Stevie sat frozen, while the car lurched on and the man with the shoulder blades settled back in his seat. So far the man hadn’t looked around at all, though every time someone walked down the aisle he turned his head a little, anxiously, as if he was afraid someone was going to deprive him of the luxury of a whole seat to himself.
An ordinary guy. An ordinary guy going home, Stevie thought, not following me.
But a couple of blocks later when someone rang the bell Stevie edged out of his seat. When the door opened he slipped out and began walking briskly eastward while the car moved on west
He remembered that the car had passed a couple of small taverns, the kind that rented out a few rooms so they could get a hotel beer and wine license. A room was what he wanted, and a phone. He’d have to phone Joey, tell him that he needed money to get out of town.
Here it was. “The Palace Hotel” in small letters and “BEER” and “WINE” in big bright neons.
When he went inside and stood at the desk he had to wait while one of the bartenders twitched off his apron, smoothed his hair, and appeared behind the desk, looking as much like a desk clerk as he had like a bartender. He even said sir.
“Yes, sir?”
“A room,” Stevie said.
“Single, sir?”
“Yes.”
“We have one left with bath.”
Actually they only had one with bath but it wasn’t good business to admit it. Especially to a guy like this in evening clothes. Probably had a quarrel with his wife, the bartender-clerk decided, and he’s going to show her what’s what by staying out all night.
“How much?” Stevie asked.
“Two-fifty.”
“O.K.” He paid in advance.
“Sign here, please.”
Stevie took the pen and wrote Steven — then he changed his mind and added an “s” to Steven and put two initials in front of it, M. R. Stevens, Hamilton.
“Hundred and three,” the clerk said. “Here’s your key, sir. I’ll show you up.”
“No,” Stevie said, “No!”
He was staring at the door of the hotel. A man was coming in. When he saw Stevie he stood for a moment, frowning, and then he came toward him. He had a thin face and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a silent snarl.
He said, in a low voice, “That’s what I thought.”
“What?” Stevie said.
“I said I thought you were following me. Just because I asked you for a match. You must be crazy. You got a complex.”
“Your key, sir,” the clerk said. He wanted to lean across the desk to hear what the two men were saying to each other. But that wouldn’t be good business, and besides someone wanted another beer. He pulled out his apron from behind the desk and fastened it on again.
“I saw you run after the car when I got on,” the man said. “You took the seat behind me. What’s the game?”
“I never saw you before,” Stevie said dully.
“You must be crazy. You ran after the car. Now you’re here. I went past my stop on purpose to put you off. Now you’re here anyway.”
“Coincidence.”
“Hell. I heard of guys like you before. You’re per — persecuted, that’s the word.”
“Sorry,” Stevie said, “I didn’t mean a thing. I thought you were following me.”
The man looked at him and the snarl gradually disappeared. “Yeah? Now that’s funny.”
“Certainly is.”
“Wait’ll I tell the wife.” He was really smiling now. “I guess I’m too suspicious.”
“Not at all,” Stevie said politely.
“I owe you a beer for flying off like that.”
He hadn’t had a drink all night. Maybe that was why he’d acted so crazy all for nothing. Hitting a policeman...
“Thanks,” he said. “A beer would be swell.”
When they sat down the man looked across the table at Stevie and smiled rather sheepishly. “Well, what’ll it be?”
“Molson’s.”
“Two Molson’s.”
While they were waiting Stevie kept looking around for a telephone and planning what he’d say to Joey: “Joey, I’m in a jam. Could you send fifty to my cousin in Newmarket and I’ll pick it up?” Joey could spare fifty and he was a good guy in some ways.
“Something on your mind?” the man said.
Stevie gave a quick smile. “Girl trouble. I guess I’ll phone her.”
“Right over there’s the phone.”
Stevie got up and shut himself inside the booth. He had to wait until his hands stopped shaking before he could dial the number of Joey’s office.
Joey answered it the way he always did, with a sharp alert “Yes?”
“Joey?” Stevie said.
Joey recognized his voice because he changed his tone and he said, “Yeah,” instead of “Yes.”
“Joey, listen. I’m in a jam. Could you — I need some money. Could you send—?”
Joey spaced his words evenly, and he spoke slowly: “You... God... damn... fool.”
“Listen, Joey...”
But it was no use because Joey had hung up. Stevie hung up too, so hard that a nickel clanged out of the box. Stevie took the nickel out and held it in the palm of his hand. For a long time he stood there with the nickel. Then he said, “Thanks, Joey,” but the words didn’t come out as he intended.
He went back to his table. The beer was there and the man was already drinking his and munching popcorn from the bowl in the center of the table.
“Trouble?” he said. “Well, sit down and forget it.”
“She hung up so fast I got the nickel back.”
“You’re lucky she’s that way and not the other way. You know — blah, blah, blah.”
“I sure am,” Stevie said. “I sure am a lucky guy.”
The beer hit him hard because he was hungry and tired and wanted to be hit hard. There was no reason to stay sober, there was no more shows for him tonight and he didn’t even have to drive home. He had a room right here, he could just go upstairs and sleep it off. And in the morning he’d send out for a suit, a cheap suit so he’d have enough money left for train fare to some place.
“What’s a good place?”
“A good place?” the man echoed. “What do you mean?”
“To go to, when you don’t want to go home. I thought I’d go to another town.”
“Just on account of a dame?” the man said, admiringly. “Well, personally, I’d like to live in the States, some place like Buffalo or Detroit.”
“I have no passport.”
“My wife’s over there now. She’s got a cousin in Buffalo. I’m on my own for a while. I’ve got a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and the apartment’s so dirty I’m scared to start cleaning it for fear I’ll get typhoid or something. If she doesn’t come back soon I’ll have to move out.”
Stevie beckoned to the waiter. “Two more of the same.”
“Not for me,” the man said. “Three bottles is my limit. I’ll be taking a taxi home at that. But you go ahead.”
“I’ve got a room here.”
“Well, that’s too bad. I was going to say, if you didn’t mind the dirt you could come home with me. The place is kind of lonesome and I thought — until your girl got over it...”
“Thanks,” Stevie said. “I couldn’t do that. I don’t even know your name.”
The man laughed, slapping his thighs. “By God, you don’t! No more than I know yours. You might even be a crook for all I know.”