by James Jones
“All right,” Wally said. “All right, I see that. But I’m not going to take it anyway.”
“And why not?”
“I don’t know,” he said, not looking at her. “Because it’s charity, that’s why! And I don’t need their charity. I get along.”
“Oh, you fool!” Gwen said. “Oh, you poor, vain, ignorant, egotistical fool!”
“Okay,” Wally said sullenly. “Maybe so. But I still ain’t going to take it.”
“I’m sorry I ever wasted my time with you!” Gwen said. “I thought you were a writer! A writer takes everything he can get, from everybody he can get it from, and he uses it and he’s grateful for it. It’s his right, because he gives up everything else to be a writer. He gives up his possessions. And, Wally, the greatest of his possessions is his pride.”
Wally sat glowering and said nothing.
“All right,” she said. “If you don’t take it, I’m through and you write the rest of your goddamned book yourself.”
Wally looked up startled. “You really mean that?” he croaked.
“I most certainly do. Take it. Take it and use it, in the best way you know how to use it, for the good of your work. Or else I’m through.”
“I won’t take it,” Wally said. “God damn them, I won’t take it.” But he was wavering.
Gwen could see that he was wavering, and in the end she went out to the workshop and called Bob in to her support, not so much because she needed him as because in that way she could save Wally a modicum of his pride in what had become a silly ridiculous battle of wills between them, and thus make it easier for him to accept.“I think you would be making the biggest mistake of your life, Wally,” Bob said, “if you refused it.” That was enough. He could take it, from a disinterested third party—and, Gwen thought bitterly, because it was a damned man.
“All right,” Wally said finally. “I’ll accept it.”
Immediately, Gwen heaved a profound inward sigh of relief, and after Wally left and Bob had gone back out to his workshop, had herself another mild case of hysterics, the first since the evening at the Country Club.
It was almost a month before all the details were arranged and Wally called her up to say he’d got his check. One thousand dollars! he said. Hot damn!
“By the way, have you heard the latest news?” he said after the congratulations. “Dave Hirsh is back.”
“Yes, I’d heard,” Gwen said.
“Have you seen him?”
“No. He hasn’t been over.”
“I don’t wonder,” Wally said. “Wait’ll you hear the latest news! Him and ’Bama have leased themselves a house out in the west end of town.
“Looks like you’ve lost yourself a potential novelist,” he said maliciously.
Chapter 40
IT TOOK THEM two full weeks of the most hectic kind of activity—first to get their house, and then to get it adequately furnished and get moved in; and that was the reason Dave had not been over to see Gwen sooner. At least, it was part of the reason. The other part was that he was so deliciously savoring his triumph—when he would descend upon her with the finished draft of “The Confederate” and, more or less claim his reward, so to speak—that he was almost reluctant to give up the savoring for the fact. The first thing he had learned when he got home—home it was now, oddly—and went to the hotel, was that Gwen had paid his bill and picked up his clothes and stored them for him. (The hotelman said Bob; but Dave knew it was Gwen who had been behind it.) And just this one fact had opened his eyes up to a great many things that he had not seen even before leaving for Florida. If he had, he might never have gone. But he could see now where she had been in love with him all along. The reason she hadn’t slept with him wasn’t because she found him less attractive than all those other guys she’d had love affairs with, it was because she was trying to get him settled down and back to work and help him make something of himself. She probably wanted to as bad as he did. But she was making him do the work first. Probably, she was saving herself for him all this time. Ah, Gwen. Triumph and gratitude seized him, and he promised himself that he would never do anything to hurt her or make her regret her choice; and he cherished triumphantly their coming relationship—when he would show her “The Confederate.” Also, he felt it would do her good to let her sweat a little. And anyway, there was the house.
