Besides, he was broke. He couldn't have over a few dollars left after all the drinks, many of them doubles, that he'd been buying.
For a moment he entertained the wild idea of walking in front of a car, getting himself injured and taken to the hospital. But that was too risky; he could be killed—or permanently crippled, which would be almost as bad. Or if for safety he picked a slowly moving car and just let it knock him down his injuries would probably be so superficial that a hospital would simply check him over and discharge him immediately. Could he feign a heart attack? No, it would take the admitting physician only half a minute with a stethoscope to learn that his heart was as sound as a preinflation dollar. Acute appendicitis? Hardly, with his appendix already out and a scar to prove it. Or—no, damn it, he knew too little about illnesses to be able to get away with feigning anything. He'd never had a sick day in life, except for that attack of appendicitis and the time he'd been in the army infirmary on account of his allergy to wool.
The hospital idea wouldn't work. But what else would be open all night after the taverns closed?
The answer was so simple that he wondered why he'd sweated thinking about hotels and hospitals. The jail was open all night. It wouldn't hurt him to spend a night in the drunk tank, to save his life, and to pay a ten-buck fine in the morning. Maybe even no fine, just a warning, for first offense; and what alibi could possibly be better than being in jail? He wondered why he hadn't thought of it the moment he'd learned that the poker game was called off.
But he'd better make it good and really get drunk, roaring drunk, not depend on acting. He looked at his watch. It was only five minutes after twelve. Fifty-five minutes to go and that was plenty of time, if he drank straight shots, doubles. He had a hell of a good capacity for liquor if he took it in highballs and reasonably spaced his drinks—as he had thus far tonight—but straight whisky always hit him hard and fast. With the slight edge he already had, five or six straight doubles would be plenty, if he took them no more than five minutes apart.
Money wouldn't be a problem, even though he had only two bucks, enough for two doubles, left. Since he'd never done so before, he could borrow five or ten from almost any bar owner or bartender in town. And even five, with what he had, would get him seven doubles, more than enough. He'd been walking without thinking where he was going, but now he looked to see where he was. Half a block from the Log Cabin, run by Jerry Dean. It would be as good a place as any. He was known there at least as well as at any other tavern, and Jerry was at least as likely to lend him money as anyone else; he'd spent hundreds of dollars in Jerry's.
Jerry was behind the bar and, Ray was glad to see, so was his son Shorty Dean, whom Jerry was teaching to be a bartender. Two witnesses would be better than one—and he might as well establish the time right away. He put a dollar on the bar and asked for a straight double. Then while Jerry was pouring it he glanced up at the wall clock. "Hey, your clock's half an hour off."
Jerry looked up at the clock and then at his own watch. "Seven after twelve. That's what I got. How about you, Shorty?"
Shorty had five after but said his watch had been running a minute or two slow a day.
"Then seven after must be right," Ray said. He held his own watch to his ear. "Hell, mine's stopped. Must have forgot to wind it." He wound it and pretended to set it. "Say, Jerry, I ran short of cash tonight. Can you spare a sawbuck, just till tomorrow night?"