Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

And had Dick been wrong? Joe smiled genially towards the lady in the tights who seemed in the act of “la savatting” the White-eyed Kaffir on the opposite wall. A smart lad, with a head on his shoulders… Had Joe a head on his shoulders? Joe could have laughed, split himself, it was too easy, too, too easy, it was money for jam. It was all the front you put on; doing the other fellow before he did you. He shifted the toothpick, slid his hand into his inside pocket, pulled out a thin, mottle-covered book. The book pleased Joe. The book said between the red ruled lines two hundred and two pounds ten shillings and sixpence to the credit of Mr. Joe Gowlan, 7 Brown Street, Shiphead. The book proved that Joe was a considerable success.

The ’phone rang, Joe lifted the receiver.

“Hello! Yes, Mr. Carr, yes. Certainly. The two-thirty. Ten shillings Slider, any to come Blackbird in the four o’clock. You’re on, Mr. Carr.”

Carr, the chemist in Bank Street that was, Joe ruminated; funny the people what bet you never think would bet. Carr looked as though he thought of nothing but jalap and titties, went to chapel every Sunday with his wife and had ten bob on regular twice a week. Won, too. Won a packet often. You could pretty well tell the ones what won, they were cautious and up to the game, never showed it when they won. And the losers, you could tell them just the same. Take Tracy, now, that young Tracy who had come to Shiphead last month, there was a born loser for you, if you like. With mug written all over his silly dial. From the minute young Tracy had made up to him in Markey’s Billiard-room over a game of pin-pool and put a quid on Sally Sloper, finished last in a field of fourteen, he had taken young Tracy’s number. Young Tracy was anybody’s meat, thin, sloppy, fade-away chin, woodbine and laugh. And for all the woodbine young Tracy had money to play the horses, a matter of twenty quid straight he’d had on in the month and lost it all, lost every blinking time. Young Tracy had stopped being anybody’s meat, he was Joe’s meat now, and don’t you make no mistake, thought Joe.

’Phone again.

“Hello! Hello!” Whatever Joe’s private simplicities he was magnificent upon the ’phone. He had improved. He was sonorous, breezy, classy — as the occasion demanded. He did not murder King’s English now, except to register extreme affability. He lolled back, grinning, not business this time, just the little lady from the pay box of the Picturedrome giving him a tinkle before her boss came down:

“Hello, Minnie, uh-huh, who did you think it was — Chinglung-soo? Ha! Ha! Oh, you’re barmy, Minnie! What! For the three o’clock… or any race? Hellup, Minnie, what d’ye think I am… Dr. Barnado’s Homes? Expect me to give away state secrets for nowt — I mean nothing. Not on your sweet little Pearl White life, Minnie! I told you before… What! …” His mouth open, gloating suddenly, Joe listened. “Well, that’s different, Minnie, didn’t I always say I would, Minnie? It was you that got up in the air about it. Why, yes, Minnie… if you’ve changed your mind I think I can put you on a cert.” Swelling with elation, Joe kept his tone calm, persuasive, flattering. “You leave it to me, Minnie. Why yes, a cert… I always said you had it in you, Minnie. I’ll do something for you if you do something for me, that’s our motto, eh, Minnie? But listen, if you think you can slip it across me you’re… oh, all right, Minnie. I was only thinking. Eleven o’clock then, outside the Drome, you bet your garters I’ll be there. I’ll bring your winnings!”

Joe rang off exultantly. He’d always said, hadn’t he, that that was the way to do it… like in the school book, make the mountain come to Mahommey. His chest swelled. He wanted to get up and dance, do a cake-walk up and down the office. But no, he was beyond that now, a man of the world, cool, up to a thing or two. He composed himself, rested his toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, expertly lit a cigarette and got down to work.

First he took out all the morning’s slips. He considered each slip expertly, scrutinised and weighed it before he passed it. In the end he had two heaps: one large heap of likely bets and another consisting of three slips, all of which, barring three separate and individual miracles, he knew for certain losers. Tracey, for instance, had three pounds — the biggest plunge he’d ever had — on Hydrangea, an old tubed pacemaker of a horse that wasn’t even trying. Joe smiled slightly for the witless Tracy, as he did a mental calculation — no head for figgers, eh? — tore Tracy’s slip into tiny fragments. Fulbrook and Sweet Orb were on the other slips — he tore these up also. Still smiling he looked at the clock: half-past one, no more coming in. Genially, he picked up the ’phone, chaffed the operator a bit, got through to Tynecastle, a few miles down the wire.

“Hello, that Dick Jobey! This is Joe, Dick. Not a bad day. Ha! Ha! That’s right, Dick. Are you ready, right, Dick, off we go”… Joe began to read out the undestroyed slips. He read them out smartly, clearly, rather sonorously. He finished. “Yes, that’s all, Dick. What? Am I sure? You bet I am, Dick. Ever know me to make a mistake? Yes, that is the lot, Dick. Yes. So-long. See you Saturday.”

Joe smacked down the receiver heartily, rose, winked at the lady in tights, cocked his hat, locked the office and went out. He crossed the bustling street to the Fountain, went through the bar, nodding here, there, everywhere. They all knew him… him… Joe Gowlan… commission agent… Big Joe Gowlan…

He had a beefsteak, a large thick juicy beefsteak, cooked red, the way he liked it with onions, chips and a pint of three X. He enjoyed every bit of the beef, every drop of the bitter. A rare capacity for enjoyment had Joe. Then he had a lump of Stilton and a roll. Good, that Stilton was… by God, it was good… what had he known about Stilton a couple of years ago? …he was going up, up, up in the world… him… Joe Gowlan.

The afternoon was more or less his own. He had a chat with Preston, Jack Preston the landlord of the Fountain… nice fella Jack was. Then he strolled down to Markey’s and played a couple of games of snooker. Tracy was not there, funny Tracy not being there, but never mind, Tracy’s three quid was safe and sound in Joe’s inside pocket.

After the snooker Joe rolled over to Young Curley’s gymnasium. Joe was a regular patron of Young Curley — a fella couldn’t do nothing if he wasn’t fit! Couldn’t enjoy himself neither! Now could he? A little of everything in its right place, thought Joe blandly, remembering eleven o’clock and Minnie.

In the gym Joe stripped his beefy twelve stone, did a turn on the bars, shadow boxed, then sparred three rounds easy with Curley himself. He sweated beautifully, then got into the bath, soaked long and hot. After that a needle shower and a hard rub down. Curley didn’t rub him hard enough.

“Harder, man, harder,” Joe urged, “what d’ye think I pay you for?” He was the boss, wasn’t he? and he had to take it out of Curley somehow. Curley had caught him too loud a wallop on the ear that last third round. Pink and glowing, Joe slid off the table like a big smooth seal. He padded to his cubicle, dressed carefully, threw Curley half a crown and sauntered out.

Five o’clock — just right for the office. On the way back to the Square he bought a late special, inspected the stop-press with a confident untroubled eye. As he had expected, Hydrangea nowhere, Fulbrook fourth in a field of six, Sweet Orb also ran. Joe gave no sign, only the mugs did that, perhaps there was a shade more swagger in his walk as he crossed the street and let himself into the office.

At his desk Joe went through the day’s accounts, picked up the telephone and rang Tynecastle.