“Everybody says the same,” the Patrón observed. He could not put his finger on the attack, and yet he felt there was an attack.
The sound of his own voice had a warming, reassuring effect on Mack. He was the professional practicing his profession. “We might of went right on hustling Doc for years,” he said, “if only Doc didn’t get his ass in a sling.”
“He’s in trouble?”
“You know he’s in trouble,” said Mack. “Poor bastard sits there beating his brains out with them sooplapods.”
“You told me.”
“Well, us boys want to do something about it. We ain’t going to see our darling friend crap out if we can help it. I bet he done a couple of nice things for you too.”
The Patrón said, “Do you know you can’t rig a chess game?”
“We had that out,” said Mack impatiently. “Doc’s business ain’t been good. He can’t crack open them sooplapods without he gets a great big goddam microscope—cost about four hundred bucks.”
The Patrón said hastily, “If you’re passing the hat I’ll throw in ten bucks.”
“Thanks!” said Mack passionately. “I knew you was a good guy. But that ain’t it. I and the boys want to do it ourself. We don’t want your ten bucks—we want your advice.”
The Patrón went behind the counter, opened the icebox, took out two cans of beer, speared them open, and slid one up the counter to Mack.
“Thanks,” said Mack, and he beered down his dry mouth and throat. “Haaah!” he said. “That’s fine. Now here’s what we want to know. We got something and we want to raffle it. Then we want to take that raffle money and get that microscope for Doc. We want you should give us a hand with the tickets and stuff like that.”
“What you going to raffle?” the Patrón asked.
This was the moment, the horrible moment. Mack’s hand shook a little as he poured down the second half of the cool sharp beer. His insides quaked. “The Palace Flophouse—our home,” he said.
The Patrón took a pocket comb out of stock and ran it through his black shining hair. “It ain’t worth four hundred bucks,” he said.
Mack nearly cried with relief. He could have kissed the Patrón’s hand. He loved Joseph and Mary. A strong and tender tone issued from his throat. “We know that,” he said, “but it’s our home. Oh, I know it ain’t very valuable, but when you got something that ain’t worth much—why, you raffle it, don’t you? If you got a good cause you can raffle an old pair of socks.”
A new respect showed in the Patrón’s eyes. “You got something there,” he said, and then, “Who’s going to win it?”
Mack felt confident now. He knew his man. He was ready to use his knowledge. He said confidentially, “I don’t never try to kid a smart hombre. I could tell you we was going to draw honest but you’d know that was double malarky. No, we got a idear.”
The Patrón leaned forward. Some of his wariness was lulled. He was still no pushover but he was softened up. “What’s the idear?” he asked.
“Well, we got to have someplace to live, don’t we? Now this is between I and the boys and you—okay?”
“Okay,” said the Patrón.
“We’ll sell Doc a ticket or maybe just put a ticket in his name, and we’ll rig the raffle so he wins.”
“I don’t get it,” said the Patrón.
“Look!” said Mack. “Doc gets his microscope, don’t he? And we go right on habiting in the Palace Flop house but it’s Doc’s. It’s a sap to his old age—a kind of insurance. I and the boys figure that’s the least we can do for him.”
“S’pose he sells it?” said the Patrón.
“Oh, not Doc! He wouldn’t put us out in the street.”
A smile spread over the Patrón’s large handsome face. He could find no fault with it. “I guess I never give you proper credit,” he said. “You’re smart. Maybe we can do some business—I mean, later. You got the raffle tickets?”
“We made them up last night.” Mack laid a little pile of cards on the table.
“How much apiece?”
“Says right on them,” Mack said. “Two bucks.”
“My first offer still stands,” said the Patrón. “I’ll take five and you can leave me some to sell.”
“Think you could use twenty?”
“I could unload nearly fifty,” said the Patrón. “I’ll put them out with the Espaldas Mojadas.”
Mack’s knees were weak as he went up the chicken walk. His glazed eyes stared straight ahead. He walked right past the boys and into the Palace Flop house and sat down heavily on his bed. The boys trooped in behind him and stood around.
“Got him!” said Mack. “He don’t know he owns it. He bought five tickets and he’s going to sell fifty to his wetbacks!”
There is a point of relief and triumph in which words have no place. Eddie went outside, and they could hear his shovel strike the ground. Mack and the boys knew Eddie was digging up a keg.
And this was only one of the happenings on that Sweet Thursday.
20
Sweet Thursday (2)
Fauna always drew the shades of her bedroom tight down. Because of the late hours of business, she had to sleep until noon to get her proper rest. On the morning of Sweet Thursday the sun played a trick on her. The windowshade had a hole in it no bigger than the point of a pin. The playful sun picked up the doings of Cannery Row, pushed them through the pinhole, turned them upside down, and projected them in full color on the wall of Fauna’s bedroom. Wide Ida waddled across the wall upside down, wearing a print dress sewn with red poppies and on her head a black beret. The Pacific Gas & Electric truck rolled across her wall upside down, its wheels in the air. Mack strode toward the grocery store head down. And a little later, Doc, weary, feet over his head, walked along the wallpaper carrying a quart of beer that would have spilled if it had not been an illusion. At first Fauna tried to go back to sleep, but she was afraid she might miss something. It was the little colored ghost of upside-down Doc that drew her from her couch.
It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it. And this had happened to Fauna. She was glad when she raised the shade and saw how beautiful was the day. The roof of the Hediondo Cannery[83] where seagulls had perched glowed like a pearl.
Fauna brushed her hair severely back and put on a close-fitting hat of black sequins. She wore her dark-gray knitted suit and carried gloves. In the kitchen she put six bottles of beer in a paper bag, and then, as an afterthought, she rooted out one of the shrunken monkey heads as a present. When she climbed the stairs of Western Biological and stood at the top, puffing a little, you might have thought she was soliciting for the Red Cross instead of for the Bear Flag.
Doc was frying sausages, sprinkling a little chocolate over them. It gave them an odd and Oriental flavor, he thought.
“You’re up early,” he greeted Fauna.
“I figured one quart of beer wouldn’t last long.”
“It didn’t,” said Doc. “Have a couple of sausages?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Fauna. For she knew that he who gives to you is in debt to you. “This here’s a monkey head that I picked up in my travels.”
“Interesting,” said Doc.
“You know, there’s some folks think they’re people’s heads,” said Fauna.
“Don’t see how they could. See the shape of the eyes and ears? Look at the nose.”
“Oh, some folks don’t look at people very close,” said Fauna. “I’ll have a bottle of beer with you.”
The taste of the chocolate sausages intrigued her. “I never tasted nothing like it,” she observed. “Did you ever eat grasshoppers, Doc?”