Part 29

“Not very comfortably.... There’s a man I know in Montreal who’ll give me a job writing society notes.... Beastly thing to do, but I can use an assumed name. Then we can trot along from there when we get a little more spondulix as you call it.... How about cashing that check now?”

She stood waiting for him beside the information desk while he went to get the tickets. She felt alone and tiny in the middle of the great white vault of the station. All her life with Roy was going by her like a movie reeled off backwards, faster and faster. Buck came back looking happy and masterful, his hands full of greenbacks and railway tickets. “No train till seven ten Al,” he said. “Suppose you go to the Palace and leave me a seat at the boxoffice.... I’ll run up and fetch my kit. Wont take a sec.... Here’s a fiver.” And he had gone, and she was walking alone across Fortythird Street on a hot May afternoon. For some reason she began to cry. People stared at her; she couldnt help it. She walked on doggedly with the tears streaming down her face.

* * * * *

“Earthquake insurance, that’s what they calls it! A whole lot of good it’ll do ’em when the anger of the Lord smokes out the city like you would a hornet’s nest and he picks it up and shakes it like a cat shakes a rat.... Earthquake insurance!”

Joe and Skinny wished that the man with whiskers like a bottlecleaner who stood over their campfire mumbling and shouting would go away. They didn’t know whether he was talking to them or to himself. They pretended he wasnt there and went on nervously preparing to grill a piece of ham on a gridiron made of an old umbrellaframe. Below them beyond a sulphurgreen lace of budding trees was the Hudson going silver with evening and the white palisade of apartment-houses of upper Manhattan.

“Dont say nutten,” whispered Joe, making a swift cranking motion in the region of his ear. “He’s nuts.”

Skinny had gooseflesh down the back, he felt his lips getting cold, he wanted to run.

“That ham?” Suddenly the man addressed them in a purring benevolent voice.

“Yessir,” said Joe shakily after a pause.

“Dont you know that the Lord God forbad his chillun to eat the flesh of swine?” His voice went to its singsong mumbling and shouting. “Gabriel, Brother Gabriel ... is it all right for these kids to eat ham?... Sure. The angel Gabriel, he’s a good frien o mine see, he said it’s all right this once if you dont do it no more.... Look out brother you’ll burn it.” Skinny had got to his feet. “Sit down brother. I wont hurt you. I understand kids. We like kids me an the Lord God.... Scared of me cause I’m a tramp aint you? Well lemme tell you somethin, dont you never be afraid of a tramp. Tramps wont hurt ye, they’re good people. The Lord God was a tramp when he lived on earth. My buddy the angel Gabriel says he’s been a tramp many a time.... Look I got some fried chicken an old colored woman gave me.... O Lordy me!” groaning he sat down on a rock beside the two boys.

“We was goin to play injuns, but now I guess we’ll play tramps,” said Joe warming up a little. The tramp brought a newspaper package out of the formless pocket of his weathergreened coat and began unwrapping it carefully. A good smell began to come from the sizzling ham. Skinny sat down again, still keeping as far away as he could without missing anything. The tramp divided up his chicken and they began to eat together.

“Gabriel old scout will you just look at that?” The tramp started his singsong shouting that made the boys feel scared again. It was beginning to get dark. The tramp was shouting with his mouth full pointing with a drumstick towards the flickering checkerboard of lights going on up Riverside Drive. “Juss set here a minute an look at her Gabriel.... Look at the old bitch if you’ll pardon the expression. Earthquake insurance, gosh they need it dont they? Do you know how long God took to destroy the tower of Babel, folks? Seven minutes. Do you know how long the Lord God took to destroy Babylon and Nineveh? Seven minutes. There’s more wickedness in one block in New York City than there was in a square mile in Nineveh, and how long do you think the Lord God of Sabboath will take to destroy New York City an Brooklyn an the Bronx? Seven seconds. Seven seconds.... Say kiddo what’s your name?” He dropped into his low purring voice and made a pass at Joe with his drumstick.

“Joseph Cameron Parker.... We live in Union.”

“An what’s yours?”

“Antonio Camerone ... de guys call me Skinny. Dis guy’s my cousin. His folks dey changed deir name to Parker, see?”

