Shoot the Piano Player (2 page)

"Well, I was--" Turley faltered, swallowed hard, then bypassed Dock Street and blurted, "Damn it all, I ain't askin' for the moon. All you gotta do is put me up for the night--"

"Hold it," Eddie said. "Let's get back to Dock Street."

"For Christ's sake--"

"And another thing," Eddie went on. "What're you doing here in Philadelphia?"

"Business."

"Like what?"

Turley didn't seem to hear the question. He took a deep breath. "Something went haywire. Next thing I know, I got these two on my neck. And then, what fixes me proper, I run clean outta folding money. It happens in a hash house on Delaware Avenue when some joker lifts my wallet. If it hadn't been for that, I coulda bought some transportation, at least a taxi to get past the city limits. As it was, all I had left was nickels and dimes, so every time I'm on a streetcar they're right behind me in a brand-new Buick. I tell you, it's been a mean Friday for me, jim. Of all the goddam days to get my pocket picked--"

"You still haven't told me anything."

"I'll give you the rundown later. Right now I'm pushed for time."

As Turley said it, he was turninghis head to have another look at the door leading to the street. Absently he lifted his fingers to the battered left side of his face, and grimaced painfully. The grimace faded as the dizziness came again, and he weaved from side to side, as though the chair had wheels and was moving along a bumpy road. "Whatsa matter with the floor?" he mumbled, his eyes half closed now. "What kinda dump is this? Can't they even fix the floor? It won't even hold the chair straight."

He began to slide from the chair. Eddie grabbed his shoulders and steadied him.

"You'll be all right," Eddie said. "Just relax."

"Relax?" It came out vaguely. "Who wantsa relax?" Turley's arm flapped wealdy to indicate the jam-packed bar and the crowded tables. "Look at the people having fun. Why can't I have some fun? Why can't I--"

It's bad, Eddie thought. It's worse than I figured it was. He's got some real damage upstairs. I think what we'll hafta do is--

"Whatsa matter with him?" a voice said.

Eddie looked up and saw the Hut's owner, Harriet. She was a very fat woman in her middle forties. She had peroxide-blonde hair, a huge, jutting bosom and tremendous hips. Despite the excess weight, she had a somewhat narrow waistline. Her face was on the Slavic side, the nose broad-based and moderately pugged, the eyes gray-blue with a certain level look that said, You deal with me, you deal straight. I got no time for two-bit sharpies, fast-hand slicksters, or any kind of leeches, fakers, and freebee artists. Get cute or cagey and you'll wind up buying new teeth.

Turley was slipping off the chair again. Harriet caught him as he sagged sideways. Her fat hands held him firmly under his armpits while she leaned closer to examine the lump on his head.

"He's sorta banged up," Eddie said. "He's really groggy. I think--"

"He ain't as groggy as he looks," Harriet cut in dryly. "If he don't stop what he's doing he's gonna get banged up more."

Turley had sent one arm around her hip, his hand sliding onto the extra-large, soft-solid bulge. She reached back, grabbed his wrist and flung his arm aside. "You're either wine-crazy, punch-crazy, or plain crazy." she informed him. "You try that again, you'll need a brace on your jaw. Now sit still while I have a look."

"I'll have a look too," Turley said, and while the fat woman bent over him to study his damaged skull, he made a serious study of her forty-four-inch bosom. Again his arm went around her hip, and again she flung it off. "You're askin' for it," she told him, hefting her big fist. "You really want it, don't you?"

Turley grinned past the fist. "I always do, blondie. Ain't no hour of the day when I don't."

"You think he needs a doctor?" Eddie asked.

"I'll settle for a big fat nurse," Turley babbled, the grin very loose, sort of idiotic. And then he looked around, as though trying to figure out where he was. "Hey, somebody tell me somethin'. I' d simply like to know--"

"What year it is?" Harriet said. "It's Nineteen fifty-six, and the city is Philadelphia."

