Part 12

A young man stood at the table, swaying a little, looking down at them. “Hello Stan, where the dickens did you come from?” Baldwin looked up at him without smiling. “Look Mr. Baldwin I know it’s awful rude, but may I sit down at your table a second. There’s somebody looking for me who I just cant meet. O God that mirror! Still they’d never look for me if they saw you.”

“Miss Oglethorpe this is Stanwood Emery, the son of the senior partner in our firm.”

“Oh it’s so wonderful to meet you Miss Oglethorpe. I saw you last night, but you didn’t see me.”

“Did you go to the show?”

“I almost jumped over the foots I thought you were so wonderful.”

He had a ruddy brown skin, anxious eyes rather near the bridge of a sharp fragillycut nose, a big mouth never still, wavy brown hair that stood straight up. Ellen looked from one to the other inwardly giggling. They were all three stiffening in their chairs.

“I saw the danderine lady this afternoon,” she said. “She impressed me enormously. Just my idea of a great lady on a white horse.”

“With rings on her finger and bells on her toes, And she shall make mischief wherever she goes.” Stan rattled it off quickly under his breath.

“Music, isnt it?” put in Ellen laughing. “I always say mischief.”

“Well how’s college?” asked Baldwin in a dry uncordial voice.

“I guess it’s still there,” said Stan blushing. “I wish they’d burn it down before I got back.” He got to his feet. “You must excuse me Mr. Baldwin.... My intrusion was infernally rude.” As he turned leaning towards Ellen she smelled his grainy whiskey breath. “Please forgive it, Miss Oglethorpe.”

She found herself holding out her hand; a dry skinny hand squeezed it hard. He strode out with swinging steps bumping into a waiter as he went.

“I cant make out that infernal young puppy,” burst out Baldwin. “Poor old Emery’s heartbroken about it. He’s darn clever and has a lot of personality and all that sort of thing, but all he does is drink and raise Cain.... I guess all he needs is to go to work and get a sense of values. Too much money’s what’s the matter with most of those collegeboys.... Oh but Elaine thank God we’re alone again. I have worked continuously all my life ever since I was fourteen. The time has come when I want to lay aside all that for a while. I want to live and travel and think and be happy. I cant stand the pace of downtown the way I used to. I want to learn to play, to ease off the tension.... That’s where you come in.”

“But I don’t want to be the nigger on anybody’s safety-valve.” She laughed and let the lashes fall over her eyes.

“Let’s go out to the country somewhere this evening. I’ve been stifling in the office all day. I hate Sunday anyway.”

“But my rehearsal.”

“You could be sick. I’ll phone for a car.”

“Golly there’s Jojo.... Hello Jojo”; she waved her gloves above her head.

John Oglethorpe, his face powdered, his mouth arranged in a careful smile above his standup collar, advanced between the crowded tables, holding out his hand tightly squeezed into buff gloves with black stripes. “Heow deo you deo, my deah, this is indeed a surprise and a pleajah.”

“You know each other, don’t you? This is Mr. Baldwin.”

“Forgive me if I intrude ... er ... upon a tête à tête.”

“Nothing of the sort, sit down and we’ll all have a highball.... I was just dying to see you really Jojo.... By the way if you havent anything else to do this evening you might slip in down front for a few minutes. I want to know what you think about my reading of the part....”

“Certainly my deah, nothing could give me more pleajah.”

His whole body tense George Baldwin leaned back with his hand clasped behind the back of his chair. “Waiter ...” He broke his words off sharp like metal breaking. “Three Scotch highballs at once please.”

Oglethorpe rested his chin on the silver ball of his cane. “Confidence, Mr. Baldwin,” he began, “confidence between husband and wife is a very beautiful thing. Space and time have no effect on it. Were one of us to go to China for a thousand years it would not change our affection one tittle.”

“You see George, what’s the matter with Jojo is that he read too much Shakespeare in his youth.... But I’ve got to go or Merton will be bawling me out again.... Talk about industrial slavery. Jojo tell him about Equity.”

