Pinky Talking
by Jane McConnell

This is Ms. McConnell’s second appearance in
Blue Murder Magazine. We welcome her back.
©Copyright 2001
Jane McConnell

Quiz shows.
That’s what she called ‘em. Never game shows. Quiz shows. She
knew the phrase dated her but Ruby Ballantine didn’t give a damn.
Her twenty-five-year-old RCA had recently died, a quiet wornpicture-
tube death. What a dandy it was, a monstrous black and
white, which made everything look like a swell Barbara Stanwyck
picture.
Thirty minutes ago the two fellows from Sears delivered her new
TV. “Sony,” Ruby muttered, not yet over the fact that no matter how
hard she’d looked, she hadn’t found a TV made in this fine country.
With the remote, she killed the greens and reds and yellows.
If she played well, if she won a quiz show, only then could she
eat dinner with the pleasant sensation of victory. She could leave
her bedroom counting up her winnings as if they’d be arriving in a
UPS truck tomorrow.
Ruby was in her most comfortable quiz show clothes, eyeballing
the Sony behind bifocals, dipping stone crab claws into a nice
mustard sauce. The question was so easy it made her curse the
bewildered contestant. “It’s a 30-caliber carbine, moron!” Ruby
shouted, referring to the WWII weapon onscreen. “You just kissed
the jackpot goodbye, toots! There goes the dough for your brain
transplant. Flash, bam, alakazam, goodbye, idiot!”
Ruby crossed her ankles, closed her eyes, thinking it would be
like this forever. Quiz shows and stone crabs in mustard sauce. No
more hospital. Next Wednesday you’ll be seventy! Ain’t it a riot.
Goodbye books on wheels, toodle-oo welcome carnations, sayonara
orthopedic shoes and name tags with yellow smiley faces. Enough
penance. No more hospital, sister, only a slow hearse ride straight
from this bed to the pre-paid crypt next to the one chiseled with the
name Pinky Atherton. Oh, Pinky, my man.
Except for a sporadic dizziness which forced her to use a cane,
Ruby was a hale gal. Five feet of solid female, the same gravitydefying
bosom which still drew the stares of men.
Retirement next Wednesday. Nothing and nobody was gonna get
in her way.
Certainly not some lunkhead trying to bust into her and Pinky’s
house.
She saw him through the drapes, dropping tools, mumbling. Ruby
got her cane, a scary thing the width of a tree branch at the top.
She scurried to the side door.
His behemoth shadow behind the frosted jalousies. Looked like
Kong out there. Yes, Kong sniffing out his Fay Wray, his giant paws
easily angered by the trickly deadbolt. He was grunting and she
knew he’d soon tire of this and shoulder through like a battering
ram, hinges tearing, doorjambs splintering against his heft.
Then she recalled that she’d left the side door unlocked when she
dragged the TV box out to the trashcans.
The bedside phone rang.
Kong cartwheeled across the threshold. Ruby was whispering into
the receiver when he reeled in. Her friend Phyllis’s voice through
the pinholes: “HAVE I GOT THE RIGHT NUMBER? HELLO?”
“Put it down. And leave it off the hook,” the burglar said.
Ruby tossed the receiver onto the bed, and stared up at him. He
was a hulking watchtower of a man. Maniacal eyes. Rocky arms. He
clutched a gun; she recognized it immediately as a Colt,
storekeeper’s model. A battered antique gun that might blow up in
his hand if he fired it.
“All you got! Open those drawers! Jewelry too! Move!” Ruby
flicked on a lamp, waited a beat, then said, “Arthur what are you
doing? Does Mattie know you’re here? You robbing me? What would
my granddaughter think?”
His ears cocked back. He switched the firearm to his left hand.
He took his time, licking his lips. “Wait. Just w-wait. I- You ...
can’t... be. You’re ... Mattie’s granny?”
“I am. And how dare you hold me up! Is this what suitors do
nowadays to make an impression on their girl’s family?”
“I-I’m sorry but...oh man I don’t understand. Fuck.”
“Watch your tongue, young man.”
He slapped his forehead, chuckling nervously. “Dumb dumb
dumb. Sorry, ma’am. This ain’t my day, ain’t my year neither. Okay.
Please let me try to get this right.”
