Catch As Catch Can

by Joseph Heller

  “I’ll show you what’s got into me,” Murdock said. “Stand up.” Dick looked at him incredulously and began to rise. Murdock strode up to him and pulled him to his feet. Before the boy realized it, Murdock was going through his pockets, gathering the contents in his large hands. When he had emptied them all, he pushed the boy down roughly into the chair. “Wait in here,” he ordered, and walked out.

  He went to the boy’s room and examined the articles in his hands, doing it quickly and throwing each one on the bed after a brief inspection. He couldn’t find what he wanted and turned to the jacket the boy had been wearing. In the breast pocket he found a small packet. He opened the tissue wrapping and saw two thin, wrinkled cigarettes. He split one with his fingernail and examined the seeds to his satisfaction. Now that he was sure, he felt surprisingly calm. He closed the cigarettes in his hand and returned to the living room. Neither Claire nor the boy had moved.

  “Come inside, Dick,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  The boy followed him back into the room. Murdock closed the door and turned the lock. He let several seconds go by before speaking.

  “Dick,” he said. “Are you doing anything you wouldn’t want me to know about?”

  The boy hesitated, watching him cautiously, and then shook his head.

  “Or anything you know I’d really object to?”

  The boy replied uncertainly. “I can’t think of anything.”

  Murdock took a step forward, feeling the hot anger flame within him. “Are you sure?” The boy nodded, and Murdock came forward another step. He watched Dick’s face closely as he raised his arm and held up one of the thin cigarettes. “What’s this?” he asked.

  A conclusive look of guilt flooded the boy’s face. His frightened eyes caught Murdock’s for a moment and then dropped to the floor. “A cigarette,” he answered.

  “What kind of cigarette?”

  “A regular cigarette,” the boy said. “I’ve been rolling my own.”

  Murdock hit him with his open hand. Dick fell back, stumbled to his knees, scampered up again quickly, and retreated in hurried steps. Murdock moved toward him, enraged. He had never struck him in anger before, and the great shame that swept over him he immediately blamed on the boy.

  “What kind of cigarette?” Murdock demanded.

  “A reefer,” Dick said, in a low voice that was filled with shame.

  Murdock stepped back, breathing hoarsely, feeling with relief that another point had been won. “Who sells it to you?”

  The boy looked down at the floor without answering. A small trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Murdock said. “I know.”

  “Who?” Dick asked.

  “A fellow named Flute,” Murdock said. “Is that right?” Dick nodded slowly. “Can I find him in the poolroom now?” Murdock asked. The boy nodded again. Murdock studied him silently for several seconds. “You’re bleeding,” he said, in a lower voice.

  Dick touched his finger to his mouth and looked at it without emotion. “It isn’t anything,” he said.

  “I’m going out,” Murdock said. “You wait in here until I get back. I don’t want Mother to know. If she asks you, tell her you’ve been cutting school. All right?”

  The boy nodded and Murdock walked out. Claire blocked his way in the foyer.

  “He’s all right,” Murdock said. “Let him stay there until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out for some air,” Murdock said.

  3

  It was a six-block walk to the poolroom. When he was inside, he stopped by the door and scanned the long, crowded interior. All the tables were in use, each with its small, chattering audience, and in the back a small crowd stood around the ticker that was bringing in the sporting results. Murdock was looking for Marty Bell, the owner, and he spied him coming forward with a greeting smile.

  “Hello, Dave,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “I want to talk to you,” Murdock said. “Is there a fellow named Flute here?”

  Marty looked toward the back and nodded. “That’s him at the fourth table,” he said, pointing. “What do you want him for?”

  “I’m going to beat his brains out,” Murdock said, and started away.

  Marty came after him nervously and caught his arm. He had a soft, owlish face with a peculiarly mournful twist to his mouth that had earned him the nickname Tearful. He looked unusually troubled now. “Be careful, Dave,” he said. “He’s a strong boy.”