"You'll hafta do better than that." Turley sat up straighter. "What I really wanna know is--" But the fog enveloped him and he sat there gazing vacantly past Harriet, past Eddie, his eyes glazing over.

Harriet and Eddie looked at him, then looked at each other. Eddie said, "Keeps up like this, he'll need a stretcher."

Harriet took another look at Turley. She made a final diagnosis, saying, "He'll be all right. I've seen them like that before. In the ring. A certain nerve gets hit and they lose all track of what's happening. Then first thing you know, they're back in stride, they're doing fine."

Eddie was only half convinced. "You really think he'll be okay?"

"Sure he will," Harriet said. "Just look at him. He's made of rock. I know this kind. They take it and like it and come back for more."

"That's correct," Turley said solemnly. Without looking at Harriet, he reached out to shake her hand. Then he changed his mind and his hand strayed in another direction. Harriet shook her head in motherly disapproval. A wistful smile came onto her blunt features, a smile of understanding. She lowered her hand to Turley's head, her fingers in his mussed-up hair to muss it up some more, to let him know that Harriet's Hut was not as mean-hard as it looked, that it was a place where he could rest a while and pull himself together.

"You know him?" she said to Eddie. "Who is he?"

Before Eddie could answer, Turley was off on another fogbound ride, saying, "Look at that over there across the room. What's that?"

Harriet spoke soothingly, somewhat clinically. "What is it, johnny? Where?"

Turley's arm came up. He tried to point. It took considerable effort and finally he made it.

"You mean the waitress?" Harriet asked.

Turley couldn't answer. He had his eyes fastened on the face and body of the brunette on the other side of the room. She wore an apron and she carried a tray.

"You really like that?" Harriet asked. Again she mussed his hair. She threw a wink at Eddie.

"Like it?" Turley was saying. "I been lookin' all over for something in that line. That's my kind of material. I wanna get to meet that. What's her name?"

"Lena."

"She's something," Turley said. He rubbed his hands. "She's really something."

"So what are your plans?" Harriet asked quietly, as though she meant it seriously.

"Four bits is all I need." Turley's tone was flat and technical.

"A drink for me and a drink for her. And that'll get things going."

"Sure as hell it will," Harriet said, saying it more to herself and with genuine seriousness, her eyes aimed now across the crowded Hut, focused on the waitress. And then, to Turley, "You think you got lumps now, you'll get real lumps if you make a pass at that."

She looked at Eddie, waiting for some comment. Eddie had pulled away from it. He'd turned to face the keyboard. His face shbwed the dim and far-off smile and nothing more.

Turley stood up to get a better look. "What's her name again?"

"Lena."

"So that's Lena," he said, his lips moving slowly.

"That's sheer aggravation," Harriet said. "Do yourself a favor. Sit down. Stop looking."

He sat down, but he went on looking. "How come it's aggravation?" he wanted to know. "You mean it ain't for sale or rent?"

"It ain't available, period."

"Married?"

"No, she ain't married," Harriet said very slowly. Her eyes were riveted on the waitress.

"Then what's the setup?" Turley insisted on knowing. "She hooked up with someone?"

"No," Harriet said. "She's strictly solo. She wants no part of any man. A man moves in too close, he gets it from the hatpin."

"Hatpin?"

"She's got it stuck there in that apron. Some hungry rooster gets too hungry, she jabs him where it really hurts."

Turley snorted. "Is that all?"

"No," Harriet said. "That ain't all. The hatpin is only the beginning. Next thing the poor devil knows, he's getting it from the bouncer. That's her number-one protection, the bouncer."

"Who's the bouncer? Where is he?"

Harriet pointed toward the bar.

Turley peered through the clouds of tobacco smoke. "Hey, wait now, I've seen a picture somewhere. In the papers--"

"On the sports page, it musta been." Harriet's voice was queerly thick. "They had him tagged as the Harleyville Hugger."

"That's right," Turley said. "The Hugger. I remember. Sure, I remember now."

Harriet looked at Turley. She said, "You really do?"

