Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“I’m worried,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Hairy Murray the tummler is driving up to play handball tomorrow afternoon.”

“You’re worried about that? Call off the game.”

“I’ll rip his head off.”

“Sure. But not tomorrow.”

“I put money down.”

“Forfeit. Tell him you’re sick. Hairy Murray doesn’t need your money. He’ll let you keep it.”

“He hangs out with hard guys. He won’t let me keep one cent. It’s a question of honor.”

“It’s a question of you being sick.”

“I can play.”

“You want to be king of the little black ball.”

“Yeah.”

We sat for a while in silence. Then I said, “Because of Sheila?”

“That’s over.”

“Yesterday you were fixing me up with her sister, the great chemist.”

“I phoned Sheila last night. I told her what happened and said to stay out of my life.”

“What did she say?”

“She was crying.”

“I’m sorry. So why are you playing?”

“I want to win.”

“You want to lose.”

“If I need a psychiatrist, I’ll give you a ring.”

“Do that. I’ll have you put in a straitjacket. You had a fit right in my face. El gran mambo.”

Hairy Murray arrived like a boxer, with an entourage. He was on the short side, with a thick neck, wide and deeply sloping shoulders, and short arms. He wore a white linen suit, white shoes, and sunglasses. He looked tropical. When he stepped out of his Cadillac, he began limping heavily toward the handball court, then, suddenly, he became a blind man, walking in the wrong direction. His entourage, five guys in flashy gabardine slacks, were laughing their heads off. The dining-room and kitchen staff were already in the stands, along with the musicians and a lot of the guests. When people arrived from other resorts, they sat on the grass. Everyone knew about Larry’s seizure. It made the game more interesting.

Hairy Murray waved to the crowd, then began to strip. One of the gabardine men held his shorts and sneakers. It was another joke, changing in public. When Hairy Murray dropped his pants, he snapped them back up again instantly. He had no underwear. He pretended to be confused, shamed by his forgetfulness. Everyone had seen his big cock slop free of his pants. Men cheered and booed. Women stared wildly at each other, smiling with disgust. Hairy Murray’s entourage, virtually in tears, was laughing as they made a circle around him, shielding him from view while he changed.

Larry ignored the spectacle and warmed up, serving the ball to himself, slamming righty, then lefty. He looked thoughtful, faintly slower. He wouldn’t even glance at Hairy Murray, whose legs, arms, back, and neck were covered with black hair. A gold Star of David, on a fine gold chain, floated on the black sea of chest hair. I thought maybe he would beat Larry. A man couldn’t have so much hair without being exceptionally gifted. His arms were stumpy but looked powerful. The question was, could he move fast? Larry’s hope was to hit wide angles, make Hairy Murray chase the ball.

The coin was tossed. Larry called tails. It came down tails. Hairy Murray quit joking, took his position on the court, and braced to receive the first serve, a tremendous boom off the board, speeding back low and at a wide angle to the left sideline. Hairy Murray was after it with a blur of short steps. He sent the ball back with the least flick of his left wrist, a soft, high lob. Larry went drifting to the end line, where he returned hard, but no slam was possible. They played even for seventeen points. Neither was clearly superior. Then Hairy Murray served, won four straight points, and the game was over. There wasn’t a sound from the stands and nobody moved to pay off bets. Hairy Murray said, “Double or nothing?”

Larry shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll spot you the four points you lost and triple the bet.”

“Thanks, no.”

“You don’t have the cash?”

“Not today.”

“You’ll owe me.”

“You want to play me that bad?”

“I want to kill you.” He said this smiling.

Larry looked vague, as if he didn’t remember he was a Teutonic barbarian, handball ace, mambo genius, future dentist, and the man Sheila Kahn had been smitten by so hard it ruined her life. I wanted to go to the bunkhouse, go to sleep. Seeing him like this was a kind of betrayal. Nameless, creepy feelings swarmed about my heart. I wished I could shoot him and put an end to my feelings. I wished he would say goodbye, go. He couldn’t say anything, and couldn’t go. He bounced the ball, caught it, bounced it. Hairy Murray put his hands on his hips, waiting, patience and contempt in his posture.

Then another man walked out on the court. A bald man, so much the opposite of Hairy Murray, he looked like his taller brother. It was Morris Kahn. I hadn’t noticed him arrive. “Take the bet,” he said. “I’ll cover it.” Morris looked haggard, with dark, puffy crescents under his eyes.

Hairy Murray said, “Hey, Starker, you hear this cat?”

“I don’t want to lose your money,” said Larry to Morris.

“So don’t lose it.” Morris’s voice was quick and definitive. “Do you think I drove up here, two hours from the city, to see a loser?”

Hairy Murray, grinning, said, “Four points, kid. Beat me.” He twitched faintly, enough to suggest epilepsy, then grinned, holding his hands out, palms up, to suggest no harm intended. Morris said, “Chazzer fisl kosher,” meaning, more or less, Hairy Murray is a pig showing us clean little feet. Hairy Murray laughed, exhibiting every tooth and a flare of crimson gums. In his thickness and vigor, he was pleased; didn’t feel injured. Smiling at Larry, he said, “What’s shaking, baby? You’ll take a four-point spot?”

He looked at Morris; said nothing.

“A four-point spot is for losers,” said Morris. “Larry plays even. Double or nothing.” Morris reached into his pants pocket, came up with a quarter, tossed it high, and said, “Call, Larry.” The coin hit the ground and rolled away too far to make out how it landed. Hairy Murray looked at Larry and said, “Nu, boychick, you call it, or I’ll call it.”

Larry said, “Tails.” I heard a sort of keening in his voice, high and miserable. It came from neither fear nor defiance, but, like the wind of Golgotha, from desolation. In that instant, I knew the difference between winners and losers has no relation to talent or beauty or personal will, what athletes call “desire,” but only to a will beyond ourselves. Larry had just established his connection to it. If I weren’t exceedingly frugal, I’d have bet every cent I made that summer on Larry. He slipped off his wristwatch and T-shirt, handed them to me, then returned to the court. His eyes were lonely, remotely seeing, unlike the blind man a day ago, torso electrified and thrashing. Charged with cold control, he looked grim and invincible. I wasn’t the only one who felt it. People were making new bets even before the first serve. Hairy Murray took in the change. He chuckled, as if he’d thought of something funny but decided not to say it. I think he felt fear. Between himself and Larry, the air had become glass. Hairy Murray would play against himself, his limits.

Morris went to the coin to see how it lay. He said, “Larry serves.” Morris then picked up the coin and walked off the court, returning to the stands, where he’d left his newspaper. He began reading as he had that morning in the dining room. The moments of the game were of no concern.

Larry bent low to serve. His long naked arm swept back, then flashed forward. He slapped the ball, and it boomed off the wood face of the backboard. Hairy Murray returned boom for boom. Larry then hit a killer. Murray couldn’t return it without tearing his knuckles on the concrete. He let it go. Larry served again, stronger, faster. Near the end of the game, Morris looked up from his newspaper. There was no excitement in his eyes and hardly much interest. He looked back at the newspaper, its bad news. From the way his shoulders slumped, I felt his resignation. Larry won by eleven points. People were counting money, passing it back and forth. Morris put the paper down. His expression was tired and neither pleased nor displeased. He rose and walked toward Larry.