Out there in the darkness--but downtown, where it wasn't dark at
all--Ray Fleck was passing a tavern. It was called Chuck's Chuckhouse,
although it was basically a tavern and served only cold sandwiches in
the way of food, and was run by Chuck Connolly. It was the one business
stop Ray really _should_ make this evening; he was overdue to make a
call there and Chuck always gave him a good order, including half a
dozen to a dozen cases of Ten High, which he used as his bar whisky.
Ray had been distracted by his financial troubles and hadn't worked
very hard that afternoon. He had only a few small orders to turn in
and seeing Chuck tonight would make the difference between having a
good batch of orders to turn in at the office tomorrow or a poor one.
Besides, if he waited too long to call Chuck might possibly change his
bar whisky and order from another outfit. Losing Connolly as a customer
would cut into his income appreciably.
Just the same, tonight, he wanted to be sure the place wasn't crowded
before he went in. It's customary for a liquor salesman to stand a
round of drinks for the house when he walks in to get an order and Ray
Fleck didn't want to get stuck for ten bucks or so for that round.
True, he'd put it on the swindle sheet--and make it a little higher
than it actually was--and get his money back eventually. But that
wouldn't help tonight; he'd spent three bucks since his steak dinner
and hadn't been able to borrow anything so he was down to twenty-five
already and getting seriously worried about that stake. This seemed to
be a hell of a bad night for running into people he could borrow from,
and a ten-buck round would put him down to fifteen dollars.
So he walked past first, turning his head to glance in the window, but
staying on the outside of the sidewalk so Chuck would be unlikely to
see him.
But he was lucky; Chuck was behind the bar and there were only three
men in front of it, so he turned and came back and this time went in.
He could see now that there was also a couple sitting in a booth. That
meant seven drinks, counting one for himself and one for Chuck, but it
still wasn't too bad.
Chuck said, "Hi, stranger. Wondered if you'd deserted me." Ray said,
"Hi, Chuck. Set 'em up, huh? I'm going to use your telephone a minute."
He went on past and to the phone booth at the back and dialed Dolly
Mason's number for the third time this evening. There still wasn't any
answer.
He came back and sat down at the bar, watched while Chuck made drinks.
He made two for the people in the booth first and took them over. He
said, "Compliments of Mr. Fleck there." The couple looked over and
thanked him and Ray nodded to them. He didn't know any of the customers
so he didn't have to talk to them; he was just as glad because he
didn't feel like talking.
Damn Dolly Mason, he thought. Was she going to be out all evening, just
when he needed to see her? The more he thought about it the surer he
felt that Dolly was his only good chance to borrow money in any sizable
chunk this evening. And also that she'd give it to him if he could
connect with her. He'd ask for a hundred; surely she'd have at least
half that much on hand. It made sense, that short story he'd read
once; the Frenchman knew what he was talking about. A wife will turn
you down when a mistress won't. A wife has got you hooked, and knows
it; a mistress is more understanding. Well, he'd keep phoning every
fifteen or twenty minutes until he got her.
Oh, he wasn't the only man in Dolly's life, not by a long shot. He knew
that. But she liked him a lot; he didn't think it was _only_ because
of the presents he gave her that she was so nice to him. If it was
only that, then she was really a wonderful actress; she should be in
Hollywood instead of here.
Dolly was tiny, not over five feet tall, and very slightly on the
plump side, a brunette with olive skin. Just the opposite of Ruth on
all counts; that was probably what had attracted him to her in the
first place. A man likes a change. And she was vivacious while Ruth
was quiet. She liked to drink; Ruth didn't, much. She was frankly
passionate whereas Ruth--well, Ruth hadn't been cold at all when they
were first married but she was tending more and more to become that
way. Of course she said that was his fault, but he had a hunch that
wives always said that.
Connolly was making drinks for the bar now, one screw-driver and two
highballs for the strangers and a highball for Ray; he'd pour his own
drink last, the short straight shot he always took when someone bought
him a drink.
Ray watched him, thinking how easy it would be to borrow ten or twenty
bucks from Connolly, once he'd got his order. But it was the one
principle he'd always stuck to--never borrow money from a customer. His
one virtue, he thought sourly; let them carve it on his tombstone when
he was dead: "He never borrowed money from a customer." Besides, if he
ever did and if J. & B. Distributors ever found out about it he'd lose
his job like a shot. A salesman always had to appear prosperous whether
he was or not.
Connolly passed around the drinks; there were thanks and skoals and
everybody took a sip except Connolly who downed his short straight shot
at a gulp and then looked quizzically at Ray. "Well, I guess you want
an order, huh?"
"Could use one." Ray grinned at him. "And you could use some liquor
by now, I'd guess. Here, let me pay for this round before I forget."
He put a five on the bar and Connolly rang up three-seventy and put
a dollar, a quarter and a nickel on the bar in front of Ray. Ray
jittered; the bar owner didn't sound too friendly. Was he going to say
he'd already given an order to someone else?
