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。 As he was setting it down he lost control of it…the big bar…keg weighed only a few pounds less than Jack did himself。 It landed hard on the foot of the hand…truck； which had been padded with a remnant of carpet so as to soften just such landings。 Jack tried to both steer it and get his hands out of the way in time。 He was slow。 The keg mashed his fingers against the back of the hand…truck。 There was an agonizing thud； and he somehow managed to get his throbbing； pulsing fingers out of there。 Jack stuck all the fingers of his left hand in his mouth and sucked on them； tears standing in his eyes。
Worse than jamming his fingers； he could hear the slow sigh of gases escaping through the breather…cap on top of the keg。 If Smokey hooked up the keg and it came out foamy 。 。 。 or； worse yet； if he popped the cap and the beer went a gusher in his face 。 。 。
Best not to think of those things。
Last night； Thursday night； when he'd tried to 'run Smokey out a keg；' the keg had gone right over on its side。 The breather…cap had shot clear across the room。 Beer foamed white…gold across the storeroom floor and ran down the drain。 Jack had stood there； sick and frozen； oblivious to Smokey's shouts。 It wasn't Busch； it was Kingsland。 Not beer but ale…the Queen's Own。
That was when Smokey hit him for the first time…a quick looping blow that drove Jack into one of the storeroom's splintery walls。
'There goes your pay for today；' Smokey had said。 'And you never want to do that again； Jack。'
What chilled Jack most about that phrase you never want to do that again was what it assumed： that there would be lots of opportunities for him to do that again； as if Smokey Up…dike expected him to be here a long； long time。
'Jack； hurry it up！'
'ing。' Jack puffed。 He pulled the hand…truck across the room to the door； felt behind himself for the knob； turned it； and pushed the door open。 He hit something large and soft and yielding。
'Christ； watch it！'
'Whoops； sorry；' Jack said。
'I'll whoops you； asshole；' the voice replied。
Jack waited until he heard heavy steps moving on down the hall outside the storeroom and then tried the door again。
The hall was narrow and painted a bilious green。 It stank of shit and piss and TidyBowl。 Holes had been punched through both plaster and lath here and there； graffiti lurched and staggered everywhere； written by bored drunks waiting to use either POINTERS or SETTERS。 The largest of them all had been slashed across the green paint with a black Magic Marker； and it seemed to scream out all of Oatley's dull and objectless fury。 SEND ALL AMERICAN NIGGERS AND JEWS TO IRAN； it read。
The noise from the taproom was loud in the storeroom； out here it was a great wave of sound which never seemed to break。 Jack took one glance back into the storeroom over the top of the keg tilted on the hand…truck； trying to make sure his pack wasn't visible。
He had to get out。 Had to。 The dead phone that had finally spoken； seeming to encase him in a capsule of dark ice 。 。 。 that had been bad。 Randolph Scott was worse。 The guy wasn't really Randolph Scott； he only looked the way Scott had looked in his fifties films。 Smokey Updike was perhaps worse still 。 。 。 although Jack was no longer sure of that。 Not since he had seen （or thought he had seen） the eyes of the man who looked like Randolph Scott change color。
But that Oatley itself was worst of all 。 。 。 he was sure of that。
Oatley； New York； deep in the heart of Genny County； seemed now to be a horrible trap that had been laid for him 。 。 。 a kind of municipal pitcher plant。 One of nature's real marvels； the pitcher plant。 Easy to get in。 Almost impossible to get out。
2
A tall man with a great swinging gut porched in front of him stood waiting to use the men's room。 He was rolling a plastic toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and glaring at Jack。 Jack supposed that it was the big man's gut that he had hit with the door。
'Asshole；' the fat man repeated； and then the men's…room door jerked open。 A man strode out。 For a heart…stopping moment his eyes and Jack's eyes met。 It was the man who looked like Randolph Scott。 But this was no movie…star； this was just an Oatley millhand drinking up his week's pay。 Later on he would leave in a half…paid…for doorsucker Mustang or maybe on a three…quarters…paid…for motorcycle…a big old Harley with a BUY AMERICAN sticker plastered on the nacelle； probably。
His eyes turned yellow。
No； your imagination； Jack； just your imagination。 He's just…
…just a millhand who was giving him the eye because he was new。 He had probably gone to high school here in town； played football； knocked up a Catholic cheerleader and married her； and the cheerleader had gotten fat on chocolates and Stouffer's frozen dinners； just another Oatley oaf； just…
But his eyes turned yellow。
Stop it！ They did not！
Yet there was something about him that made Jack think of what had happened when he was ing into town 。 。 。 what had happened in the dark。
The fat man who had called Jack an asshole shrank back from the rangy man in the Levi's and the clean white T…shirt。 Randolph Scott started toward Jack。 His big； veined hands swung at his sides。
His eyes sparkled an icy blue 。 。 。 and then began to change； to moil and lighten。
'Kid；' he said； and Jack fled with clumsy haste； butting the swinging door open with his fanny； not caring who he hit。
Noise pounced on him。 Kenny Rogers was bellowing an enthusiastic redneck paean to someone named Reuben James。 'You allus turned your other CHEEK；' Kenny testified to this room of shuffling； sullen…faced drunks； 'and said there's a better world waitin for the MEEK！' Jack saw no one here who looked particularly meek。 The Genny Valley Boys were trooping back onto the bandstand and picking up their instruments。 All of them but the pedal steel player looked drunk and confused 。 。 。 perhaps not really sure of where they were。 The pedal steel player only looked bored。