Baldwin got to his feet. There was a slight flush on his cheekbones. “Wont you let me take you up to the theater,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I never let anyone take me anywhere ... And Jojo you must stay sober to see me act.”

Fifth Avenue was pink and white under pink and white clouds in a fluttering wind that was fresh after the cloying talk and choke of tobaccosmoke and cocktails. She waved the taxistarter off merrily and smiled at him. Then she found a pair of anxious eyes looking into hers seriously out of a higharched brown face.

“I waited round to see you come out. Cant I take you somewhere? I’ve got my Ford round the corner.... Please.”

“But I’m just going up to the theater. I’ve got a rehearsal.”

“All right do let me take you there.”

She began putting a glove on thoughtfully. “All right, but it’s an awful imposition on you.”

“That’s fine. It’s right round here.... It was awfully rude of me to butt in that way, wasn’t it? But that’s another story.... Anyway I’ve met you. The Ford’s name is Dingo, but that’s another story too....”

“Still it’s nice to meet somebody humanly young. There’s nobody humanly young round New York.”

His face was scarlet when he leaned to crank the car. “Oh I’m too damn young.”

The motor sputtered, started with a roar. He jumped round and cut off the gas with a long hand. “We’ll probably get arrested; my muffler’s loose and liable to drop off.”

At Thirtyfourth Street they passed a girl riding slowly through the traffic on a white horse; chestnut hair hung down in even faky waves over the horse’s chalky rump and over the giltedged saddlecloth where in green letters pointed with crimson read DANDERINE.

“Rings on her fingers,” chanted Stan pressing his buzzer, “And bells on her toes, And she shall cure dandruff wherever it grows.”

II. Longlegged Jack of the Isthmus

_Noon on Union Square. Selling out. Must vacate. WE HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. Kneeling on the dusty asphalt little boys shine shoes lowshoes tans buttonshoes oxfords. The sun shines like a dandelion on the toe of each new-shined shoe. Right this way buddy, mister miss maam at the back of the store our new line of fancy tweeds highest value lowest price ... Gents, misses, ladies, cutrate ... WE HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. Must vacate._

_Noon sunlight spirals dimly into the chopsuey joint. Muted music spirals Hindustan. He eats fooyong, she eats chowmein. They dance with their mouths full, slim blue jumper squeezed to black slick suit, peroxide curls against black slick hair._

_Down Fourteenth Street, Glory Glory comes the Army, striding lasses, Glory Glory four abreast, the rotund shining, navy blue, Salvation Army band._

_Highest value, lowest price. Must vacate. WE HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. Must vacate._

From Liverpool, British steamer Raleigh, Captain Kettlewell; 933 bales, 881 boxes, 10 baskets, 8 packages fabrics: 57 boxes, 89 bales, 18 baskets cotton thread: 156 bales felt: 4 bales asbestos: 100 sacks spools....

Joe Harland stopped typing and looked up at the ceiling. The tips of his fingers were sore. The office smelled stalely of paste and manifests and men in shirtsleeves. Through the open window he could see a piece of the dun wall of an airshaft and a man with a green eyeshade staring vacantly out of a window. The towheaded officeboy set a note on the corner of his desk: Mr. Pollock will see you at 5:10. A hard lump caught in his throat; he’s going to fire me. His fingers started tapping again:

From Glasgow, Dutch steamer Delft, Captain Tromp; 200 bales, 123 boxes, 14 kegs....

Joe Harland roamed about the Battery till he found an empty seat on a bench, then he let himself flop into it. The sun was drowning in tumultuous saffron steam behind Jersey. Well that’s over. He sat a long while staring at the sunset like at a picture in a dentist’s waiting room. Great whorls of smoke from a passing tug curled up black and scarlet against it. He sat staring at the sunset, waiting. That’s eighteen dollars and fifty cents I had before, less six dollars for the room, one dollar and eighty-four cents for laundry, and four dollars and fifty cents I owe Charley, makes seven dollars and eighty-four cents, eleven dollars and eighty four cents, twelve dollars and thirty-four cents from eighteen dollars and fifty cents leaves me six dollars and sixteen cents, three days to find another job if I go without drinks. O God wont my luck ever turn; used to have good enough luck in the old days. His knees were trembling, there was a sick burning in the pit of his stomach.