“Changing your name wont do no good ... they got all the aliases down in the judgment book.... And verily I say unto you the Lord’s day is at hand.... It was only yesterday that Gabriel says to me ‘Well Jonah, shall we let her rip?’ an I says to him, ‘Gabriel ole scout think of the women and children an the little babies that dont know no better. If you shake it down with an earthquake an fire an brimstone from heaven they’ll all be killed same as the rich people an sinners,’ and he says to me, ‘All right Jonah old horse, have it your own way.... We wont foreclose on em for a week or two.’ ... But it’s terrible to think of, folks, the fire an brimstone an the earthquake an the tidal wave an the tall buildins crashing together.”

Joe suddenly slapped Skinny on the back. “You’re it,” he said and ran off. Skinny followed him stumbling along the narrow path among the bushes. He caught up to him on the asphalt. “Jez, that guy’s nuts,” he called.

“Shut up cant ye?” snapped Joe. He was peering back through the bushes. They could still see the thin smoke of their little fire against the sky. The tramp was out of sight. They could just hear his voice calling, “Gabriel, Gabriel.” They ran on breathless towards the regularly spaced safe arclights and the street.

Jimmy Herf stepped out from in front of the truck; the mudguard just grazed the skirt of his raincoat. He stood a moment behind an L stanchion while the icicle thawed out of his spine. The door of a limousine suddenly opened in front of him and he heard a familiar voice that he couldnt place.

“Jump in Meester ’Erf.... Can I take you somewhere?” As he stepped in mechanically he noticed that he was stepping into a Rolls-Royce.

The stout redfaced man in a derby hat was Congo. “Sit down Meester ’Erf.... Very pleas’ to see you. Where were you going?”

“I wasnt going anywhere in particular.” “Come up to the house, I want to show you someting. Ow are you today?”

“Oh fine; no I mean I’m in a rotten mess, but it’s all the same.”

“Tomorrow maybe I go to jail ... six mont’ ... but maybe not.” Congo laughed in his throat and straightened carefully his artificial leg.

“So they’ve nailed you at last, Congo?”

“Conspiracy.... But no more Congo Jake, Meester ’Erf. Call me Armand. I’m married now; Armand Duval, Park Avenue.”

“How about the Marquis des Coulommiers?”

“That’s just for the trade.”

“So things look pretty good do they?”

Congo nodded. “If I go to Atlanta which I ’ope not, in six mont’ I come out of jail a millionaire.... Meester ’Erf if you need money, juss say the word.... I lend you tousand dollars. In five years even you pay it back. I know you.”

“Thanks, it’s not exactly money I need, that’s the hell of it.”

“How’s your wife?... She’s so beautiful.”

“We’re getting a divorce.... She served the papers on me this morning.... That’s all I was waiting in this goddam town for.”

Congo bit his lips. Then he tapped Jimmy gently on the knee with his forefinger. “In a minute we’ll get to the ’ouse.... I give you one very good drink.” ... “Yes wait”, Congo shouted to the chauffeur as he walked with a stately limp, leaning on a goldknobbed cane, into the streaky marble hallway of the apartmenthouse. As they went up in the elevator he said, “Maybe you stay to dinner.” “I’m afraid I cant tonight, Con ... Armand.”

“I have one very good cook.... When I first come to New York maybe twenty years ago, there was a feller on the boat.... This is the door, see A. D., Armand Duval. Him and me ran away togedder an always he say to me, ‘Armand you never make a success, too lazy, run after the leetle girls too much....’ Now he’s my cook ... first class chef, cordon bleu, eh? Life is one funny ting, Meester ’Erf.”

“Gee this is fine,” said Jimmy Herf leaning back in a highbacked Spanish chair in the blackwalnut library with a glass of old Bourbon in his hand. “Congo ... I mean Armand, if I’d been God and had to decide who in this city should make a million dollars and who shouldnt I swear you’re the man I should have picked.”

“Maybe by and by the misses come in. Very pretty I show you.” He made curly motions with his fingers round his head. “Very much blond hair.” Suddenly he frowned. “But Meester ’Erf, if dere is anyting any time I can do for you, money or like dat, you let me know eh? It’s ten years now you and me very good frien.... One more drink?”

