Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“You’ve been planning this a long time.”

“A real long time. Harley, I’m telling you, the day will come when Benny’s Back Room-that’s what I’m calling it-is famous. Just like Ames’s in Chicago or Julian’s in New York.”

“How much is it going to cost you?”

“Cost me? I’m going to be making a bundle. You’ll see, when you get your cut.”

“How much did it cost you, get this Cowboy guy to come and play?”

The pudgy man took off his steel-framed glasses and polished them with a clean white handkerchief. “I can see why people say what they say about you, Harley.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you’re going be the boss around here someday.”

“Try it without the Vaseline, Benny. Just tell me what I asked you.”

“Five,” the pudgy man said, not meeting Harley’s eyes.

“You mean you paid his entry fee, or you…?”

“Five large. But, look, Harley, it’s an investment, okay? You know how many boys, think they’re holding hot sticks, already entered? Thirty-one, and we still got two more days to sign people up.”

“That’s fifteen five, and you’re paying out twelve,” Harley said, acknowledging the wisdom of the math.

“Not counting our cut of the wagering pool, the money from the drinks and the food, and… we’ll make another bundle just from tickets to see the final. I’m telling you, Harley, this thing’s a mortal lock.”

Harley lit a cigarette, leaned back, and exhaled a puff of smoke, thumb under his chin. He was the very image of a man considering a complex proposition, wanting to be scrupulously fair about it. “If this guy is so great, how come so many people want to try him?” he finally said.

“A guy I knew in the army, he once fought Sonny Liston.”

“Yeah?” Harley said, drawn in despite himself. “What happened?”

“What happened? Sonny knocked him out, what do you think happened? Only man ever to beat Sonny was Marty Marshall, and that was when Sonny got a broken jaw in the middle… and he still finished the fight, lost on points. Now, Marshall, he could bang. But when Sonny got him back in the ring, six months later, it was lights-out for that boy.”

“Why are you telling me this, Benny?”

“Jesus, Harley, don’t you get it? Just being in the ring with Sonny Liston, that’s something that you can brag on forever. Makes you special. Sonny, he’s going to be world champion as soon as he gets a title fight. Nobody beats him, so it ain’t no disgrace to lose to him, see? I love that guy. Why, it’d be an honor just to shake his hand, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” Harley said, thinking, Be an honor just to shake his hand, huh? Long as it’s not happening in your living room. Maybe Kitty’s right. No matter how big I ever got in Locke City…

“Well,” Benny continued, “if you’re a pool player, that’s what playing Cowboy Hollister would be like. Now, I don’t mean a pro player. Some of them, I’m sure, they think they can take him, any given night. And with a game like nine-ball, they could be right. But when it comes to one-pocket-”

“Uh-huh,” Harley said, absently, looking around the poolroom.

“Someday, people are going to talk about the great matches they seen in Benny’s Back Room like they talk about when they seen Stan Musial go up against-”

“You’ve been real up-front about all this, Benny.”

“You know I’d never do nothing without what I cleared it with you, Harley. But, see, I knew you’d love this.”

“That’s a lot of money you’ll have around, Benny. Are you going to need any extras?”

“Nah. Everybody knows this place has Mr. Beaumont’s protection. Who’d be crazy enough to try and rob us?”

“Somebody who was crazy,” the younger man said.

“Well… maybe you’re right. We’re not that far from the South Side. Can I get a couple of men for finals night?”

“We’ll send you three,” Harley said. “Two at the usual rate, the other on the house.”

“Hey, thanks, Harley!”

“Yeah. The third man, we’ll put him right on the cashbox. All night long. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Put six men on it, all I care,” the pudgy man said, grinning. “I’m not doing this for the money.”

1959 October 05 Monday 11:23

“I was just trying to be a gentleman,” Mickey Shalare said into the phone. “I asked for the meeting, so it’s only right that I come to you, at your convenience.”

“Is tomorrow afternoon all right with you?” Royal Beaumont replied, his voice as steel-cored courteous as the Irishman’s.

“Well, that would be fine indeed. Anytime at all, just say the word.”

“Four o’clock?”

“Just the time I would have chosen for myself.”

“Anything special I can have for you here? What do you drink?”

“Ah, Mr. Beaumont,” Shalare said, chuckling, “if you have to ask that question, I can tell you’re not familiar with my reputation.”

“Oh, I think I am,” Beaumont said. “Do you need directions to my place?”

“I surely do,” Shalare said. “I know it’s way out in the country, somewhere, but I could be wandering around for hours. You won’t mind if I bring a driver? He wouldn’t be sitting in on our meeting, of course.”

“Bring whoever you like,” Beaumont said. “We’ll take care of them.”

1959 October 05 Monday 11:38

“Daddy Moses, could I talk to you?”

“You can always talk to me, gal. You know that.”

Rosa Mae scuffed the toe of her flat-heeled white shoe against the just-vacuumed mauve carpet that covered the eighth-floor hallway. She looked at her shoes as if fascinated by the sight.

“What is it, child?” Moses asked her. “You in some kind of trouble?”

“No. I’m not… No! I wouldn’t never-”

“There’s all kinds of trouble,” the elderly man said, soothingly. “I wasn’t thinking about… what you was.”

“I… I need to ask your advice about something. But I’m a little scared.”

“Scared of Moses? How that going to be? You know I’m-”

“That’s what I mean!” Rosa Mae said, plaintively. “You’re like a father to me. Since I come to work here, you always look out for me, and…”

“And what, child?”

“And I couldn’t bear it if you was to think… if you didn’t think I was doing right.”

“You call me ‘Daddy,’ and it does two things, Rosa Mae,” the old man said. “It makes me proud, ’cause if I had been blessed with a child, I’d want her to be just like you. And it makes me… makes me responsible, too. A good father, he don’t judge. If there’s something you need, I help you. That’s all there is to that. I ain’t no preacher. Whatever you got yourself into-”

“Oh, Daddy,” Rosa said, eyes shining with barely restrained tears, “it’s nothing like that. Nothing like you think. Can I come down to your office later, and just… talk?”

“Sure you can, honey. We do it at lunchtime, all right?”

1959 October 05 Monday 11:44

The dull-orange ’53 Oldsmobile pulled up in front of a fire-gutted building on Cardinal Street, barely inside Hawks territory. Five teenagers in black-and-gold jackets were lounging on the stone steps; three sitting, two standing.

The front passenger door of the Oldsmobile opened, and a well-proportioned youth stepped onto the sidewalk. He was wearing a mustard-yellow satin shirt and black peg pants, saddle-stitched to match his shirt. The pants were sharply creased, billowing at the knee before tapering to a tight cuff as they broke over pointy-toed alligator-look shoes. Dark aviator-style sunglasses concealed his eyes.

“Who’s Ace?” he asked.

One of the standing Hawks pointed without speaking, recovering some of the face lost when their leader had not been recognized.