"See?" she beamed at him as he jerked away. "Eight months, and it hardly shows at all. Some women are like that, the doctor says. He says I'll probably be able to work almost up to the time of its birth."
"B-But-But-" Mitch waved his hands desperately. "So everything's going to be just fine and dandy. Mama will work and daddy will take care of the baby-a baby should be taken care of by its daddy-and he'll have plenty of time to play with his little dicey-wicey."
Mitch suddenly exploded. He asked her what the hell she took him for? He, by God, would provide the money for the family-he'd find some kind of a job-and she, by God, would take care of the baby!
"I will not," said Teddy, iron coming into her dulcet voice. "I already have a baby to take care of. My daddy's my baby."
"You heard me!" Mitch said. "And knock off that daddymama alfalfa! Shake it out of your pretty little skull! It's beginning to give me the meeyams!"
"Don't you sass your mama!" Teddy said.
"Goddammit!" Mitch yelled. "I said to knock it off!"
He flung himself down on the bed. Face clouded ominously, Teddy marched into the bathroom.
He heard water running. He bit his lip, remorse flooding over him. My God-first his mother, then his wife! Pushing around two women in one day, the only two who meant anything to him. And Teddy was pregnant! Almost on the point of becoming a mother! It was up to him to humor her at such a time, not shout and curse at her.
He was on the point of calling an apology to her, when Teddy suddenly loomed over him. She shoved a wash rag into his mouth. She scrubbed vigorously.
For a moment he was too startled to move. Then, gasping and gagging and retching, he struggled free of her. Staggered about the room, literally frothing at the mouth.
He spat, cursing sickishly, and a flood of soap bubbles sprayed from his lips. Teddy watched him with an air of self-righteous sympathy.
"Now, mama didn't want to do that," she said. "It hurt mama much more than it hurt daddy."
"For God's sake," Mitch sputtered weakly. "Why the hell-what kind of a damned fool-"
"You better be careful," Teddy said. "You better be a nice daddy, or mama will wash your mouth out again."
7
There was a soft upward swelling of the music in the bar. Mitch arose from his stool with a little nod to Red.
"Sit tight, honey. I'll be right back."
"Mitch"-her eyes were following the tall, overly-elegant man who had told them to leave. "Who is he, Mitch?"
"Frank Downing."
He left quickly before Red could protest. At a door some distance away, Downing turned and glanced over his shoulder, then passed on through it.
The room was a kind of annex to the bar. A place to lounge and confer informally. The lights here were even dimmer than they had been outside, and there was not even the muted rustle of a voice to whisper of another presence. Mitch blinked, peering around, trying to penetrate the shrouding shadows. Then, there was a click-the flame of a cigarette lighter, and Frank Downing's phlegmatic poker face hung limned against the darkness.
He was sitting over at the far side of the room at a small writing desk. Guided by the spasmodic glow of Downing's cigarette, Mitch made his way across the deep pile carpet, and sat down opposite the Dallas gambler.
He said nothing, waiting. Downing said nothing. Minutes passed. Mitch lighted a cigarette, and went on waiting. At last Downing broke the silence: A reluctant grunt of admiration. Then he sighed softly, tapping out his cigarette.
"That redhead," he said, "is positively the most woman I have ever seen."
"Yes," Mitch said innocently. "My sister is a very attractive girl."
Downing let out a snort. "Nobody," he said, "but nobody ever had a sister like that."
"So?"
"So buy her another drink, if you like. Buy her some dinner. Dance with her a few times. And then get the hell out of here like I told you to. Or maybe you didn't hear me?"
"I heard you."
"I don't think you did," Downing said. "No one ever hangs around a place after I tell them to beat it."
"Maybe I'm an exception."
"That redhead is certainly a lot of woman," Downing said absently. "A woman like that deserves to be happy."
He started to get up. Mitch hastily put out a restraining hand.
He had to operate in Texas. Except perhaps for Tulsa and Oklahoma City, Texas was the only remaining pasture for the big time gambler's grazing. Here alone was there always another metropolis to move on to, lush with the long-green and stubbornly resistant to the blight of credit cards and charge-a-plates. Here they liked the feel of money. Here they were shocked by the piker notion of "never carrying more than fifty dollars." Here were people who'd gambled their very existence for what they'd got, and who stood ready to gamble again. Here and almost here alone did restlessness, impatience and self-confidence-the conviction that there was always more to be had where the first had come from- combine to make dice an accepted social pastime, much as bridge and rummy were accepted in areas where the money was older and its owners more effete.
So there it was. He had to operate in Texas. He could not operate there-in fact he was very apt not to operate period- if he antagonized Downing.
"All right," he said, at last. "All right, Frank. But I don't like it."
"I knew you'd see it my way," Downing murmured.
"I'm no punk. We've always got along together. Now you holler frog, and I've got to jump. Why? What's the answer? Why do you want me out of here?"
"Give the girl another drink," Downing said. "Give her some dinner. Dance her around a few times."
"Come off of it!" Mitch frowned determinedly. "I've got a right to know." He hesitated, studying the gambler. "If you're afraid I might try to crumb-in on your action-"
"Don't be stupid. I wouldn't pop for a penny outside my own store."
"Then, why? Red and I are good people. Why treat us like dirt?"
Downing didn't seem to hear him. Slowly, he lighted another cigarette, absently contemplating the exhaled stream of smoke as Mitch silently waited. He ground the cigarette out again, hesitated, and spoke. There was a peculiar note in his normally toneless voice.
"Ever in the Dallas river bottoms in the old days, Mitch?"
"No." Mitch shook his head puzzled.
Downing said that he'd been born there, and it was quite a place. Crap Creek, the bottoms, squatters had called it; shit creek. Because that was just about what the river was. So thick you could walk on it in some places. Yet people bathed in it-what else? They drank from it. They drowned their bastard infants in it, and there were many of them to drown. For whoring was one of the largest industries, and unwanted babies a principal crop. Bastards and rats and disease. But Frank Downing had been lucky, a happy victim of a process which snatched him from the bottoms to the relative heaven of the state's toughest reform school. He had eaten regularly there. He had had a bed to sleep in, and clothes to wear. He had gotten Texas' standard eleven years of schooling. He had received invaluable training in the arts of bribery, graft, strong-arm and gambling. And when he left, the head guard himself had given him the warmest of recommendations to the chief of the Dallas vice-squad…