The Natural Page 10

  “I was thinking of Olaf Jespersen.” The Judge’s eyes took on a faraway, slightly glazed look. “He was a farmer I knew in my youth—terrible life. Yet as farmers often do, he managed to live comfortably because he owned a plot of ground with a house on it and had come into possession of an extraordinary cow, Sieglinde. She was a splendid animal with soft and silky front and well-shaped hooves. Her milk yield was some nine gallons per diem, altogether exceptional. In a word she was a superior creature and had the nicest ways with children—her own of course; but Olaf was deeply disturbed by an ugly skin discoloration that ran across her rump. For a long while he had been eyeing Gussie, an albino cow of his neighbor down the road. One day he approached the man and asked if Gussie was for sale. The neighbor said yes, frankly admitting she gave very little milk although she consumed more than her share of fodder. Olaf said he was willing to trade Sieglinde for her and the neighbor readily agreed. Olaf went back for the cow but on the way to the neighbor’s she stepped into a rut in the road and keeled over as if struck dead. Olaf suffered a heart attack. Thus they were found but Sieglinde recovered and became, before very long, her splendid nine-gallon self, whereas Olaf was incapacitated for the remainder of his days. I often drove past his place and saw him sitting on the moldy front porch, a doddering cripple starving to death with his tubercular albino cow.”

  Roy worked the fable around in his mind and got the point. It was not an impressive argument: be satisfied with what you have, and he said so to the Judge.

  “‘The love of money is the root of all evil,’” intoned the Judge.

  “I do not love it, Judge. I have not been near enough to it to build up any affection to speak of.”

  “Think, on the one hand, of the almost indigent Abraham Lincoln, and on the other of Judas Iscariot. What I am saying is that emphasis upon money will pervert your values. One cannot begin to imagine how one’s life may alter for the worse under the impetus of wealth-seeking.”

  Roy saw how the land lay. “I will drop it to thirty-five thousand, the same as Bump, but not a cent less.”

  The Judge struck a match, throwing shadows on the wall. It was now night. He sucked a flame into his cigar. It went in like a slug, out like a moth—in and out, then forever in and the match was out. The cigar glowed, the Judge blew out a black fog of smoke, then they were once more in the dark.

  Lights on, you stingy bastard, Roy thought.

  “Pardon the absence of light,” the Judge said, almost making him jump. “As a youngster I was frightened of the dark—used to wake up sobbing in it, as if it were water and I were drowning—but you will observe that I have disciplined myself so thoroughly against that fear, that I much prefer a dark to a lit room, and water is my favorite beverage. Will you have some?”

  “No.”

  “There is in the darkness a unity, if you will, that cannot be achieved in any other environment, a blending of self with what the self perceives, an exquisite mystical experience. I intend some day to write a disquisition ‘On the Harmony of Darkness; Can Evil Exist in Harmony?’ It may profit you to ponder the question.”

  “All I know about the dark is that you can’t see in it.”

  “A pure canard. You know you can.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “You see me, don’t you?”

  “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I see somebody but I am not sure if it is you or a guy who sneaked in and took your chair.”

  The cigar glowed just enough to light up the Judge’s rubbery lips. It was him all right.

  “Twenty-five thousand,” Roy said in a low voice. “Ten less than Bump.”

  The cigar lit for a long pull then went out. Its smell was giving Roy a headache. The Judge was silent so long Roy wasn’t sure he would ever hear from him again. He wasn’t even sure he was there anymore but then he thought yes he is, I can smell him. He is here in the dark and if I come back tomorrow he will still be here and also the year after that.

  “‘He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent,’” spoke the Judge.

  “Judge,” said Roy, “I am thirty-four, going on thirty-five. That’s not haste, that’s downright slow.”

  “I hear that you bet money on horse races?”

  “In moderation, not more than a deuce on the daily double.”

  “Avoid gambling like a plague. It will cause your downfall. And stay away from loose ladies. ‘Put a knife to thy throat if thou be a man given to appetite.’”

  Roy could hear him open a drawer and take something out. Handing it to him, he lit a match over it and Roy read: “The Curse of Venereal Disease.”

  He tossed the pamphlet on the desk.

  “Yes or no?” he said.

  “Yes or no what?” The Judge’s voice was edged with anger.

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  The Judge rose. “I shall have to ask you to fulfill the obligations of your contract.”

  Roy got up. “I wouldn’t exactly say you were building up my good will for next year.”