"Sure," Turley said. "I'm a wrestling fan from way back. Never had the cabbage to buy tickets, but I followed it in the papers." He peered again toward the bar. "That's him, all right. That's the Harleyville Hugger."

"And it wasn't no fake when he hugged them, either," Harriet said. "You know anything about the game, you know what a bear hug can do. I mean the real article. He'd get them in a bear hug, they were finished." And then, significantly, "He still knows how."

Turley snorted again. He looked from the bouncer to the waitress and back to the bouncer. "That big-bellied slob?"

"He still has it, regardless. He's a crushing machine."

"He couldn't crush my little finger," Turley said. "I'd hook one short left to that paunch and he'd scream for help. Why, he ain't nothing but a worn-out--"

Turley was vaguely aware that he'd lost his listener. He turned and looked and Harriet wasn't there. She was walking toward the stairway near the bar. She mounted the stairway, ascending very slowly, her head lowered.

"Whatsa matter with her?" Turley asked Eddie. "She got a headache?"

Eddie was half turned away from the keyboard, watching Harriet as she climbed the stairs. Then he turned fully to the keyboard and hit a few idle notes. His voice came softly through the music. "I guess you could call it a headache. She got a problem with the bouncer. He has it bad for the waitress--"

"Me, too," Turley grinned.

Eddie went on hitting the notes, working in some chords, building a melody. "With the bouncer it's real bad. And Harriet knows."

"So what?" Turley frowned vaguely. "What's the bouncer to her?"

"They live together," Eddie said. "He's her common-law husband."

Then Turley sagged again, falling forward, bumping into Eddie, holding on to him for support. Eddie went on playing the piano. Turley let go and sat back in the chair. He was waiting for Eddie to turn around and look at him. And finally Eddie stopped playing and turned and looked. He saw the grin on Turley's face. Again it was the idiotic eyesglazed grin.

"You want a drink?" Eddie asked. "Maybe you could use a drink."

"I don't need no drink." Turley swayed from side to side. "Tell you what I need. I need some information. Wanna be straightened out on something. You wanna help me on that?"

"Help you on what?" Eddie murmured. "What is it you wanna know?"

Turley shut his eyes tightly. He opened them, shut them, opened them again. He saw Eddie sitting there. He said, "What you doin' here?"

Eddie shrugged.

Turley had his own answer. "I'll tell you what you're doing. You're wasting away--"

"All right," Eddie said gently. "All right--"

"It ain't all right," Turley said. And then the disjointed phrases spilled from the muddled brain. "Sits there at a second-hand piano. Wearing rags. When what you should be wearing is a full-dress suit. With one of them ties, the really fancy duds. And it should be a grand piano, a great big shiny grand piano, one of them Steinbergs, god-damn it, with every seat taken in the concert hall. That's where you should be, and what I want to know is--why ain't you there?"

"You really need a bracer, Turl. You're away off the groove."

"Don't study my condition, jim. Study your own. Why ain't you there in that concert hall?"

Eddie shrugged and let it slide past.

But Turley banged his hands against his knees. "Why ain't you there?"

"Because I'm here." Eddie said. "I can't be two places at once."

It didn't get across. "Don't make sense," Turley blabbered. "Just don't make sense at all. A knockout of a dame and she ain't got no boy friend. A Piano man as good as they come and he don't make enough to buy new shoes."

Eddie laughed.

"It ain't comical," Turley said. "It's a screwed-up state of affairs." He spoke to some invisible third party, pointing a finger at the placid-faced musician. "Here he sits at this wreck of a piano, in this dirty old crummy old joint that oughtta be inspected by the fire marshal, or anyway by the Board of Health. Look at the floor, they still use sawdust on the god-dam floor--" He cupped his hands to his mouth and called, "At least buy some new chairs, for Christ's sake--" Then referring again to the soft-eyed musician, "Sits here, night after night. Sits here wasting away in the bush leagues when he oughtta be way up there in the majors, way up at the top cause he's got the stuff, he's got it in them ten fingers. He's a star, I tell you, he's the star of them all--"