The Talisman

hat was cocked forward on Smokey’s narrow head.
    ‘We talked about you dossing down back there,’ Smokey said. ‘You asked if it came with the job. I said it did. No mention was made of your meals. If it had been brought up, maybe something could have been done. Maybe not. Point is, you never brought it up, so now you got to deal with that.’
    Jack sat shaking, tears of anger standing in his eyes. He tried to talk and nothing came out but a small strangled groan. He was literally too furious to speak.
    ‘Of course, if you wanted to discuss an employees’ discount on your meals now—’
    ‘Go to hell !’ Jack managed finally, snatching up the four singles and the little screw of change. ‘Teach the next kid who comes in here how to look out for number one! I’m going !’
    He crossed the floor toward the door, and in spite of his anger he knew – did not just think but flat-out knew – that he wasn’t going to make the sidewalk.
    ‘Jack.’
    He touched the doorknob, thought of grasping it and turning it – but that voice was undeniable and full of a certain threat. He dropped his hand and turned around, his anger leaving him. He suddenly felt shrunken and old. Lori had gone behind the bar, where she was sweeping and humming. She had apparently decided that Smokey wasn’t going to work Jack over with his fists, and since nothing else really mattered, everything was all right.
    ‘You don’t want to leave me in the lurch with my weekend crowd coming up.’
    ‘I want to get out of here. You cheated me.’
    ‘No sir,’ Smokey said, ‘I explained that. If anyone blotted your copybook, Jack, it was you. Now we could discuss your meals – fifty per cent off the food, maybe, and even free sodas. I never went that far before with the younger help I hire from time to time, but this weekend’s going to be especially hairy, what with all the migrant labor in the county for the apple-picking. And I like you, Jack. That’s why I didn’t clout you one when you raised your voice to me, although maybe I should have. But I need you over the weekend.’
    Jack felt his rage return briefly, and then die away again.
    ‘What if I go anyhow?’ he asked. ‘I’m five dollars to the good, anyway, and being out of this shitty little town might be just as good as a bonus.’
    Looking at Jack, still smiling his narrow smile, Smokey said, ‘You remember going into the men’s last night to clean after some guy who whoopsed his cookies?’
    Jack nodded.
    ‘You remember what he looked like?’
    ‘Crewcut. Khakis. So what?’
    ‘That’s Digger Atwell. His real name’s Carlton, but he spent ten years taking care of the town cemeteries, so everyone got calling him Digger. That was – oh, twenty or thirty years ago. He went on the town cops back around the time Nixon got elected President. Now he’s Chief of Police.’
    Smokey picked up his Cheroot, puffed at it, and looked at Jack.
    ‘Digger and me go back,’ Smokey said. ‘And if you was to just walk out of here now, Jack, I couldn’t guarantee that you wouldn’t have some trouble with Digger. Might end up getting sent home. Might end up picking the apples on the town’s land – Oatley Township’s got . . . oh, I guess forty acres of good trees. Might end up getting beat up. Or . . . I’ve heard that Old Digger’s got a taste for kids on the road. Boys, mostly.’
    Jack thought of that clublike penis. He felt both sick and cold.
    ‘In here, you’re under my wing, so to speak,’ Smokey said.
    ‘Once you hit the street, who can say? Digger’s apt to be cruising anyplace. You might get over the town line with no sweat. On the other hand, you might just see him pulling up beside you in that big Plymouth he drives. Digger ain’t totally bright, but he does have a nose, sometimes. Or . . . someone might give him a call.’
    Behind the bar, Lori was doing dishes. She dried her hands, turned on the radio, and began to sing along with an old Steppenwolf song.
    ‘Tell you what,’ Smokey said. ‘Hang in there, Jack. Work the weekend. Then I’ll pack you into my pick-up and drive you over the town line myself. How would that be? You’ll go out of here Sunday noon with damn near thirty bucks in your poke that you didn’t have coming in. You’ll go out thinking that Oatley’s not such a bad place after all. So what do you say?’
    Jack looked into those brown eyes, noted the yellow scleras and the small flecks of red; he noted Smokey’s big, sincere