He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants, offered his
handshake. “This could only happen to me. I’m ... honored to meet
you. Arthur L. Dougherty’s the name. ‘L’ for lamebrain, huh? Don’t
mind telling you I’m embarrassed here. Real embarrassed.”
“You oughta be, Arthur. I’m not accustomed to meeting people
this way, with a gun! You could’ve given me a heart attack!” Ruby
patted her chest.
“You alright, though? I mean, you ain’t gonna faint? Oh, please
don’t faint!’
“I do have dizzy spells, you know.”
He hung up the phone, offered his arm. “Lean on me. What do
you need? Maybe a compress. Or a bath?”
Ruby bit her lips, fought the urge to laugh. “Well, I was just about
to make dinner. You can help. You can slice onions, can’t you,
Arthur?”
“S-sure. But I oughta make you dinner. Mattie loves my chili, but
you probably can’t eat chili anymore, at your age. Not that you’re
old. Gas, you know.”
In her kitchen he hunched over the countertop, weeping over the
onions, shrugging to wipe away tears with his shoulder. Ruby tossed
lettuce, tomatoes and olives into a bouncy salad.
She hadn’t lost her touch.
True, this guy was no pro. He was pretty moronic, a real palooka.
But he was armed. So it wasn’t exactly a .357, but it was a firearm.
She had to be careful. Stay on her toes.
Phyllis hadn’t called back. Daffy broad, Ruby thought. The
bedroom phone was the only working one; Ruby had a cordless
number in the kitchen but its battery died six months ago, around
the same time Pinky died. If the dope would leave her alone for a
lousy minute she could make a dash for it. But he was shadowing
her every move, intent on “making things up” to her.
If not for the tattoo, she reasoned that she’d be dead about now.
The sleeves of his t-shirt had been pushed up and it had been
showing just enough to make out. Sister, thank Jesus you had your
glasses on. The artless design on his deltoid was a crudely etched
heart with these words inside it:
Arthur & Mattie Forever.
It had been her only trump card.
She shivered now thinking about her luck, thinking about the fact
that before tonight, she’d never laid eyes on the guy.
She’d scammed sharper players in her time. Be cool, sister. Play
along.
With dinner, Ruby brought out wine. She kept the burglar’s glass
full. He kept the gun by his plate, out of her reach. She eyed the
thief discreetly, his scruffy clothes, gnawed fingernails, a wiry
horseshoe of hair.
“I’m a meatcutter, when job’s around. Everyone calls me Cow
Boy. Get it? Meatcutter? Cow Boy? When you called me Arthur, I
knew you got that from Mattie. Only she calls me that, Mrs.
Maynard.”
“It’s not Maynard, Cow Boy. It’s Ballantine. Miss Ruby Ballantine. I
never took a man’s name in my life. Soon as I was of age I dropped
my father’s name. My career required a certain-sounding name.
Ball...an...tine.” Ruby’s hand swept up. “Marvelous on a marquee. I
played piano, told jokes. Adults only. Before women did that.”
“I heard you were a schoolteacher. Oh, I don’t know. Men don’t
listen good, Mattie says. It’s on account of my situation, see. I got
my head on money. She’s gotta respect that.”
Cow Boy shoved starchy potato chunks into his mouth. “You’ve
changed. Don’t look nothing like your pictures. Maybe it’s the
glasses. We never met, have we? Come to think of it, when you saw
me in there before, seeing how we never met, how’d you know
me?”
“Pictures, like you said. I’ve seen yours. But you’re much more
handsome in person. I see why Mattie’s mad about you.”
Cow Boy flushed from forehead to neck. “She’s mad alright. Since
I got canned at the plant. See, I got mixed up with these two dogs
from high school, Johnny and Randy, robbing and all. But they call
me a jinx, want me to get lost. Just ‘cause I messed up a job or two!
I figured I’d do a job alone, show ‘em I’m good. And I wind up at
my girl’s granny’s house. Man, they’d bust up. They’d say, ‘See?
You’re a fuckup, Cow Boy!’”
His eyes latched onto Ruby’s. “Mattie doesn’t know any a’that. I
hope you ain’t gonna tell her.”
“Of course not, Cow Boy. Mattie’s behind you. When I spoke to
her yesterday she said you’re going through a bad time. It’s not
unusual for-”
He interrupted, licking buttery dollops of potato off his hands.
