Chapter 7 7

You've probably seen Winchell somewhere over the years, and maybe even if you did you didn't pay much attention to him.There was nothing striking about his appearance: tall and thin, dressed in gray, with dark brown hair trimmed to the ends, and wearing glasses when he read the newspaper or checked train timetables.Neither handsome nor otherwise remarkable.The face is a little too thin, and I am a little embarrassed when I take a step.Probably a banker, you'd guess, though for a banker his black boots look a little plain and dated, unless he's working in Texas or something like that.

Maybe later you glance into the glass window of the first-class room and notice him playing cards with half a dozen other men.Just killing time on a long train journey, you think, and what you don't know is that Winchell never plays cards just to pass the time at the poker table. If you stare at that window for a while—not too long, because someone will notice that the curtain is drawn and pull it back in front of your face—you will see that Winchell's hands are like The hands of the magician move like that.He shuffled the cards quickly, dealt the cards firmly and swiftly, and the cards shot out like flat bullets, always falling firmly in front of the person who should have the card.At the age of thirty-five, Winchell became a man of great skill at the poker table.

If a player says, "I want three cards, Winchell," within an eighth of a second the cards will appear on the table, in his hand. You may also have noticed that his facial expression is always pleasant and detached.He's been working on this for a long time, practicing it in front of the mirror, until he always knows what his expression looks like to those who stare at him, who are always looking for hints, and he never has What a flaw. The road and the cards were like a ruthless machine tool that Winchell drove for years until all the jerky edges were smoothed into shape.In his final year, he mused about going to Las Vegas.He'd heard that Las Vegas was getting better, but it was full of hardcore poker players fighting to the death in a few hands, not suitable for second-rate poker players with big bucks and always trying to make some extra money.People say if you want to go there, you have to think twice, unless you're really pretty good and self-aware.Playing poker head-to-head with some unscrupulous boys means that years of hard-earned betting money can be wiped away in a few nights, in a haze of cigarette gloom and a whiff of bad luck. , no matter how well ironed your best clothes are.However, as Blue Greenfeather and others are about to prove, Winchell has reached a Las Vegas level, and has reached a pretty high level, there is no doubt about it.

The car headed light and steady toward Big Spring while a game in Indianapolis was blaring on the radio.Winchell tuned in and found a music program, and a nice Texas boy was singing: guitar on the street a little out of tune, but you can see across the border From our room window. If only that was possible on a day like today, Winchell mused, looking out of one window at the other side of the room where a woman was sleeping on a rumpled bed.This happened once, when he was eighteen, on a Saturday night in San Carlos, Mexico.In the morning he leaned on the window sill and looked out towards Texas, looking at the Chissos mountains just waking up.

The girl's name was Lillian, and she was a wild little fellow, both primitive and sophisticated, and she was the daughter of the owner of the R9.When her parents went to Crill Segno to discuss business one weekend, she and Winchell mounted two horses and rode toward San Carlos. He still remembered what she was wearing: a black skirt that dangled just above the tops of black leather boots, a starched white shirt with long sleeves and a baggy fit, a Stetson in her black hair On the top, her hair was combed back and hung on her back, neat and beautiful.She was seventeen years old and rode like a Comanche, and she fell in love with it, and Winchell eventually became a poker player.

On the long afternoon heading home to Texas, Lillian said, "You should indulge yourself more often, Winchell. You are a very playful person." She kicked the galloping filly with her boot, and shouted back to him, "Come on, let's kick up the dust and run down to the river and have a good time!" The two of them often sneaked into the canyon before Lillian set off for Sarah Lawrence College or something like that a few months later.When it rained and the rain slid into the rocks, the Tyne filled with water and they splashed each other naked in the river and made love on the rough creek sand.It's clear to Winchell, from Lillian's poised demeanor when she's naked and when she's down to business, that she's not the first cowboy to float down the river with her on her journey.After she left for college, he never saw her again.

