Макс Коллинз - Shoot the Moon (and more)

“Long time no see,” Elam said. “Have a seat.”

“I see you’ve been keeping busy,” I said, joining him on the steps.

“Keeping busy? Ha! Worked my butt off is what I did. Kid, I ain’t worked so hard in years. Hell, I even made, what?” He stuck his hand in his pocket, took out some bills and some change. “Twenty-four dollars and forty cents.”

“No kidding? How’d you manage that?”

“I told ’em I was just passin’ through and had stopped to see what all the Founder’s Day fuss was about, and heard the announcement they needed a cook, and I was one and’d be glad to do it. But since I wasn’t a native citizen or anything, I felt I should get something for my trouble. They offered me two forty an hour and I grabbed it.”

“You think it was smart, taking money from these people?”

“Would’ve been stupid not to. Ha! Why would a stranger offer to help out, otherwise? Just for the hell of it? Not damn likely. World ain’t built that way, kid. But I got to admit I had a good time. That’s a nice big kitchen to work in. Us short order jockeys usually get stuck in some closet with a griddle in it, and it’s a kick workin’ a nice big kitchen. People were okay, too. Not a bunch of hicks like I pictured.”

“It’s a nice little town.”

“Yeah,” Elam agreed, nodding. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

We sat there for a few moments, not saying anything, just enjoying the breeze that was skimming through the trees that stood in a row behind the Grange Hall, ruffling the leaves like a proud father playing with his kid’s hair. I felt relaxed, almost comfortable.

I had dreaded coming to see Elam, even though I did have a way figured out to get out of town. Elam still frightened me, and parts of what I had to say to him might not go over too well. But right now, sitting here on the steps with him, enjoying the breeze, I didn’t think it was going to be so bad.

Finally Elam finished his cigarette, arched it into the grass where it sizzled for what seemed like forever. The longer it sizzled, the less comfortable I felt.

“So,” Elam said. “Where you been all day? I expected a progress report, now and then, you know.”

“The Highway Patrol car is still parked in front of the Mustang,” I said, “up against the bumper. The concession wagons are pulled in right behind. We’re as trapped as we ever were.”

“I see. Well, this Founder’s Day isn’t going to last all night.”

“No. Just till around two o’clock this morning, is all.”

Elam sighed. “Those lousy Highway Patrol guys must be getting paid overtime and then some. What are they doing at a thing like this, anyway? Why aren’t they out patrolling the highway where they belong?”

“The County Sheriff’s people are here, too,” I said, “Haven’t you seen those guys in the brown shirts and tan pants?”

“The guys that look like Forest Rangers or senile Boy Scouts or something? Yeah, I seen ’em. I didn’t see any badges or guns on ’em, though.”

“They don’t have any. They’re just a civilian volunteer outfit that helps out the Sheriff’s department at functions like this. Sue Ann says the Highway Patrol isn’t usually present for Founder’s Day, but because this is the Centennial and the Governor came and the road’s blocked off and everything, those two guys got assigned here.”

“Who the hell is Sue Ann?”

“That’s a long story.”

“I been workin’ in the kitchen all day, and you been foolin’ with something called Sue Ann?”

“Well, if you want to make a long story short, yes.”

“And I was telling you what a good time I had.”

“You made twenty-four bucks, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, and forty cents. So. Did you have anything else to tell me? Or did you just come around to say we’re still stuck here?”

“I have something else to tell you.”

“What, already?”

“I got a way figured out for us to get out of town.”

“Good! Let’s hear it.”

“Okay,” I said, and I told him my idea.

He laughed. Not derisively, either.

“That’s beautiful kid,” he said, tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. “You really got a mind for this kind of work. You sure you don’t want a share of the loot? You deserve one, if anybody does.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “I’m, uh, sure of something else, too.”

“What’s that?” he asked, still laughing.

“You don’t get a share, either. Or Hopp. Or Wheat, for that matter.”

He stopped laughing.

“What?” he said. Clipped. Like a fast jab.

“I told you how we can get out of town. My idea is good. You agree with me. And I’m willing to go through with it. But the money is out. We have to leave it behind.”

Elam looked at me for a long time. He didn’t get mad. I thought he’d go absolutely off his nut, strangle me, jump up and down on me, everything. But I underestimated him. He was a professional. He knew I wouldn’t suggest that if there wasn’t a reason.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because otherwise Wheat and me won’t get you out of this mess.”

“Blackmail, huh?”

“There’s more to it than that,” I said, and told him. And, finally, reluctantly, he agreed.

“But don’t tell Hopp,” he said. “I’ll tell him the money’s already in the trunk, then break him the bad news later. He’s a good man, but when he gets upset, he can cause a scene.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I got a friend like that, too.”

Elam and I went to see Hopp, in the bingo tent.

There were four big long tables put together to form a square, and inside the square were four smaller tables covered with prizes. These tables also formed a square, and inside was a man with a microphone and a wire basket that whirled around, out of which he drew the numbers. The prizes ran mostly to small kitchen appliances, like toasters and mixers, many of them tagged and sort of set aside, which I assumed meant they’d already been won and would be collected by their winners at the end of the evening. The man with the microphone was hoarse and beginning to weave; evidently he’d been at this since the beginning, which was something like twelve hours ago. There were about a hundred people at the tables, mostly women, housewives and older ladies both, even a few teenagers and some old men. And Hopp.

Hopp sat between an old lady and housewife, both of whom were giving him plenty of room.

Hopp was playing eight cards.

Seeing him huddled over his cards, sitting there at the table, spine arched defiantly, brow knitted with concentration, took me back to the jail and the metal picnic tables where we’d played pitch and Hopp had said, “Deal the cards.”

There was plenty of space for Elam and me to squeeze in on either side of him.

“Come on,” Elam said.

Hopp stared down at his cards.

“B ten,” said the man with the microphone.

“We’re going,” Elam said.

Hopp put a piece of corn on the upper left corner of the third card down from the right.

“We’re leaving, I said,” Elam said.

“Getting out of town,” I said.

Hopp said, “Not yet.”

“N forty,” the man with the microphone said.

“Not yet?” Elam said.

“Not yet?” I said.

Hopp looked at his eight cards.

Elam looked at me.

I looked at Elam.

“B four,” the man with the microphone said.

Hopp put a piece of corn on the square below the one he’d filled a few moments before.

“One more letter,” Hopp said.

“I nineteen,” the man with the microphone said.

“One more letter?” Elam said.

“And then what?” I said.

Hopp pointed to three of his eight cards, each of which was one letter short of spelling out the word BINGO in pieces of corn placed on numbers beneath the letters above.