Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  "I'll bet she is," said Chad. Then: "Roy, did you ever hear the story about the little dog who got the tip of his tail cut off by the wheels of a street car, and then turned his head…"

  "Yes," said Roy. "I heard it in the first grade."

  "So we are all friendly now. And everybody loves everybody. Especially you and Miss Vance, eh, Roy? I understand she loves everybody all right; or maybe only two parties, the Democrats and the Republicans."

  Roy said nothing. There was another silence, then

  Wicks cleared his throat. "Do you mind if I…?"

  "No, Bill. Go ahead," said Chad.

  "Unless you have some insuperable objection, Chad, I think, to be quite frank, that we ought to consider this proposition of Captain Hargis's. It has its merits. A clear, quick ending. Everybody satisfied. Costs the taxpayers practically nothing. And it will all be forgotten in a day or two."

  "You mean you're doubtful that you can convict this girl, Bill?"

  "No. I'll convict her, all right-first degree. But it will be a battle-with Lynch and, I presume, Captain Hargis-and it may get a little ugly in the full glare of the newspapers. Don't worry, Chad. If you say convict, I'll convict. But…" Wicks waved his long, thin hands in an ambiguous gesture.

  Chad scratched his ear and looked at Roy with distaste. "Roy," he said, "I've been listening to Bill Wicks for almost twenty years, and you could count the mistakes he's made on your thumb. So, whether I like it or not, I feel I ought to entertain your proposition. Give it to me again, fast."

  "The girl pleads guilty to manslaughter. The judge gives her one to ten. We don't ask for probation; that would embarrass Mr. Wicks too much. In six months, the girl is paroled, and that's that. She'll do her time at Winona, and be well looked after-some kind of easy job…"

  "They don't have the kind of easy jobs she's used to up there," said Chad, going down fighting.

  Wicks coughed uncomfortably and ceremoniously offered Roy a cigar which he accepted with thanks. Perrin, who had contributed nothing to the proceedings so far, made himself useful by lighting Roy's cigar for him with a lighter, snapping it on with an ostentatious flourish.

  "All right," said Chad. "So far so good. Now what do we get out of this?"

  "You get a quick and certain victory, Chad, which will clear the boards for you. You know what I mean. No fuss, no bother-no stoop, squint, or squat."

  "Okay," said Chad. "But do we get your resignation, Captain Hargis?"

  "Yes," said Roy. "As soon as the case is closed. Meanwhile, I'm still in charge."

  Chad turned to the great D.A. "Bill-it's yours. You take care of it."

  Wicks stood up. He was long and lean, and aside from the abysmal weariness of his face, he looked surprisingly young and fit for his sixty years. "Chad," he said, "now since it's over I'll give you my honest opinion. We did a good bit of work this morning. Good for all of us. Good for you, good for me, and obviously good for Captain Hargis."

  "Yeah," said Chad. "But six months is a long time. And no fence-climbing allowed, Roy." Chad threw back his head and laughed, then he said: "Put that resignation in legal form and sign it. I want it in my hands the minute the girl is sentenced."

  "All right, Chad."

  Roy went out and crossed the ante-room where the same smart young secretary was no doubt waiting for the boy with the crew cut and the bow tie to come out and give her a treat.

  24

  The Criminal Courts Building was a madhouse, but Judge Lowdnes' courtroom was almost as quiet as the grave. He had barred all news photographers and closed out the public. No use to complain that he couldn't do a thing like that. He had already done it. From Judge Lowdnes there was no appeal, or hardly any.

  He was an institution in the city. In his middle fifties, he was a huge man with an unusually large and impressive head, and he bore a startling resemblance to a well-known portrait of Daniel Webster. He also bore a startling resemblance to a St. Bernard dog. Some invisible and mysterious weight seemed to drag his whole face downward, but it sagged authoritatively and majestically and with an austere solemnity. The Judge had an immense and immovable dignity. Wesson said that he could even pick his nose in a dignified manner.

  He looked like a statesman. Real presidential timber, Wesson said, like Warren G. Harding. Al Bayliss had begged him to run for the United States Senate, assuring him of nomination and election, but with great dignity, Judge Lowdnes declined.

