y had only been playing a game with
him。 This had been pure panic； each word screamed aloud in his bead。
He looked down at his arms。 Hot sunshine lay on them but they had still goose…
bumped。 He had told the boy to call him if he needed help； he remembered that。
And now the boy was calling。
He suddenly wondered how he could have left that boy up there at all； shining
the way he did。 There was bound to be trouble； maybe bad trouble。
He suddenly keyed the limo； put it in reverse； and pulled back onto the
highway； peeling rubber。 The waitress with the rolling hips stood in the A&W
stand's archway； a tray with a rootbeer float on it in her hands。
〃What is it with you； a fire？〃 she shouted； but Hallorann was gone。
* * *
The manager was a man named Queems； and when Hallorann came in Queems was
conversing with his bookie。 He wanted the four…horse at Rockaway。 No； no parlay；
no quinella； no exacta； no goddam futura。 Just the little old four； six hundred
dollars on the nose。 And the Jets on Sunday。 What did he mean； the Jets were
playing the Bills？ Didn't he know who the Jets were playing？ Five hundred；
seven…point spread。 When Queems hung up； looking put…out； Hallorann understood
how a man could make fifty grand a year running this little spa and still wear
suits with shiny seats。 He regarded Hallorann with an eye that was still
bloodshot from too many glances into last night's bourbon bottle。
〃Problems； Dick？〃
〃Yes； sir； Mr。 Queems； I guess so。 I need three days off。〃
There was a package of Kents in the breast pocket of Queems's sheer yellow
shirt。 He reached one out of the pocket without removing the pack； twee