Бернард Маламуд - The Natural

“Listen, El Smearo,” he said, “why don’t you stay home in bed?”

Max laughed hollowly.

“Who has ever seen the like of it?” he said, trying to put some warmth into his voice. “Here’s the public following everything a man does with their tongue hanging out and all he gives out with is little balls of nothing. What are you hiding? If it was something serious you woulda been caught long ago — your picture has been in the papers every day for weeks.”

“I ain’t hiding a thing.”

“Who says you are? But what’s all the mystery about? Where were you born? Why’d you stay out of the game so long? What was your life like before this? My paper will guarantee you five grand in cash for five three-thousand word articles on your past life. I’ll help you write them. What do you say?”

“I say no. My life is my own business.”

“Think of your public.”

“All they’re entitled to is to pay a buck and watch me play.”

“Answer me this — is it true you once tried out with another major league team?”

“I got nothing to say.”

“Then you don’t deny it?”

“I got nothing to say.”

“Were you once an acrobat or something in a circus?”

“Same answer as before.”

Max scratched in his mustache. “Hobbs, the man nobody knows. Say, kid, you’re not doing it on purpose, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“To raise speculation and get publicity?”

“Nuts I am.”

“I don’t catch. You’re a public figure. You got to give the fans something once in a while to keep up their good will to you.”

Roy thought a second. “Okay, tell them my cheapskate of a boss has turned me down flat on a raise and I am still his slave for a lousy three thousand bucks.”

Max wrote a hasty note in his black book.

“Listen, Roy, let’s you and I have a little chin-chin. You’ll like me better once you get to know me. Have you had your supper yet?”

“No.”

“Then have a steak with me at the Pot of Fire. Know the place?”

“I have never been there.”

“It’s a night club with a nice girlie show. All the hot-shot celebrities like yourself hang out there. They have a good kitchen and a first class bar.”

“Okay with me.” He was in a mood for something for nothing.

In the cab Max said, “You know, I sometimes get the funny feeling that I have met you some place before. Is that right?”

Roy thrust his head forward. “Where?”

Max contemplated his eyes and solid chin.

“It musta been somebody else.”

At the entrance to the Pot of Fire a beggar accosted them.

“Jesus,” Max said, “can’t I ever get rid of you?”

“All I ask is a buck.”

“Go to hell.”

The beggar was hurt. “You’ll get yours,” he said. “You’ll get yours,” said Max. “I’ll call a cop.” “You’ll get yours,” the beggar said. “You too,” he said to Roy and spat on the sidewalk.

“Friend of yours?” Roy asked as they went down the stairs into the nightspot.

Max’s face was inflamed. “I can’t get rid of that scurvy bastard. Picks this place to hang around and they can’t flush him outa here.”

Inside the club the audience was in an uproar. The show was on and some screaming, half-naked girls were being chased by masked devils with tin pitchforks. Then the lights went Out and the devils ran around poking at the customers. Roy was jabbed in the rear end. He grabbed at the devil but missed, then he heard a giggle and realized it was a girl. He grabbed for her again but the devil jabbed him and ran. When the lights went on all the girls and devils were gone. The customers guffawed and applauded.

“Come on,” Max said.

The captain had recognized him and was beckoning them to a ringside table. Roy sat down. Max looked around and bounced up.

“See a party I know. Be right back.”

The band struck up a number and the chorus wriggled out amid weaving spotlights for the finale. They were wearing red spangled briefs and brassieres and looked so pretty that Roy felt lonely.

Max was back.

“We’re changing tables. Gus Sands wants us with him.”

“Who’s he?”

Max looked to see if Roy was kidding.

“You don’t know Gus Sands?”

“Never heard of him.”

“What d’ye read, the Podunk Pipsqueak? They call him the Supreme Bookie, he nets at least ten million a year. Awfully nice guy and he will give you the silk shirt off his back. Also somebody you know is with him.”

“Who’s that?”

“Memo Paris.”

Roy got up. What’s she doing here? He followed Max across the floor to Gus Sands’s table. Memo was sitting there alone in a black strapless gown and wearing her hair up. The sight of her, so beautiful, hit him hard. He had been picturing her alone in her room nights. She said hello evasively. At first he thought she was still sore at him, but then he heard voices coming from the floor at the other side of the table and understood that was where she was looking.

A surprising semi-bald dome rose up above the table and Roy found himself staring into a pair of strange eyes, a mournful blue one and the other glowing weirdly golden. His scalp prickled as the bookie, a long stretch of bone, rose to his full height. The angle at which the spotlight had caught his glass eye, lighting it like a Christmas tree, changed, and the eye became just a ball of ice.

“S’matter, Gus?” Mercy said.

“Memo lost two bits.” His voice was sugar soft. “Find it yet?” he asked the waiter, still down on all fours.

“Not yet, sir.” He got up. “No, sir.”

“Forget it.” Sands flicked a deft flyer into the man’s loose fist.

He shook hands with Roy. “Glad to meet you, slugger. Whyn’t you sit down?”

“Tough luck, babyface,” he said, giving Memo a smile. Roy sat down facing her but she barely glanced at him. Though dressed up, she was not entirely herself. The blue eye shadow she had on could not hide the dark circles around her eyes and she looked tired. Her chair was close to Gus’s. Once he chucked her under the chin and she giggled. It sickened Roy because it didn’t make sense.

The busboy cleaned up the remains of two lobsters. Gus slipped him a flyer.

“Nice kid,” he said softly. Reaching for the menu, he handed it to Roy.

Roy read it and although he was hungry couldn’t concentrate on food. What did this glass-eye bookie, a good fifty years if not more, mean to a lively girl like Memo, a girl who was, after all, just out of mourning for a young fellow like Bump? Over the top of the menu he noticed Gus’s soft-boned hands and the thick, yellow-nailed fingers. He had pouches under both the good and fake eyes, and though he smiled a lot, his expression was melancholy. Roy disliked him right off. There was something wormy about him. He belonged in the dark with the Judge. Let them both haunt themselves there.

“Order, guys,” Gus said.

Roy did just to have something to do.

The captain came over and asked was everything all right. “Check and double check.” Gus pressed two folded fives into his palm. Roy didn’t like the way he threw out the bucks. He thought of the raise he didn’t get and felt bad about it.

“Lemme buy you a drink, slugger,” Gus said, pointing to his own Scotch.

“No, thanks.”

“Clean living, eh?”

“The eyes,” Roy said, pointing to his. “Got to keep ‘em clear.”

Gus smiled. “Nice goin’, slugger.”

“He needs a drink,” Max said. “The Judge gave him nix on a raise.”

Roy could have bopped him for telling it in front of Memo.

Gus was interested.

“Y’mean he didn’t pull out his pouch and shake you out some rusty two-dollar gold pieces?”