once on the lips, and lights her cigarette. They wait patiently, small-talking like strangers until a cab rolls up and he opens the door.
He watches closely, trying to imagine living with her forever, as she carefully sits on the seat and swings her heels in high enough over the door frame that she won’t risk ruining her stockings.
An hour later he’s loping down James Street into Pioneer Square with a roll of twenties in his front pocket. It’s busier than ever, with the buzz and stink of a carnival, people of all stripes spilling in and out of honky-tonks—sober, drunk, shouting, sulking, laughing. He bounces in and out of three card rooms—the Turf, the Occidental and Bob’s Chili Parlor—sticking around in each just long enough to blow a twenty and ask the gamblers and managers, as casually as possible, if anyone knew where to find Charlie McDaniel or Robert Dawkins these days, getting little in return but conversation-killing glances.
It’s hard to pinpoint when these outings veered from curiosity to investigation. Maybe right from the beginning. Yet that’s part of what intrigues him, not knowing, for once, exactly what he’s up to. He’d spent the past decade climbing ladders, working seventy-hour weeks, right through holidays and weekends. He tells himself he’s making up for lost time. At least his nights are his own now.
One card room offers strippers behind a side door, coin-operated nudie reels near the bathroom, and, by the sound of it, prostitution upstairs. He settles into another game of five-card stud while on the far side of the room people are pouring dimes into boisterous pinball machines.
“Can you believe this?” he finally asks the clear-eyed, sunburned man next to him who just won a hand. “We’ve got cards, pinball and porno in here, and some cop out in the street’s joking with the hookers.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” the man says without looking at him. “The city’s wide open, but nobody knows it.”
He wins enough, loses enough and hangs around long enough to ask where he might find some older high-dollar gamblers. When that subject dead-ends, he takes a chance. “Know how you were saying everything’s wide open?”
The man carefully stacks his chips.
“That interests me,” Roger tells him.
“Whaddaya mean?” the man asks, restacking the same chips while the others sneak looks at him.
“Well, I teach sociology at the U.”
A gambler slides his chair back and leaves the table.
“I just like to understand the way things work, you know?” Another player departs.
“I’d like to talk to people like that tavern owner who claimed the cops were shaking him down.”
The man restacks his chips again. Cards get shuffled. The manager sends two new players to the table.
A couple hands later, the chip stacker says, “Tried the J&M?”
“What?” Roger says.
“Might find Charlie there.”
An hour later, he’s staring at himself through a pyramid of liquor bottles stacked against the mirror behind the bar at the J&M Café while the short, bearded bartender paces like a penned dog, acting as if he didn’t hear or doesn’t care. When Roger starts to introduce himself again, the man says, “Got a card, Professor?”
“In fact, I do.” Roger pulls out the one given to him in Club 21, crosses out the office phone, writes his home number below it and hands it over. Then he roams the square.
A man asks him for a dime, and after giving him a quarter, Roger tails him back to a pack of men who look like they’ve been camping in doorways. He offers them Lucky Strikes. They light their cigarettes and study him, waiting for the catch.
“How long you guys been here?”
“You a cop?”
“No, are you?”
They love that.
“Been here three weeks,” says the tall one. “Beats the hell out of Spokane.”
“Why’s that?”
“What do you care?”
A man with an eye patch steps closer. “Spare another quarter?”
“No, but I’ve got a buck for the
He watches closely, trying to imagine living with her forever, as she carefully sits on the seat and swings her heels in high enough over the door frame that she won’t risk ruining her stockings.
An hour later he’s loping down James Street into Pioneer Square with a roll of twenties in his front pocket. It’s busier than ever, with the buzz and stink of a carnival, people of all stripes spilling in and out of honky-tonks—sober, drunk, shouting, sulking, laughing. He bounces in and out of three card rooms—the Turf, the Occidental and Bob’s Chili Parlor—sticking around in each just long enough to blow a twenty and ask the gamblers and managers, as casually as possible, if anyone knew where to find Charlie McDaniel or Robert Dawkins these days, getting little in return but conversation-killing glances.
It’s hard to pinpoint when these outings veered from curiosity to investigation. Maybe right from the beginning. Yet that’s part of what intrigues him, not knowing, for once, exactly what he’s up to. He’d spent the past decade climbing ladders, working seventy-hour weeks, right through holidays and weekends. He tells himself he’s making up for lost time. At least his nights are his own now.
One card room offers strippers behind a side door, coin-operated nudie reels near the bathroom, and, by the sound of it, prostitution upstairs. He settles into another game of five-card stud while on the far side of the room people are pouring dimes into boisterous pinball machines.
“Can you believe this?” he finally asks the clear-eyed, sunburned man next to him who just won a hand. “We’ve got cards, pinball and porno in here, and some cop out in the street’s joking with the hookers.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” the man says without looking at him. “The city’s wide open, but nobody knows it.”
He wins enough, loses enough and hangs around long enough to ask where he might find some older high-dollar gamblers. When that subject dead-ends, he takes a chance. “Know how you were saying everything’s wide open?”
The man carefully stacks his chips.
“That interests me,” Roger tells him.
“Whaddaya mean?” the man asks, restacking the same chips while the others sneak looks at him.
“Well, I teach sociology at the U.”
A gambler slides his chair back and leaves the table.
“I just like to understand the way things work, you know?” Another player departs.
“I’d like to talk to people like that tavern owner who claimed the cops were shaking him down.”
The man restacks his chips again. Cards get shuffled. The manager sends two new players to the table.
A couple hands later, the chip stacker says, “Tried the J&M?”
“What?” Roger says.
“Might find Charlie there.”
An hour later, he’s staring at himself through a pyramid of liquor bottles stacked against the mirror behind the bar at the J&M Café while the short, bearded bartender paces like a penned dog, acting as if he didn’t hear or doesn’t care. When Roger starts to introduce himself again, the man says, “Got a card, Professor?”
“In fact, I do.” Roger pulls out the one given to him in Club 21, crosses out the office phone, writes his home number below it and hands it over. Then he roams the square.
A man asks him for a dime, and after giving him a quarter, Roger tails him back to a pack of men who look like they’ve been camping in doorways. He offers them Lucky Strikes. They light their cigarettes and study him, waiting for the catch.
“How long you guys been here?”
“You a cop?”
“No, are you?”
They love that.
“Been here three weeks,” says the tall one. “Beats the hell out of Spokane.”
“Why’s that?”
“What do you care?”
A man with an eye patch steps closer. “Spare another quarter?”
“No, but I’ve got a buck for the
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