“Oh, shit,” Jakes said. “A broadcast prick.”
Higgins loomed over the table. “Mind if I join you? I wouldn’t ask, but there’s nobody else.”
“We’re about to leave,” Jake said.
“Just till you finish your drink.” Higgins laid his belongings on the table and eased his heavy body into a chair. He grinned. “Big assignment tomorrow, Jake?”
“The courthouse, as usual.”
Higgins frowned. “Not covering the visit? Who is?”
“Everybody else, I guess. The Washington Bureau people will be here. The Austin people. General assignments. Fuck, I don’t know.”
“I made the press pool,” Higgins said.
Hayes snorted. “Made the press pool! That ain’t exactly winning the Pulitzer.”
Higgins raised his glass in a mock toast. “To ink-stained wretches everywhere,” he said. “Hey, that was a pretty good editorial, Byron. ‘We hope the president will learn that what he may have heard isn’t true. Dallas is not a city of hate.’ Did you write that?”
“I’m not supposed to say,” Hayes said. “It’s the newspaper’s opinion, not mine. That’s why they don’t put by-lines on editorials.”
“Well, give me your opinion, then. Will he learn that? Is Dallas a city of hate?”
“Oh, shut up,” Hayes said.
“Actually, I hope there’s a little action,” Higgins said. “Something like that Stevenson thing, you know? Jesus, I could make the net with that.”
“Shut up, goddamn it,” Jakes said. “Christ, you’re as sick as they are. Jesus! Wishing for it!”
Higgins nudged Jake with his elbow. “Losing the old journalistic instincts, Callison?”
“What do you know about journalism?” Hayes asked. “You wouldn’t make a pimple on a newspaperman’s ass.”
This was an old recital, and Jake wasn’t in the mood.
“Donnie’s getting pissed,” he said. “Let’s drink up.”
They drank and banged their glasses on the table with an air of finality. Jake rose and had to touch the table to keep his balance. The neon beer signs over the bar weren’t double yet, but they were fuzzy. He couldn’t make out the features of the bathing beauty on the bright front of the pinball machine.
They stood in the doorway, assessing the rain. Not bad. Just a drizzle. The bar’s sign cast eerie pink reflections on the sidewalk and the small puddles in the street. The damp, cool air felt good, meeting the whisky in Jake’s skin. He wished he could walk home.
“Need a ride?” Higgins asked.
“No, thanks, we’ve got machines,” Hayes said. “Machines” was a favorite word of his when he was drunk and feeling old. Jake had read it…where? Fitzgerald? Dashiell Hammett? He loved its quaintness. He wished he had lived when automobiles were “machines.” He loved Hayes when he said it.
Higgins dashed across the narrow street and disappeared into the dark parking lot that served the newspaper and the radio and television stations that the paper owned. “You need a ride, Jake?” Hayes asked.
“No, I’ve got my machine.”
Hayes smiled wearily and laid his hand on Jake’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you come by for a nightcap?”
“No, it’s late.”
“Jean wouldn’t mind. We could talk.”
“I’ll take a rain check.”
Hayes’s hand dropped. They stepped onto the sidewalk and strolled up the street toward the newspaper end of the parking lot. The rain was heavier, wetter than it looked, but still felt good after the smoky, dead air of the bar. They crossed the street and stopped at the edge of the lot. Only a few cars remained, shining wetly in the shadows. “If this keeps up, maybe they’ll cancel the motorcade,” Hayes said.
“Not likely.”
“I wish he weren’t coming. What’s he got to gain here, Jake?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to prove he’s not afraid.”
“Come with me,” Hayes said. “Let’s talk.”
“No, thanks, Byron. I’d be lousy company.”
“Well…” Hayes extended the bag with the bottle in it. “Go find somebody better, then, you bastard.”
WARNER
He preferred the blonde one, he decided, and felt a little guilty for it. His wife was brunette, and he guessed that was the reason—not for liking the blonde, but for feeling the guilt. And he was drunk. He wondered if he could get up and find his way to the hotel. The bald man with the cigar—the bartender, he remembered—was standing at the door, saying goodnight to his customers. He called some by name, but the names meant nothing to Warner. He was glad they didn’t. He didn’t like people who hung around joints like this. Babe’s. He had never been in Babe’s before, but had been in places like it, full of men reeking of beer and cigarettes and sweat. The sweat was bad tonight, maybe because of the rain. And what was the other odor? Piss. Piss and those chemicals that people like Babe use to try to keep you from smelling the piss. The odor had been in Warner’s nostrils all night. His table was close to the john. Or maybe the whole place smelled like piss and chemicals. The bald man was moving his way. Warner was the only customer left in the place. The bald man stopped beside the table and took the cigar out of his mouth.
“Time to go, buddy,” he said.
“What time is it?”
“A little after midnight. Closing time.”
“Closing time isn’t till two.”
“Where you from?”
“San Antonio.”
“Ah. Well, this is Dallas. In Dallas, closing time is twelve.”
“How about one more setup?” Warner said. “One for the road.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Let me see Babe, then. Babe will give me a setup.”
“I’m Babe,” the bald man said.
“Pleased to meet you.” Warner extended his hand, and Babe shook it listlessly. “I’m Warner Barnhill.”
“Ah. Two last names,” Babe said. “You rich? Most people with two last names are rich.”
“My daddy’s rich. He gave me two last names because he’s rich, I guess. He gave me my mother’s maiden name. You’re right. Rich people do that. They put your whole damn family tree in your name. How about a setup, Babe?” Warner waved his empty glass.
Babe moved the cigar from side to side with his tongue, appraising him. “Ask me to join you, and we can call it social,” he said. “In case the vice cops come.”
“Sure.”
“Let me lock up,” Babe said. “Then, it’ll be all right.”
Warner gazed at the dark stage while he waited. He heard a key turn in the lock. Babe rattled the knob, testing it, then moved behind the bar. Ice cubes clinked in glasses. “What’s your pleasure?” Babe asked.
“Water.”
“I’m a soda man.”
Babe