  Murdock shook him away impatiently and walked back to the fourth table, his eyes fixed on the man but not noticing that Flute was as big as he himself was, with broad, level shoulders and thick forearms. Flute was bending over to make a shot when Murdock came up to him. Murdock tapped him sharply.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  Flute straightened up slowly and studied him with a careless interest, a slight, mocking smile coming to his strong face. “What about?”

  “I’ll tell you outside,” Murdock said.

  Flute thought about it a moment and then nodded. He put his cue down and followed Murdock out through the side door. Murdock walked until they were out of the light before he turned.

  “You’ve been selling marijuana to my kid,” he said.

  Flute showed no emotion. “Who’s your kid?” he said calmly. “I sell tea to a lot of people.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Murdock said. “It takes a pretty low bastard to sell it to anyone.”

  “All right,” Flute said. “Talk nice.”

  Four men came out of the darkness behind Flute, two on either side, and moved forward until they were around Murdock. As soon as Murdock saw them, he swung at Flute. Flute caught his wrist and held it, and before Murdock could move, he had his other arm, and in an instant Murdock was pinned back against the wall, unable to move. He kicked out viciously at the man’s groin and struck his thigh. Then the leg moved and Murdock could no longer hit anything. The four men watched without moving. Flute held Murdock powerless with his arms and shoulder, making no attempt to hurt him. Murdock struggled feverishly to break free from the younger man, putting all his strength behind the effort. It was no use, and after a few minutes he sagged in helpless exhaustion. The anger went out of him, leaving him limp with defeat.

  “All right?” Flute asked.

  Murdock nodded weakly. Flute released him and stepped back. Murdock moved from the wall, his eyes on the ground.

  “It’s all up to your kid,” Flute said. “He comes to me. Tell me who he is and I won’t sell it to him.”

  Murdock was silent. He rubbed his arms slowly, trying to shake the soreness from them. Flute watched him steadily, waiting.

  “All right,” he said, with a shrug. “Don’t tell me. But don’t make trouble for me. All right?”

  Murdock still didn’t speak. His eyes flickered to Flute’s square face every few seconds. He was still gasping for breath, still trembling slightly in defeat, but on his face there was a look of stubborn determination which Flute eyed apprehensively. He watched Murdock a moment longer and then stepped back reluctantly, shrugging again. Murdock moved between two of the men and walked away. He left them in a rapid stride, but as soon as he turned a corner his step slowed to a tired pace. He continued home in a weary walk. When he was before the house, he stopped to comb his hair and straighten his clothes. Claire was waiting for him by the door.

  “Where have you been?” she asked anxiously.

  “Out for some air,” Murdock said.

  Claire studied him with a puzzled expression. “Have you been fighting?”

  “Do I look like I’ve been fighting?” Murdock said. Claire shook her head slowly and Murdock had to smile. “Get dinner ready,” he said. “We’ll be right out.”

  4

  He hesitated outside Dick’s room and then continued into his own. He closed the door and sat down on the bed, truly feeling his age for the
first time. He was humbled by the shameful

  memory of being handled by Flute as though he possessed only the puny power of an infant. He sat motionless for a while and gazed down blankly at his hands, listening aimlessly to the noise of his breath passing through his nostrils. He didn’t hear the doorbell ring and he looked up with surprise when Claire came into the room.

  “Marty is here,” she said. Murdock looked at her quizzically. “Marty Bell,” she explained.

  “What does he want?” Murdock said, without looking at her.

  “He wants to see you.”

  “All right,” Murdock said.

  Claire turned from the door and returned a moment later with Marty. Marty came into the room gingerly, his sad face filled with a troubled gloom. He glanced significantly at Claire, and she left with an anxious glance at Murdock. Marty closed the door and faced Murdock. He didn’t speak.

  “What do you want, Marty?” Murdock said.

  “I was talking to Flute,” Marty said. “He asked me to come to see you.” Marty stepped forward hopefully. “Do me a favor, Dave. Let him alone, will you?”

