Billy Phelan's Greatest Game by William Kennedy Page B

hook?”
    “She couldn’t.”
    Peg cradled the receiver and took off her black-and-white checked shorty coat and black pillbox hat.
    “You want pork chops?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Liver? That’s the choice.”
    “Nothing, no.”
    “You’re not eating?”
    “No, the hell with it.”
    “Oh, that’s a beautiful mood.”
    “I’m beautiful out of business is what I am.”
    Peg sat on the edge of the rocker, formidable lady in her yellow, flowered print, full knees up, glasses on, lipstick fresh, fingernails long and crimson, solitaire from husband George small but
respectably gleaming under the bridge light, hair marcelled in soft finger wave. Billy’s beautiful sister.
    “What’s this you’re saying?”
    And he told her the Martin story: that, believe it or not, his three horses all came home. Some joke, eh kid? Sextuple your money, folks. Place your bets with Brazen Billy Boy, who lives the way
we all love to live—way, way, way up there beyond our means.
    Peg stood up, saying nothing. She pushed open the swinging door to be greeted by a near-frenzied collie, all but perishing from his inability to disgorge affection. From the refrigerator she
took out the pork chops and put them into two large frying pans over a low flame on the gas stove. Then she went back to Billy, who was pouring a shot of Wilson’s into a soiled coffee cup
with a dry, brown ring at the bottom. The phone rang and Peg answered, then handed the instrument to Billy, who closed his eyes to drive out all phone calls.
    “Yeah,” he said into the mouthpiece. And then, “No, I’m closed down. No. NO, GODDAMN IT, NO! I mean I’m CLOSED. Out of business and you owe me fifty-four bucks and
I need it tonight so goddamn get it up. I’ll be down.” And he slammed the receiver onto the hook.
    “Wasn’t that Tod?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You don’t have to eat his head off because you lost some money.”
    “Lost some money? I’m dumped, broke. I can’t work. Do you get that picture?”
    “You’ve been broke before? You’re broke most of the time.”
    “Ah, shut up, this is bad news.”
    “What possessed you to hold a three-horse parlay? I wouldn’t even make that mistake.”
    “I make a lot of mistakes you wouldn’t make.”
    “It doesn’t make sense, with your bankroll.”
    “I can’t explain it.”
    Billy gulped the Wilson’s and the phone rang. Martin Daugherty Peg handed him the phone.
    “Yes, Martin, you’re a lucky son of a bitch. Nobody in their right mind bets three-horse parlays. I know it, Martin. Yeah, sure I’ll be downtown tonight. I’ll have some
of it for you. No, I haven’t got it right this minute. Collections are slow, nobody paying this month. But you’ll get paid, Martin. Billy Phelan pays his debts. Yeah, Martin, I held it
all myself. Thanks, I’m glad you feel bad. I wish I could get mad at you, you son of a bitch. Knock your teeth out and make you spend your winnings on the dentist. What do I make it? What do
you make it? Right. That’s exactly right, Martin—seven eighty-eight eighty-five. Yeah, yeah. Yeah. See you tonight around Becker’s, or maybe the poker game in Nick’s cellar.
Yeah, you son of a bitch, you sleep with the angels. What hotel they staying at?”
    The kitchen gave off the rich odor of seared pork. Peg came out of it in her apron, carrying a long fork. At the foot of the stairs she called, “Danny,” and from a far height in the
attic came a “Yeah?” and then she said “Supper,” and the door slammed and the steps of Daniel Quinn could be heard, descending from his aerie.
    “How much cash do you actually have?” Peg asked.
    “About a hundred and seventy,” Billy said. “Can you spare anything?”
    Peg almost smiled. She sniffed and shook her head. “I’ll see.”
    “George is doing all right, isn’t he?” George wrote numbers.
    “He’s doing swell. He lost three dollars yesterday on the day.”
    “Yeah. We all got a problem.”
    “All of us,” Peg