Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“Good advice usually does,” Layne said, unruffled. “When I was in uniform, we’d get these radio runs to what they call a ‘domestic.’ Always means the same thing: somebody beating up on his wife. What you’re supposed to do, a case like that, is take the guy aside, talk to him like a Dutch uncle. That is, unless he went too far, and the woman’s nearly dead. Or just plain dead-that happens sometimes.”

Procter raised his freshly refilled beer glass and his eyebrows at the same time, asking the detective if he wanted another. Sherman Layne shook his head “no,” and went on with his story. “Now, what you tell a guy in a situation like that is, he keeps it up, he’s headed for trouble. See, there’s things in life the law just can’t allow to go on, because they always end up ugly. You keep beating on your wife, one day you’re going to hurt her so bad that you’re going to jail, even if she won’t press charges-and they never do, not that I can blame them-or kill her, which means the Graybar Hotel, for sure. And there’s other nasty possibilities, down that same road. Maybe your wife, she’s got a father with a short fuse and a long rifle. Or a brother who’s handy with a baseball bat. See what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway I remember one night, I’ve got this guy outside, and I’m telling him all this. But he doesn’t listen good. He takes it like I’m the one who’s going to come over there and hurt him if he keeps on doing like he was.”

“What happened?”

“Well, like I said, he was a bad listener. He was so damn sure that what I was telling him was a threat instead of good advice, he hauled off and took a swing at me.”

“Do I have to guess the rest?”

“I don’t think you do. You see what I’m saying, here?”

“Sure. You’re telling me about a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Those happen,” Layne affirmed. “And they’re never accidents.”

“I’m not interested in you,” Procter said, throwing back half of his beer in a single gulp.

“That’s funny,” Layne said. “Because I’m sure as hell interested in you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you’re a real lone ranger, Jimmy. You don’t have friends, you’ve only got sources. And that’s the way you want it, I think. See, you’re an addict. Been one your whole life, I’m guessing. Only it’s not dope you need, it’s information. You don’t get your fix, you get… Well, we all know what a junkie will do for his dope.”

“You’ve got my job confused with my personality, Sherman. How would you like it if I said you needed to solve crimes?”

“I might not like it,” the big man said. “But that wouldn’t make it a lie.”

1959 October 05 Monday 10:11

Back in his room, Dett checked the top drawer of the bureau, not surprised to find that the hair he had plastered across the opening with his own saliva had been disturbed. But the medicine chest in the bathroom was open the exact same half-inch he had left it, the sliver of toothpick holding it open still firmly in place. And the suitcase he had left behind had not been touched.

Nobody’s that good, he thought. But Moses wasn’t lying, either.

Dett drew the shades and the curtains, then lay down on the bed, fully dressed. He drifted off to Five o’clock! flashing behind his eyes like the VACANCY sign at the motel where he had spent the previous night.

1959 October 05 Monday 11:17

“You see that guy, over at the corner table?” the pudgy man behind the counter said.

Harley Grant looked over at a tall, rail-thin man in doeskin dress slacks and a black Ban Lon short-sleeved shirt, which displayed pipestem forearms that tapered to narrow wrists and pianist’s hands. He was fox-faced, with a night-dweller’s complexion and feral eyes. His dark hair was combed into a high pompadour.

The man was playing alone, beneath a large NO GAMBLING sign. Harley watched him lightly tap a solid-red ball into a side pocket-the cue ball hopped slightly, then gained traction and flew backward, caromed off two cushions, and settled in the same place it had started from. The shooter stalked the table, eyeing the green felt with the hyper-focused concentration of a diamond cutter; his split-second hesitation at the full extension of each metronomic backstroke reminded Harley of a round being chambered.

“Yeah,” he said, expressing no interest. “So?”

“That’s R. L. Hollister, Harley. They call him Cowboy.”

“Who calls him Cowboy?”

“Everybody does. Supposed to be the best one-pocket man east of K.C.”

“Yeah? Well, I never heard of him.”

“Which of the top players have you heard of, Harley? Shooting stick, that’s not your game.”

“Fair enough, Benny. But I know enough to know if you recognized him other people will, too. So how’s he going to make any money here?”

“The Cowboy’s no hustler,” Benny said, almost indignantly. “He’s a professional. Like the men who sit in on the big stud game at Toby Jesperson’s club. They don’t come in wearing disguises; they come to take the other guy’s money, right out in the open.

“That’s the beauty of the games Mr. Beaumont runs, Harley. You guys supply the dealer, you supply the cards, the tables… everything. So a man can concentrate on playing without worrying about someone pulling a fast one. The house takes its tolls from the pot, so it doesn’t care who wins. Nice and clean. People come from all around just to-”

“That’s poker, Benny. Not pool. We don’t have anything like that for-”

“But you could, right?” the pudgy man said.

“What do you mean?”

“Harley, I’m kind of… sponsoring, I guess you call it, a little tournament here. Starts Wednesday night. In the back room, I got a brand-new Brunswick table. Just the one. It’s absolutely perfect, that table. Dead level. Nobody’s ever played on it, not one rack.”

“How are you going to have a tournament on one table?”

“That’s just for the championship. The final match. See, every player antes five hundred bucks, and they play double elimination.”

“Benny…” Harley’s face matched the “get to it” tone of his voice.

“Okay, look, I’ll make it simple. Nine-ball. Race to five. Nine racks, max. First guy to win five games, he moves on. You lose two matches, you’re out. And the action’s quick. Just the way people like it.”

“What’s the prize?”

“Five grand for the winner,” Benny said, flushing with pride as Harley raised his eyebrows, “and a deuce for the guy who comes in second. Whatever they want to side-bet between them, that’s their business. But we’ll have a board up here, too, so anyone can get a bet down, anytime he wants.”

“With you?”

“Well, they place the bets with us, but they’re really betting against themselves. Parimutuel, like at the track. See, we keep the records, we hold the money, and we make the payouts. So we-”

“-take your piece off the top.”

“Exactly! Just like when you run a dice game. Only, here, we’re the house, see?”

“When were you planning to tell us about this, Benny?”

“Today!” the pudgy man exclaimed, one hand over his heart. “You always come Mondays, don’t you? Listen, Harley, this could be big. Action like what we’re planning on, it brings people in. The place will be packed for a week. And the back room, it’s all fixed up special. Wait’ll you see it. Got this beautiful blue carpet on the floor, a couple of girls to serve drinks, leather chairs to sit on, everything. People’ll be proud to pay twenty-five bucks, have a ringside seat for a championship match like this one. Tell their kids they once saw Cowboy Hollister himself play. The final, it’s going to be five games. Five sets of games, I mean. First man to win three sets, the money’s his. We can handle bets on every game. Hell, every shot, if people want. We’ve even got a little kitchen back there. When people drink, they want to eat.”