  “Why?” Murdock demanded brusquely. “Why should I let him alone?”

  “Because he’s a good boy, Dave. You don’t know him, Dave, but he’s a good boy.”

  “Yeah,” Murdock said scornfully. “Some good boy. He sells dope to my kid.”

  Marty shrugged with acute discomfort. “He just looks to make a buck,” he explained. “You know how it is, Dave. You knocked around a lot yourself.”

  “I never sold dope,” Murdock said.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Marty said, with another deprecating shrug. He stepped close to Murdock and cocked his face forward in an intimate gesture. “He just tries to get by. You know how it is, Dave. There are a dozen guys in the neighborhood who would sell tea to your kid if he wants it. If Flute didn’t do it, somebody else would. It’s just like your own business.”

  Murdock’s jaw dropped. Marty stopped speaking and looked at him with amazement. He took a cautious step back.

  “Beat it, Marty,” Murdock said.

  “Sure, Dave,” Marty said quickly. “But think it over, will you?”

  “Get out, Marty,” Murdock said. “I won’t bother him.”

  Marty smiled at him gratefully and left. Murdock sat alone for a few minutes and then rose slowly, as a man exhausted, and went to Dick’s room. Dick looked up at him quickly when he entered, and then dropped his eyes to the floor. Murdock stared down at his hands for several minutes, breathing slowly and heavily, feeling a strong sense of shame as he stood before his son. After a while he looked up.

  “I’m sorry I hit you, Dick,” he said.

  Dick looked at him with surprise for a moment, and then his face broke into a wide, bashful grin. “That’s all right, Pop,” he said happily.

  “Here,” Murdock said. He picked up the small packet containing the two reefers and handed them to him. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. All right?”

  “Sure, Pop,” Dick said. He hesitated a moment and then replaced the packet on the table. “Anything you say.”

  Murdock smiled at him and the two of them went in to dinner. As he sat down it occurred to him that Claire must not know. The food was good, but he ate slowly, without appetite, and through the whole meal he never once met her eyes.

  NOTHING TO BE DONE*

  Carl entered the room, placed his raincoat on the back of a chair, and began taking off his clothes. He was a fat little man in his late forties, and the greying hairs on his chest were peculiarly ugly against the pasty folds of his flesh. When he was bare to the waist he sat down on the edge of the bed and began untying his shoelaces. The bed was near the window, and he sat for several minutes gazing out into the street. It wasn’t yet noon, but the air was already grey with a shadow that promised rain. With a tired grunt he raised his legs and stretched out on the bed. He lay on his back a long time, staring up at the ceiling, and finally, without moving, he fell asleep.

  The sound of footsteps mounting the stairs woke him a short time later. The footsteps stopped outside his door, and there was a light knock. “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened and Huck entered. Huck was a boy of about twenty who worked for Carl in the poolroom downstairs, and he had come up for the keys. He was fairly good-looking, with a firm, rugged face, and his wide body filled the seams of the leather jacket he was wearing. He smiled when he came in. “Hello, Carl,” he said.

  “Hello, Huck.” Carl watched him as he moved into the room and sat down on a chair facing the bed. Carl didn’t speak for awhile, and Huck waited patiently, resting his elbows on his thighs. “It’s going to rain,” Carl said mournfully, turning slowly to look out the window. “It’s going to rain like hell.”

  Huck didn’t answer. He held out a pack of cigarettes. Carl shook his head, and Huck lit one for himself. “What are you doing in bed?” he asked. “Don’t you feel well?”

  “I feel all right,” Carl said. He let several seconds go by in silence as he watched the smoke rise from Huck’s cigarette and turn blue as it hit the frame of light in the window. “It doesn’t pay to open up,” he said. “It’s going to be a bad day.”

  Huck shrugged indifferently.

  “Till when were you here yesterday afternoon?” Carl asked.

  “About two or three, I guess,” Huck said. “I hung around for a while after Nat took over.”

