Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

“And how’s Butch, your indignant cat?”

“Oh, Butch is a little put out today. It seems I’ve tricked him once again into going out and getting his feet wet.”

Butch was sitting down on a dry step, frowning.

“You haven’t been around lately, July.”

“No . . . Paper, mister? . . . No, I’ve been in Old Town a lot as of late, mixing it up you might say with high society.”

“Is that so? I hadn’t heard.”

“Yes, it’s true. We get along just fine. They want me and Butch to join, but Butch feels he isn’t quite up to it yet.”

“Why’s that, Butch?” asked Boz, bending his voice down to the cat, who looked away from him down the street.

“You’ll have to ignore Butch’s manners,” said July. “He’s not quite himself until afternoon.”

“You want to come in for a cup of chocolate, July?” asked the painter cautiously, for this was the first time he’d invited him up.

“No, don’t think we can make it. We’re running short today, and Butch is afraid of stairs. But thanks for the offer. Sunday paper, mister?” And they were off again.

“That Boz,” said July to his cat, once they were a good block away, “you be careful of him. He’d like nothing better than to fuck you in the ass.”

That night, after getting a couple of triangles of hot pizza and eating it walking, they went back to City Hall. July looked at the fat man’s newspaper stand, locked tighter than a drum, and thought to himself, Something’s going to be done. Soon.

The first-shift night man was in the change booth on the second floor. He was the only one of them that July liked, except for Charlie, who wasn’t often there. No one at all was on the landing and the Crosstown Express swooped through without stopping. So empty that the echoes were more pronounced.

“Hi, Wade,” said July, lifting Butch up against his coat where he could see into the window. Benton (Bent) Wade was a midget, July knew, because he’d seen him one time outside the change booth. When you could only see his head and shoulders you couldn’t really tell for sure. The small hands were not conclusive evidence.

“Hello, my friend,” said Wade, stacking new rolls of quarters in the quarter cylinder. “Hello there, Butch. As ornery as ever, I see. Wait, I believe I have something for you.” He reached into his lunch bag, took out a waxpaper-wrapped sandwichand opened it up to pinch off a small corner of cheese. Then he held it out through the cup-shaped dispensing hole. July held Butch over closer and he took the cheese off Bent Wade’s finger.

“Thanks,” said July.

“Have you sold any of those films?” asked Wade.

“I sold three.”

“Which ones?”

“Two of Prison Women, one of Peter’s Revenge.”

“What about Fanny Flappers?”

“No good. I think it’s an old one. Everybody’s seen it.”

“Well, bring the rest back and I’ll try to get some more. That joker told me that was a new one. How about Sweet Regret? What’s the matter there?”

“Too much. Nobody wants to pay over five dollars, not if they can’t see part of ’em first.”

“OK, well, bring the rest back. Did you try down by the museum? I heard there’s guys down there—”

“I went there. Wrong day, I guess. Nothing but old ladies and winos.”

“Well, bring the rest back some time this week and I’ll give you the money on ’em. I know someone who wants a Sweet Regret and I’m all out.”

“Sure, Wade. Can I get two dollar bills?” He put down the same amount in dimes on the wooden dish; Bent scooped it up in one motion and gave him two bills. “Thanks. See you later.”

“Take it easy, kid.”

They left.

The Woodland II car came up out of the north tunnel and July stepped back to signal it on, then recognized Bobby Barns, who knew him, and waved. Bobby tipped his hat comically. The car rattled by without stopping. July appreciated these Sunday nights more than any time of the week. The desertedness of the vast concrete cavities, the absence of voices and the sweet feeling of complete isolation that it gave him made it seem likebeing in an ancient cathedral, a place where a person might go to be alone.

Inside their cement cubicle July reclosed the cardboard door, struck a match to light the lamp and carried it back into the main living room, where he had his pallet, a chair across from Butch’s box and a small, low table just big enough for the cat to sit on and watch him turn over cards for seven-row solitaire. The faces from inside the pictures stared at him from the wall where they were displayed, glued to a piece of black construction paper. The gun was taped beneath the table, handle pointing toward his chair, but it’d been almost three months since he’d taken it out to look at. He took off his yellow paper carrier, and brought the films Benton wanted out of another and stacked them on a miscellaneous box next to the door, where he’d remember to carry them up some time later that evening. No, he decided, he’d take them back some other day. He didn’t feel like going out.

Then he got the cat food, mixed it with a little water from the gallon jar and set it down. Butch scowled at it and went into his box as though a statement of his independence was more important than independence itself. You dumb cat, thought July, took up the book he’d begun last night and resumed reading. Another trolley went by outside without stopping. Then he remembered that he’d forgotten to put away the $2.00. The jar was buried underneath his bed; he dug away the two inches of dirt covering the top and pulled it up, and scraped off the clinging brown earth so he could see all the money without blemish. He rolled the two dollar bills from his pocket tightly into a thin, cigarette-sized cylinder and poked