The Fabulous Clipjoint by Fredric Brown (the reader ebook TXT) đ
- Author: Fredric Brown
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I stood in the middle of it all, still stalling, wondering if I could find Uncle Ambrose without having to ask for him. I remembered only vaguely what he looked like. And all I knew about what he did with the carney was that he was a concessionaire. Pop had never talked about him much.
Iâd better ask, I decided. I looked around for somebody who wasnât busy or wasnât yelling, and saw that the man at the floss-candy pitch was leaning against an upright, staring at nothing. I walked over and asked where I could find Ambrose Hunter.
He jerked a thumb down the midway. âBall game. Milk bottle one.â
I looked that way. I could see a fat little man with a moustache reaching over the counter, holding out three baseballs at some people who were walking by. It wasnât Uncle Ambrose.
But I walked over anyway. Maybe my uncle hired him, and he could tell me where my uncle was. I got closer.
My God, I thought, it is Uncle Ambrose. His face was familiar now. But heâd been so much taller andâwell, to a kid of eight, all grownups seem tall, I suppose. And heâd put on weight, although I could see now that he wasnât really fat, like Iâd thought at a first look. His eyes, though, were the same; that was how I knew him. I remembered his eyes. They sort of twinkled at you, like he knew something about you that was a secret, and was funny as hell.
Now I was taller than he was.
He was holding the baseballs out to me now, saying, âThree throws for a dime, son. Knock âem down and win aââ
Of course he couldnât know me; you change so much from eight to eighteen nobody could possibly know you. Just the same, I guess I was a little disappointed that he didnât know me.
I said, âYouâyou wouldnât recognize me, Uncle Ambrose. Iâm Ed. Ed Hunter. I just came from Chicago to tell youâPop was killed last night.â
His face had lighted up like he was really glad to see me when Iâd started, but it sure changed when I finished. It went slack for a second, and then it tightened up again, but in a different shape, if you know what I mean. There wasnât any twinkle in his eyes, and he looked like a different guy entirely. He looked, just then, even less like Iâd remembered him to be.
âKilled how, Ed? You meanââ
I nodded. âThey found him in an alley, dead. Rolled. Payday night and he went out for some drinks andââ I thought there wasnât any use going on. It was obvious from there.
He nodded slowly, and put down the three baseballs in one of the square frames on top of the low counter. He said, âCome on, step over. Iâll let down the front.â
He did, and then said, âCome on, my quarters are back here.â He led the way back past the two boxes on which the dummy milk bottles which you were supposed to knock off with the baseballs were stacked, and lifted the sidewall at the back.
I followed him to a tent pitched about a dozen yards back of his concession. He opened up the flap and I went in first. It was a tent about six by ten feet at the base, with walls that came up straight for three feet and then tapered to the ridge. In the middle you could stand up comfortably. There was a cot and a big trunk at one end, and a couple of canvas folding chairs.
But the first thing Iâd noticed was the girl asleep on the cot. She was small and slender and very blonde. She looked about twenty or twenty-five, and even asleep her face was pretty. She was dressed except that sheâd kicked off her shoes and she didnât seem to be wearing much if anything under the cotton print dress.
My uncle put his hand on her shoulder and shook her awake. He said, when her eyes opened, âYou got to beat it, Toots. This is Ed, my nephew. We got to talk here, and I got to pack. You go get Hoagy and tell him I got to see him right away and itâs important, huh?â
She was pulling on her shoes already, wide awake. Sheâd waked up quickly and completely in a second, and she didnât even look sleepy. She stood up and smoothed down her dress, looking at me.
She said, âHi, Ed. Your name Hunter, too?â I nodded.
âGet going,â my uncle said. âGet Hoagy for me.â
She made a face at him, and went out.
âGal with the posing show,â my uncle said. âThey donât work till evening, so she came in here for a nap. Last week I found a kangaroo in my bed. Yeah, no kidding. John L., the boxing kangarooâin the pit show. With a carney, you can find anything in your bed.â
I was sitting in one of the canvas chairs. Heâd opened the trunk and was putting stuff from it into a battered suitcase heâd pulled out from under the cot.
âYâin there, Am?â a deep voice yelled from outside.
âCome on in, Hoagy,â my uncle said.
The flap lifted again, and a big man came in. He seemed to fill the front end of the tent as he stood there, his head almost touching the ridgepole. He had a flat, completely expressionless face.