They had come home loaded. After ’Bama had made up his mind to leave Miami, he had decided to spend two extra days collecting funds. They had played poker all night both nights, sleeping in the day, and drifting from one game to another. And as always that strange, occult partnership of theirs worked, and they won consistently. It was hard, poker-playing work, not stimulating at all, but it paid well. The good thing about gambling, ’Bama said, was that it allowed you to cheat so much on your income tax. In fact, he went on after a moment, gambling was about the only profession left anymore that had any individuality and freedom left and that was one reason he liked it. “Except for yore writin, of course,” he added. They were still dividing their winnings sixty-forty, but ’Bama had said that from now on he thought they ought to split fifty-fifty, Dave had learned enough about how to play poker now that he was earning it; and Dave, his wallet fat with bills on his hip, felt that he had almost forgotten what it was like to live without money. They had not won every time they had gone out to play in Miami, but they had won damn near every time.
The first thing when they got home, ’Bama went to see his “ol’ buddy” Judge Deacon about the house. Dave did not go along, and was in fact already occupied in doing his own chores and in discovering Bob French had picked up his clothes and that his car was gone, but ’Bama told him about it later. Since everything was gone from the Douglas, and he had plenty of money again, at ’Bama’s suggestion he reoccupied his suite at the Hotel Francis Parkman, and that was where they talked about it. It seemed strange, to have ’Bama sitting there (with his perennial water glass of whiskey) where Frank had sat so very long ago when they had signed the contract for the taxi service. But then the whole town looked different now, newer, and at the same time older, different, to him.
Ol’ Judge was more than glad to help them out. He would start looking for them a house right away, he had said, and since money was no object as ’Bama had said, he would see if he couldn’t get them one of the best in town, maybe right on East Wernz Avenue, the main street, in the middle of the snobs. That ought to burn their tails. But here, ’Bama said explaining it to Dave, he had put his foot down. There was going to be disturbance enough wherever they got a house probly, and there was no use asking for more. Rather reluctantly, Ol’ Judge had agreed with this; so he was only going to look for an ordinary, nice house.
“He’s a funny old duck,” ’Bama drawled. “He hates this town worse than poison, even though he was born here. And yet he wouldn’t leave it for nothin. Apart from the fact that he’s got all his money tied up here. He wouldn’t leave it if he didn’t have any. I guess that’s why he took a likin to me; I don’t fit in nowhere with the ‘respectable’ elements.”
It would take several days for Ol’ Judge to find a suitable house and lease it. He himself was going to take a run down in the country to see his wife and kids and see how his cropper was making out with his crops. Dave was welcome to come along with him if he wanted, but he really thought it would be better if Dave stayed in town and got his affairs straightened up, especially if they were going to go into this gambling partnership deal. He would want to see about getting his clothes and his car back. And he’d want to see Frank about the taxi service. All of that would probably take him a couple of days, and by then ’Bama would be back and they could start in on the house.
“Now, I don’t know what you want to do about that taxi service,” ’Bama said; “but I’m assumin you don’t want to go back to work there.”
“No!” Dave said.
“Well, there’s nothin in that contract that says you have to work there. Now, as to whether you want to bu
y it all or sell your share, that’s something else again. If you want to buy it, I’ll advance you the money. I can get it here in a week.”
“What about you and me going into partnership with it?”
’Bama grinned. “That would shore scorch them, wouldn’t it?” He shook his head. “But I’d ruther not. I don’t much go for ownin things. My farm’s differnt; I keep my family there. But somethin like this, I guess I just ain’t interested in.”
“Then I guess I’ll sell,” Dave said. “That’s about the way I feel about it, too.”
’Bama nodded. “All right. Now here’s what you want to do, then. You want to pretend like you want to buy it. See? And you want to get to name the price. Flash a little of that green you got on you; and let him know there’s more where that come from. Not in no obvious way; but in a way that’ll make him think he’s figured it out. See? Now here’s what you do,” he said carefully, as if speaking to a child. “You got to make him mad, see? Mad enough to ask to dissolve the pardnership. Because that’s the only way you’ll get to name the price, see? And you make it a high one. Then you flash your money, see? and he’ll decide to buy instead of sell, and you’ll get yore price.”
“Frank’s pretty hard to make mad,” Dave said; “especially, when it has anything to do with business.”
