said. “What the fuck are those guys doing?”
Frankie, who had made no sign of paying attention to the far end of the bar, said, “You know mumblety-peg?”
One two three four.
Klinger thought about it. “You throw a knife at a tree. If your knife sticks, the other guy has to do it with his knife.”
Four three two one.
“When somebody misses, he loses a point. Like that?”
“Yeah,” Frankie said lazily. “Another way you can play, two guys stand six feet apart, each with his feet close together. At attention, like. The guy who goes first, he throws a knife close to one or another foot of the other guy. Eight or ten inches away, say. If the knife sticks in the ground, the guy has to move his foot out to it. Then it’s his turn. If his throw sticks in the ground, the first guy has to move his foot out to the knife. And so forth. The first guy to fall over loses.”
Klinger almost didn’t laugh. “That sounds about as useful as watching television.”
“Inside,” said Frankie, “I learned to hate television.”
“So what’s that got to do—.”
“Them guys down there are running a variation on the theme,” Frankie said. “First, they down a shot of tequila.”
“I saw that.”
“Then, they flip a coin.”
“I missed that.”
“Guy that loses spreads his hand flat on the bar, fingers wide as they can go, like this.”
“Okay.”
“Then he takes his knife and stabs the point outside the thumb, then between thumb and forefinger, forefinger and fuck-you finger, fuck-you finger and ring finger, ring finger and pinky, outside. Then he goes back.”
Klinger watched Frankie stab the fuck-you finger of his right hand sequentially between the fingers of his left hand, spread on the bar, and back.
“One two three four five six,” Frankie counted, “six five four three two one.”
“Isn’t that kind of hard on the bar?” Klinger said.
Frankie shrugged. “Depends on what kinda joint you’re in.”
“Guess so,” Klinger said.
“If you don’t stab yourself …” Frankie continued.
“… The other guy takes a round,” Klinger concluded. “But first,” Frankie cautioned, “you down another shot.” As he said this, the bartender passed them with a tray of shot glasses, each brimming with tequila, a salt shaker, an ashtray heaped with lime sections.
“Then you do another round,” Frankie said.
“Until the inevitable,” Klinger concluded.
“Yeah,” Frankie said. “And there’s a lot of variations.”
“Like … ?”
Frankie shrugged. “Each round goes a little faster.”
“That sounds subjective.”
“Many’s the argument,” Frankie agreed. “A less subjective variation is, the first round you go once, you have your drink, and the second round you go twice.”
From the far end of the bar, a knife point touched the bar sixteen times.
“They musta heard me,” Frankie said.
“Let me guess,” Klinger said.
Frankie extended his hand, palm up. “After the second round, you could do two shots.”
“And so forth.”
“
Voilà
,” Frankie said.
“A little more interactive than television.”
Frankie shrugged. “There you go.”
“Whatever happened to canasta?” Klinger asked. “You ever play this knife game?”
“Are you kidding?” Frankie asked. “I’m an artist. My hands is all I got.”
“Of course,” Klinger said. “I forgot.”
“Them guys down there,” Frankie said, though he’d yet to turn around for a look at them, “they probably make their living with their brains.”
Klinger smiled.
“We ain’t come to my favorite variation,” Frankie said sleepily.
“What’s that?”
Frankie pointed at his hand. “Instead of stabbing the knife between the fingers of your own hand, you stab it between the fingers of the other guy’s hand.”
“That’s a prescription for escalation,” Klinger said, moving his drink away from Frankie.
Frankie nodded.
Somebody at the far end of the bar yelled “FUCK!” “Fuck?” The guy
Frankie, who had made no sign of paying attention to the far end of the bar, said, “You know mumblety-peg?”
One two three four.
Klinger thought about it. “You throw a knife at a tree. If your knife sticks, the other guy has to do it with his knife.”
Four three two one.
“When somebody misses, he loses a point. Like that?”
“Yeah,” Frankie said lazily. “Another way you can play, two guys stand six feet apart, each with his feet close together. At attention, like. The guy who goes first, he throws a knife close to one or another foot of the other guy. Eight or ten inches away, say. If the knife sticks in the ground, the guy has to move his foot out to it. Then it’s his turn. If his throw sticks in the ground, the first guy has to move his foot out to the knife. And so forth. The first guy to fall over loses.”
Klinger almost didn’t laugh. “That sounds about as useful as watching television.”
“Inside,” said Frankie, “I learned to hate television.”
“So what’s that got to do—.”
“Them guys down there are running a variation on the theme,” Frankie said. “First, they down a shot of tequila.”
“I saw that.”
“Then, they flip a coin.”
“I missed that.”
“Guy that loses spreads his hand flat on the bar, fingers wide as they can go, like this.”
“Okay.”
“Then he takes his knife and stabs the point outside the thumb, then between thumb and forefinger, forefinger and fuck-you finger, fuck-you finger and ring finger, ring finger and pinky, outside. Then he goes back.”
Klinger watched Frankie stab the fuck-you finger of his right hand sequentially between the fingers of his left hand, spread on the bar, and back.
“One two three four five six,” Frankie counted, “six five four three two one.”
“Isn’t that kind of hard on the bar?” Klinger said.
Frankie shrugged. “Depends on what kinda joint you’re in.”
“Guess so,” Klinger said.
“If you don’t stab yourself …” Frankie continued.
“… The other guy takes a round,” Klinger concluded. “But first,” Frankie cautioned, “you down another shot.” As he said this, the bartender passed them with a tray of shot glasses, each brimming with tequila, a salt shaker, an ashtray heaped with lime sections.
“Then you do another round,” Frankie said.
“Until the inevitable,” Klinger concluded.
“Yeah,” Frankie said. “And there’s a lot of variations.”
“Like … ?”
Frankie shrugged. “Each round goes a little faster.”
“That sounds subjective.”
“Many’s the argument,” Frankie agreed. “A less subjective variation is, the first round you go once, you have your drink, and the second round you go twice.”
From the far end of the bar, a knife point touched the bar sixteen times.
“They musta heard me,” Frankie said.
“Let me guess,” Klinger said.
Frankie extended his hand, palm up. “After the second round, you could do two shots.”
“And so forth.”
“
Voilà
,” Frankie said.
“A little more interactive than television.”
Frankie shrugged. “There you go.”
“Whatever happened to canasta?” Klinger asked. “You ever play this knife game?”
“Are you kidding?” Frankie asked. “I’m an artist. My hands is all I got.”
“Of course,” Klinger said. “I forgot.”
“Them guys down there,” Frankie said, though he’d yet to turn around for a look at them, “they probably make their living with their brains.”
Klinger smiled.
“We ain’t come to my favorite variation,” Frankie said sleepily.
“What’s that?”
Frankie pointed at his hand. “Instead of stabbing the knife between the fingers of your own hand, you stab it between the fingers of the other guy’s hand.”
“That’s a prescription for escalation,” Klinger said, moving his drink away from Frankie.
Frankie nodded.
Somebody at the far end of the bar yelled “FUCK!” “Fuck?” The guy
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