Читать книгу A Portal in Time - James A. Costa Jr. - Страница 18

Chapter 13

Conscious of the pain that could spike at any second, he walked stiffly, his feet slapping the pavement, heading toward downtown. His mind wasn’t on any particular destination, but on the girl, on Sarah. And she remembered his name, too. The image of her standing there on the porch refused to leave his mind. Something about that girl…not so much the way she stood there like a wraith, nor the nearly black hair that waved down and seemed to secretly shield her pale face, nor the haunting-- or haunted-- brown eyes, now wide and innocent, now narrow and shrewd, eyes that seemed to take him in little pieces at a time, like quick snapshots, or pixels putting together a composite picture-- No, it was something more than all that, something compelling and alluring that seemed to invite him, to beckon him.

At the intersection, he stood looking around, deciding on a direction. Neighborhood taverns took up three corners, one next to a shop with the words GUS’S SHOE REPAIR under a picture of a gargantuan, black boot painted on the window. The idea of a drink suddenly appealed to him. It beat walking and would give him a chance to rest the bones already beginning to ache in his chest.

From out of bright sunshine he stepped into a gloomy bar called WINDY’S. A honky-tonk piano played under the stink of stale beer, cigar smoke and dirty cat litter that almost knocked him back out the door. The place was deserted except for the bartender, wiping big circles down the bar, a bald-headed man sleeping face down at a corner table with a half a glass of beer at his fingertips, and someone sitting at an upright piano along the wall on the far side of the bar room. Just like the old black-and-white movies, Gary thought.

The bartender, a beefy guy about thirty years old, with thick, hairy arms and a crew cut looked up. “What can I getcha, friend?” he asked, tossing the rag under the counter.

“I’ll have a beer,” Gary said, leaning against the bar and sliding a foot up on the brass rail.

“Bottle or tap?”

“Make it tap.”

“What kind?” His husky voice complemented his husky build.

Gary looked up at the advertisements plastered on the walls. “Iroquois.”

“Gottcha.”

Gary watched the foam rise in the glass and spill over the sides as the golden yellow liquid swelled up from the bottom.

“New in this neck of the woods, or just stopping by?” the bartender asked, leaving a wet trail with the glass as he slid it over the bar.

“I just moved in down the street this afternoon.” He sucked in some of the foam, enjoying the sweetness but not the bitter aftertaste.

The man at the table lifted his bald head. “Hey, Nick, will you play My Buddy?”

The old upright plinked out the notes and the old man smiled, teary-eyed.

Gary turned around to look, then said, “I don’t see any music in front of him.”

“Nick don’t need none. Comes right out of his head straight to his fingers. He’s here morning to night. You can’t tear him away from that piano. He don’t talk to nobody, just hears things inside his head and plays. Music’s his world.”

“Hey, Sam, gimme another beer will ya? for chrissake.”

“You already got one, Gordy, right in front of you.”

“I do?” he said, looking cross-eyed at his glass before his wobbly head thunked back to the table.

Sam turned back to Gary. “Whaja get a job around here or somethin’?”

“I’m hoping to get a teaching job.”

“Oh, schoolmarm, huh?” He almost sneered the words.

“I guess,” Gary said, ignoring the hostile note, and tipping up his glass.

Glasses clinked as Sam’s hands splashed water over them under the bar. “I always admired college people. I got an education, too, but in the School of Hard Knocks.” He smiled a not-too-genuine smile. “How ‘bout I test ya, for the helluvit?”

Gary didn’t miss the sarcasm. “What kind of test?”

“Questions. A couple of questions. Say, three.”

“What do I get if I answer them correctly?”

“You get a beer.”

“Three questions, one beer. That’s not fair.”

“Okay, three beers.” He pointed a hairy finger. “But you gotta get all three right to collect.”

“And if I miss?”

“See that chalkboard over there?” He pointed across the room. “That’s Charlie Modum’s famous Wall of Shame. Lose and your name gets put there-- in big, bold letters. Then you get the big heehaw from me and anybody else who walks in here. Leo Sorge’s name just came off. Stays there a whole week, anybody who loses. Now we’re looking for new blood. You still game?”

Gary smiled across to him and took a sip. He knew that, in the eyes of the bartender, he was a country bumpkin, a lamb being set up for the slaughter, a sucker waiting to be taken, but he felt strangely confident in this new environment, and in some odd way, superior, as if he were dealing with children. He didn’t know why, but he exuded a cockiness, even an arrogance that he didn’t particularly like in himself, especially since that wasn’t his nature, at least he didn’t think it was. Apparently getting your name on the wall was pretty disgraceful to these people, but he didn’t see it as all that bad. “But your name doesn’t go up there if you lose?”