  He was completely without ambition, and as a result was a very happy man, entirely satisfied with the exaggerated deference shown him in the city. He was kowtowed to by everybody, from newspaper boys to Vanity Row headwaiters. Every time he walked down the street it was a triumphal procession. Caesar in Rome was unpopular compared to Judge Lowdnes in his chosen city.

  No one ever argued with him. No one even shook a head in disagreement. He could quiet an obstreperous defense attorney with one sad, penetrating glance. He could have sat for a symbolic picture of the Majesty of Human Justice.

  He was the greatest showpiece in the Administration's rather shoddy repertoire. He was famous for political oratory, and in an age which went in for electioneering with coon-skin caps, hill billy bands, and even acrobats and cooch-dancers, the Judge, in black coat and wing collar, lent an incongruous but original and happy note. He could not get warmed up under an hour and a half, and the long, involved, almost Churchillian sentences rolled out of his mouth tirelessly and endlessly with never a bobble nor a grammatical mistake-the Judge was a stalwart remnant of the past. As Wesson said, the news had not yet reached the Judge that Lincoln had been assassinated.

  The Judge in his black robe, looked about the sunshiny courtroom with sad dignity, then he gestured toward young Grant Perrin, who stood up quickly, clearing his throat. Perrin was speaking for the D.A.'s office in the case of the State vs. Ilona Vance.

  He made quite a long speech, but in short, abrupt, punchy sentences which caused the Judge to frown in disapproval and further compress his already compressed lips.

  "And so," Perrin concluded, "for the reasons above given, we are willing, at the discretion of Your Honor, to accept said plea to said offense."

  Perrin bowed in the direction of the bench, sat down, and began to rearrange his bow tie which had gone a little askew due to the activities of his Adam's apple.

  The Judge nodded majestically, then he glanced over at Ben Lynch, who was fidgetting with a cold pipe and a stack of papers.

  "Attorney for the defense?"

  Lynch stood up. "We are ready to plead, Your Honor."

  "The defendant will please step forward," said Judge Lowdnes.

  "If I may say a word, Your Honor," said Lynch.

  "You may. Proceed."

  "Your Honor," said Lynch, "as we are waiving all appeal from your august decision, whatever it may be, and as we are not asking for probation, we beg, if it please Your Honor, that you pass sentence at once. We ask this for the sake of expeditiousness and convenience, not only of the defendant but of the court and its officers. We are aware of the crowded condition of the docket and we wish to thank the court for its early consideration of our case."

  "The court will take the matter under advisement at once, Mr. Lynch," said the Judge. "And now if the defendant will come forward."

  The girl rose and moved slowly to a place directly in front of the Judge. She was very pale but looked self-possessed. Every person in the courtroom, from bailiffs to Roy Hargis, effacing himself in a corner of the last row, had their eyes on the girl. She was standing in a pool of sunshine, tall, straight, impressive. The Judge regarded her steadily for a moment, then he cleared his throat loudly, and with portentous dignity slowly took out his shell-rimmed glasses, put them on, and began to read to the girl from a document on the desk in front of him.

  The reading went on and on. From time to time the girl wet her lips and made faint sounds in her throat. Finally the Judge concluded.

  "You understand the indictment now, Miss Vance?" asked the Judg
e.

  "Yes, Your Honor," said the girl, slowly, in her low-pitched, arresting voice.

  "How do you plead?"

  "I plead guilty, Your Honor."

  There was dead silence as the Judge slowly removed his glasses and put them away.

  "Mr. Lynch," said the Judge, "we find your reasons for passing immediate sentence eminently satisfying. As you say, our dockets are crowded as never before. We are faced with a situation such as I had never expected to face in my most melancholy imaginings. Quite incredible. The respect for law has declined to such an extent that I fear for the future of this great country of ours. Lawbreaking has increased a hundredfold since I was a young man. So… our dockets are crowded and we are used to bickering and delaying and all the nefarious practices of those who would escape their well-merited fate, if only for a month, a week, or a day, even, in some cases. So I repeat-your reasons are eminently satisfying.

