Read Online Spider Kiss by Harlan Ellison - Free Book Online
Authors: Harlan Ellison
Tags: Fiction, Psychological
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the glance, said, "Oh, that's just the kid, Luther. We let him practice in there, he's a good kid. Sings, plays a little. Ain't too good, but, well … what the hell … you know."
Shelly nodded. "Hey, deal me in this hand."
It only took him seven hands to establish that the game was neither rigged nor very deadly. Despite the stakes, which were high for a "stranger game," the other players were open-faced and easy to out-maneuver. He began winning steadily, but not outrageously. It was a friendly game.
With the solving of the puzzle of the players' methods and the gradual disinterest that comes with knowledge of superiority in the game, Shelly found himself listening more and more to the peculiar strains of music coming from the little side room.
After a while, he excused himself from the table, pocketed his winnings with the promise of returning shortly, and went to the side door. He hesitated a long moment, hearing the rhythms of back-country blues coming from the room; then he knocked sharply.
The players looked up, then returned to their hands.
Luther's voice, muffled, offered him entrance.
Shelly opened the door and saw a room as yellow and bare as a monk's cell, the only furniture being a slat-back chair and a washstand with a pitcher of water and a glass on it. "Somethin', big man?" the boy asked, looking up from the steelstringed guitar. It was a cheap guitar, but there was whiteness around the boy's knuckles as he clutched it tightly to himself. He looks like he's afraid someone will rip it away from him , Shelly thought suddenly.
"I heard you playing," he said.
"Sorry if ah was too loud. I'll cool it," the boy answered, surliness in his tones.
"No, you weren't too loud," Shelly replied. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
"Then what's the mattuh?"
"Nothing, just wanted to hear you play," Shelly admitted.
The boy set the guitar behind the chair and looked up from under his awning of auburn hair. "I don't play for nothin', Mistuh."
"Well, I'm not about to pay, Elvis," Shelly retorted. The boy started at the name, his eyes narrowing down.
"Why don't you get the hell outta heah, big man, an' let me be? You wanted to play some pokuh, so I brought you up, whyn't you g'wan back out theah?" His fists were white with suppressed fury.
"Maybe I'd like to hear you play?" Shelly said; he was sure he could handle the kid, wiry and tall though he appeared, even slouched into an "S" on the chair.
"What foah?"
"I'm from New York. I'm with Colonel Jack Freeport, you ever hear of him?"
The boy shook his head slowly. He wasn't giving an inch. "What's your trouble, Mistuh? You want somethin' from me?"
Like a primitive , Shelly thought, taking in the narrowed eyes, the thin mouth, the wary expression, the hostility so near the surface.
"Nothing at all, Luther. I'm just with the Colonel, and he's judging the big talent show at the Fair; you've heard about that , haven't you?" He stared at the boy openly. Interested in him, without knowing why. There was a quality about Luther that interested Shelly. Vaguely. Disquietingly. Peculiarly.
The boy's eyes now acquired a brightness, a gleam. "I know all about it. I'm entered."
"Go ahead and play for me," Shelly said. He slouched back against the wall, waiting.
Luther stared for another moment, then reached back, took out the guitar and slung the cord around his neck. Then he began to play, and to sing.
It was mostly rock'n'roll garbage, with occasional folk songs and Negro blues numbers included, either shuffle-rhythmed for backbeat, or delivered in a strange-to-Shelly mournful manner. He was impressed. The boy had a talent. It had been there distinctly, distantly, through the door as Shelly played cards, and now Morgenstern realized it had been nagging at him for some time.
He had wanted to hear this boy more closely.
Abruptly, he realized he might have stumbled on something more than amusing. At first it had been idle curiosity, then mild amusement and
Shelly nodded. "Hey, deal me in this hand."
It only took him seven hands to establish that the game was neither rigged nor very deadly. Despite the stakes, which were high for a "stranger game," the other players were open-faced and easy to out-maneuver. He began winning steadily, but not outrageously. It was a friendly game.
With the solving of the puzzle of the players' methods and the gradual disinterest that comes with knowledge of superiority in the game, Shelly found himself listening more and more to the peculiar strains of music coming from the little side room.
After a while, he excused himself from the table, pocketed his winnings with the promise of returning shortly, and went to the side door. He hesitated a long moment, hearing the rhythms of back-country blues coming from the room; then he knocked sharply.
The players looked up, then returned to their hands.
Luther's voice, muffled, offered him entrance.
Shelly opened the door and saw a room as yellow and bare as a monk's cell, the only furniture being a slat-back chair and a washstand with a pitcher of water and a glass on it. "Somethin', big man?" the boy asked, looking up from the steelstringed guitar. It was a cheap guitar, but there was whiteness around the boy's knuckles as he clutched it tightly to himself. He looks like he's afraid someone will rip it away from him , Shelly thought suddenly.
"I heard you playing," he said.
"Sorry if ah was too loud. I'll cool it," the boy answered, surliness in his tones.
"No, you weren't too loud," Shelly replied. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
"Then what's the mattuh?"
"Nothing, just wanted to hear you play," Shelly admitted.
The boy set the guitar behind the chair and looked up from under his awning of auburn hair. "I don't play for nothin', Mistuh."
"Well, I'm not about to pay, Elvis," Shelly retorted. The boy started at the name, his eyes narrowing down.
"Why don't you get the hell outta heah, big man, an' let me be? You wanted to play some pokuh, so I brought you up, whyn't you g'wan back out theah?" His fists were white with suppressed fury.
"Maybe I'd like to hear you play?" Shelly said; he was sure he could handle the kid, wiry and tall though he appeared, even slouched into an "S" on the chair.
"What foah?"
"I'm from New York. I'm with Colonel Jack Freeport, you ever hear of him?"
The boy shook his head slowly. He wasn't giving an inch. "What's your trouble, Mistuh? You want somethin' from me?"
Like a primitive , Shelly thought, taking in the narrowed eyes, the thin mouth, the wary expression, the hostility so near the surface.
"Nothing at all, Luther. I'm just with the Colonel, and he's judging the big talent show at the Fair; you've heard about that , haven't you?" He stared at the boy openly. Interested in him, without knowing why. There was a quality about Luther that interested Shelly. Vaguely. Disquietingly. Peculiarly.
The boy's eyes now acquired a brightness, a gleam. "I know all about it. I'm entered."
"Go ahead and play for me," Shelly said. He slouched back against the wall, waiting.
Luther stared for another moment, then reached back, took out the guitar and slung the cord around his neck. Then he began to play, and to sing.
It was mostly rock'n'roll garbage, with occasional folk songs and Negro blues numbers included, either shuffle-rhythmed for backbeat, or delivered in a strange-to-Shelly mournful manner. He was impressed. The boy had a talent. It had been there distinctly, distantly, through the door as Shelly played cards, and now Morgenstern realized it had been nagging at him for some time.
He had wanted to hear this boy more closely.
Abruptly, he realized he might have stumbled on something more than amusing. At first it had been idle curiosity, then mild amusement and
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