23 
Roy hesitated. “Make it a hundred.”
Max tittered.
“A ‘C’ it is,” Gus said. “Say when.”
“Now.”
Gus shut his eyes and rubbed his brow with his left hand. “One of the drinks on the tray will be a Pink Lady.”
The way they were seated everybody but Mercy could see the bar, so he turned his chair around to watch.
“Your steak might get cold, Max.”
“This I got to see.”
Memo looked on, amused.
They waited a minute, then a waiter went over to the bar and said something to the bartender. Harry nodded and turned around for a bottle, but they couldn’t see what he was mixing because a customer was standing in front of him. When he left, Roy saw a tall pink drink standing on the counter. He felt sick but then he thought maybe it’s a sloe gin fizz. Harry poured a Scotch and soda for the same tray and the waiter came for it.
As he passed by, Gus called him over to the table.
“What is that red drink that you have got there?”
“This one?” said the waiter. “A Pink Lady, Mr. Sands.”
Gus slipped him a flyer.
Everybody laughed.
“Nothing to it,” said Gus.
“It never fails.” Max had turned his chair and was eating. “Nice work, Gus.”
Gus beamed. Memo patted his hand. Roy felt annoyed.
“That’s a hundred,” he said.
“It was a freak win,” Gus said, “so we will write it off.”
“No, I owe it to you but give me a chance to win it back.” He thought Memo was mocking him and it made him stubborn.
“Anything you say,” Gus shrugged.
“You can say it,” said Roy. “I’ll cover you for two hundred.” Gus concentrated a minute. Everybody watched him, Roy tensely. It wasn’t the money he was afraid of. He wanted to win in front of Memo.
“Let’s play on some kind of a number,” Gus said.
“What kind?”
“Of the amount of bills you are carrying on you.”
A slow flush crept up Roy’s cheeks.
“I will bet I can guess by one buck either way how much you have got on you now,” Gus said.
“You’re on.” Roy’s voice was husky.
Gus covered his good eye and pretended he was a mind reader trying to fathom the number. His glass eye stared unblinking.
“Ten bucks,” he announced.
Roy’s throat went dry. He drew his wallet out of his pants pocket. Max took it from him and loudly counted up a five and four single dollar bills. “Nine.” He slapped the table and guffawed.
“Wonderful,” Memo murmured. “Three hundred I owe to you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“It was a bet. Will you take my IOU?”
“Wanna try again?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll lose your panties,” Max warned.
“On what?” Gus asked.
Roy thought. “What about another number?”
“Righto. What kind?”
“I’ll pick out a number from one to ten. You tell me what it is.”
Gus considered. “For the three hundred?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want me to write the number?”
“Keep it in your head.”
“Go ahead.”
“Got the number?”
“I have it.”
Again Gus eclipsed his good eye and took a slow breath. He made it seem like a kind of magic he was doing. Memo was fascinated.
“Deuce,” Gus quickly announced.
Roy felt as if he had been struck on the conk. He considered lying but knew they could tell if he did.
“That’s right, how’d you do it?” He felt foolish.
Gus winked.
Max was all but coming apart with laughter. Memo looked away.
Gus swallowed his Scotch. “Two is a magic number,” he crooned at Memo. “Two makes the world go around.” She smiled slightly, watching Roy.
He tried to eat but felt numbed.
Max just couldn’t stop cackling. Roy felt like busting him one in the snoot.
Gus put his long arm around Memo’s bare shoulders. “I have lots of luck, don’t I, babyface?”
She nodded and sipped her drink.
The lights went on. The m.c. bobbed up from a table he had been sitting at and went into his routine.
“Six hundred I owe to you,” Roy said, throwing Max into another whoop of laughter.
“Forget it, slugger. Maybe some day you might be able to do me a favor.”
They were all suddenly silent.
“What kind of favor?” Roy asked.
“When I am down and out you can buy me a cup o’ coffee.”
They laughed, except Roy.
“I’ll pay you now.” He left the table and disappeared. In a few minutes he returned with a white tablecloth over his arm.
Roy flapped out the cloth and one of the spotlights happened to catch it in the air. It turned red, then gold.
“What’s going on?” Max said.
Roy whisked the cloth over Gus’s head.
“The first installment.”
He grabbed the bookie’s nose and yanked. A stream of silver dollars clattered into his plate.
Gus stared at the money. Memo looked at Roy in intense surprise.
People at the nearby tables turned to see what was going on. Those in the rear craned and got up. The m.c. gave up his jokes and waved both spots to Roy.
“For Pete’s sake, sit down,” Max hissed.
Roy rippled the green cloth in front of Max’s face and dragged out of his astonished mouth a dead herring.
Everybody in the place applauded.
From Memo’s bosom, he plucked a duck egg.
Gus got red in the face. Roy grabbed his beak again and twisted — it shed more cartwheels.
“Second installment.”
“What the hell is this?” Gus sputtered.
The color wheels spun. Roy turned purple, red, and yellow. From the glum Mercy’s pocket he extracted a long salami.
Gus’s ears ran a third installment of silver. A whirl of the cloth and a white bunny hopped out of Memo’s purse. From Max’s size sixteen shirt collar, he teased out a pig’s tail. As the customers howled, Max pulled out his black book and furiously scribbled in it. Gus’s blue, depressed eye hunted around for a way out but his glass one gleamed like a lamp in a graveyard. And Memo laughed and laughed till the tears streamed down her cheeks.
4
Maybe I might break my back while I am at it,” Roy spoke into the microphone at home plate before a hushed sellout crowd jampacked into Knights Field, “but I will do my best — the best I am able — to be the greatest there ever was in the game.
“I thank you.” He finished with a gulp that echoed like an electric hiccup through the loudspeakers and sat down, not quite happy with himself despite the celebration, because when called on to speak he had meant to begin with a joke, then thank them for their favor and say what a good team the Knights were and how he enjoyed working for Pop Fisher, but it had come out this other way. On the other hand, so what the hell if they knew what was on his mind?
It was “Roy Hobbs Day,” that had been in the making since two weeks ago, when Max Mercy printed in his column: “Roy Hobbs, El Swatto, has been ixnayed on a pay raise. Trying to kill the bird that lays the golden baseball, Judge?” A grass roots movement developed among the loyal fans to put the Judge to shame (if possible) and they had quickly arranged a Day for Roy, which was held after the Knights had bounced into third place, following a night game win over the Phils, who now led them by only four games, themselves two behind the first-place Pirates.
23 