“Well, that’s yore job, see? You got to make him mad enough,” ’Bama said. “But I don’t think that that’ll be so hard to do. He’s probly already mad enough at you now, for takin off and all. And he probly expects you to go back to work for him. If you just act even a little snotty, he’ll probly blow his top off.”
“Why don’t we just forget all this and let me go tell Frank I want out and that I want to sell him my share?”
“Christ—no!” ’Bama said. “That’s just what he’d want! If you do that, yore not even goin to get yore original five thousand out of it. He’ll start talkin about how business is bad, and he guess it wasn’t such a good idea as he use to think for a business. Look,” he said. “Business is no differnt than anything else, Dave. All you got to do is know people, and remember to read the fine print. Business is no differnt than playin poker. And yore a good poker player, Dave.”
“Sure,” Dave said. “I know what you mean.”
’Bama looked at him thoughtfully. With his thumbnail, he pushed his hat back a quarter of an inch. “I guess it is all pretty hard to explain, I guess. Unless you already know beforehand what it is I’m talking about. And you don’t! Course, it would have been easier if you had wanted to buy instead of sell. That way it was all set up. And I must admit it would have tickled me to see you all set up as a respectable businessman in this town,” he grinned. “But I guess it wouldn’t have been such a good idea. It would almost certainly hamper yore writin,” he said, “and that’s what we got to think about now.”
“I think I understand it all right,” Dave said. “All I have to do is make him think I want to buy when I really want to sell.”
“That’s it!” ’Bama said. “Now you’ve got it! Well, now do you think you’ve got clear everything I said?”
“I suppose so,” Dave said. “I think so.”
“I— Yeah,” ’Bama said. “Yeah. Well!” he said, and slapped both hands down on his thighs, pushing himself up to his feet. “I better get to going. I’ll see you in two—three days at the latest. Then you can tell me all about how it turned out, and we’ll see what Ol’ Judge has got for us in the way of a house.”
He seemed a little glad to be getting away, Dave thought, and realizing what an oaf he was in anything to do with business, he didn’t blame him any. After ’Bama had gone, he mixed himself another whiskey and water and went to stand with it at the corner window and watched ’Bama come out below and cross Wernz Avenue and get into the big black ’37 Packard and drive off. He was a real friend, by God. And a man didn’t get many friends like that in his lifetime. Nursing his drink, he stood looking out at the town, which still looked so totally different—not different outwardly so much, because of the spring; but different inwardly, because of the change in him. That was why really, of course. Damn! That ’Bama was sure a swell guy.
Still holding the now half-finished drink, he walked over to the phone to call up Frank. Might as well do it now and get it over with. Then, before he went to see him he’d have another stiff drink and build his courage up to do it the way ’Bama had said. Christ, what a coward! But Frank had a sort of Indian sign over him and always had. It came from Frank having played father to him for so long and being the one who gave the orders. It got to be a sort of psychological habit.
Standing with the phone in his hand, but not having dialed yet, he suddenly remembered his childhood, and how he had used to want to sleep with Agnes. When he was a little bitty kid. That was before Agnes had taken such a dislike to him and he used to let her play the mother to him and dress him and undress him and give him baths so she would see him naked, and later even after he got in high school, she used to fondle him and rumple his hair and he tried to concoct ways of getting her to see him naked then, but never had nerve enough to carry any of them out. Thinking about it later, he had thought she had known, but she had never said anything about it. It had become a sort of delicious secret with him. He wondered if Agnes remembered any of that today. Probably not. And yet it might be one of the reasons she disliked him. Christ! he hadn’t thought any of all that in years.Frank turned out to be not in town when he called the store. He was up in Springfield on business, Edith Barclay said, but he was expected back at the store tomorrow. Dave recognized her voice. (She recognized his, too. He could tell.) So he told her who he was, as if he thought she hadn’t recognized him, and asked her about his car. She knew nothing at all about it, Edith said, but Mrs Hirsh would probably know. So he called Agnes up at home.
