Charles Beaumont - Selected Stories Part 44

Perspiration began to course down Buck's forehead, and when he tried nerfing 14, and found that it wouldn't work, that 14 wasn't going to scare, the thought suddenly brushed his mind that perhaps he would not finish third after all. But if he didn't then he wouldn't be able to pay for gas to the next town or for a hotel, even, or anything.

His shoulders hunched forward, and Buck La.r.s.en began to drive; not the way he had been driving for the past two years, but as he used to, when he was young and worried about very little, when he had friends and women.

You want to impress your girlfriend, he said to the Pontiac.

I just want to go on eating.

He made five more pa.s.ses during the following six laps, and twice he almost made it, but the track was just a little too short, a little too narrow, and he was forced to drop behind each time.

When he was almost certain that the race was nearing its finish, he realized that other tactics would have to be used. He clung to 14's b.u.mper through traffic on the straight; then, as they dived into the south turn, he hung back for a fraction of a second--long enough to put a bit of s.p.a.ce between them.

Then he pulled down onto the inside and pushed the accelerator flat. The Chevy jumped forward; in a moment it was nearly even with the Pontiac.

Buck considered nothing whatever except keeping his car in control; he knew that the two of them were at that spot, right there, where one would have to give, but he didn't consider any of this.

The two cars entered the turn together, and the crowd screamed and some of the people got to their feet and some closed their eyes. Because neither car was letting off.

Neither car was slowing.

Buck did not move his foot on the pedal; he did not look at the driver to his right; he plunged deeper, and deeper, up to the point where he knew that he would lose control, even under the best of conditions; the edge, the final thin edge of destruction.

He stared straight ahead and fought the wheel through the turn, whipping it back and forth, correcting, correcting.

Then, it was all over.

He was through the turn; and he was through first.

He didn't see much of the accident: only a glimpse, in his rear view mirror, a brief flash of the Pontiac swerving to miss the wall, losing control, going up high on its nose and teetering there . . .

A flag stopped the race. The other cars had crashed into the Pontiac, and number 14 was on fire.

It wasn't really a bad fire, but the automobile had landed on its right side, and the left side was bolted and there were bars on the window, so they had to get it cooled off before they could pull the driver out.

He hadn't broken any bones. But something had happened to the fuel line and the hood hadsnapped open and the windshield had collapsed and some gasoline had splashed onto Tommy Linden's shirt. The fumes had caught and he'd burned long enough.

He was dead before they got him into the ambulance.

Buck La.r.s.en looked at the girl in the pink dress and tried to think of something to say, but there wasn't anything to say, there never was.

He collected his money for third place--it amounted to $350--and put the m.u.f.flers back on the Chevy and drove away from the race track, out onto the long highway.

The wind was hot on his face, and soon he was tired and hungry again; but he didn't stop, because if he stopped he'd sleep, and he didn't want to sleep, not yet. He thought one time of number 14, then he lowered the shutters and didn't think any more.

He drove at a steady 70 miles per hour and listened to the whine of the engine. She would be all right for another couple of runs, he could tell, but then he would have to tear her down.

Maybe not, though.

Maybe not.

THE MUSIC OF THE YELLOW BRa.s.s.

by Charles Beaumont

Even now he could not believe it, so quickly had it happened, so unexpectedly, and after so many years. How many? Juanito tried to remember. Three. No; four. Four years of sleeping in filthy boxcars, on park benches, on the ground with only his dirt-stiffened cape for protection against the angry winds; of stealing, and, when he could not, begging; of running in the path of Impresarios ("_Next year!_")--and all the long nights, dreaming. And now. _Now!_ "How do I look?" he asked.

"All right," said Enrique COrdoba, shrugging.

"Just all right? Just that?"

The older man said, "Look, Juanito, look. You're skinny. A scarecrow."

"So?" The boy smiled. "In the _traje de luces_ it will be different. No belly for the horn. Huh?"

"Right."

"Are you annoyed with me, Enrique?"

"No."

"You act that way."

"And you act like a fool!"

"Because I'm happy? Because I show it?"

They walked in silence.

"I know. You're afraid I'll put on a bad show; that's it. You've worked for me and got me a fight at the Plaza and you're thinking, Maybe he won't do well--"

"Shut up."

For another two blocks they walked, not speaking. Then Juanito saw the big white sign, saw thegla.s.s doors of the hotel and, beyond, the rich wine-colored rug and the crystal chandeliers, and his heart beat faster.

"Relax," whispered Enrique.

They went into the hotel. At a thick ivory door, the older man seemed to hesitate. Then, in solid motions, he rapped his h.o.r.n.y knuckles against the wood, once, twice.

"Enter!"

The door opened to a vast, luxurious room hung in bright tapestries and decorated with _puntillas_ and capes and swords of antique silver, and, over the bar, the head of a bull.