On his third glass of Bourbon Herf began to talk. Congo sat listening with his heavy lips a little open, occasionally nodding his head. “The difference between you and me is that you’re going up in the social scale, Armand, and I’m going down.... When you were a messboy on a steamboat I was a horrid little chalkyfaced kid living at the Ritz. My mother and father did all this Vermont marble blackwalnut grand Babylonian stuff ... there’s nothing more for me to do about it.... Women are like rats, you know, they leave a sinking ship. She’s going to marry this man Baldwin who’s just been appointed District Attorney. They’re said to be grooming him for mayor on a fusion reform ticket.... The delusion of power, that’s what’s biting him. Women fall for it like hell. If I thought it’d be any good to me I swear I’ve got the energy to sit up and make a million dollars. But I get no organic sensation out of that stuff any more. I’ve got to have something new, different.... Your sons’ll be like that Congo.... If I’d had a decent education and started soon enough I might have been a great scientist. If I’d been a little more highly sexed I might have been an artist or gone in for religion.... But here I am by Jesus Christ almost thirty years old and very anxious to live.... If I were sufficiently romantic I suppose I’d have killed myself long ago just to make people talk about me. I havent even got the conviction to make a successful drunkard.”

“Looks like,” said Congo filling the little glasses again with a slow smile, “Meester ’Erf you tink too much.”

“Of course I do Congo, of course I do, but what the hell am I going to do about it?”

“Well when you need a little money remember Armand Duval.... Want a chaser?”

Herf shook his head. “I’ve got to chase myself.... So long Armand.”

In the colonnaded marble hall he ran into Nevada Jones. She was wearing orchids. “Hullo Nevada, what are you doing in this palace of sin?”

“I live here, what do you think?... I married a friend of yours the other day, Armand Duval. Want to come up and see him?”

“Just been.... He’s a good scout.”

“He sure is.”

“What did you do with little Tony Hunter?”

She came close to him and spoke in a low voice. “Just forget about me and him will you?... Gawd the boy’s breath’d knock you down.... Tony’s one of God’s mistakes, I’m through with him.... Found him chewing the edges of the rug rolling on the floor of the dressing room one day because he was afraid he was going to be unfaithful to me with an acrobat.... I told him he’d better go and be it and we busted up right there.... But honest I’m out for connubial bliss this time, right on the level, so for God’s sake dont let anybody spring anything about Tony or about Baldwin either on Armand ... though he knows he wasnt hitching up to any plaster virgin.... Why dont you come up and eat with us?”

“I cant. Good luck Nevada.” The whisky warm in his stomach, tingling in his fingers, Jimmy Herf stepped out into seven o’clock Park Avenue, whirring with taxicabs, streaked with smells of gasoline and restaurants and twilight.

* * * * *

It was the first evening James Merivale had gone to the Metropolitan Club since he had been put up for it; he had been afraid, that like carrying a cane, it was a little old for him. He sat in a deep leather chair by a window smoking a thirtyfive cent cigar with the _Wall Street Journal_ on his knee and a copy of the _Cosmopolitan_ leaning against his right thigh and, with his eyes on the night flawed with lights like a crystal, he abandoned himself to reverie: Economic Depression.... Ten million dollars.... After the war slump. Some smash I’ll tell the world. BLACKHEAD & DENSCH FAIL FOR $10,000,000.... Densch left the country some days ago.... Blackhead incommunicado in his home at Great Neck. One of the oldest and most respected import and export firms in New York, $10,000,000. _O it’s always fair weather When good fellows get together._ That’s the thing about banking. Even in a deficit there’s money to be handled, collateral. These commercial propositions always entail a margin of risk. We get ’em coming or else we get ’em going, eh Merivale? That’s what old Perkins said when Cunningham mixed him that Jack Rose.... _With a stein on the tabul And a good song ri-i-inging clear._ Good connection that feller. Maisie knew what she was doing after all.... A man in a position like that’s always likely to be blackmailed. A fool not to prosecute.... Girl’s crazy he said, married to another man of the same name.... Ought to be in a sanitarium, a case like that. God I’d have dusted his hide for him. Circumstances exonerated him completely, even mother admitted that. _O Sinbad was in bad in Tokio and Rome_ ... that’s what Jerry used to sing. Poor old Jerry never had the feeling of being in good right in on the ground floor of the Metropolitan Club.... Comes of poor stock. Take Jimmy now ... hasnt even that excuse, an out and out failure, a misfit from way back.... Guess old man Herf was pretty wild, a yachtsman. Used to hear mother say Aunt Lily had to put up with a whole lot. Still he might have made something of himself with all his advantages ... dreamer, wanderlust ... Greenwich Village stuff. And dad did every bit as much for him as he did for me.... And this divorce now. Adultery ... with a prostitute like as not. Probably had syphilis or something. Ten Million Dollar Failure.