As soon as she heard him she recognized him, and he could hear that thin, unpleasant edge come into her voice that she always got whenever she spoke to him. Well, to hell with them. He didn’t have to worry about what they thought anymore. Yes, the keys were there, she said, at the house. The car was parked on the lot at the taxi stand.
“Well,” he said politely, “I’ll send Albie or whoever’s at the taxi stand down for them. Will that be all right?”
Yes, it would be perfectly all right, Agnes said. He hung up and mixed himself another drink. Life was such a strange, complex, incomprehensible thing. He noted that in spite of the fact he didn’t care what they thought anymore, it still bothered him to know that someone didn’t like him. That was what the trouble would be with Frank, when he saw him, he thought; and he was supposed to make him madder.
Albie Shipe was sitting behind the main desk in the taxi office, his feet cocked up on it, smoking a big black cigar and reading a comic book when Dave walked in.
“Well, damn!” Albie said, bugging out his eyes like a comedian, and threw the comic book down and got up. “Look who’s here, back from the dead! Where the hell ya been so long, boy?”
“I been in Florida,” Dave said. “Hi, Albie.” They shook hands.
“Florida, hunh?” Albie said, letting his whole face sag and then lifting it up into a broad grin. “Look at me! I been promoted since you left.” He swept an arm around to include the desk. “I got your old job now. Take all the calls, and make out all the dispatches, and write up all the figures even. What do you think of that, hunh?” he said and bugged out his eyes. “So you been in Florida. I thought I heard somebody said they thought you and Ol’ ’Bama had went off tomcattin someplace together.
“Say! You’ve put on a helluva lot of weight, ain’t you?”
Dave grimaced. “I’ve been livin good.”
Albie grinned. “So well whatta you know! Ol’ Dave! Well, when are you gonna come back and do me out of my job?”
“I don’t think I’m comin back, Albie,” Dave grinned. “Looks like you’ll get to keep the job.”
“Aw, now,” Albie said with comic earnestness. “Come on, now. I wouldn’
t want this job if it’d mean cuttin you out of it. You know that.”
Dave shook his head. “I don’t want it. I got a better deal. Me and ’Bama are goin into partnership gamblin. But it’s on the q t.”
“Anything that’s on the q t’s on the q t,” Albie said, narrowing his eyes and putting his finger up beside his nose.
“I’ll tell you what I came over for, Albie,” Dave said, and told him about the call to Agnes and the keys.
“Sure!” Albie said. “Nobody’s in right now; but I’ll go down and get them for you myself. “I’ve bought me a car since you been gone! I’ll go in my car and I’ll get them keys. What do you think of that, hunh?” He hustled to the door, the footfalls of his heavy body making the little lunchroom building shudder. “You watch them phones for me while I’m gone, will ya? Oh. Uh—if you ain’t sure what to do if somebody calls up, I be glad to explain it to you?”
“Go to hell,” Dave grinned.
Albie laughed and left, and from outside Dave could hear the chugging roar of Albie’s car, and sat down at the desk where he had sat so many times before and looked out at the dingy redbrick backs of the square’s business buildings that he had stared at so many times, feeling high and happy and free, and in a few minutes Albie was back with the keys.
When they went back outside and he saw the car, his happiness left him and he was infuriated. For a moment, he wondered furiously if that wasn’t why Albie had so slyly reminded him about watching the phones: just so he would get to be there and watch his face when he saw it.
To say it looked like the last rose of summer would have been putting it mildly. What had once looked like a pretty good “used car” now looked like an “old car.” An old wreck. It stood by itself in the very back corner of the cinder lot, and all the dirt and weather of four months of winter had assailed it unmercifully. He tried to tell himself that if it had stayed on the street where he had left it, it would have been the same; but it was not the same. Frank had taken it, that was the difference. Frank had taken it, and with a bullnecked sanctimonious righteousness deliberately put it out there and left it sit. Sure, Frank was angry at him; and that was why he did it. But it was still a petty, pompous, dirty little trick to pull.