A fine mess you’ve made of your life Joseph Harland. Forty-five and no friends and not a cent to bless yourself with.

The sail of a catboat was a crimson triangle when it luffed a few feet from the concrete walk. A young man and a young girl ducked together as the slender boom swung across. They both were bronzed with the sun and had yellow weather bleached hair. Joe Harland gnawed his lip to keep back the tears as the catboat shrank into the ruddy murk of the bay. By God I need a drink.

“Aint it a croime? Aint it a croime?” The man in the seat to the left of him began to say over and over again. Joe Harland turned his head; the man had a red puckered face and silver hair. He held the dramatic section of the paper taut between two grimy flippers. “Them young actresses all dressed naked like that.... Why cant they let you alone.”

“Dont you like to see their pictures in the papers?”

“Why cant they let you alone I say.... If you aint got no work and you aint got no money, what’s the good of em I say?”

“Well lots of people like to see their pictures in the paper. Used to myself in the old days.”

“Used to be work in the old days.... You aint got no job now?” he growled savagely. Joe Harland shook his head. “Well what the hell? They ought to leave you alone oughtn’t they? Wont be no jobs till snow shoveling begins.”

“What’ll you do till then?”

The old man didnt answer. He bent over the paper again screwing up his eyes and muttering. “All dressed naked, it’s a croime I’m tellin yez.”

Joe Harland got to his feet and walked away.

It was almost dark; his knees were stiff from sitting still so long. As he walked wearily he could feel his potbelly cramped by his tight belt. Poor old warhorse you need a couple of drinks to think about things. A mottled beery smell came out through swinging doors. Inside the barkeep’s face was like a russet apple on a snug mahogany shelf.

“Gimme a shot of rye.” The whiskey stung his throat hot and fragrant. Makes a man of me that does. Without drinking the chaser he walked over to the free lunch and ate a ham sandwich and an olive. “Let’s have another rye Charley. That’s the stuff to make a man of you. I been laying off it too much, that’s what’s the matter with me. You wouldnt think it to look at me now, would you friend, but they used to call me the Wizard of Wall Street which is only another illustration of the peculiar predominance of luck in human affairs.... Yes sir with pleasure. Well, here’s health and long life and to hell with the jinx.... Hah makes a man of you ... Well I suppose there’s not one of you gentlemen here who hasnt at some time or other taken a plunger, and how many of you hasnt come back sadder and wiser. Another illustration of the peculiar predominance of luck in human affairs. But not so with me; gentlemen for ten years I played the market, for ten years I didn’t have a ticker ribbon out of my hand day or night, and in ten years I only took a cropper three times, till the last time. Gentlemen I’m going to tell you a secret. I’m going to tell you a very important secret.... Charley give these very good friends of mine another round, my treat, and have a nip yourself.... My, that tickles her in the right place.... Gentlemen just another illustration of the peculiar predominance of luck in human affairs. Gentlemen the secret of my luck ... this is exact I assure you; you can verify it yourselves in newspaper articles, magazines, speeches, lectures delivered in those days; a man, and a dirty blackguard he turned out to be eventually, even wrote a detective story about me called the Secret of Success, which you can find in the New York Public Library if you care to look the matter up.... The secret of my success was ... and when you hear it you’ll laugh among yourselves and say Joe Harland’s drunk, Joe Harland’s an old fool.... Yes you will.... For ten years I’m telling you I traded on margins, I bought outright, I covered on stocks I’d never even heard the name of and every time I cleaned up. I piled up money. I had four banks in the palm of my hand. I began eating my way into sugar and gutta percha, but in that I was before my time.... But you’re getting nervous to know my secret, you think you could use it.... Well you couldnt.... It was a blue silk crocheted necktie that my mother made for me when I was a little boy.... Dont you laugh, God damn you.... No I’m not starting anything. Just another illustration of the peculiar predominance of luck. The day I chipped in with another fellow to spread a thousand dollars over some Louisville and Nashville on margin I wore that necktie. Soared twentyfive points in twentyfive minutes. That was the beginning. Then gradually I began to notice that the times I didnt wear that necktie were the times I lost money. It got so old and ragged I tried carrying it in my pocket. Didnt do any good. I had to wear it, do you understand?... The rest is the old old story gentlemen.... There was a girl, God damn her and I loved her. I wanted to show her that there was nothing in the world I wouldnt do for her so I gave it to her. I pretended it was a joke and laughed it off, ha ha ha. She said, Why it’s no good, it’s all worn out, and she threw it in the fire.... Only another illustration.... Friend you wouldn’t set me up to another drink would you? I find myself unexpectedly out of funds this afternoon.... I thank you sir.... Ah that puts ginger in you again.”

