Kiss Me Hard. Thomas B. Dewey

You know these Midwest towns: the long, wide main street—eight or ten blocks of stores—with the railroad cutting across it at one end and maybe a park with a bandstand at the other; with tree-lined streets stretching away on both sides, past high, old-fashioned frame houses; and all around, the flat, green-brown farmlands: and somewhere, between a couple of stores, a tavern, serving light wines and beer and maybe hard liquor too, depending on the local customs and the latest election.

A tavern like this might have, for entertainment, a television set, a jukebox and a handful of local wits. Hardly ever would it have a live musician, a piano player. A really good, self-respecting piano player has it tough enough in a city, with a saloon in every block. And a guy running a small-town spot doesn’t make enough to pay half the union scale for a keyboard hack who can play “Beautiful Ohio” so it sounds like “Hearts and Flowers” and accompany the local quartet in “Tie Me to Your Apron Strings Again.” So you don’t find piano players in the small-town taverns.

But at one time, this particular tavern in this particular town in “Beautiful Ohio” did have a piano player and I was it. I’d been there a week. I’d done pretty well the first week—eight bucks in the kitty and the boss never let my beer glass get empty. I carried a small bottle of my own besides and with the beer, I got along all right, which is to say I would be in a deep, comfortable fog by one A.M., my normal condition.

The work was easy. The customers weren’t hard to please. I gave them straight stuff, cut very square, without riffs, runs or razzle-dazzle. Sometimes I felt guilty. But most of the time I just kept the beer going down and relaxed. It might have gone on for a long time, if it hadn’t been for this redhead…

She’d been in the joint every night for a week—a girl with red hair, a bold-faced girl with a ripe bosom pushing through the summer dress, with fine legs and well-turned ankles and her hips pleasantly rounded on the bar stool. I’d noticed her, the way you notice certain girls, but I’d only taken a look now and then and minded my own business. She was a local girl and I was a stranger, playing the piano in a tank-town tavern.

Sometimes she would be alone, stay for an hour or two, drinking beer, listening to the music, and sometimes she would be with a guy. It was always the same guy, a big bruiser with a thick neck, and hands like a gorilla’s, with stiff, black hair all over the backs of them. He never paid any attention to the piano and he didn’t pay much attention to the girl. You could see they were together and that he was the guy in her life, but they didn’t have much to say to each other. He had a few cronies he hung around with and sometimes he wouldn’t speak to the girl until it was time to go home. Even then it might be only a nod or a shake of the head.

So I didn’t stick my nose in. I had this good thing and I wanted to keep it. Once in a while I would glance up and the girl would be staring at me, listening to the music. I would throw her a professional smile and then get my eyes back on the keyboard—not that I had to look at it, but I felt safer that way.

Then, this particular night, the girl decided she didn’t want it like that. She had come in early and sat at the bar for a while. Later she moved to a table twelve inches from the treble end of the keyboard. It was too early for a crowd and besides the bartender and me there were only the redhead and one skinny, bookkeeperish type character, who sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a short beer.

The girl sat alone at the table, drinking beer, and the scent of her perfume came over strong and sharp. I’d slept most of the day and hadn’t had a chance to drink much yet, so I was a little edgy. I kept my eyes off her. It was bad public relations, but it was easier on my nerves. After a while she leaned forward and asked for a match, though there was a packet stuck in the ash tray on her table. When I reached across to hold the light for her, she held my hand steady with both of hers and as she dragged in on the cigarette her eyes went over my face slowly.

“How do you like our town?” she asked through a smoke ring.

“O.K.,” I said and went back to the job.

She raised her voice.

“What’s your name?”

“Chris,” I said. “Chris Cross.”

She laughed. Naturally. Funny thing is, that’s my name. Christopher Cross. My old man had a hell of a sense of humor.

The redhead leaned forward.

“You don’t look like a piano player,” she said. “You look more like a stevedore.”

“That’s what they told me at the conservatory.”

The bartender came over to replace an empty glass and he left two instead of one. When I lifted my eyebrows, he nodded toward the girl. I raised my glass in thanks and she smiled and moved onto the bench

Скачать книгу