"Yep," Connolly said. "I can use some liquor. Don't stay away so long
next time. I'll give you an order, but you better mark it rush so it'll
be delivered tomorrow. I'm damn near out of a few things. Come on down
to the other end of the bar."
He moved that way and Ray picked up his drink--but left his change
where it was--and followed, walking around the three men he'd bought
drinks for. On the way, now that his mind was relieved about the order,
he had a sudden thought. Maybe he could leave here with more money than
he'd come in with at that. Connolly played the ponies, not regularly
but frequently, and they often talked about the races and traded tips
or hunches. If he could talk Connolly into making up his mind about
something for tomorrow, he could say he was going to see Joe Amico
later, which he was, and offer to place the bet. And, of course, keep
it to cover himself, as he'd done with Sam the waiter. It could be a
nasty wallop if it hit, worse than Sam's bet would be, but tomorrow
was another day and it was tonight he was worried about.
But he'd better get business over with first so the other matter would
look casual, so when he sat down across from Connolly at the front end
of the bar he took out an order blank and spread it open on the bar in
front of him, took out his ball point. "Okay, Chuck," he said. "How
many Ten Highs?"
He got a good order, better than he'd expected. Ten cases of the bar
whisky, a case each of gin and vodka, the equivalent of a couple of
mixed cases of Scotch, rye and other brands of bourbon, and some wine.
A mixed case of vermouth, half dry and half sweet, and a few odd
bottles of cordials and liqueurs. It didn't take long; Connolly always
knew exactly what he wanted and the exact quantities and talked almost
as fast as Ray could write it down. And Ray had learned long since not
to try to increase any of the orders Connolly gave him or to try to
sell him anything he didn't ask for.
Connolly was just saying "That's it, Ray," when two more men walked
into the bar. Again strangers to Ray; his friends seemed to be staying
home in droves this evening. Connolly excused himself to serve them and
Ray called after him, "On me, Chuck." That would just about kill the
change out of his five and he hoped no other customers would walk in
till he could get away.
He took the Racing Form from his pocket, spread it open on the bar in
front of him and pretended to be studying it; that would automatically
bring conversation into the right channel when Connolly came back.
It did. He was actually studying, not pretending at all, when he heard
Connolly's voice. "See anything that looks good?"
He looked up. "Sure, Chuck. Blue Belle in the fifth. That's a filly
you've been following, ain't it?"
"Yeah, but she's cost me money doing it, damn her. Hasn't run in the
money last five times out. Used to be a good horse, especially on a
fast track, but I'm beginning to think she's had her day."
"Hell, Chuck, ten to one they've been holding her back. She was running
too well for a while and it shot the hell out of the odds. Now the odds
are good again and I figure she's due. Now's the time to win back, and
maybe get even more than she owes you."
"Maybe you got something there. I ain't seen a Form today. Lemme see
who she's running against."
Ray handed him the Form and pointed out the race so he'd not have to
look for it. He said, "And Aqueduct'll be a fast track tomorrow. No
rain there for two weeks and none in sight."
"Yeah," Connolly said after a minute. "I guess I'll put something down
on her."
"I'll be seeing Amico soon as I leave here," Ray said casually. "Got a
date with him. If you want me to save you calling him I'll put your bet
down for you when I put mine."
"Might as well," Connolly said; he took his wallet out of his hip
pocket and then hesitated. "Wonder whether to put ten on the nose or
fifteen across the board."
An across-the-board bet, Ray thought, would get him five bucks
more--and would cost him less if the horse did win. "I'm playing her
across myself," he said. "Thirty bucks, ten each way. So if she even
runs third I'll break even."
One thing he'd learned long ago: if you give a man a tip on a horse let
him think you're betting at least as much as he is and preferably more.
That way if the horse loses he blames you less, because you've lost
too; you're a fellow sufferer.
This time it paid off even better than he'd expected. Connolly
hesitated only a second and then took a twenty and a ten out of his
wallet, handed them over. "Make mine the same way," he said. "If you
can go thirty I guess I can."
"Good," Ray said. He put the bills into his wallet, holding it with the
open edge toward himself so Connolly wouldn't be able to see how little
had been in it before--a ten and two fives.
He looked at his wrist watch and pretended to be surprised by what he
saw there. "Good God," he said. "A quarter after--and I told Amico I'd
see him at eight. I'd better run. Maybe see you later in the evening,
Chuck. So long."
Outside he took a deep breath of the cool evening air and decided that
he felt swell, and that his luck had turned. Thirty bucks in one crack,
even if he'd had to spend five to get it. And he now had fifty--enough,
if a bare minimum, to get into the big game that would _really_ change
his luck.
And since his luck had changed maybe he'd find Dolly home now if he
called again.
He went into the drugstore on the next corner and dialed her number
in the phone booth. And this time, after seven rings--a lucky
number?--Dolly's voice answered, a bit breathlessly.