* * * * *

In the crammed subway car the messenger boy was pressed up against the back of a tall blond woman who smelled of Mary Garden. Elbows, packages, shoulders, buttocks, jiggled closer with every lurch of the screeching express. His sweaty Western Union cap was knocked onto the side of his head. If I could have a dame like dat, a dame like dat’d be wort havin de train stalled, de lights go out, de train wrecked. I could have her if I had de noive an de jack. As the train slowed up she fell against him, he closed his eyes, didnt breathe, his nose was mashed against her neck. The train stopped. He was carried in a rush of people out the door.

Dizzy he staggered up into the air and the blinking blocks of lights. Upper Broadway was full of people. Sailors lounged in twos and threes at the corner of Ninetysixth. He ate a ham and a leberwurst sandwich in a delicatessen store. The woman behind the counter had buttercolored hair like the girl in the subway but she was fatter and older. Still chewing the crust of the last sandwich he went up in the elevator to the Japanese Garden. He sat thinking a while with the flicker of the screen in his eyes. Jeze dey’ll tink it funny to see a messengerboy up here in dis suit. I better get de hell outa here. I’ll go deliver my telegrams.

He tightened his belt as he walked down the stairs. Then he slouched up Broadway to 105th Street and east towards Columbus Avenue, noting doors, fire escapes, windows, cornices, carefully as he went. Dis is de joint. The only lights were on the second floor. He rang the second floor bell. The doorcatch clicked. He ran up the stairs. A woman with weedy hair and a face red from leaning over the stove poked her head out.

“Telegram for Santiono.”

“No such name here.”

“Sorry maam I musta rung de wrong bell.”

Door slammed in his nose. His sallow sagging face tightened up all of a sudden. He ran lightly on tiptoe up the stairs to the top landing then up the little ladder to a trapdoor. The bolt ground as he slid it back. He caught in his breath. Once on the cindergritty roof he let the trapdoor back softly into place. Chimneys stood up in alert ranks all about him, black against the glare from the streets. Crouching he stepped gingerly to the rear edge of the house, let himself down from the gutter to the fire escape. His foot grazed a flowerpot as he landed. Everything dark. Crawled through a window into a stuffy womansmelling room, slid a hand under the pillow of an unmade bed, along a bureau, spilled some facepowder, in tiny jerks pulled open the drawer, a watch, ran a pin into his finger, a brooch, something that crinkled in the back corner; bills, a roll of bills. Getaway, no chances tonight. Down the fire escape to the next floor. No light. Another window open. Takin candy from a baby. Same room, smelling of dogs and incense, some kind of dope. He could see himself faintly, fumbling, in the glass of the bureau, put his hand into a pot of cold cream, wiped it off on his pants. Hell. Something fluffysoft shot with a yell from under his feet. He stood trembling in the middle of the narrow room. The little dog was yapping loud in a corner.

