Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [33]
“You will,” Denny said with admiration. “You got the guts, an Kol Mano says you got the brains. Hey, tell me one thing; how much money you got on you? No kiddin, we won’t take it; I just want to know how much you won today an how much you stashed. Come on.”
Billy laughed lightly. “I brought twenty; I win almost a hundred today.”
“God!” Denny said.
“Balls!” Jack said. He got up, his joints already rusty, and moved back toward the house. He could still hear them talking about their future plans as he went into the house. It was not a significant moment for any of them, but later on, when Jack had plenty of time to think, the moment took on significance: it was the last time he was to see either of them for years. He thought about them, both of them, often, as he sat in darkness and dreamed away his past; thought of Denny’s friendliness, his openhearted kindness; blew it up all out of proportion, made Denny into a kind of saint in his memory; effectively destroyed the real Denny—thought about Billy and about his talent, his courage, exaggerated him as he did with Denny, so that both boys became almost symbolic of what he lacked, or what he dreamed, in darkness, that he lacked. Then he forgot about them as he forgot about almost everything. But that was later.
Right now, all he wanted was sleep. He was utterly drunk, and sleep seemed as desirable as a woman. He made his way upstairs, and looked into the boy’s bedroom. There was a couple on the bed. He said, “Excuse me,” and went to one of the girls’ rooms. It was empty. He got onto the bed, his body almost deadweight, felt the coolness of the coverlet under him, and passed out.
Six
They really did not know what to do with him. He refused to tell them who he was, or how old he was, or anything at all. They took him down and booked him as John Doe and threw him in City Prison to await magistrate’s court.
It was not easy to do. When he awakened, turned over, and saw the two big plainclothesmen standing over the bed, he only blinked his eyes once, and then started fighting. He did not really try to get away; it did not occur to him that it would be possible; he just started fighting. One of the officers had to hit him along the side of the head with his lead-and-leather sap, and then Jack’s legs went out from under him and with one last wild, swinging left, he collapsed to the rug. They handcuffed him while he was still groggy, and then one of the officers stood straddled over him and hit him in the face, to let him know how things were. It did not occur to him to resent it.
They marched him down the stairs, and he got one last quick look at the house. The living room was a shambles; drapes torn, vomit and cigarette burns on the carpet, a lamp overturned, its shade askew. He did not realize how much the house reeked of smoke and vomit and urine until they opened the front door and he smelled fresh air. “Whew,” he said. It was the first remark he addressed to the officers, and it also turned out to be the last.
For once it was sunny in Portland, and Jack saw on the front lawn the bright diamondlike glitter of broken glass. They climbed into the black police car, one officer in front and one in back with Jack, and drove down the curved streets toward the heart of the city. The motion of the car made Jack sick to his stomach, and his head hurt. He leaned over and vomited onto the officer’s lap, felt something jarring, heard a loud sharp noise, and passed out again.
It did no good to search him; he had no identification at all. He probably would have been arraigned, tried, and sent to prison if one of the policemen hadn’t recognized him from Ben Fenne’s. The policeman spent his lunch hour at the poolhall