Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [17]
“Holy cats,” Jack said. “Did you see this shower? One sprayer up on top, four on the sides. Man, they must stand in there and just plain go out of their minds. An the control aint two handles, it’s one that goes from cold to hot.”
The master bedroom was on the main floor and in the center was a large double bed, with gilt posts and a white headboard. All the furniture in the bedroom matched and there were sets of pictures on the wall. On the bed was a coverlet of gold satin, and Jack could not resist throwing himself onto the bed. “Man!” was all he could say. He lay on his back and looked up at the crystal light fixture in the ceiling.
Denny began at last to go through the drawers in the high bureau. “This guy must have fifty pairs of socks,” he commented. In one top drawer he found cuff links, an old worn gold ring (which Denny pocketed), and assorted trinkets, but no cash. Jack got up and helped him, going through the woman’s vanity table. Then both of them examined the suits in the man’s closet, finding only ticket stubs and a few pennies.
“Where’s that bar?” Jack wanted to know. “Maybe there’s some booze. I could use a drink.”
“It’s in the basement. Let’s go.”
The party room had a red tile floor, a fireplace ( another one! Jack thought with amazement), brightly colored cushions on metal furniture, and a polished wood bar at one end, with three leatherette-capped stools. Jack sat at the bar and Denny went around behind. There were several bottles of liquor visible on the backbar, and Denny discovered a small refrigerator, which proved to be about half-full of bottled beer. Denny held up one of the glistening bottles and said, “Lookie. West Coast brand. What fuggin cheapskates. What’ll it be?”
“A boilermaker, my good man.”
“Lessee,” said Denny, examining the bottles on the backbar; “do you want Scotch, bourbon, rye, or maybe gin?”
Jack giggled. “Make it Scotch and rye. I ain’t never had either.”
Denny took two pilsner glasses, put them on the bar, half filled them with a mixture of whiskies, and then added beer from one of the bottles, which he then tipped up and drained. He and Jack tapped their glasses together and drank.
“Whew. Jesus H. Christ!” Denny said after a moment.
Jack grinned at him expectantly. “Let’s have some more.”
“You know, this has been a hell of a night, man. We get laid, race all around hell in a Caddie, an here we are drinkin expensive booze. Do you reckon this is how the rich folks live?”
“If we only had some money,” Jack said. “I wonder where they keep the spare cash.”
“Have a nother drink, baby.”
“I wonder when they’re comin home?”
“Aw hell, I seen the kid Wednesday or Tuesday. They won’t be back for a week. Hey, we can stay all fuckin night.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Have another couple of drinks, find the money, sleep, an cut out just before dawn.”
“What if we find a couple thousand bucks! Hey, we could go to Mexico, too!”
“Lemme try some of that gin now,” Jack said. “I never drank any of that, either.”
Three
Billy lay in his bed in the Couch Street hotel and half-listened to a dim, fragmented conversation between a man and a woman in the next room. He was familiar with the subject of the conversation; he had heard it a thousand times at home: The war was over, the easy West Coast money was being pulled out of Negro reach, prices were going crazy, finance companies were getting stonyhearted again...Billy grinned bitterly. It’s like they wanted the war back, so they could make more money.
The man in the next room was trying to convince the woman that they should move to Detroit, where he was certain he could get work; she, on the other hand, did not want to leave her mother’s family. The argument went back and forth dully, and Billy stopped hearing it. He had his own troubles.
He got out of bed and took off his jockey shorts and went to the sink in the corner, turning on the hot-water tap. A thin stream of water fizzed out, barely lukewarm, and Billy took his washcloth out of his bag and gave himself a sponge bath, standing on the hotel