Failure. Success.

Ten Million Dollar Success.... Ten Years of Successful Banking.... At the dinner of the American Bankers Association last night James Merivale, president of the Bank & Trust Company, spoke in answer to the toast ‘Ten Years of Progressive Banking.’ ... Reminds me gentlemen of the old darky who was very fond of chicken.... But if you will allow me a few serious words on this festive occasion (flashlight photograph) there is a warning note I should like to sound ... feel it my duty as an American citizen, as president of a great institution of nationwide, international in the better sense, nay, universal contacts and loyalties (flashlight photograph).... At last making himself heard above the thunderous applause James Merivale, his stately steelgray head shaking with emotion, continued his speech.... Gentlemen you do me too much honor.... Let me only add that in all trials and tribulations, becalmed amid the dark waters of scorn or spurning the swift rapids of popular estimation, amid the still small hours of the night, and in the roar of millions at noonday, my staff, my bread of life, my inspiration has been my triune loyalty to my wife, my mother, and my flag.

The long ash from his cigar had broken and fallen on his knees. James Merivale got to his feet and gravely brushed the light ash off his trousers. Then he settled down again and with an intent frown began to read the article on Foreign Exchange in the _Wall Street Journal_.

* * * * *

They sit up on two stools in the lunchwaggon.

“Say kid how the hell did you come to sign up on that old scow?”

“Wasnt anything else going out east.”

“Well you sure have dished your gravy this time kid, cap’n ’s a dopehead, first officer’s the damnedest crook out o Sing Sing, crew’s a lot o bohunks, the ole tub aint worth the salvage of her.... What was your last job?”

“Night clerk in a hotel.”

“Listen to that cookey ... Jesus Kerist Amighty look at a guy who’ll give up a good job clerkin in a swell hotel in Noo York City to sign on as messboy on Davy Jones’ own steam yacht.... A fine seacook you’re goin to make.” The younger man is flushing. “How about that Hamburgher?” he shouts at the counterman.

After they have eaten, while they are finishing their coffee, he turns to his friend and asks in a low voice, “Say Rooney was you ever overseas ... in the war?”

“I made Saint Nazaire a couple o times. Why?”

“I dunno.... It kinder gave me the itch.... I was two years in it. Things aint been the same. I used to think all I wanted was to get a good job an marry an settle down, an now I dont give a damn.... I can keep a job for six months or so an then I get the almighty itch, see? So I thought I ought to see the orient a bit....”

“Never you mind,” says Rooney shaking his head. “You’re goin to see it, dont you worry about that.”

“What’s the damage?” the young man asks the counterman.

“They must a caught you young.”

“I was sixteen when I enlisted.” He picks up his change and follows Rooney’s broad shambling back into the street. At the end of the street, beyond trucks and the roofs of warehouses, he can see masts and the smoke of steamers and white steam rising into the sunlight.

* * * * *

“Pull down the shade,” comes the man’s voice from the bed.

“I cant, it’s busted.... Oh hell, here’s the whole business down.” Anna almost bursts out crying when the roll hits her in the face, “You fix it,” she says going towards the bed.

“What do I care, they cant see in,” says the man catching hold of her laughing.

“It’s just those lights,” she moans, wearily letting herself go limp in his arms.

It is a small room the shape of a shoebox with an iron bed in the corner of the wall opposite the window. A roar of streets rises to it rattling up a V shaped recess in the building. On the ceiling she can see the changing glow of electric signs along Broadway, white, red, green, then a jumble like a bubble bursting, and again white, red, green.