“You say you spoke to her yesterday?”
“Yes, by phone. She said the two of you were having some minor
prob-”
He cut her off again. “You called her at home?”
“Yes, I just told you I-”
In a blur, his hand moved to the gun.
“That’s hilarious you spoke to her at home yesterday considering
she’s been in the hospital three days ...” He waited a long beat,
“having her appendix out...”
Ruby’s heart pinched. “Oh, yes, yes, I knew that. It’s awful, isn’t
it? I had the same thing at her age. My appendix nearly burst, it was
very sca-”
Cow Boy shot up fast and furious, kicking his chair back,
snatching up the Colt and pointing it at Ruby with outstretched
arms, crying, “SHE DIDN’T HAVE HER APPENDIX OUT! IT WAS
HER GALL BLADDER!”
He froze, hyperventilating.
“Of course. I’m mixed up. S-she told me that. I got it wrong. I
remember things from fifty years ago, but when it comes to a few
days ago-”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire! Fibber McGee! You’re lying to me right
now. And I hate that! I’m ignorant, right, Miss Ruby? If that’s even
your name.”
“It is, Cow Boy. Put that gun down before you hurt yourself.”
“Get up then. We’re gonna call Mattie now, that’s what we’re
gonna do. Get UP!”
He tugged her slim arm toward the bedroom. Halfway there, she
slumped to the carpet. He dragged her along the knees. “No, Cow
Boy! My arm!”
“You made a butthole of me. Let’s see who you are, okay? I’ll be
fair. If you are Mattie’s granny, I’ll apologize.” He paused, full of his
own theatrics, and straddled tiny Ruby, the gun’s muzzle at her
temple. “If you’re lying-”
“You can’t call! You’re right, I lied. But not about who I am. Only
that I haven’t talked to Mattie - for years. She doesn’t want
anything to do with me. I’m old now but she hasn’t forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you? For what, losing your teeth?” He snorted.
“Please. I’ll explain.” Ruby gazed up at him, her forehead full of
creases. “I can’t get up by myself.”
He jerked her up, flung her onto the sofa. “Talk.” He sucked in
his gut and poked the gun back into his waistband.
Ruby straightened her clothes, smoothed down her hair. “I was a
pickpocket. In New York. There were taxi halls. Men paid for
dances, picked from a line of girls. When they picked me I danced
with them, but I also picked them clean. Cash, gold pocketwatches,
whatever they had.”
Cow Boy howled. “Beautiful! A pickpocket! Granny Ruby a crook!
Who’d believe it? Hey, I better check my wallet, huh? Still there.
Aw, why didn’t you try me?”
“Shit, I can get your five dollars away from you easily. I also
worked with a fence.” She eyed his piece, imagining what it would
be like to be shot. Suddenly the stakes were greater than she
guessed. She couldn’t afford to slip, even a little. “Only my musical
career was legit.”
“So what’s the biggie?” Cow Boy said, plopping down on the sofa,
sucking his teeth.
“It’s a black mark on me. Mattie’s a ... conservative girl. She
thought I was a teacher. I guess when she found out she felt
betrayed. She might feel the same about you, too, Cow Boy, if she
found out you’ve become a criminal. But she never needs to know.
I can give you names. Very wealthy people. I know a thousand 
tricks. I can make you rich. Hell, you could buy the meat plant!”
“Uh... yeah.” Cow Boy rose. He took a toothpick from his pocket
and rolled it around his mouth.
“I’d like to give you a wedding. A fairy tale wedding. Six-tier
vanilla cake. It’s time you married my granddaughter. She’d respect
you once you were successful and you’d listen to her again because
you’d have nothing but free time to listen.”
She tried making her words like violins to his ears. And sister, he’s
hearing music. Suddenly he lunged for Ruby with a gust, sweeping
her up effortlessly, his hands in her armpits, heaving her up, up
until her crown thumped the ceiling. Her house slippers fell off.
“Miss Ruby I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I TRULY DO!” He cackled,
twirled, his Kong feet inching in clockwise circles.
“Okay, I’m dizzy. Cow Boy. COW BOY! QUIT!”