He said, âYeah?â
âLook, Hoagy,â my uncle said. He stopped packing and sat down beside the suitcase. âI got to go to Chicago. Donât know when Iâll get back. You want to take over the ball game while Iâm gone?â
âHell, yes. Iâm sloughed here and ten to one Iâll be sloughed in Springfield. And if Jake gets a chance to use the blow after that, let him get a cooch. What cut you want?â
âNo cut,â said my uncle. âYouâll have to give Maury the same slice I give him, but the rest is yours. All I want is, you keep my stuff together till I get back. Keep track of my trunk. If I donât get back before the season ends, store it.â
âSure, swell. Howâll I keep in touch with you?â
âGeneral Delivery, Chicago. But you donât need to. Nobodyâs sure of the route past Springfield, but I can follow you in Billboard, and when I get back I get back. Okay?â
âHell, yes. Have a drink on it.â The big man slid a flat pint bottle out of his hip pocket and handed it to my uncle. He said, âThis your nephew Ed? Toots is gonna be disappointed; she wanted to know if he was gonna be with us. Maybe heâs missing something, huh?â
âI wouldnât know,â Uncle Ambrose said.
The big man laughed.
My uncle said, âLook, Hoagy, will you run along? I got to talk to Ed. His dadâmy brother Wallyâdied last night.â
âJeez,â said the big man. âIâm sorry, Am.â
âThatâs all right. Leave me this bottle, will you, Hoagy? Say, you can run up the front right now if you want. The crowdâs fair; I was getting a play.â
âSure, Am. Say, Iâm goddam sorry aboutâ Aw hell, you know what I mean.â
The big man went out.
My uncle sat looking at me. I didnât say anything and neither did he for a minute or two. Then he said, âWhatâs wrong, kid? Whatâs eating you?â
âI donât know,â I told him.
âDonât give me that,â he said. âLook, Ed, Iâm not as dumb as I look. I can tell you one thing. You havenât let your hair down. You havenât cried, have you? Youâre stiff as a board, and you canât take it that way; itâll do things to you. Youâre bitter.â
âIâll be all right.â
âNo. Whatâs eating you?â
He was still holding the flat pint bottle Hoagy had given him. He hadnât taken the cap off. I looked at it and said, âGive me a drink, Uncle Ambrose.â
He shook his head slowly. âThat isnât the answer. If you drink, it ought to be because you want to. Not to run away from something. Youâve been running away ever since you found out, havenât you? Wally triedâ Hell, Ed, you donâtââ
âListen,â I said. âI donât want to get drunk. I just want one drink. Itâs something I got to do.â
âWhy?â
It was hard to say. I said, âI didnât know Pop. I found that out this morning. I thought I was too good for him. I thought he was a rumdum. He must have felt that. He must have felt I thought he was no good, and we never got to know each other, see?â
My uncle didnât say anything. He nodded slowly.
I went on. âI still hate the stuff. The taste of it, I mean. I like beer a little, but I hate the taste of whiskey. But I want to take a drinkâto him. To make up, just a little bit, somehow. I know heâll never know, but I want toâto take a drink to him, like you do, sort of toâ Oh, hell, I canât explain it any better than that.â
My uncle said, âIâll be damned.â He put the bottle down on the cot and went over to the trunk. He said, âI got some tin cups in here somewhere. For a cups-and-balls routine. Itâs almost illegal for a carney to drink out of anything but a bottle, but hell, kid, we got to drink that one together. I want to drink to Wally, too.â
He came up with a set of three nested aluminum cups. He poured drinksâgood generous ones, a third of a tumblerfulâ into two of them, and handed me one.
He said, âTo Wally.â I said, âTo Pop,â and we touched the rims of the aluminum cups and downed it. It burned like the devil, but I managed not to choke on it.
Neither of us said anything for a minute, and then my uncle said, âI got to see Maury, the carney owner. Let him know Iâm going.â
He went out quick.
I sat there, with the awful taste of the raw whiskey in my mouth, but I wasnât thinking about that. I thought about Pop, and that Pop was dead and Iâd never see him again. And suddenly I was bawling like hell. It wasnât the whiskey, because outside of the taste and the burn there isnât any effect for a while after you take a first drink. It was just that something let go inside me. I suppose my uncle knew it was coming, that way, and thatâs why he left me alone. He knew a guy my age wouldnât want to bawl in front of anyone.
By the time I was over crying, though, I began to feel the liquor. My head felt light, and I began to feel sick at my stomach.
Uncle Ambrose came back. He must have noticed my eyes were red, because he said, âYouâll feel better now, Ed. You had that coming. You were tight like a drumhead. Now you look human.â
I managed a grin. I said, âI guess Iâm a bush-leaguer on drinking, though. Iâm going to be sick, I think. Whereâs the can?â
âWith a carney, itâs a doniker. Other side of the lot. But hell, this is just a dirt lot. Go ahead and be sick. Or go outside, if youâd rather.â
I went outside, around back of the tent, and got it over with.
When I came back, my uncle was through packing the suitcase. He said, âOne drink oughtnât to have made you sick, kid, even if you arenât used to it. You been eating?â
âGosh,â I said, ânot
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