loss, a good start toward getting some superstition back into the game, and the sandwiches, when he brought them out at midnight, were a good enough diversion to produce a couple of instances of positively idiotic play. And there were a couple of doctors at the table, and doctors always had a lot of money and played loose, staying in with just about every hand; and nobody was completely sober, and Scott was apparently the only one who had any concerns about money, and by the time the game broke up at two in the morning he had won more than two thousand dollars. That was two payments on the mortgage right there, and he could certainly find another game somewhere within the next couple of days.
Chick Hurzer had been a bigger winner and was now drinking scotch. "So where have you been, Scarecrow?" he asked jovially as people were standing up and stretching and one man turned on the television. "You've got time for a drink, don't you?"
"Sure," said Scott, taking a shot glass. "Oh, here and there. Honest work for a few years."
Everybody laughed—one of the players a little tensely.
Obstadt's man had been apologetic on the telephone about its being short notice, but Al Funo had laughed and assured him that it was no inconvenience; and when the man had started to discuss payment, Funo had protested that old friends didn't argue about money.
Sitting in his white Porsche 924 now, waiting for Scott Smith to emerge from this Chick Hurzer person's house, Funo tilted down his rearview mirror and ran a comb through his hair. He liked to make a good impression on everyone he met.
He had removed the Porsche's back window, but with the heater on the car was warm enough, and it idled so quietly and smokelessly that a pedestrian walking past it might not even know the engine was running.
He was looking forward to meeting this Smith character. Funo was a "people person," proud of the number of people he could call his friends.
He watched alertly as half a dozen men ambled out through the front door of Hurzer's house now into the glare of the streetlight, and he was quick to pick out the gray-haired figure in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Other people were shaking Smith's hand, and Funo wished he could have joined in the camaraderie of the game.
He got out of his car and began sauntering along the sidewalk, smiling, not minding the waterfront chill in the salty air. Ahead of him the men had separated, heading for their cars.
Smith seemed to be aware of Funo when he was still some yards off along the sidewalk; he had his hand by his belt buckle, as if about to tuck in his loose shirttail. A gun? Funo smiled more broadly.
"Hey, pal," Funo said when he was close enough for an easy, conversational tone to be heard, "have you got a cigarette?"
Smith stared at him for a moment, then said, "Sure," and hooked a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. "There's only three or four in there," Smith said. "Go ahead and keep the pack."
Funo was touched. Look at the car this guy's driving, he thought, a beat old Torino covered with dust, and he gives me his last cigarettes!
"Hey, thanks, man," he said. "These days it's damn rare to meet someone who's possessed of genuine generosity." He blushed, wondering if the two
gen'
s in his last phrase had made him seem careless in his choice of words. "Here," he said hastily, digging in the pocket of his Nordstrom slacks, "I want you to have my lighter."
"No, I don't need a—"
"Please," Funo said, "I have a hundred of them, and you're the first gen—the first, uh, considerate person I've met in twenty years in this damn town." Actually Funo was only twenty-eight and had moved to Los Angeles five years ago, but he had found that it sometimes helped to lie a little bit when making new friends. He realized he was sweating.
"
Please
."
"Sure, man, thanks," said Smith.
Was he uncomfortable about it? "Two hundred of them I've got."
"Fine, thanks. Jesus! This is a gold Dunhill! I can't—"
"Don't
Chick Hurzer had been a bigger winner and was now drinking scotch. "So where have you been, Scarecrow?" he asked jovially as people were standing up and stretching and one man turned on the television. "You've got time for a drink, don't you?"
"Sure," said Scott, taking a shot glass. "Oh, here and there. Honest work for a few years."
Everybody laughed—one of the players a little tensely.
Obstadt's man had been apologetic on the telephone about its being short notice, but Al Funo had laughed and assured him that it was no inconvenience; and when the man had started to discuss payment, Funo had protested that old friends didn't argue about money.
Sitting in his white Porsche 924 now, waiting for Scott Smith to emerge from this Chick Hurzer person's house, Funo tilted down his rearview mirror and ran a comb through his hair. He liked to make a good impression on everyone he met.
He had removed the Porsche's back window, but with the heater on the car was warm enough, and it idled so quietly and smokelessly that a pedestrian walking past it might not even know the engine was running.
He was looking forward to meeting this Smith character. Funo was a "people person," proud of the number of people he could call his friends.
He watched alertly as half a dozen men ambled out through the front door of Hurzer's house now into the glare of the streetlight, and he was quick to pick out the gray-haired figure in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Other people were shaking Smith's hand, and Funo wished he could have joined in the camaraderie of the game.
He got out of his car and began sauntering along the sidewalk, smiling, not minding the waterfront chill in the salty air. Ahead of him the men had separated, heading for their cars.
Smith seemed to be aware of Funo when he was still some yards off along the sidewalk; he had his hand by his belt buckle, as if about to tuck in his loose shirttail. A gun? Funo smiled more broadly.
"Hey, pal," Funo said when he was close enough for an easy, conversational tone to be heard, "have you got a cigarette?"
Smith stared at him for a moment, then said, "Sure," and hooked a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. "There's only three or four in there," Smith said. "Go ahead and keep the pack."
Funo was touched. Look at the car this guy's driving, he thought, a beat old Torino covered with dust, and he gives me his last cigarettes!
"Hey, thanks, man," he said. "These days it's damn rare to meet someone who's possessed of genuine generosity." He blushed, wondering if the two
gen'
s in his last phrase had made him seem careless in his choice of words. "Here," he said hastily, digging in the pocket of his Nordstrom slacks, "I want you to have my lighter."
"No, I don't need a—"
"Please," Funo said, "I have a hundred of them, and you're the first gen—the first, uh, considerate person I've met in twenty years in this damn town." Actually Funo was only twenty-eight and had moved to Los Angeles five years ago, but he had found that it sometimes helped to lie a little bit when making new friends. He realized he was sweating.
"
Please
."
"Sure, man, thanks," said Smith.
Was he uncomfortable about it? "Two hundred of them I've got."
"Fine, thanks. Jesus! This is a gold Dunhill! I can't—"
"Don't
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