He set her down. He rolled on the floor from hip to hip, in
hysterics. Ruby couldn’t tell if he was drunk yet or just berserk.
Abruptly he stopped laughing and whipped out his Colt, pointing it
at Ruby.
“What? What’s wrong now?”
“I want chocolate! Chocolate cake at my wedding! I will kill
anyone who serves me white cake. And don’t call me Arthur, Miss
Ruby. I hate Arthur.” He rose to his full height. “Arthur’s a
peabrained twit. I’m Cow Boy, sirloin-steak king!”
Ruby couldn’t get to the phone. Cow Boy was keyed up, even
after an arsenal of wine and cognac. She had to haul out the heavy
artillery: a pint of 151-proof rum, the last from a case Pinky had
received the Christmas he retired as a booking agent.
She took him into her music room. He thumbed through her
memory books, the yellowing Western Union telegrams wishing
luck on this engagement or that. The critics had called her “spicy,”
“wonderfully indecent.” She glanced up at Pinky’s portrait, an oil of
the diminutive powerhouse holding a cigar, wearing his favorite
pinky ring and his trademark grin, only one side of his mouth
upcurled.
They’d danced. She got Cow Boy talking, about money, the
future. She checked for the Colt, then remembered it was in the
living room. If he’d wanted to kill her then, he’d have to use his
bare hands. Big and vice-like, they seemed like good enough
weapons to her.
She’d said they could rake in the profits, then cash in their chips.
“That will be the biggest challenge, Cow Boy. Going straight.
Because it’s a hard way of life to kick. You put people you love
through hell. But you will stop, won’t you? I mean, I don’t want that
life for Mattie.”
He’d bent her over his arm to dip her. “Miss Ruby, believe me
like I believe you. I worship Mattie.” He’d held the dip, pecking her
cheek.
Then he’d collapsed. Just flopped into a chair, long legs over one
side, Kong’s forepaws on the floor.
All was clear. She was free to call 911. The burglar was boiled.
His gun was a room away. But Ruby didn’t move, the events of the
night like a slapstick film running in her head. He’d fallen for it.
Everything.
And now she knew he was a ... temptation. Something about
what she’d said, about going straight. It had been her voice alright
but that hadn’t been her talking at all.
It was Pinky talking.
Pinky’s doubts often aired once her singing career crashed. His
fears that she’d find herself hustling again, though she’d told him a
million times that all she needed was him and their quiet life
together.
Yes, Cow Boy was a test. Pinky the Saint had put him in Ruby’s
lap, to see if she’d fall back.
“You ain’t gonna catch me, Pinky! Oh, no!” Ruby said now to his
portrait. “Why didn’t I think of this before? You think that’s me?
What a kick in the ass! I was never that dumb! Oh, I loved the life,
yessir. I was good. I got you, didn’t I? That’s it. Because I hustled
you and you married me to get me out. You think now that you’re
gone you can’t keep me respectable anymore? Well, Pinky, I was
respectable twenty years ago when we met. Even then! A lot of faith
you have. How can I prove you wrong?”
Cow Boy had begun to snore. Ruby winced, filled a shot glass
with the last jigger of rum, held it even with her waist, and turned
back to Pinky’s portrait.
“I played him like a flute, didn’t I? He had me sweating bullets for
a while, but he’s strictly bush league, don’t you think? Dumb, yessir,
but dangerous-dumb. Deserves what any armed intruder deserves.
Now, now, come on, Pinky, I can handle it; these hands are steady.
But let me tell you something first.” She took a second. “I could’ve
done it. Could’ve made one last jackpot with him. I considered it,
too, for only a minute maybe. It’s not ludicrous. I’m an old lady,
right? They’re all trying to scam me now. But you’re dead. And I
miss the hell outta you.”
She winked at his image. “Get some rest, will you? You never
could sleep without me.” She lifted the jigger high. “I’ll be there
soon enough. Don’t rush me. What’s that you said? Long live Ruby
Ballantine? Thanks, Pinky.”
She swallowed the rum with a swift jerk of her wrist. “Oh, Pinky,
did I tell you I bought a new TV? What a dilly it is. Big as a house!
Swell features. Too much color, though. The colors never look right,
do they, baby?”
Ruby turned to take a lingering last look at Cow Boy.
Then she left the music room to get the Colt.