At about ten o'clock in the morning, Winchell started the Cadillac and set off for a coffee shop in Colorado City.He ordered bacon and soft-boiled eggs, and looked around, wondering if there was some sort of Winchell's dining car, and if there was one, it would have only one seat.This is his way of life.Until that anniversary in 1967, Lucinda took his order and came out of a kitchen in Colorado City, Texas a few moments later, wearing a pink uniform , holding the bacon and eggs he asked for. In the pool room of the two ranch houses, the balls were neatly arranged, and Sonia kept them next to each other on shelves as part of her cleaning job, with the cue balls on the other side of the table. one head.Winchell hung his jacket on a chair, removed the tee, hit seven balls in a row, and then let himself relax and let his body relax.The .38 dangling from his armpits made him uncomfortable as he bent over the table.He took the holster off his shoulder and tucked the pistol into his bootlace.

The kitchen phone rang, briefly, again, and then fell silent.It does that sometimes when a storm comes, even if the storm is a hundred and seventy kilometers away.The telephone line was stretched very long, covering the whole of Texas.Winchell walked to a bookshelf and, from a case, pulled out a violin that once belonged to a cowboy named Ake Williams.Winchell was never much of a musician, but the violin had accompanied him through those long years on the road.One of the six songs he knew was "Westphalian Waltz," which Lillian had enjoyed during his time on the frontier.He tuned the strings, turned off the lights in the billiard room, stood in the dark, and played the waltz.

Lucinda liked the song too.But her favorite is "Silver Bell".So he started playing "The Silver Bell" and started thinking about Lucinda.He liked to miss Lucinda.In a life that seemed pervaded by grit and smoke, the dirt brought in by travelers in a thousand hotel rooms, and the hands of a million double-player poker, Lucinda always radiated, as far as he could remember, A sweet smell, as fresh and refined as freshly washed.When Winchell played the "Silver Bell" for the fifth time, it was past two o'clock in the morning on the plateau desert, and he tried his best to adjust the lead from one key to another as quietly as Bob Welsh's band did. A key, occasionally missing a piece of melody, always thinking in my heart that I and Lucinda should never give up the things they once had together.

As the Lincoln Continental drove down Front Street (which is the local name for Route Ninety), the sleepy town of Clearsegno, Texas, the Lincoln stopped at a flashing red light Come down, it's the only stop you need on the road into town. "Hey, look, there's an Amtrak Amtrak at the train station. Train." Marty said, pointing to his right side. "I bet we could have gotten out of here on this train. We could have Got a box, and played cards or something in the lounge. No flat tires, no worries. Why didn't we take the train?" The driver watched a black-and-white police car passing through the intersection ahead of him: "Crill Segno Police Department, protect citizens, serve citizens." Headed where it was going before pulling away from the flashing red light and continuing east.

