Джеймс Кейн - The Moth

Or at least so it seemed at that time.

Shorty Lee, the hobo’s friend, had fixed up a jungle that was a lulu, all right, and though I wouldn’t exactly trade off my membership in the University Club to get into it, it did things to you that somebody had put up a couple of shacks that guys could sleep in, got them some clean pots to cook in, bricks for their fires, and connected up a shower so they could get clean and a water tap so they could drink. I didn’t go there right away, though. I hit town around ten o’clock, checked in at a little hotel down by the river, then went to a café for dinner. It was just a cheap café, like a million of them all over the country that had opened up since Prohibition got repealed. It was the first time in my life I’d ever been in a bar. In Baltimore, they had served liquor, of course, but it had come in a cup and had no name and you drank it quick. I ordered a Martini, with steak, fried potatoes and coffee. Then I noticed two girls on stools, talking to each other and not with anybody that I could see. They were just Western barflies, in checked blouses, dungaree pants, and stitched boots, but not so bad either. One of them saw me, looked sharp, then looked again. I looked back. Then I began to wonder if she was having any effect on me. I mean, I was trying to figure if it was getting anywhere, this campaign Buck and I had started by stealing some grub. Next thing I knew the waiter was shaking me to wake up and eat. Looked like I had some little way to go. I felt my money. It was still there.

In the morning I found some other place, and had sliced orange, ham and three eggs, flapjacks, and coffee. They treated me O.K., but by now I was getting more and more self-conscious about my scrubbed-out jeans. I began looking for clothes. The good places I stayed out of, because I figured they’d be shy of the stuff I wanted. But on a side street, back of one of the hotels, I spotted a place that said “summer clearance sale,” and walked over there. First I picked out a pair of heavy khaki work pants, the kind that go up under your chin in front and fasten with a pair of suspenders behind. Then I tried on shoes. I needed brogans, but got the best-looking pair I could see. Then I got two pair of woolen stockings. I think they felt best of all. On the road, if you’ve got any socks at all you’re lucky, but if they’re not all full of holes that cut your toes and blister your heels, then you’re asleep, dreaming. To wobble my foot and feel clean wool all over it was wonderful. Then I picked out drawers, undershirt, and shirt. I wanted a check, like the girls had had, but I happened to think it might be the one thing somebody would remember me by, if they were pinned down in court. I said make it khaki, to go with the pants. Then I picked out flannel pants, to wear under the khaki, a dark coat, and a brown hat, one of the two-and-a-half-gallon jobs that practically everybody wears in that neck of the woods. I dressed in the backroom, and told them to throw my old stuff away. Was I glad to kick it all in a corner, and step out of there clean, whole, and with a decent smell!

Outside, on a bench, at a bus stop, I counted up again, and had nearly sixty dollars. I sat there, trying to think what I was going to do. Across from me girls kept going up and down, and I wondered if my sixty dollars, provided I ate three times a day, would get me in shape so they looked like girls, instead of just things in skirts. But I had to cut Buck and Hosey in, I knew that, and if I felt it had to be my own way, to be safe, I still had to do it. I walked on down to the store again, and bought them the same outfits. There was no trouble over sizes. I’d heard them call theirs, so many times, in the missions, I’d have known them in my sleep. I took the stuff up over to the hotel, taking care to keep all sales slips in my hip pocket, in case. I still had a little money left, so I went out and bought beans, bacon, eggs, and stuff. I still had my gunny sack, that I had washed out with the other things in the Salt River, so I opened all packages, dumped them in, and threw away the wrappings. I shook it up, like it had been filled in a hurry. I took it over to the S.P. tracks. From there, following Hosey’s directions, I hit the jungle, and there, believe it or not, feeding a fire he’d made between two piles of bricks, was Buck. “Well, for God’s sake look at Adolph Menjou!”

“Buck, how are you?”

“Sir, I’m fine.”

“Hosey here?”

“Out mooching grub. He’ll be along.”

“I brought some grub.”

“Well, will you talk?”

“Slight case of theft, that’s all.”

“You mean—?”

“Well, what do you do in a case like that? I was walking along, going about my business, when up the street a piece of fire apparatus went by. Well, I stopped and looked like everybody else. Then, in front of a store, a party came out, and went running up there, to see better. Or maybe it was his house that was burning down, I don’t know. Well, could I help it if that was the place I’d decided to price a few small articles I needed? I went inside, stomped on the floor, hollered, and whistled three times, and nobody came. So I filled my sack. Every pile I saw, I took three of a kind, and then slid out the back way. But going past the kitchen I noticed some things to eat. Anyway, I dropped them in the sack on the principle we needed them most. Then I beat it.”

The way he grabbed those socks, and smelled them, and hugged the shoes to him, made you want to turn your eyes away. Hosey came, with a sackful of the rotten potatoes and bread heels and the crab bait that we always had whenever he went out to mooch. He acted the same as Buck, only worse. When we finally got the grub cooked and they were outside some of it and all dressed up in their clothes, I could hear little giggles coming out of them and they’d keep passing their hands over their mouths, to hide their grins, or maybe rub them off. I kept thinking how funny it was, that I had to cook up this yarn, because I couldn’t trust them with the truth. But then, sure enough, Hosey had the wind-up on it: “Boys, we got to move.”

“Why?”

Buck wasn’t any too agreeable about it, full of food and all dressed up like he was. “Can’t we just set, for once in our life?”

“They’ll be looking for us. The cops.”

“And how would they know who did it?”

“Ain’t we wearing the evidence?”

I wanted to tell him for God’s sake be his age, but I’d told them this dilly, and if I went back on it I’d have to tell them the truth, and that didn’t suit me. So there was nothing to do but listen to him line it out, how we’d pulled two jobs here in Arizona, and had to get out of the state, quick. So that’s how we came to hit for the bridge and cross into California.

We pulled jobs in Indio, Banning, Redlands, and San Bernardino, then doubled over and pulled one in Mojave. That was a little grocery on one of the streets off the highway, railroad track, and rabbit run in the middle of town. But when I had the stuff sacked, and was tiptoeing out, Buck called. There were shots, and bullets went past my head. I ran so hard that when the three of us met, in a jungle by the water tank, I couldn’t talk for an hour. We cooked our grub and ate it, but figured the time had come for another change of states and hopped the U.P. for Las Vegas. There, after making two dollars parking cars in a lot on Fifth Street, I took a fifty-cent room in a motel near by, washed, shaved, and looked myself over. In the face, I looked what I was, a hard, sun-baked bum. On clothes, I looked good enough, though not quite good enough to sign in under my own name. Ever since Atlanta, in all missions, flophouses, and joints, I had used some phony monicker, like Dikes or Davis, and that’s what I did now.