Judas Journey. Lee Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ you care?”

      Ramsey ignored him, borrowed a pencil from the waiter and wrote on a corner of a menu: I enjoyed your dance. May I buy you a drink? Please? Rackwell Ramsey. He grinned up at the waiter, handed him the menu and a dollar. “Will you please give this to her—and bring us two more beers?”

      The waiter nodded, his face impassive, and moved away.

      Pete said eagerly, “Did you mention a girl for me?”

      “I will,” Ramsey said. “Everything in proper order.”

      One hour and three beers later it was midnight. Sara Colvin danced again, this time in an off-shoulder peasant blouse and a swirling red skirt. Once she looked directly at Ramsey. He grinned and lifted a hand. She glanced quickly away and did not look toward him again. Her hair was now coiled in two thick braids around her small delicately shaped head. Ramsey saw that her eyes were brown and tilted slightly at the outer corners. Part Mex, he thought, or maybe Chinese, and a slow excitement stirred within him.

      When the dance was over, she smiled, half shyly, blew a kiss at the crowd, and was gone with a flash of slim white legs beneath the red skirt.

      Ramsey finished his beer, put some money on the table and stood up. “Come on,” he said to Pete. Out on the sidewalk Ramsey hesitated and then said to Pete. “I’ll go around in back. You wait here—so we don’t miss her.”

      “All right,” Pete said, “but I’m sleepy—and don’t forget we gotta be on the job at seven.”

      “Sure,” Ramsey said. “It’s only a little after one. Don’t you want me to ask her if she’s got a girl friend?”

      Pete said sullenly, “You ain’t interested in no girl friend.”

      “Why, sure I am, Pete, boy. I’ll ask her the first thing.”

      “I’ll bet,” Pete sneered. “I can see you got my interests at heart. I’ll stay here for ten minutes. If she don’t show by then, I’m hitting the sack.”

      Ramsey grinned at him, lit a cigarette and walked through a dark alley to a small court at the rear of the Jungle Tavern. There were cement steps and a small stoop, with a light burning over a door. There was no signs, but Ramsey was familiar with such things, and he was certain that Sara Colvin would leave by this door. He leaned against the wall in shadow and drew on his cigarette. A light fog was coming in off the gulf and the air was soft and cool. Presently the door opened. The dancer came out and stood for a moment under the dim light. Then she went down the steps and walked swiftly across the court toward the street, her heels making swift clicking sounds on the cement. She was wearing a simple black dress, but no hat, and she carried a light coat and a small purse.

      Ramsey snapped his cigarette away and stepped out of the shadow. “Miss Colvin,” he called softly.

      She paused, turned her head, and waited uncertainly as he moved up to her. She was smaller than he had thought; the top of her head was a full six inches below his chin. He smiled down at her. “You got my note?”

      “I get many notes,” she said coolly, with just the faintest whisper of an accent.

      “Ramsey is the name,” he said easily. “Maybe you remember?”

      A faint smile touched her lips. “Rackwell,” she said. “I remember it because it is such an odd name.” The smile went away and she asked gravely, “What do you want?”

      “The note said I’d like to buy you a drink.”

      “No, thank you.”

      He smiled and nodded. “All right. But you won’t mind if I tell you that I admired your dancing?”

      “I do not object to that,” she said in the same grave voice. “Thank you.”

      “May I take you home?”

      She shook her head, gazing up at him soberly.

      “Why not?” It was an old game with him. Her nearness excited him, and he warned himself to go slow. He knew already that she was not just another night club dancer, not just another pick-up. The quality of her voice, the faint accent and her quiet bearing told him that. She was something a little special, he thought; in fact, her cool poise disturbed him. It was not going to be as easy as he had anticipated. “Please,” he said.

      “I am afraid not,” she said shortly. “Good night.” She turned and moved away.

      He caught her arm, not roughly; he was careful about it. There was a time for roughness, and a time for gentleness. “Please,” he said again. “I am very lonely tonight. I liked your dancing and I thought it would be nice to meet you, to talk with you a little . . .” He dropped his hand from her arm and stood smiling.

      She gazed up at him, her eyes troubled. “Loneliness—it is a bad thing.”

      He nodded, watching her.

      “You have no family, no—wife?”

      He shook his head. “No wife. Not anybody for a long time. My parents died when I was in the army—both of them, in a train wreck, while they were coming to see me in camp, before I shipped out.”

      As he spoke, he thought suddenly and with sadness that this was true. It seemed a long time ago. They had given him a special pass to go home to the funeral, and he remembered the chill rain in the cemetery and the mud from the new double grave which had clung to his polished dress oxfords, the embarrassed expressions of sympathy from old family friends and a few distant relatives—all scattered to hell and gone now, with nobody remembering or caring about Rackwell Ramsey, the only son of Maude and Gilbert Ramsey who had been killed in that train wreck that time so long ago. He thought of his father, a big quiet man who for the most part of his adult life had been a meter reader for the power company in Toledo, Ohio, and of his mother, plump and pretty.

      “I am sorry.” Sara Colvin’s voice seemed to come to him from out of the past.

      Ramsey peered at her in the gloom and smiled. He hadn’t meant to arouse her sympathy in the way he had, but he was pleased with his luck. He touched her arm. “Where shall we go?”

      “I—I would like some coffee. There is a little place around the corner . . .”

      “Coffee?” he scoffed.

      “Yes,” she said firmly.

      “Sure. Whatever you want.” He guided her around the corner to the entrance of the Jungle Tavern. Pete Davos was standing there looking sleepy and bored.

      As they approached, Sara Colvin said, “Is not that your friend? The one who was with you inside?”

      “Yes.” Ramsey stopped in front of Pete. “Miss Colvin, this is my friend Pete Davos.”

      She held out her hand and smiled.

      Pete took her hand, moved his feet awkwardly, and gave Ramsey a dark look.

      Ramsey said politely, “Pete, would you care to join us in a cup of coffee?”

      “Naw—I’m going back to the hotel.” СКАЧАТЬ