To Jack's left； a woman was talking earnestly on the Tap's pay phone…a phone Jack would never touch again if he had his way about it； not for a thousand dollars。 As she talked； her drunken panion probed and felt inside her half…open cowboy shirt。 On the big dancefloor； perhaps seventy couples groped and shuffled； oblivious of the current song's bright up…tempo； simply squeezing and grinding； hands gripping buttocks； lips spit…sealed together； sweat running down cheeks and making large circles under the armpits。
'Well thank Gawd；' Lori said； and flipped up the hinged partition at the side of the bar for him。 Smokey was halfway down the bar； filling up Gloria's tray with gin…and…tonics； vodka sours； and what seemed to be beer's only petition for the Oatley Town Drink： Black Russians。
Jack saw Randolph Scott e out through the swinging door。 He glanced toward Jack； his blue eyes catching Jack's again at once。 He nodded slightly； as if to say： We'll talk。 Yessirree。 Maybe we'll talk about what might or might not be in the Oatley tunnel。 Or about bullwhips。 Or sick mothers。 Maybe we'll talk about how you're gonna be in Genny County for a long； long time 。 。 。 maybe until you're an old man crying over a shopping cart。 What do you think； Jacky？
Jack shuddered。
Randolph Scott smiled； as if he had seen the shudder 。 。 。 or felt it。 Then he moved off into the crowd and the thick air。
A moment later Smokey's thin； powerful fingers bit into Jack's shoulder…hunting for the most painful place and； as always； finding it。 They were educated； nerve…seeking fingers。
'Jack； you just got to move faster；' Smokey said。 His voice sounded almost sympathetic； but his fingers dug and moved and probed。 His breath smelled of the pink Canada Mints he sucked almost constantly。 His mail…order false teeth clicked and clacked。 Sometimes there was an obscene slurping as they slipped a little and he sucked them back into place。 'You got to move faster or I'm going to have to light a fire under your ass。 You understand what I'm saying？'
'Y…yeah；' Jack said。 Trying not to moan。
'All right。 That's good then。' For an excruciating second Smokey's fingers dug even deeper； grinding with a bitter enthusiasm at the neat little nest of nerves there。 Jack did moan。 That was good enough for Smokey。 He let up。
'Help me hook this keg up； Jack。 And let's make it fast。 Friday night； people got to drink。'
'Saturday morning；' Jack said stupidly。
'Then； too。 e on。'
Jack somehow managed to help Smokey lift the keg into the square partment under the bar。 Smokey's thin； ropey muscles bulged and writhed under his Oatley Tap T…shirt。 The paper fry…cook's hat on his narrow weasel's head stayed in place； its leading edge almost touching his left eyebrow； in apparent defiance of gravity。 Jack watched； holding his breath； as Smokey flicked off the red plastic breather…cap on the keg。 The keg breathed more gustily than it should have done 。 。 。 but it didn't foam。 Jack let his breath out in a silent gust。
Smokey spun the empty toward him。 'Get that back in the storeroom。 And then swamp out the bathroom。 Remember what I told you this afternoon。'
Jack remembered。 At three o'clock a whistle like an air…raid siren had gone off； almost making him jump out of his skin。 Lori had laughed； had said： Check out Jack； Smokey…I think he just went wee…wee in his Tuffskins。 Smokey had given her a narrow； unsmiling look and motioned Jack over。 Told Jack that was the payday whistle at the Oatley T & W。 Told Jack that a whistle very much like it was going off at Dog…town Rubber； a pany that made beach…toys； inflatable rubber dolls； and condoms with names like Ribs of Delight。 Soon； he said； the Oatley Tap would begin filling up。
'And you and me and Lori and Gloria are going to move just as fast as lightning；' Smokey said； 'because when the eagle screams on Friday； we got to make up for what this place don't make every Sunday； Monday； Tuesday； Wednesday； and Thursday。 When I tell you to run me out a keg； you want to have it out to me before I finish yelling。 And you're in the men's room every half an hour with your mop。 On Friday nights； a guy blows his groceries every fifteen minutes or so。'
'I got the women's；' Lori said； ing over。 Her hair was thin； wavy gold； her plexion as white as a ic…book vampire's。 She either had a cold or a bad coke habit； she kept sniffing。 Jack guessed it was a cold。 He doubted if anyone in Oatley could afford a bad coke habit。 'Women ain't as bad as men； though。 Almost； but not quite。'
'Shut up； Lori。'
'Up yours；' she said； and Smokey's hand flickered out like lightning。 There was a crack and suddenly the imprint of Smokey's palm was printed red on one of Lori's pallid cheeks like a child's Tattoodle。 She began to snivel 。 。 。 but Jack was sickened and bewildered to see an expression in her eyes that was almost happy。 It was the look of a woman who believed such treatment was a sign of caring。
'You just keep hustling and we'll have no problem；' Smokey said。 'Remember to move fast when I yell for you to run me out a keg。 And remember to get in the men's can with your mop every half an hour and clean up the puke。'
And then he had told Smokey again that he wanted to leave and Smokey had reiterated his false promise about Sunday afternoon 。 。 。 but what good did it do to think of that？
There were louder screams now； and harsh caws of laughter。 The crunch of a breaking chair and a wavering yell of pain。 A fistfight…the third of the night…had broken out on the dance floor。 Smokey uttered a curse and shoved past Jack。 'Get rid of that keg；' he said。
Jack got the empty onto the dolly and trundled it back toward the swinging door； looking around uneasily for Randolph Scott as he went。 He saw the man standing in the crowd that was watching the fight； and relaxed a little。
In the storeroom he put the empty keg with the others by the loading…bay…Updike's Oatley Tap had already gone through six kegs tonight。 That done； he checked his pack again。 For one panicky moment he thought it was gone； and his heart began to hammer in his chest…the magic juice was in there； and so was the Territories coin that had