Juanito tried to swallow, but could not. He looked once at the people, who were talking loudly and moving, then directed his blurred gaze toward Enrique.

A voice said: "_Hola!_"

Enrique did not smile. Instead, he nodded and touched his brow. "I hope that we're not late, Don Aifredo."

Juanito felt the approach of the giant Impresario. A heavy hand touched his shoulder. "_Hola_, Matador. Are you afraid to look at us?"

"No, Senor."

Don Aifredo, Alfredo Camara, who had stepped around him as though he were a c.o.c.kroach yesterday, was grinning widely. His face was shiny with sweat and there were sacks beneath his large wet eyes. He leaned forward. "How is it, then? Are you in shape?" he asked. "All ready for tomorrow?"

"Yes, Senor."

The hand thumped Juanito's back. "Good!" Then Don Alfredo turned and cried, in a high, squeaking voice: "Attention! Attention!"

The people in the room stopped talking. Juanito recognized some of them: Francesco Perez, who only last week cut both ears and the tail; Manolo Lombardini, the idol of the season; the great Garcia, who never smiled and never left a ring without a smear of blood across his thighs . . .

"You've heard me talk of my new discovery," said Don Alfredo. "Well, here he is. Juan Galvez!"

There was applause; the first applause that Juanito had ever heard. A sweet, exciting sound!

"So, at last you see him. But you do not truly see him, as I have, facing the horns. Then he is most fearsome, most beautiful. Eh, Senor COrdoba?"

Enrique nodded again.

"So close, my friends! It is a marvel. I know. Would I allow him in the Plaza otherwise?"

Some of the men laughed. Others did not.

Don Alfredo pointed to a girl in a black dress and snapped his fingers. She poured tequila into two gla.s.ses and gave the gla.s.ses to Enrique and Juanito.

"The other is his manager, also his _mozo de espada_: Enrique COrdoba. He came to me a month ago, to plead for his boy. 'We are filled up!' I told him; and, you know, 'Come again next year--'"

Garcia chuckled and shook his head.

"But wait, this fellow is persistent. Most persistent. 'Don Alfredo,' he says, 'I ask only that you watch my boy work out. In the Plaza. Watch and you will see that he is a star.' What they all say, huh?

But, as it happened, Perez was going to be there--to work off a hangover, isn't that so, Francesquito?"

The great Matador made a motion with his hands. "No." he said, "that isn't so. You're a liar and a bandit."

"Unkind!"

As Juanito listened to the exchange, standing there with the fat hand clamped upon him, his eyes wandered past Perez to the corner of the room.

A woman was there, a young woman, in a bright red dress of velvet which showed off her smooth skin and her high, large b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She was staring.

"Like all _toreros!_" roared Don Alfredo. "An eye for beauty. Hey!"

The woman walked toward them, slowly, her hips moving beneath the velvet dress.

"This," said the Impresario, "is Andree. I think she has noticed you, Galvez!"With a grunt, Enrique moved away.

"Well, young fellow, don't you want to make the lady's acquaintance?"

The woman smiled. Again, Juanito could not swallow. He touched her outstretched hand.

The Impresario's high voice shrieked: "A shy _torero!_ G.o.d deliver me!"

The woman came closer. "I am happy to meet you at last senor Galvez," she said.

"Yes, but you will be happier tomorrow night! For then he'll be the talk of Mexico!"

Juanito imitated her motions with the gla.s.s. The tequila was like fire in his throat. It made his eyes water.

"He weeps at the thought," cried Garcia solemnly.

"It shows he is sensitive," answered the Impresario. "Listen, everybody: I'm not through with the introduction! Where was I?"

"Robbing a blind grandmother," said Perez. "You were forced to kick her senseless--"

"Quite! Now listen; we had access to a novillo. Small, but dangerous. Right, Francesquito?"

"Always," said Perez.

"When you were through, remember? I saw this Cordoba. How he got through the guards, I could not guess. Anyway: 'Let my boy show you!' he said; 'Only watch him for a few minutes!' I demurred. 'Suicide!' I told him. But, like I said, he is persistent. To shut him off, I granted his wish."

Camara turned to the woman. "Andree, do you know what happened then?"

"No. Tell me."

"This boy, Juan Galvez, sprang into the ring with the dirtiest _capote_ I have ever seen, and right off--right off, with an experienced bull!--he made a _perfect Chicuelina!_"

"No."

"Yes! Then another, then a half-veronica--G.o.d, how excited he made me! Like a spectator. My mouth was open."

The girl next to Lombardini giggled.

"Silence. For _ten minutes_ he worked this _novillo_; then--"

"Then?"

"He was tossed. Of course." Don Aifredo shrugged. "But it was not his fault: the bull by this time knew man from cape. However, do you think he was fazed by it, this Galvez? He was _not_ fazed by it!