  “I have learned to let the future take care of itself.”

  The Judge took some other papers out of the drawer. “I presume these are your signatures?” He scratched up another match.

  “That’s right.”

  “The first acknowledging the receipt of two uniforms and sundry articles?”

  “Right.”

  “And the second indicating the receipt of a third uniform?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “You were entitled to only two. I understand that some of the other clubs issue four, but that is an extravagance. Here, therefore, is a bill to the amount of fifty-one dollars for property destroyed. Will you remit or shall I deduct the sum from your next check?”

  “I didn’t destroy them, Bump did.”

  “They were your responsibility.”

  Roy picked up the receipts and bill and tore them to pieces. He did the same with the VD pamphlet, then blew the whole business over the Judge’s head. The scraps of paper fluttered down like snow on his round hat.

  “The interview is ended,” snapped the Judge. He scratched up a match and with it led Roy to the stairs. He stood on the landing, his oily shadow dripping down the steps as Roy descended.

  “Mr. Hobbs.”

  Roy stopped.

  “Resist all evil—”

  The match sputtered and went out. Roy went the rest of the way down in the pitch black.

  “How’d you make out, kid?”

  It was Max Mercy lurking under a foggy street lamp at the corner. He had tailed Roy from the dressing room and had spent a frustrated hour thinking I know the guy but who is he? It was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t spit it out. He saw the face as he thought he had seen it before somewhere, but what team, where, in what league, and doing what that caused him to be remembered? The mystery was like an itch. The more he scratched the more he drew his own blood. At times the situation infuriated him. Once he dreamed he had the big s.o.b. by the throat and was forcing him to talk. Then he told the world Mercy knew.

  The sight of the columnist did not calm Roy as he came out of the tower. Why does he haunt me? He thought he knew what Max sensed and he knew that he didn’t want him to know. I don’t want his dirty eyes peeking into my past. What luck for me that I had Sam’s wallet in my pocket that night, and they wrote down his name. This creep will never find that out, or anything else about me unless I tell him, and the only time I’ll do that is when I am dead.

  “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 fiver 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 fiver.

  “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?”

  Everybody laughed but Roy.

  “I see you met him,” Max said.

  Gus winked the glass eye. “We had some dealings.”

  “How’d you make out?”

  “No evidence. We were acquitted.” He chuckled softly.

  Max made a note in his book.

  “Don’t write that, Max,” said Gus.

  Max quickly tore out the page.
“Whatever you say, Gus.”

  Gus beamed. He turned to Roy. “How’d it go today, slugger?”

  “Fine,” Roy said.

  “He got five for five in the first, and four hits in the nightcap,” Max explained.

  “Say, what d’ye know?” Gus whistled softly. “That’ll cost me a pretty penny.” He focused his good eye on Roy. “I was betting against you today, slugger.”

  “You mean the Knights?”

  “No, just you.”

  “Didn’t know you bet on any special player.”

  “On anybody or anything. We bet on strikes, balls, hits, runs, innings, and full games. If a good team plays a lousy team we will bet on the spread of runs. We cover anything anyone wants to bet on. Once in a Series game I bet a hundred grand on three pitched balls.”

  “How’d you make out on that?”

  “Guess.”

  “I guess you didn’t.”

  “Right, I didn’t.” Gus chuckled. “But it don’t matter. The next week I ruined the guy in a different deal. Sometimes we win, sometimes we don’t but the percentage is for us. Today we lost on you, some other time we will clean up double.”

  “How’ll you do that?”

  “When you are not hitting so good.”

  “How’ll you know when to bet on that?”

  Gus pointed to his glass eye. “The Magic Eye,” he said. “It sees everything and tells me.”

  The steaks came and Roy cut into his.

  “Wanna see how it works, slugger? Let’s you and I bet on something.”

  “I got nothing I want to bet on,” Roy said, his mouth full of meat and potatoes.

  “Bet on any old thing and I will come up with the opposite even though your luck is running high now.”

  “It’s a helluva lot more than luck.”

  “I will bet anyway.”

  Memo looked interested. Roy decided to take a chance.

  “How about that I will get four hits in tomorrow’s game?”

  Gus paused. “Don’t bet on baseball now,” he said. “Bet on something we can settle here.”

  “Well, you pick it and I’ll bet against you.”

  “Done,” said Gus. “Tell you what, see the bar over by the entrance?”