It was somebody else’s face. The eyes grotesquely puffed, the hair dripping, clinging to the forehead, the neck dirty, smeared chalk on the forehead, the lips cracked, blistered. Somehow he managed a faint grin. “You son of a bitch,” he said, “you look like hell.”
Then he took a hand towel, a white one, from the rack over the lavatory, wadded it up in the bowl, sopped it with steaming water, rubbed it with a cake of soap, and began scrubbing his face. Then he washed the back of his neck—holding his head over the bowl—and the sweaty area under his chin. This soaked his collar, making it stick to his neck, and he stopped long enough to take his shirt and undershirt off. He washed his chest and arms then, holding the hot cloth around his right shoulder until the aching was dulled by it. After this he tore a hotel washcloth from its cellophane package and began washing his face more carefully, in greater detail, rubbing hard at the places where the chalk marks were, using more soap, getting every vestige of the finely powdered green from his skin.
When he was satisfied with this, his face glowing and his upper body chilled, dripping, but purified, he filled the bowl and stuck his head in it, soaking his hair in the warm, soapy liquid. He withdrew his head, squinted burning eyes, sneezed the water from his nose, and began scrubbing at the hair, scraping through it violently with his fingernails—knowing that he was cleaning them too of the filth and talcum powder and green chalk and shame that were under them.
Standing back from the loudly draining bowl, he grabbed a dry towel, sat on the edge of the tub, and began rubbing himself dry. The towel smelled faintly of Clorox, a strong, clean smell.
Then he shaved, slowly and carefully, and soaked his face afterward with a pungent, alcoholic lotion. He brushed his teeth with icy water, violence, and a stinging mint confection from a battered tube. He combed his hair, and when he had finished this looked in the mirror again, paused and said, “Anyway, now you’re a good-looking son of a bitch.”
Then he packed the lavatory tools into their case, went into the bedroom, opened his suitcase, put the toilet kit in, and withdrew a clean shirt and undershirt—both white—clean pants and socks. He put these on, wadded and stuffed the dirty things into the suitcase, and closed it.
He glanced at Charlie. Charlie was still completely flat.
Then he took out his billfold. In it were two hundred eighty-three dollars. He counted out one hundred fifty and then put the rest back in his pocket. He went to the bed where Charlie lay asleep, his face dirty, wearied, impassive. Next to the bed was a nightstand, with a cheap modern lamp on it. Eddie set the one hundred fifty in bills on the nightstand, making a neat little stack of the money. Then he fished in his pocket, withdrew the car keys, and set them on top of the bills. He looked at the sleeping man for a moment. “Okay, Charlie,” he said softly, “I’ll see you around.” On the floor by his bed the leather case with the cue stick in it was lying. He picked it up by the handle, and then abruptly he turned back to Charlie and said, “Charlie, I’m sorry….” Then he took his suitcase and left the room.
Outside, the sky was graying off, and somewhere a bird was singing, remote and feeble. From a window there was the sound of dance music, of talk. The air was pleasant and cool. A dog ran yipping up the middle of the street, its barking still echoing after it had turned a corner and was out of sight. He felt better, walking, but his mind was still thick, the pictures in it confused and unclear.
He tried not to think of anything except the simple fact that he was hungry. There was much else to think about, but this was not the time for thinking. After he had walked a few blocks he came to a bus station. In the waiting room were a scattering of very grubby, tired people—a woman with a red and ugly baby, some big-handed, dull-eyed men, a group of withdrawn old women, who seemed to be huddled against the brightness of the room itself. He did not like even seeing such people.
Along one wall there were public lockers—the gambler’s ubiquitous closet. He checked his bag and case in one of them. He looked at his watch. It said ten minutes until five.
The station lunchroom was less than half open. Most of it had been roped off and there were only five stools left at the counter and four booths along the wall. The stools were all filled; a pair of bus drivers on one side, three men in wrinkled business suits at the other. The lights were very bright; and the talking of the men seemed distant, yet highly articulate—strange, early-morning sounds, like the shrill conversations of birds that would soon begin outside.
In one of the booths only one person was sitting. This was a girl—a small, not very pretty girl—drinking coffee, alone. Eddie hesitated a moment and then sat down in the booth, facing her. She was staring at her coffee and did not look up at him. There was one waitress, a harried and skinny woman in a uniform, and he tried to catch her attention.
After a moment he turned back and looked at the girl. Beside her elbow was an ash tray, filled with cigarette butts. As he noticed this she pulled a silver case from the pocket of the tan coat she was wearing, withdrew a cigarette, and placed it between her lips. There was deftness in the motion—a kind of thing that Eddie always noticed when it appeared—and she lighted the cigarette with a smooth, easy movement. She did this without looking up from the coffee cup, into which she was staring.
This seemed to be an opening. He grinned and said, “Long wait for a bus?”
She lifted her eyes from the cup for a moment. He nodded toward the ash tray. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was tired, the tone final. She returned to her coffee.
The light was very harsh and it was difficult to tell whether the hard set of her features was a consequence of the bright light and the shadows—or of other lights and other shadows. Her skin was very pale, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Yet the eyes, although tired, were not actually dull; there was a hint of something alert about them.
Her hair was dark, cut short, practically straight. She could have been pretty, but she was not. Her lips were too pale, even with the faint lipstick she wore, and not full enough. There was a certain boyishness to her forehead; she had no discernible bosom; and the bone structure of her face, although fine and delicate, was too much in evidence. Or perhaps that was because of the light. Yet she did not look sickly; there was a suggestion of tired wakefulness, of self-sufficiency, about her.
He could not think of anything further to say and waited in silence for what seemed a long time, until the waitress came by, setting the universal glass of iceless water on the plastic table top before him. He ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, and coffee.
And then, on an impulse, he said, “Just a minute,” and to the girl, “You want another cup of coffee?” He made his voice casual, as friendly as possible.
She raised her eyes again and he grinned at her with what he knew to be his most forthright and amiable grin. This was the grin which, together with his honest face, he relied upon when on the hustle.
She hesitated a moment, then shrugged gently. “Okay,” she said, and then when the waitress was gone, “Thanks.” She looked at his face quizzically. There was nothing at all about this look to imply either flirtation or avoidance of flirtation. It was as if she were merely curious about what kind of man would be trying to pick her up in the bus station. Somehow this amused him.
He let the grin relax into a smile and said, “When does the bus leave?”
“What bus?”
“Yours.”
“Oh.” A private smile appeared on her face and then vanished. “Six o’clock.”
He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got almost an hour,” he said.