The room swung into light. A girl stood in the open door, pointing a revolver at him. There was a man behind her.

“What are you doing? Why it’s a Western Union boy....” The light was a coppery tangle about her hair, picked out her body under the red silk kimono. The young man was wiry and brown in his unbuttoned shirt. “Well what are you doing in that room?”

“Please maam it was hunger brought me to it, hunger an my poor ole muder starvin.”

“Isnt that wonderful Stan? He’s a burglar.” She brandished the revolver. “Come on out in the hall.”

“Yes miss anythin you say miss, but dont give me up to de bulls. Tink o de ole muder starvin her heart out.”

“All right but if you took anything you must give it back.”

“Honest I didn’t have a chanct.”

Stan flopped into a chair laughing and laughing. “Ellie you take the cake.... Wouldnt a thought you could do it.”

“Well didnt I play this scene in stock all last summer?... Give up your gun.”

“No miss I wouldn’t carry no gun.”

“Well I dont believe you but I guess I’ll let you go.”

“Gawd bless you miss.”

“But you must make some money as a messengerboy.”

“I was fired last week miss, it’s only hunger made me take to it.”

Stan got to his feet. “Let’s give him a dollar an tell him to get the hell out of here.”

When he was outside the door she held out the dollarbill to him.

“Jez you’re white,” he said choking. He grabbed the hand with the bill in it and kissed it; leaning over her hand kissing it wetly he caught a glimpse of her body under the arm in the drooping red silk sleeve. As he walked, still trembling, down the stairs, he looked back and saw the man and the girl standing side by side with their arms around each other watching him. His eyes were full of tears. He stuffed the dollarbill into his pocket.

Kid if you keep on bein a softie about women you’re goin to find yourself in dat lil summer hotel up de river.... Pretty soft though. Whistling under his breath he walked to the L and took an uptown train. Now and then he put his hand over his back pocket to feel the roll of bills. He ran up to the third floor of an apartmenthouse that smelled of fried fish and coal gas, and rang three times at a grimy glass door. After a pause he knocked softly.

“Zat you Moike?” came faintly the whine of a woman’s voice.

“No it’s Nicky Schatz.”

A sharpfaced woman with henna hair opened the door. She had on a fur coat over frilly lace underclothes.

“Howsa boy?”

“Jeze a swell dame caught me when I was tidying up a little job and whatjer tink she done?” He followed the woman, talking excitedly, into a dining room with peeling walls. On the table were used glasses and a bottle of Green River whiskey. “She gave me a dollar an tole me to be a good little boy.”

“The hell she did?”

“Here’s a watch.”

“It’s an Ingersoll, I dont call ’at a watch.”

“Well set yer lamps on dis.” He pulled out the roll of bills. “Aint dat a wad o lettuce?... Got in himmel, dey’s tousands.”

“Lemme see.” She grabbed the bills out of his hand, her eyes popping. “Hay ye’re cookoo kid.” She threw the roll on the floor and wrung her hands with a swaying Jewish gesture. “Oyoy it’s stage money. It’s stage money ye simple saphead, you goddam ...”

* * * * *

Giggling they sat side by side on the edge of the bed. Through the stuffy smell of the room full of little silky bits of clothing falling off chairs a fading freshness came from a bunch of yellow roses on the bureau. Their arms tightened round each other’s shoulders; suddenly he wrenched himself away and leaned over her to kiss her mouth. “Some burglar,” he said breathlessly.

“Stan ...”

“Ellie.”

“I thought it might be Jojo;” she managed to force a whisper through a tight throat. “It’ll be just like him to come sneaking around.”

“Ellie I don’t understand how you can live with him among all these people. You’re so lovely. I just dont see you in all this.”

“It was easy enough before I met you.... And honestly Jojo’s all right. He’s just a peculiar very unhappy person.”

“But you’re out of another world old kid.... You ought to live on top of the Woolworth Building in an apartment made of cutglass and cherry blossoms.”