"Amtrak is coming out of the station spouting steam, and we're going the same way. Why didn't we take the train?" "I don't know, Marty. Didn't think to take the train, I guess. Besides, trains don't give you the kind of mobility we need. Look, we only need to go another fifteen miles. Check it out and they give us that hand-drawn map." Marty unfolded the torn paper from a legal booklet and squinted. "Yeah, it says fifteen miles. We'd better think about taking the gear off the engine mounts." , hold it in our hands." "We will, as soon as we get close to where we're going." Coney drove past a saddle shop, past Sonic's, past Jolla's bar with its plywood-covered windows, past cowboys in the parking lot drinking beer beside their cars .They turned and watched the Conny as the car slid past them, their hats pulled down and their faces hidden in shadow, looking a little defiant. "That group of people in the parking lot looked nasty," the driver said. "Yeah, shoot 'em with a Beretta hitched to an engine mount and they won't be so annoying, right?" Marty said, turning to the cowboys who were staring at the Lincoln. Driving past a couple of motels, they saw a big tent for the best crew in the west, with a sign saying: ALL CREW WELCOME. "Hey," Marty said, "they must be making a movie or something here, maybe a wild western. I hate being in this country, but I like watching movies about it. Whenever I see I always get a belly laugh when the cowboy in some movie shoots a . Blows his face off. You see those old cowboy movies that come on around this time of night?" "No, I have a regular life most of the time, except when it comes to this kind of work. I have a family, you know." "Do your wife and children know what you do for a living?" "They thought I was a salesman. That's what I told them. My wife was a little skeptical, which she always is, but I brought the food home and she didn't say much. I told her I was a salesman. Confidential computer parts, because of industry secrecy issues, so can't talk about details." "I'm so glad I'm not married," Marty declared. "Being married is a lot of trouble. When I get the urge, I hang out at the Orchid Lounge in Van and order something there, just That's all. Nothing else to worry about. There are nude dancers there too.. in the orchid lounge. They have the biggest boobs you'll ever see. Give them a tip and they'll sit on your lap Come on, put your boobs up to your face. It's funny sometimes. Have you ever been there?" "No." The driver turned on the headlights as they passed the Platinum Blanc parking lot and drove out of the city limits of Creel Segno. "Shit, the moon's gone. It's full of all kinds of clouds." Marty leaned forward, looked up through the windshield, and spun around in his chair, trying to think Saw something from the side window. "Yeah, the wind has picked up," the driver said, "I feel the temperature is dropping." "I didn't bring a coat, did you? Didn't even think to. Damn, it's August and you don't think you'd need a coat. I picked up a great deal one time when I was driving to a market, and they Said that the coat was purchased directly from Severo Street in London, the most prestigious tailoring street in the world. Cashmere wool, the color is very similar to the beautiful cream color of this car. It would be nice if you brought it. Didn't expect us to be freezing at all, did you?" "Yeah, didn't even think about it. The sign behind the town of Creel Segno says it's 3,700 meters above sea level. I think the weather here must be very different from ours...Jesus, the wind It's definitely getting harder, you can even feel it in a car this heavy. There are still seventeen kilometers to go, and then we can get ready to start work." "Then you can go back to civilization where you can't see the moon, right?" Marty said with a laugh. "I'll miss seeing the moon here, but that's the only thing I'll miss, there's nothing else I'll miss in this place. Still, I should have my coat, don't you think so? " The driver slowed the car and pulled it into an on-street parking lot. "It's almost time to get your gear ready." "Hey, I don't want to get those boxes off the engine mounts, it'll get my clothes dirty." "Don't worry, Marty. I'll fix it. I've been getting more and more aware of how expensive your clothes are on this trip." "Well, I didn't mean to be uncooperative. Just didn't want to mess up a nice dress, you know. You can't blame me for that, can you?" As the driver stopped, dark clouds moved quickly across the sky, and the wind blew the empty plastic cup across the dry grass. "Look, there's a fucking tumbleweed here. Like in those old movies." Marty pointed excitedly at the tumbleweed that rolled past the car, disappeared across the headlights and into the in the dark. As the driver stepped out of the car, the wind flapping his hem, he asked Marty to hold the flashlight for him while he unwrapped the metal boxes. "Jesus, the damn wind is another problem, isn't it? It's not as cold as I thought it would be. It's a horrible wind, don't you think?" "Marty, help me shine the light down here." "Damn hair blowing in my face. I should have put on a hat or something. Have you got a hat?" "Hold on to the flashlight, Marty." The driver leaned over the engine