“That’s right, kid. I just buy the beers.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“Hey, you’re a sport,” Sam said, winking at him. “I like that. Okay.” He looked up, thinking or, as Gary perceived it, pretending to think. “Okay, I got one. What planet is farthest away from the sun?”

“Pluto,” Gary snapped back.

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “That’s right, that’s right. I guess that one was easy, too easy, especially for a college kid.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Gary said, lifting his glass. “You could have asked me how far from the sun Pluto is, now that would have been really tough.”

Sam eyed him suspiciously, vigorously wiping a glass, sensing a trap, then said, “Okay, college boy, how far is Pluto from the sun?”

“Is that the second question?”

Sam hesitated, then said, “Yeah, I’ll make it the second question.”

“Pluto, ninth planet in the solar system, and smallest, 3,500 million miles, or roughly, three and a half billion miles, discovered about seventy-- I mean, about nine or ten years ago.”

Sam’s face went chalky. “Goddamn, I thought you were bluffin’. You set me up for that. Snookered me. You said that would be a tough one.”

“It is a tough one, ask anybody, but I didn’t say I didn’t know the answer.” He raised his glass for another sip.

“Yeah, well, besides, how do I know your answer’s right, that it’s that far?”

“You’re supposed to know the answer to your own questions. But it’s right. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”

“I will. You can bet your ass I will.”

“That’s two down, one to go.”

Sam lips went tight and white with concentration. “Okay, here’s one for you… you know what a stirrup is?”

“Is that the question?”

“Hell no. I just want to know if you know.”

“Sure. That’s what you put your foot into when--”

“You got it. And--this ain’t no question, neither-- you know what an anvil is?”

“That would be a piece of iron blacksmiths use to--”

“Okay, you got it, you got it. Easy, right? Now the question is-- and I don’t mean those answers you just gave-- the question is, whereabouts in your body can you find a stirrup and an anvil?”

“Are they in your body, too?”

“Of course they are! Everybody’s got’m.” He folded his hairy arms tight across the barrel of his chest and smirked.

“You said anvil and stirrup? Did I hear you right? In the body. Is that the question?”

“That’s right,” he said, shaking his head up and down, the smirk fading.

“Anvil and stirrup. And my ears did hear those two exact words, anvil and stirrup.”

Sam’s smirk dissolved to a scowl. “Yeah, I said that’s right, anvil and stirrup anvil and stirrup.”

“Then I did hear what I thought I heard and I’m not going deaf.”

Sam balled up the towel and flung it down on the bar. “Naw, you ain’t goin’ deef. C’mon, c’mon, answer the goddamned question, I know you know it, and quit the crap.”

“Hey, Sam,” Gordy called, “how’s about another beer here.”

“Shut up, Gordy, and go back to sleep.”

“Bones in the ear,” Gary said, draining his glass.

Sam looked at him hard and long, then picked up the cloth and began furiously shining glasses. He glowered and muttered and moped around behind the bar. After a while, he said, half-apologetically, “Y’know, kid, I guess maybe you’re all right. Wha’ cher name?”

“Gary,” he said, noting that he was calling him ‘kid,’ and he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than himself.

“I’m Sam,” he said, reaching over and shaking hands. “Yeah, you’re okay in my book, Gary. Nobody around here can answer those questions. I get ‘em out of almanacs. You’re the first time I got to buy. My hat’s off to you. I guess I was a little off base there. You’re smart all right. I gotta hand it to ya. Smart like my brother. The old man paid for his college, but no dice for me. Haven’t seen him in years, my brother, that is.”

“Hey, Nick,” Gordy crowed, “play That Old Gang of Mine. And if I don’t get some goddamned service over here, Sam, I’m taking my business someplace else.”

Gary looked up at the clock and pushed away from the bar.

“Hitcha again?” Sam said, holding up the empty glass.

“No thanks, Sam. It’s five-thirty already.” He dug into his pocket. “How much--”

“Forget it,” Sam said, waving him off. “It’s on the house. Sort of to make up for my being a wisenheimer. And I still owe you three free ones. But I’m warning ya, I’m still gonna check those numbers you spouted off like a scientist. Stop back when ya get a chance,” he called after him. “Later in the day is best, when the locals bounce in. Always better on weekends.” He laughed. “We get a lot of dummies around here. Maybe you could learn ‘em a thing or two.” He laughed again and went back to wiping down the bar.

The piano was playing That Old Gang of Mine as Gary went out the door, smiling.

Sam had given him an idea.