“Oh Dick I wish you’d fix that shade, those lights give me the willies.”

“The lights are all right Anna, it’s like bein in a theater.... It’s the Gay White Way, like they used to say.”

“That stuff’s all right for you out of town fellers, but it gives me the willies.”

“So you’re workin for Madame Soubrine now are you Anna?”

“You mean I’m scabbin.... I know it. The old woman trew me out an it was get a job or croak....”

“A nice girl like you Anna could always find a boyfriend.”

“God you buyers are a dirty lot.... You think that because I’ll go with you, I’d go wid anybody.... Well I wouldnt, do you get that?”

“I didnt mean that Anna.... Gee you’re awful quick tonight.”

“I guess it’s my nerves.... This strike an the old woman trowin me out an scabbin up at Soubrine’s ... it’d get anybody’s goat. They can all go to hell for all I care. Why wont they leave you alone? I never did nothin to hurt anybody in my life. All I want is for em to leave me alone an let me get my pay an have a good time now and then.... God Dick it’s terrible.... I dont dare go out on the street for fear of meetin some of the girls of my old local.”

“Hell Anna, things aint so bad, honest I’d take you West with me if it wasnt for my wife.”

Anna’s voice goes on in an even whimper, “An now ’cause I take a shine to you and want to give you a good time you call me a goddam whore.”

“I didnt say no such thing. I didnt even think it. All I thought was that you was a dead game sport and not a kewpie above the ears like most of ’em.... Look if it’ll make ye feel better I’ll try an fix that shade.”

Lying on her side she watches his heavy body move against the milky light of the window. At last his teeth chattering he comes back to her. “I cant fix the goddam thing.... Kerist it’s cold.”

“Never mind Dick, come on to bed.... It must be late. I got to be up there at eight.”

He pulls his watch from under the pillow. “It’s half after two.... Hello kitten.”

On the ceiling she can see reflected the changing glare of the electric signs, white, red, green, then a jumble like a bubble bursting, then again white, green, red.

* * * * *

“An he didn’t even invite me to the wedding.... Honestly Florence I could have forgiven him if he’d invited me to the wedding,” she said to the colored maid when she brought in the coffee. It was a Sunday morning. She was sitting up in bed with the papers spread over her lap. She was looking at a photograph in a rotogravure section labeled Mr. and Mrs. Jack Cunningham Hop Off for the First Lap of Their Honeymoon on his Sensational Seaplane Albatross VII. “He looks handsome dont he?”

“He su’ is miss.... But wasn’t there anything you could do to stop ’em, miss?”

“Not a thing.... You see he said he’d have me committed to an asylum if I tried.... He knows perfectly well a Yucatan divorce isn’t legal.”

Florence sighed.

“Menfolks su’ do dirt to us poor girls.”

“Oh this wont last long. You can see by her face she’s a nasty selfish spoiled little girl.... And I’m his real wife before God and man. Lord knows I tried to warn her. Whom God has joined let no man put asunder ... that’s in the Bible isnt it?... Florence this coffee is simply terrible this morning. I cant drink it. You go right out and make me some fresh.”

Frowning and hunching her shoulders Florence went out the door with the tray.

Mrs. Cunningham heaved a deep sigh and settled herself among the pillows. Outside churchbells were ringing. “Oh Jack you darling I love you just the same,” she said to the picture. Then she kissed it. “Listen, deary the churchbells sounded like that the day we ran away from the High School Prom and got married in Milwaukee.... It was a lovely Sunday morning.” Then she stared in the face of the second Mrs. Cunningham. “Oh you,” she said and poked her finger through it.

* * * * *

When she got to her feet she found that the courtroom was very slowly sickeningly going round and round; the white fishfaced judge with noseglasses, faces, cops, uniformed attendants, gray windows, yellow desks, all going round and round in the sickening close smell, her lawyer with his white hawk nose, wiping his bald head, frowning, going round and round until she thought she would throw up. She couldn’t hear a word that was said, she kept blinking to get the blur out of her ears. She could feel Dutch behind her hunched up with his head in his hands. She didnt dare look back. Then after hours everything was sharp and clear, very far away. The judge was shouting at her, from the small end of a funnel his colorless lips moving in and out like the mouth of a fish.