mounts, careful not to touch anything that might get hot.He found the box and ran his fingers along it, feeling where the edge of the duct tape was so he could pull the whole thing off.A piece of duct tape came loose, and he handed it to Marty.Then another paragraph, and another paragraph, and another paragraph.The boxes came loose, and he grabbed one by the end and tugged.A box fell into his hands, with strips of duct tape still attached to the metal.Another box was hanging there with only one piece of tape still attached to the bracket.The driver gave a jerk and the box fell, and he took it out. Marty's left hand was covered in oily, sticky duct tape.He shook his hand, trying to shake the tape off.There was a piece of duct tape stuck to his shirt cuff, and he shone it with a flashlight and exclaimed, "God, that's too bad. Look at this thing; there's a grease stain on this eighty-dollar shirt. A sticky stain. Have you ever seen anything this bad?" "You brought solvent for cleaning guns, didn't you? It'll get the goo off your hands." "Yeah, but it can't get the stain off this eighty-dollar white shirt. I don't even know if the laundromat buddies can get it off a shirt." When they got back to the car, the driver opened a metal box and Marty held the flashlight for him.The box was divided into spaces, and the Beretta 93R lay quietly on the red felt in one of the spaces.The pistol has a wooden butt and a folded metal handle attached to the forward end of the trigger safety.When the handle is down, the front hand can grasp the handle with the thumb crooked on the extended trigger safety, allowing one to hold a relatively small weapon with two hands.On the barrel bracket is printed "Pietro Beretta Kadong VTCAL9 Parabellum", the word Parabellum comes from the ancient Latin meaning "if you want peace , prepare for war first.” In another space of the box were stacked three 20-format magazines stuffed with nine-millimeter cartridges.In another, smaller space are cleaning tools and solvents wrapped in plastic bags. "Dude, look at that," Marty said, grinning. "One of the nicest pistols you'll ever see. Have you ever used one of those guns?" "Never used this model. I'm familiar with an older model, the one that starts with M95." "That was the M951, followed by the Type 92. It's another improved version of the earlier 951 model." "It's the repeater lever, right here?" the driver asked, lifting the gun to weigh its weight, testing it in sync with his hand, with the other finger pointing to a thumb switch. "That's right. Pull the lever and the gun goes from a single shot to a burst of three, which is exactly what it does. A full-auto pistol starts to lose its aim with more rounds. Also, this model is There's a canceller"—Marty puts his finger in an opening at the muzzle end of the barrel—"and it shoots up when you fire, so the gun is pushed down. The tendency for the muzzle to go up in burst mode. Man, they sent us top-notch equipment." "They've always been like this, Marty. The last time they gave us a Remington shotgun, remember?" The driver stuffed a clip into the gun, folded off the metal handle, and aimed through the windshield. an imaginary goal. Marty opened the second box and took out his own pistol, imitating the driver's action. "Damn, better get the filth off my hands first, I don't want to make this little sticky." He opened the plastic bag, poured the solvent on a gun cloth, wiped the holding his left hand.Outside the car, the wind howled at fifty kilometers an hour, blowing dust and beer cans across the parking lot. The driver put his pistol on the seat next to him and started driving the car out of the parking lot.Marty is immersed in his own world, a world he understands, where he can do anything. "Dude, oh man, I love holding a device like that. If you get caught and you're carrying one of these guns, the ATF will get you and spend the rest of your life in jail." Half life or something." He shook the gun slowly, in an arc, and pointed it at the road ahead of them: "Da-da-da...da-da-da...da-da- — Da. We'll get the job done in no time with these treasures, eh?" He picked up the cloth he used to wipe his hands and wiped the clean gun with the corner of the cloth, being careful not to let his hands any remaining gunk on the gun. "Eight miles to go, Marty. Should be getting to that place called Slater's Dale in no time." "I can't wait," Marty said, putting down his gun, straightening his lapels, dusting his jacket sleeves, studying the stain on his shirt cuffs again.He was already feeling a little hungry. Lucinda was a Texan woman from near Mulehoe County, a little plain country called Launo Estacado.Back when Winchell met her, she was not a beauty in the eyes of ordinary people, but on the other hand, she was by no means ugly.She is the kind of person who was ordinary when she was young, but gradually she has a certain unique charm when she is young. When you look at her carefully, you will feel that she is more charming than when you glance at it.She had the smile, the gesture, the soft deliberate laugh that hides behind the voice of a certain woman as she grows older.It seems the world has given them all it can, and whatever happens ahead should be an improvement, or at least no worse.