"It's pretty good for some people. What business are you in?"
"I'm not working right now."
He smiled at me in a mirthless way. "And I suppose you plan on sticking
around awhile."
"I'd thought of it."
"Did Fitz send for you?"
"I don't know what you mean. I didn't know he was here."
"But you talked to him. He phoned me and said you'd probably be in for
a little chat. And that you're an old friend of Timmy's. He's been
working for me for nearly a year. I don't see how I can give you a job.
There just isn't enough coming in. I couldn't swing it."
"I don't want a job, Mr. Warden."
He kept smiling. His eyes were funny. I had the feeling that he was
either very drunk or out of his head. "Maybe something nice out of the
store? We still have some nice things. I could unlock the gun rack for
you. Need a nice over and under, with gold inlay, French walnut stock?
On the house."
"No thanks. I don't understand, Mr. Warden. I knew Timmy and I thought
maybe it would be the right thing to do to just stop in and chat."
"Sure. But you went out to the yard first."
"Yes. I went out there because I put my car in a garage here and I told
the man I'd known Timmy in prison camp. He said there was another man
here who'd been in the same place. Earl Fitzmartin. So I went out there
and saw him. Then I came here. I could have come here first and then
gone out there. I don't know why you think you have to give me a job or
a gun or anything."
He looked at me and then bent over and picked up the bottle again. He
put some in both glasses. "Okay," he said. "So it's just like that. Pay
no attention to me. Hardly anybody does any more. Except Fitz. He's a
good worker. The yard makes a little money. That's a good thing, isn't
it?"
"Yes, I guess it is."
It wasn't anything like the conversation I had expected. He was a
strange man. He seemed defeated and yet amused, as though amused at his
own defeat.
"Timmy talked a lot about Hillston," I said.
"I guess he did. He lived here most of his life."
Though I didn't feel right about it, I took the plunge. "We had a lot
of time to talk. They made us go to lectures and read propaganda and
write reports on what we read, but the rest of the time we talked. I
feel as though I know Hillston pretty well. Even know the girls he used
to go with. Ruth Stamm. Janice Currier. Cindy somebody."
"Sure," he said softly, half smiling. "Ruthie Stamm. And it was Judith
not Janice Currier. Those were two of them. Nice girls. But the last
couple of years before he went away he stopped running around so much.
Stuck closer to the business. Lots of nights he'd work on the books. He
was getting almost too serious to suit me."
"Wasn't there one named Cindy?"
He frowned and thought and shook his head. "No Cindy I know of. Either
of those other two would have made him a good wife. Ruthie is still
around town, still single. Judy got married and moved away. El Paso, I
think. Either one of them would have made him a better wife than the
one I got stuck with. Eloise. He talk about her?"
"He mentioned her a few times."
"She's gone."
"I know. Fitz told me."
"Lovely little Eloise. Two-faced bitch. While you're around, stop in
again any time. We'll have a nice little chat. I'm usually here. Hell,
I used to have a lot of other things to do. Zoning board. Chamber of
Commerce. Rotary. Always on the run. Always busy. Now I have a lot of
time. All the time in the world."
I was dismissed. I walked back through the narrow store to the street
door. The clerk leaned against one of the counters near the front,
picking his teeth with a match. It felt good to get back out into the
sunlight. The cheap liquor had left a bad taste in my mouth. It was too
early to go after the car. I went into the nearest bar I could find and
ordered an ale. It was a dark place, full of brown and violet shadows,
with deer antlers on the wall and some dusty mounted fish. Two elderly
men played checkers at a corner table. The bartender was a dwarf. The
floor was built up behind the bar to bring him up to the right height.
I sipped the ale and thought about Fitz, about my own unexpectedly
violent reaction that had been made ludicrous by his superior strength.
I had not thought that I cared enough. It was a long time since camp.
But he had brought it all back. The time with him had not been pure
fiasco, however. I sensed that I had won a very small victory in the
talk that had followed the one-sided fight. He was not certain of where
I stood, how much I knew. The talk with George had canceled that small
victory. George puzzled me. There was a curious under-current in his
relationship with Fitz, something I could not understand.
Bartenders are good sources of information. I sensed that the little
man was watching me, trying to figure out who I was. I signaled for a
refill. When he brought my glass back from the beer tap I said, "What
do people do for excitement around this town?"
He had a high, thin voice. "Stranger in town, are you? It's pretty
quiet. Saturday night there's things going on here and there. Not much
on a weekday. There's some that drive all the way to Redding. There's
gambling there, but it's crooked. Then it's easier to meet women there
than here. You a salesman?"
I needed a quick answer and I suddenly remembered something that Fitz
had said to give me my gimmick, ready-made, and reasonably plausible.
"I'm working on a book."
He showed a quick interest. "Writer, are you? What's there here to
write about? Historical stuff?"
"No. It's a different kind of a book. I was taken prisoner in Korea.
Some of the boys died there, boys I knew. This book is a sort of
personal history of those boys. You know, the way they lived, what they
did, what they would have come back to if they'd lived. One of them is
from this town. Timmy Warden."
"Hell, did you know Timmy? My God, that was a shame. There was a good
kid."
"I've been talking to his brother, George, just down the street."
The little man clucked and shook his head. "George has just plain gone
to hell the last year or so. He and Timmy had a pretty good setup
too. Couple of good businesses. But then George's wife left him. Then
he got word Timmy was dead. It took the heart out of him, I guess.
He's got about one tenth the business he used to have, and he won't
have that long if he keeps hitting the bottle. Buck Stamm's girl has
been trying to straighten him out, but she's wasting her time. But
that Ruthie is stubborn. I tell you, if Timmy had made it back and if
he'd waited until now, he'd have a long uphill fight. George has been
selling stuff off and piddling away the money he gets. Lives in a room
at White's Hotel. Gets drunk enough to be picked up every now and then.
For a while there they'd just take him home because he used to be an
important man in this town. Now they let him sober up in the can."
One of the old men playing checkers said, "Stump, you talk too damn
much."
"Watch your game," Stump said. "Get some kings. Let smart people talk
in peace, Willy."