  "And now, by the power invested in me…" and the Judge went off into another speech. Attention wandered. People began to bite their nails, yawn, shift their feet, worry about their gall bladders, their debts, or whatever plagued them most when their minds were not distracted by some vivid interest.

  In the far corner of the room, Roy Hargis felt cold sweat running down his back. Good God! Wouldn't the Old Boy ever get it over with?

  The girl swayed slightly, then righted herself.

  A pigeon flew in one of the windows and had to be eased out by a patient bailiff. But the Judge went on.

  And then suddenly he pronounced sentence. Lost in a fog of worry, Roy had missed it. There was a long sigh in the court and a shuffling of feet.

  A reporter dashed past Roy, who reached out and grabbed him.

  "What did she get?"

  "Oh, hello, Captain. She got one to ten-the lucky girl! And she'll be out in six months with good behaviour. And you know her behaviour will be good in a woman's prison. Send her to the Walls, and she'd never get out."

  The reporter disappeared into the corridor, laughing.

  Roy stood up on the seats. The girl was being escorted to the convicted prisoner's door by Ben Lynch. Alma was waiting for her.

  All arrangements had been made. The girl was to be driven to the Winona Woman's Prison at once. Lois was to deliver her.

  Roy hurried out of the courtroom and took one of the work elevators to the basement. Then he went out into the alley and stood waiting, smoking a cigarette. The prison car was parked only a few feet away from him.

  In a moment, the girl came out of a side door, escorted by Alma, Ben Lynch, and Lois. Strangely enough, Alma was crying and wiping her eyes.

  The girl looked around her quickly and eagerly, and when she saw Roy her face flushed slightly and she lowered her eyes.

  Alma helped her into the car. Ben Lynch shook hands with her and patted her arm. A husky policewoman got into the driver's seat. Lois followed the girl into the car.

  Now news photographers began to swarm about the car, snapping pictures from all angles.

  Just as Lynch and Alma stepped back from the car Roy walked over to it, and looked in.

  "Goodbye, Miss Vance," he said. "Good luck."

  "Goodbye, Captain," said the girl.

  Roy stepped back now. The car drove off and turned the corner at the alley.

  "Soon as I get some time off, I'm going up and see her, poor girl," said Alma, whose eyelids were red. "She was like a kid sister to me. I don't care what they say about her, I've never had a nicer girl in my custody."

  Roy made no comment.

  ***

  Boley was waiting for him out in front so Roy went back into the Criminal Courts Building and started for the Boulevard through the lower corridor. Someone grabbed his arm. He turned. It was young Perrin.

  "Captain, I've been looking every place for you."

  "What's up?"

  "Why, Mr. Bayliss said…"

  Roy snapped his fingers. "Oh, I forgot. Where is Chad?"

  "He's in the Head Bailiff's Office, waiting for you."

  "Man of his word, I guess. Thanks."

  Roy went off down a side corridor, opened a door, and stepped in. A clerk glanced up at him from a desk. "Captain Hargis? Mr. Bayliss is expecting you. Right through there."

  Roy let himself into a little office which smelled of stale tobacco smoke and ancient ledgers. Bayliss was perched on the edge of a cluttered desk, smoking a cigar. He regarded Roy sardonically.

  "Well, the farce is over," he said. "For a moment or two I thought the Judge was going to launch out into Speech Number Three. The one he delivers to the American Legion every year or so."

  "So you were there."

  "Like you, I was hiding."

  Roy reached into his inside coat pocket and took out a big envelope. From it he extracted a letter, opened it, and handed it to Chad.

  "My resignation," said Roy. "Effective as of now."

  Chad took the resignation and read it carefully. "Fancy, fancy," he said. "Ben Lynch write this for you?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought I detected his fine, black-Irish hand," said Chad. "Quite a document, yes, sir. Nicely put." Chad tore the letter into four pieces and handed it back.

  "You don't approve of the wording?"

  "Look," said Chad, "a guy can make a mistake. I was a little premature in some of the remarks I made the other day. Roy-on second thought, you are just the kind of son of a bitch we need. Like Wesson."

  "Why, thank you, Chad."

  They shook hands, then Roy turned to go, but Chad stopped him.

