Charles Beaumont - Selected Stories Part 25

"Aah, you know Paco. He got p-o'ed at the picture and started to horse around. Dropped a beer bottle off of the balcony or something, I don't know."

"Then this guy booted you guys out?"

"Yeah."

"Did Paco give him a fight?"

"No," Albert said, thoughtfully. They climbed up the side of a car and jumped from the top to the ground. "He's too smart for that. They would of called the cops and all that kind of c.r.a.p. This way's better."

"Yeah."

"Nervous?"

"Yeah, real nervous. I'm dying to death, I'm so frigging nervous. Listen--when I get through tonight, Paco and all the rest of you guys better lay off me."

"Don't worry."

"So what is it?"

"Twenty-of. This is the place--he went by right over there."

Julio wondered if Albert could hear his heart. And if Albert could read his thoughts He felt the greasy knife handle slip in his hands, so he took it out and wiped it on his trousers and tested it. He pushed the point of the blade into the soft wood of a car, pretending it was the Jewish boy's neck.

He pulled the knife and didn't do that any more.

They sat on the cindery ground beside a huge iron wheel.

"Really a rat, huh?" Julio said.

"The most," Albert said.

"How old?"

"Who knows--twenty-five, thirty. You can't tell with them."

"You don't suppose he--I mean this guy--you don't think he's got a family or anything like that, do you?"

"What the h.e.l.l kind of thing is that to say? Christ, no! Who'd marry a greaseball slob like that?"

Albert laughed softly, and took from his leather jacket pocket a redhandled knife that had to be operated manually. He opened it and began to clean his fingernails. Every two or three seconds he glanced up toward the dark unpaved street.

"So n.o.body's going to miss _him_, right?" Julio said."No. We're going to all break down and cry. What's the matter, you chickening out? If you are, I ain't going to sit here on my can all--"

Julio clutched Albert's shirt-front and gathered it in his fist. "Shut up. You hear? Shut your G.o.ddam face about that stuff or I'll break it for you."

"Shhh, quiet down. . . we'll talk later. Let go. If you want to screw everything, just keep shooting your mouth."

Julio felt perspiration course down his legs.

He tried to stop the shudder.

"Okay," he said.

On tracks a mile distant a string of freight cars lumbered clumsily out of a siding, punching with heavy sounds at the night. There were tiny human noises, too, like small birds high out of sight.

Otherwise, there was only his own breathing.

"I want to hear 'mackerel snapper' when this is over," Julio said.

"You ain't done nothing yet," Albert said, looking away quickly.

"Screw you," Julio said. But his voice started to crack, so he forced a yawn and stretched out his legs. "So when the h.e.l.l we going to get a G.o.ddam sickle?" he said.

Albert didn't answer.

"Kind of a gang is this, anyway, we don't have any G.o.ddam sickles?"

"Five-of. He ought to be along pretty quick now."

Julio grinned, closed the knife, reopened it with a swift soft click, closed it again. His hands were moist and the knife handle was coated with a grimy sweat which made it slippery. He wiped it carefully along the sides of his jeans.

"The Kats have got sickles. Five, for Chrissakes."

"Kats, schmats," Albert said. "Knock it off, will you?"

"What's the matter, Albert? Don't tell me you're scared!"

Albert drew back his fist and hit Julio's shoulder, then quickly put a finger to his lips. "_Shhh!_"

They listened.

It was nothing.

"Hey, little boy, hey Albert, know what?" Julio combed his hair. "Know what I know? Paco, he don't think I'll do it. He wants you and Ito come back so he can give with the big-man routine. He don't think I'll do it."

Albert looked interested.

"He's real sharp. Having a great big ball right now. Where's it going to put him when we get back with the Jewboy's ears?" Julio laughed.

In the stillness, footsteps rang sharply on the ground, but ponderously as gravel was crunched and stones were sent snapping.

The footsteps grew louder.

Albert listened, then he rose slowly and brushed the dirt from his jeans. He opened his knife, looked at Julio and Julio got up. They hunched close by the shadow of the boxcar.

The steps were irregular, and for a moment Julio thought it sounded like a woman. For another moment he heard Grandfather's words and saw the carrion in the brushes.

The images scattered and disappeared.

"Dumb jerk don't know what he walking into, right?" Julio whispered. The words frightened him.

Albert wasn't moving. "Wetbacks. Greasers. Mex--right? Okay. Okay, Albert? Okay." The blade sprang out of the handle.

"Shut up," Albert whispered. "There he is. See him?"

There were no streetlamps, so the figure was indistinct. In the darkness it could be determined that the figure was that of a man: heavy set, not old, walking slowly, almost as if he were afraid of something."That's him," Albert said, letting out a stream of breath.

Julio's throat was dry. It pained him when he tried to swallow. "Okay," he said.

Albert said, "Okay, look. Go up and pretend you want a handout, y'know? Make it good. Then let him have it, right away."

"I thought I saw something," Julio said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I thought I saw something, I thought I saw something. You mind?"

"Where?"

"I couldn't make out."

"Who you bulling? You want to go back?"

"All right, so I was wrong."

The figure had pa.s.sed the boxcar and disappeared into the shadows, but the footsteps were still clear.

"You ready?" Albert said.

Julio paused, then he nodded.

"The h.e.l.l," Albert said. "You're scared green. You'll probably louse it all up. Let's go back."

Julio thought of going back. Of what would be said, of all the eyes turned on him like ominous spotlights. The laughter he heard was what he hated most.

Albert looked anxious; the footsteps were dying away.

"Screw you," Julio said. "You coming with, or not?" He put the knife up his sleeve and held it there with his palm cupped underneath.

Albert rubbed his hands along his shirt. "All right, I'll follow you--about a minute. Sixty seconds."

Julio listened. Suddenly he didn't tremble any more, though his throat was still dry. There was no more pictures in his mind.

He waited, counting.

Then he smiled at Albert and started to walk.

It will take only a few minutes, he thought. No one will see. No one will give Julio Valasquez the old c.r.a.p about chicken after this. No one .

Up ahead, he could see the man. No one else: just the man who was a louse and who didn't deserve to live.

And the long shadows.

He looked over his shoulder once, but the darkness seemed alive, so he jerked his head around and walked faster, with less care.

At last he caught up with the man.

"Hey, mister," Julio said.

Introduction to

THE HUNGER.

by Richard Christian Matheson

I was young and saw him rarely.

But when he was around, I always watched him secretly; entranced.

As if he were lined with silk.

He wasn't feeling well by then and seemed like a weary Merlin. Grey; half-voiced. But incantation phosph.o.r.ed in his tired eyes.

Wizards are strong.

For years he'd alchemized words into sublime ideas. Those into haunting tales of charm and tragedy. Mystic. Despairing. Beautiful.

Magically, he even turned too few years into a stunning lifetime. And when he disappeared for the final time, not in a puff of smoke, but quiet sleep, he left us a few secrets; maps to his miracles. This one is called The Hunger.

Water to wine. Brilliance and poetry from paper and ink. He could do anything.

Except live forever.

Farewell great magician.

THE HUNGER.

by Charles Beaumont ----------------------------.