  “Did you take any bets?”

  “Some small stuff. Why?”

  “Did you phone them in yourself?”

  “No,” Huck said. “I gave them to Nat. What’s the matter?”

  “A bet got lost,” Carl said.

  Huck looked grave. “Who lost it?”

  “Nat did,” Carl said. He paused a moment. “It was a hundred bucks. The pay-off is twelve hundred.”

  Huck sat up sharply, his lips repeating the figure with amazement. “Nat wouldn’t pocket a bet,” he said after a moment. “You know that.”

  “I know he wouldn’t,” Carl said. “But Nick London won’t care about that. It was London’s bet.”

  “Are you sure London made it?”

  “He made it all right,” Carl said. “Nat remembers taking it. He got the hundred bucks in a white envelope. But he doesn’t remember phoning it in, and he didn’t give it to me.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Huck asked.

  Carl looked out the window at the building across the street and at the small portion of sky that he could see without moving. “It’s going to rain,” he said. “It’s going to rain like hell.”

  “Do you want me to open up?” Huck asked.

  “You might as well.” Carl reached into his pocket and gave Huck a set of keys. “But there won’t be any business.”

  Huck walked to the door, tinkling the keys softly in the palm of his hand. He turned and stared down at Carl thoughtfully. “Nat wouldn’t steal anything,” he said.

  “I know,” Carl said. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Carl said. “I don’t have twelve hundred dollars. If I had that much dough, I’d be able to cover the bets myself instead of just collecting them for the syndicate.”

  “Maybe it’s someone up there,” Huck said. “Maybe someone at the syndicate is fooling around.”

  “No,” Carl said. “He didn’t phone it in.”

  “Who has to make good?”

  “Nat,” Carl said. “I never saw the bet.”

  “Does London know that?”

  Carl nodded. “He came to collect last night,” he said.

  Huck shrugged sadly and walked out, closing the door slowly behind him. Carl lay motionless for a while, running his eyes from the ceiling to the window and then back again to the ceiling. Finally he sat up. Sitting on the bed, he could reach out and open the drawers of the bureau. He opened the top one and took out a pint bottle. It was cheap whiskey, and he made an unple
asant face when he swallowed. He stood up, sighing, and padded across the floor to the bathroom where he had a long drink of water. The water was warm and he grimaced again. Watching himself in the mirror, he scraped the heel of his hand against the dark bristle along his jawbone. He ran some hot water into the basin and shaved. Then he went back to the bed. He was just dozing off when Huck came back with Nat.

  “Hello, Nat,” Carl said.

  Nat was a tall boy, much taller than Huck, but thinner. He went to college in the mornings and worked for Carl in the afternoons. As Carl watched him cross the room, he wished there was something he could do. But there wasn’t. He had been thinking about it all night, and there wasn’t anything he could do.

  “Carl,” Nat said. “What am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Carl said. “Maybe you’d better go somewhere for a while.”

  Nat shook his head. He looked tired, and his dark eyes were filled with a baffled look of misery.

  “Are you sure you took the bet?” Huck asked.

  “I took it,” Nat answered. “He gave me the money in a white envelope. I remember that, but I can’t remember what I did with it.” He shook his head in bewilderment and turned to Carl. “Carl, I didn’t give it to you did I?” he asked hopefully.

  “No,” Carl said. “I remember the ones you gave me. His bet wasn’t among them. You don’t think I’d pocket it, do you?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Nat said, and paused despondently. “I wish I could remember. It got busy suddenly and I don’t know what I did with the envelope. I must have lost it or given it away by mistake.”

  “Carl,” Huck said, “call up the syndicate. I bet it’s up there somewhere.”

  “No,” Nat said. “I didn’t phone it in.”

  “Call them anyway,” Huck insisted.

  “All right,” Carl said.

  “Call up London for me,” Nat said. “Try and explain it to him.”

  “It won’t do any good,” Carl said.

  “Do it anyway, will you?”

  “All right,” Carl said.