  "Got any particular plans for the future? Say, six months from now?"

  Roy ran his hand over his face meditatively and studied Chad. "No. Why?"

  After a brief hesitation Chad said: "Listen, Roy; that girl's no good. She's a real bad one."

  Roy nodded slowly. "I know, Chad," he said. "I know." He started away.

  "Well… as long as you know…" Chad called after him.

  25

  The doorman at Cip's eyed Wesson dubiously as he always did, then he stared. It was a new Wesson in a Sam Brod suit, and a modish gray hat. He was barbered to within an inch of his life and smelled strongly of expensive cologne.

  "Evening, Mr. Wesson," said the doorman, bowing slightly, then opening the door.

  Wesson ignored him, shrugged and went in. The blond check-room girl with the blue eyelids looked up at him indifferently, then started, and ran her eyes over him.

  Wesson went over to her. "Hello, Peaches."

  She gave him the teeth. "Why, hello, you."

  "How do you like me?"

  "I like you fine," said Peaches.

  "I'm in the moo now, babe. Things are going to be different."

  "Things," said Peaches, "are definitely going to be different-if you're in the moo."

  "Oh, I'll prove it-later. Winter's coming on. The coat season, we call it in Knightsbridge."

  "Where?"

  "Never mind where, babe."

  A slim dark captain in a Tux came over to him, carrying a large decorative menu with gilt edges.

  "Yes, please, Mr. Wesson?"

  "Did Caesar speak to you about my reservation?"

  "Yes, Mr. Wesson."

  "Two in the Tangiers Room? Nice quiet place? Booth?"

  "As to the booth, sir…"

  "Goddamn it, I said 'booth,' " shouted Wesson. "And it better be a booth."

  "I'll… I'll check with Caesar at once, Mr. Wesson."

  He hurried off through the dim-lit, padded lobby. Wesson winked at Peaches, who leaned far over the half-door in her low blouse.

  "There's going to be some changes made," said Wesson, eyeing Peaches's display with marked approval.

  Somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Always interruptions," said Wesson, turning.

  Roy, also in a Sam Brod suit, was grinning at him. Wesson looked him over and laughed.

  "Aren't we a couple of boys?" he said.

  ***

  They sat in
the favored number one booth in the Tangiers Room, finishing their dinner and listening to Bob Dumas playing his soft, soothing, intimate music.

  "I don't know what the hell I'm eating," said Roy, "but whatever it is, I like it."

  "I ordered the dinner especially for us, Roy. Sort of a celebration. And I intend to pick up the tab. Now I don't want you to get the idea I'm going to make a habit of this… even though I'm now in a position where I can steal."

  Roy laughed curtly.

  A bus boy cleared their dishes away, then the waiter appeared with the dessert menu.

  "Send the captain over," said Wesson.

  "Oui, M'sieu," said the waiter, bowing.

  Appollo, the Head Captain of the Tangiers Room, came hurrying over. He was nervous. Caesar had put these two rather dubious gentlemen into his number one booth. He felt that he should salaam, and yet it went against the grain. He remembered too well Wesson's obnoxious antics of the past. A bad drunk, quarrelsome, arrogant.

  "You have Stilton?" Wesson demanded.

  "Yes, Mr. Wesson."

  "Would you like some cheese, Roy, or a sweet?"

  "Cheese."

  "Very well, Appollo. Stilton, if you can recommend it."

  "It is of a fine excellence, Mr. Wesson."

  "Water crackers?"

  "Oh, yes, sir."

  "There is a very fine water cracker made by Jacob of London," said Wesson. "But you wouldn't have that here I don't suppose."

  Appollo flushed slightly. "I will have to see, sir."

  He bowed and turned away.

  "I intend to twist the knife, Roy," said Wesson.

  "When the worm turns, it's bad enough. But when the lion wakes…"

  "Oh, bushwa!" said Roy.

  Wesson seemed hurt. "Roy, can't you let me have my little triumph? It's not going to last very long-say about a year-till the next election. You know as well as I do that the boys have finally ridden the Old Horse to death."

  "Sometimes Chad pulls off miracles."