a shock, too. Right in the belly. The slug spun him half around and up against the concrete wall, and he hung there for a moment clutching his gut. He screamed and I pumped the trigger once more, and he bounced into that wall again, and then he sagged to the floor like an old sack of flour, part of him still sticking to the wall.
Punchy was standing there holding his hands over his ears, and I grabbed him by the front of the jacket and gave him a shove toward the door. “Let’s go!” I yelled.
“Wait, Rick!” He ran back to Manny, went through his pockets and came up with the twenty and four singles, and a set of car keys. I was so excited for the minute I hadn’t figured that Manny’s Chewy would be outside. I grabbed the money and the keys out of Punchy’s hand, and we took off.
Punchy didn’t say nothing until we were clear up in Westchester. He had his eyes glued to the gas gauge, then. “We gon need gas pretty soon, Rick.”
“We ain’t stopping in no gas stations just yet,” I told him. I started cruising slow through them fancy streets up there, and then I spotted a convertible. A Buick, real sharp. The top was down and it was parked in the shadows of some trees, and the house was way back off the road. I pulled up alongside of it and told Punchy to go get it. Like I said, he was stupid, but when it came to cars Punchy was in the top class. He got it started in no time, and I signaled for him to follow me.
I found a good spot to ditch the Chewy, and then I hopped into the Buick with Punchy. While we were stopped we got the top up and I took the wheel. I sure wanted to use the Thruway because you could really make time, but there was too big a chance of getting spotted at the toll booths. I stuck to the old highways and headed North, pushing eighty where I could. I kept my eyes peeled for slow-down signs and was careful not to speed through no towns. By the time we had to stop for gas I was pooped, so I let Punchy take the wheel. I got a map at the gas station and told Punchy what roads to take. All I wanted was to get lost for a few days, and the Adirondacks was going to do fine.
After awhile, watching the road and with that steady smooth drone of the engine, I just let my eyes close and pretty soon I dropped off, and then I didn’t hear nothing. All I kept dreaming about was that dough in my pocket, and how I was going to get some fancy clothes and move in on some town where I could really make out. Maybe the West coast. Yeah. I’d heard a lot about California... Frisco... L.A.... yeah, L.A... that was a town, all right... L.A... get rid of the jerk... dead weight... Poncho... Punchy... Punchy Poncho... jerk...
Something hard banged against my cheek, and I opened my eyes and saw that my head was smacking up against the window sill. It was still dark and the car was bouncing around like there was no road under it. I blinked my eyes sleepily and glanced out the window. There wasn’t any road. Just a big open field with no houses around, and I could see dark mountains outlined against the moonlit sky. I straightened up suddenly and looked at Punchy behind the wheel. “What the hell are you doing, jerk?” I yelled.
Punchy stopped the car and pulled the hand break. It was then I noticed the car lights weren’t on. He looked over at me and grinned, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight.
“You crazy bum!” I said. “Why in hell did you get off the road?”
He shrugged, and kept grinning. “End of the ride, Rick.”
I stared at him. “Huh?”
He shrugged again. “I don need you no more, Rick. Just like you don need me.” He spread his right hand and jabbed it out at me. “Gimmee the loot, Rick.”
“Give you the...? You lousy, stupid...!” I jerked my hand up to my jacket pocket and clutched for the gun.
I got a handful of leather.
I froze, gaped at him.
“You looking for this, eh, Rick?” His left hand came over the steering wheel, the gun muzzle in front of it. “You sleep like my brother, Angel. You don feel nothing.”
My throat went dry. “Wha... what’d you want to do a thing like that for, Poncho?”
He laughed, a cold, bitter laugh. “Poncho, eh? Now I am Poncho. Why you don call me by my right name, Rick?”
“That... that’s your right name, Poncho.” I tried to smile.
“Sure. Sure it was. ’Till you start to call me Punchy.”
“No... no, not me, Poncho... it was the other guys. You know that. You...”
The grin dropped from his face and a crazy look lighted his eyes. “No! You, Rick! You gimmee that name! Punchy, you call me! All the time you call me jerk!”
“Honest, Pun... Poncho, I...”
“Shut up, jerk!” His eyes glared at me. “How does it sound, jerk? Eh, jerk? Eh, dumb, stupid, jerk? Jerk... jerk... jerk... JERK!”
I bit down on my lip. “Yeah... yeah, sure Poncho... I... I’m a jerk... I...”
“I wan the loot, jerk!”
I yanked the wad out of my pocket and handed it to him, fast, and right then I was thinking about Manny, and how he was shaking all over just before I blasted him. And I was shaking like that now, and I felt the tears coming to my eyes, and I knew how Manny felt. “I... I was going to split it with you, Poncho,” I said weakly.
“You’re a liar, jerk!”
“No, Poncho, I... I mean it, pal... I swear...”
“Why you bawling, jerk? Manny din bawl.”
I stared at that gun and I begged for all I was worth. “Please... please, Poncho... gi... give me a break... huh?... please...”
“Si. Like you gave Manny. Tha’s the best way, eh, jerk?”
“Aw... aw... please... please... just give me a break... just... just give me one little...”
His eyes squeezed narrow, and his lips pulled taut, and his finger tightened over the trigger... and then all I could see was the big black hole of that gun muzzle reaching out for me...
The rotten, cold-hearted bum wasn’t even going to give me a break!!
Say a Prayer for the Guy
by Nelson Algren
We always kept a seat open at the poker game for Joe. But old Joe won’t be playing poker with us any more...
That game began as it always began, the drinkers drank what they always drank. The talkers said what they always said, “Keep a seat open for Joe.”
Frank, John, Pete, and I, each thinking tonight might be the night he’d win back all he’d lost last week to Joe. Yes, and perhaps a little more.
Joe, poor old Joe, all his joys but three have been taken away. To count his money, play stud poker, then secretly to count it once more — and the last count always the best — that there is more there than before is no secret.
Joe, old Joe, with his wallet fat as sausage and his money green as leaves. Who needs sports, cats, them like that? That call for mixed drinks and blame God if they’ve mixed too much? Who needs heavy spenders, loudmouth hollerers, them like that? Drinking is to make the head heavy, not the tongue loose. Drinking is for when nobody shows up to play poker. You want to make the feet light? Go dancing. Dance all night.