"Sure," he snorted, "if he lives long enough. They'll let him testify when the case comes to trial-forty or fifty years from now… Want to wear 'em?"
"Yeah. And just throw the old ones away," I said.
"Yep, that's the way it's working out. Stalling. Getting the case postponed. They've already done it twice, and they'll keep right on doing it. I'd be willing to bet a hundred dollars that the case never does get into court!"
He'd have lost his money. The trial was set for three months from now, and it wouldn't be postponed.
"Well," I said, "that's the way it goes, I guess. I'm glad you think it'll be all right for me to stay with the Winroys."
"Sure," he winked at me. "Might eyen have yourself a little fun. Mrs. Winroy is quite a stepper-not that I'm saying anything against her, understand."
"Of course not," I said. "Quite a-uh-stepper, huh?"
"Looks like she could be, anyways, if she had the chance. Jake married her after he left here and moved to New York-after he was riding high, wide and handsome. It must be quite a comedown for her, living like she has to now."
I moved up to the front of the store with him to get my change.
I turned left at the first corner, and walked down an unpaved side street. There were no houses on it, only the rear end of the corner business building on one side of the alley, and a fencedin backyard on the other. The sidewalk was a narrow, roughbrick path, but it felt good under my feet. I felt taller, more on even terms with the world. The job didn't look so lousy any more. I hadn't wanted it and I still didn't. But now it was mostly because ofJake.
The poor bastard was kind of like me. He hadn't been anything, but he'd done his damnedest to be something. He'd pulled out of this hick town, and got himself a barber's job in New York. It was the only work he knew-the only thing he knew anything about-so he'd done that. He'd got himself into exactly the right shop, one down around City Hall. He'd played up to exactly the right customers, laughing over their corny jokes, kissing their tails, making them trust him. When the smashup came, he hadn't swung a razor in years and he was handling a million-dollar-a-month payoff.
The poor bastard, no looks, no education, no nothing-and he'd pulled himself up to the top. And now he was back on the bottom again. Running the one-chair barber shop he'd started with, trying to make a little dough out of the Winroy family residence that was too run-down to sell.
All the jack he'd made in the rackets was gone. The state had latched onto part of it and the federal government had taken another big bite, and lawyers had eaten up the rest. All he had was his wife, and the dope was that he couldn't get a kind word out of her, let alone anything else.
I walked along thinking about him, feeling sorry for him; and I didn't really notice the big black Cadillac pulled up at the side of the street nor the man sitting in it. I was just about to pass on by when I heard a, "Psst!" and I saw that it was Fruit Jar.
I dropped the suitcases, and stepped off the curb.
"You stupid pissant," I said. "What's the idea?"
"Temper." He grinned at me, his eyes narrowing. "What's your idea, sonny? Your train got in an hour ago."
I shook my head, too sore to answer him. I knew The Man hadn't put him on me. If The Man had been afraid of a runout, I wouldn't have been here.
"Beat it," I said. "Goddam you, if you don't get out of town and stay out, I will."
"Yeah? What do you think The Man will say about that?"
"You tell him," I said. "Tell him you drove down here in a circus wagon and stopped me on the street."
He wet his lips, uneasily. I lighted a cigarette, dropped the package into my pocket and brought my hand out. I slid it along the back of the seat.
"Nothing to get excited about," he mumbled. "You'll get into the city Saturday? The Man'll be back, and-oof!"
"That's a switchblade," I said. "You've got about an eighth of an inch in your neck. Like to have a little more?"
"You crazy bas-oof!"
I laughed and let the knife drop down upon the seat.
"Take it with you," I said. "I've been meaning to throw it away. And tell The Man I'll look forward to seeing him.
He cursed me, ramming the car into gear. He took off so fast I had to jump back to keep from going with him.
Grinning, I went back to the walk,
I'd been waiting for an excuse to hand one to FruitJar. Right from the beginning, when he'd first made contact with me in Arizona, he'd been picking at me. I hadn't done anything to him-but right away he was riding me, calling me kid, and sonny. I wondered what was behind it.
Fruit Jar needed dough like a boar hog needs tits. He'd dropped out of the bootleg racket before the war and gone into used cars. Now he was running lots in Brooklyn and Queens; he was making more money legit-if you can call used cars legit- than he'd ever made with the booze.
But if he hadn't wanted to come in, why was becoming in so much farther than he had to? He hadn't needed to come down here today. In fact, The Man wasn't going to like it a bit. So… So?
I was still thinking when I reached the Winroy residence.
2
If you've been around the East much, you've seen a lot of houses like it. Two stories high but looking a lot taller because they're so narrow in depth; steep-roofed with a chimney at each end and a couple of gabled attic windows about halfway down. You could gold-plate them and they'd look like hell, but they're usually painted in colors that make them look twice as bad as they normally would. This one was a crappy green with puke-brown trimming.
I almost stopped feeling sorry for Winroy when I saw it, A guy who would live in a place like that had it coming to him. You know-maybe I'm a little nuts on the subject-you know, there's just no sense to things like that. I'd bought a little shack in Arizona, but it sure didn't stay a shack long. I painted it an ivory white with a blue trim, and! did the window frames with a bright red varnish… Pretty? It was like one of those pictures you see on Christmas cards.
… I pushed the sagging gate open. I climbed the rickety steps to the porch, and rang the bell. I rang it a couple of times, listening to it ring inside, but there wasn't any answer. I couldn't hear anyone stirring around.
I turned and glanced around the bare yard-too goddamned lazy to plant a little grass. I looked at the paint-peeled fence with half the pickets knocked off. Then my eyes came up and I looked across the street, and I saw her.
I couldn't let on, but I knew who she was. Even in a jersey and jeans, her hair pulled back in a horse's tail. She was standing in the door of a little bar down the street, not sure whether I was worth bothering with.
I went back down the steps and through the gate, and she started hesitantly across the street.
"Yes?" she called, while she was still several steps away. "Can I help you?" She had one of those husky well-bred voices- voices that are trained to sound well bred. One look at that frame of hers, and you knew the kind of breeding she'd had: straight out of Beautyrest by box-springs. One look at her eyes, and you knew she could call you more dirty words than you'd find in a mile of privies.