The Scummers

Twenty-Eight

162 Twenty-Eight North Depot Activity Romulus, New York March 1961 The room was small, barely large enough to keep two men from falling over each other. The floor was tile, polished to a high shine. The walls were concrete block, covered with one layer of white paint. There were two GI cots and, just inside the door, a large, upright, metal double-locker, a heavy gray cabinet designed to hold everything that the army allowed to be kept in the room. And that was all. Nothing else. A bare, hard room in the middle of a bare, hard building in the middle of a frozen, hard piece of country. Tucker and I tossed our bedding on the cots and sat down, making no attempt to prepare the cots for sleeping. “I never asked you before, Hays, but what the hell are you doing here?” Tucker shifted his weight and the cot springs squeaked. “Well, I guess I just got tired of cowboying in Kansas. Didn’t seem like I was getting anywhere. Been out of school for four years, and still ridin’ a horse for a living. Army seemed like a good idea—at the time.” “You volunteer?” “Yeah. Just went into Wichita one day and signed up. You?” “You wouldn’t believe it. Was working on a ranch near Gunnison . Couple of friends and I pulled into San Francisco one day, in the rain—” I was cut short by a hollow, booming sound from down the hallway , a heavy sound that crashed along the hard walls and forced its way into the room. 163 “Christ,” I hissed, “what the hell was that?” Instinctively I leaped to the wall and snapped off the lights. I heard Tucker get up from the cot and knew that he had moved into a corner, probably crouching . The booming sound thundered again, closer this time. And then again, closer still. Tucker crept through the darkness to the edge of the locker, its mass protecting him from the door. “Better have a look,” he said. “I’ll do it,” I said, “you’re too fuckin’ big.” I edged to the door and slowly pulled it inward until, by pressing my face against the frame, I could see into the hallway, only partially lighted at night by a single bulb about halfway down the corridor—and the faint glow spilled into the room. The booming sound came again, this time almost on top of me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Hays,” I whispered, “there’s some big son of a bitch out there in the hallway—kicking in doors! No shit! He’s staggering down the hallway, picking out doors and kicking them in. And the bastard is big! Jesus H. Christ, Hays, he’s twice as big as you are!” My voice was coming in a hoarse whisper. The last thing I wanted was for the big man in the hallway to hear me. Strangely, no one else was visible. No one seemed to be trying to stop the kicking of the doors. “Goddamn, Stoney, we just got here. If that big fucker kicks in our door, we’re in trouble before we even get started!” “Okay, look, I’m watching him,” I muttered. “I think he’s pretty drunk. He stops in front of a door, plants himself, lines himself up, raises his leg and lets go with everything he’s got. His leg’s like a goddamn’ silo! “Listen, if he stops in front of this door, I’m going to whip it open. Okay?” “Okay, Stoney. You want to take it out there, or bring it in here?” 164 “In here. Better off if he doesn’t have room to move that big goddamn body around.” Another door, the room next to ours, crashed in. The doors were thin hollow-cores and when the big man’s heavy leg hit them they splintered, chunks of wood flying into the rooms. But no one appeared in the hallway. “Get ready, cowboy, here he comes,” I whispered. For a few seconds, everything was quiet, Tucker frozen behind the locker, me with my face pressed against the doorframe, watching . The only movement was me, carefully removing my belt and letting it dangle in a loop from my right hand. We heard shuffling footsteps from outside the door and I tensed, trying to time my move. I waited . . . in an explosion of...