the Big Bounce (1969) by Elmore - Jack Ryan 0 Leonard Page A
Authors: Elmore - Jack Ryan 0 Leonard
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him.
The cop?
No, before.
With what?
I hit him with a beer bottle.
Broken one?
No, this guy tried to pull something. I didn't get arrested for hitting him. It was after, when the cop told me to drop the bottle.
You didn't drop it quick enough.
Ryan was looking at the waitress. She had the masked look a lot of waitresses put on, telling nothing, letting you know you weren't anything special. Probably a stuck-up broad who was dumb and didn't know it. Broads like that burned him up. She looked nice, though: starched ruffled blouse and the tight red pants, like a swordfighter outfit. She came over with another pitcher of beer. He watched Mr. Majestyk give her tail a little pat and she didn't seem to mind.
What's your name, honey? His big hand resting gently on her red hip.
Mary Jane.
Mary Jane, I want you to meet Jack Ryan.
I've seen him before, she said, looking at Ryan as she placed the pitcher on the table. He saw her eyes and it gave him a funny feeling. She had seen him before. She knew about him. She had decided things about him. He watched her turn to the bar again, the nice tight shape of the red pants.
Some guys I'd like to have taken and used a beer bottle on, Mr. Majestyk said. I had a tavern in Detroit oh, fifteen years ago now. These guys would come off the shift from Dodge Main. They come in, every one of them, a shot and a beer. Set them right down the bar, every stool, then go back and pour another shot right down the bar again.
Ryan's gaze followed the waitress. A nice little black ribbon tied around the ponytail. Nice, the black with the blond hair.
Then go back, Mr. Majestyk said, boom boom boom, pick up the dough. The third time just hit the guys that want another. This guy I don't know is there one time and he says, 'God damn, how do you remember what everybody's drinking?' Amazed. I just shrug like it's nothing. Every Polack in the place is drinking Seven Crown and Strohs. Sixty-five cents.
Ryan left his canvas bag at the bar and they went to a restaurant over on the main street for dinner, Estelle's: a counter and booths with Formica tops and place mats that illustrated Michigan as The Water-Winter Wonderland. They ordered steaks with American fries after Ryan bet they wouldn't have boiled potatoes and they didn't.
Mr. Majestyk stared at him, hunched over with his arms on the table edge. You like boiled potatoes?
Boiled potatoes, just plain or with some parsley, Ryan said. It's like a real potato. I mean it's got the most potato taste.
Right! Mr. Majestyk said, with a tone that said it was the correct answer.
When I was at home, Ryan said, on Sunday my mother would have veal roast or pork roast and boiled potatoes. Not mashed or fried or anything. Boiled. You'd take two or three potatoes and cut them up so they covered about half the plate? Then pour gravy all over it. But try and get a boiled potato in a restaurant.
Where did you live in Detroit?
Highland Park. Just north of where Ford Tractor was. Up by Sears.
I know where it is. Your father work at Ford's?
He worked for the DSR, but he's dead now. He died when I was thirteen.
I had some friends worked for the DSR. Hell, they started when they still had streetcars. All retired now or doing something else.
I don't think my dad ever ran a streetcar. What I remember, he drove a Woodward bus. It'd say RIVER going downtown, you know? And FAIRGROUNDS coming back.
Sure, I've ridden it.
They didn't talk much eating the steaks and fries. Ryan pictured the Sunday dinners again in the dining room that was also his bedroom: his mother and his two older sisters and most of the time one or the other's boyfriend; his dad not always there, not if he had to work Sunday. It was a two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor, the top floor, of an old building; his mother and dad in one bedroom, the two sisters in the other one, which was always messed up with clothes and magazines and curlers and crap. He slept in the dining room on a studio couch
The cop?
No, before.
With what?
I hit him with a beer bottle.
Broken one?
No, this guy tried to pull something. I didn't get arrested for hitting him. It was after, when the cop told me to drop the bottle.
You didn't drop it quick enough.
Ryan was looking at the waitress. She had the masked look a lot of waitresses put on, telling nothing, letting you know you weren't anything special. Probably a stuck-up broad who was dumb and didn't know it. Broads like that burned him up. She looked nice, though: starched ruffled blouse and the tight red pants, like a swordfighter outfit. She came over with another pitcher of beer. He watched Mr. Majestyk give her tail a little pat and she didn't seem to mind.
What's your name, honey? His big hand resting gently on her red hip.
Mary Jane.
Mary Jane, I want you to meet Jack Ryan.
I've seen him before, she said, looking at Ryan as she placed the pitcher on the table. He saw her eyes and it gave him a funny feeling. She had seen him before. She knew about him. She had decided things about him. He watched her turn to the bar again, the nice tight shape of the red pants.
Some guys I'd like to have taken and used a beer bottle on, Mr. Majestyk said. I had a tavern in Detroit oh, fifteen years ago now. These guys would come off the shift from Dodge Main. They come in, every one of them, a shot and a beer. Set them right down the bar, every stool, then go back and pour another shot right down the bar again.
Ryan's gaze followed the waitress. A nice little black ribbon tied around the ponytail. Nice, the black with the blond hair.
Then go back, Mr. Majestyk said, boom boom boom, pick up the dough. The third time just hit the guys that want another. This guy I don't know is there one time and he says, 'God damn, how do you remember what everybody's drinking?' Amazed. I just shrug like it's nothing. Every Polack in the place is drinking Seven Crown and Strohs. Sixty-five cents.
Ryan left his canvas bag at the bar and they went to a restaurant over on the main street for dinner, Estelle's: a counter and booths with Formica tops and place mats that illustrated Michigan as The Water-Winter Wonderland. They ordered steaks with American fries after Ryan bet they wouldn't have boiled potatoes and they didn't.
Mr. Majestyk stared at him, hunched over with his arms on the table edge. You like boiled potatoes?
Boiled potatoes, just plain or with some parsley, Ryan said. It's like a real potato. I mean it's got the most potato taste.
Right! Mr. Majestyk said, with a tone that said it was the correct answer.
When I was at home, Ryan said, on Sunday my mother would have veal roast or pork roast and boiled potatoes. Not mashed or fried or anything. Boiled. You'd take two or three potatoes and cut them up so they covered about half the plate? Then pour gravy all over it. But try and get a boiled potato in a restaurant.
Where did you live in Detroit?
Highland Park. Just north of where Ford Tractor was. Up by Sears.
I know where it is. Your father work at Ford's?
He worked for the DSR, but he's dead now. He died when I was thirteen.
I had some friends worked for the DSR. Hell, they started when they still had streetcars. All retired now or doing something else.
I don't think my dad ever ran a streetcar. What I remember, he drove a Woodward bus. It'd say RIVER going downtown, you know? And FAIRGROUNDS coming back.
Sure, I've ridden it.
They didn't talk much eating the steaks and fries. Ryan pictured the Sunday dinners again in the dining room that was also his bedroom: his mother and his two older sisters and most of the time one or the other's boyfriend; his dad not always there, not if he had to work Sunday. It was a two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor, the top floor, of an old building; his mother and dad in one bedroom, the two sisters in the other one, which was always messed up with clothes and magazines and curlers and crap. He slept in the dining room on a studio couch
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