"Will you shut up?" Coffey whispered urgently. "Lower your voice and stop sniffling."
"Forcing her to come back," Grosvenor said. "Using your daughter as bait. Don't you see what you're doing to both of them? It's criminal."
"Shut up! Shut up, or I'll shut you up."
"No, I won't shut up. You're a menace, Ging'r, that's what you are. You're one of those guys, you don't care about anybody except yourself. Veronica hates your guts, you know."
"She does nothing of the sort," Coffey said, unwisely.
"No? Only went back because you were messing up Paulie's life, didn't she? That's what she said tonight. I mean—" and Grosvenor reached across the table, his hairy black hand gripping Coffey's wrist. "I mean, I'm not going to let you get away with this. I'm going to kill you, you sonofabitch."
Quickly, Coffey disengaged his wrist. Until now Gros-venor had been merely a lay figure in his imaginings, a self-important dummy which Veronica had picked to affront him with. But now, look at him. Weeping, revengeful, not ashamed to make a fool of himself for love's sake. Is this why Veronica loves him? Because he cares more about her than about himself, because, unlike me, he's prepared to weep in public? Suddenly — and for the first time — Coffey feared Grosvenor; feared the recklessness of Grosvenor's love.
"Now listen to me," he said, staring at Grosvenor. "Listen, now. Veronica's my wife and I intend to hold on to her. Get that straight. I'm a newcomer in a new country and I've had my troubles finding a spot, as who wouldn't? But things have changed. I'm on the right track now. I'm getting a better job soon and we're going to be all right, all of us. So bugger off, Grosvenor. I'm warning you, if I catch you hanging around Vera any more it's you that will be killed!"
"You don't scare me," Grosvenor said drunkenly. "You big Irish ape. You and Veronica are finished, do you hear? She loves me. She's coming back to me. Know what I'm going to do? I'm going to beat the piss out of you, Buster."
With that, Grosvenor stood up, wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand and moved out from the table, spilling coffee from the untouched mugs. He stood in the aisle, raising his arms in the exaggerated stance of an old-style barearm boxer. Drunkenly he began to circle Coffey, who hesitated, embarrassed by the rapidly forming audience of reporters and copy boys, uneasily aware that Mac-Gregor might walk in at any moment, yet itching to lay Grosvenor in his tracks.
"Come on," Grosvenor jeered. "Fight! I'm going to kill
you, you sonofabitch. Somebody should have done it long ago/'
His face ruddy with anger, Coffey ducked the long loping clout which Grosvenor aimed at him. Then he moved in. He knocked Grosvenor's right arm aside and stiffened Grosvenor with a vicious punch in the mouth. Grosvenor stumbled, hit a chair and sat down in it, his hands going to his mouth. After a moment a trickle of blood ran down his wrists. He took his cupped hands away and stared into the bloody spittle in his palms. There were bits of teeth there. The spectators looked at Coffey with new respect and one of the older reporters came forward, blocking his path. "Hold on," he said. "Guy's hurt/'
Coffey did not need the restraint. His anger bled to shame at sight of Grosvenor, pathetic and beaten, the underdog beloved by the crowd. Whereas he, the man with right on his side, stood convicted as a bully. He dropped his arms and, at that moment, as though announcing the end of the contest, the composing room bell rang in the corridor. Supper break. Now, it did not matter if MacGregor walked in. A victor, wanting the crowd to think him a good sport, he went over to Grosvenor and tried to help him up. "Come on/* he said. "You're in no condition to fight. Better cut off home."
Grosvenor pushed him away. He stood up, watched by all the cafeteria customers and, staggering slightly, put his hand to his mouth as though he were about to vomit. He rushed into the corridor, Coffey following.
"Do you want to go to the Men's Room?" Coffey called after him. "It's the other way."
"Go to hell," Grosvenor mumbled. He lurched along the corridor, one hand over his mouth, the other fending the corridor wall away. At the end of the corridor a service elevator waited, its gate open, its operator squat on his
little stool. Grosvenor lurched inside, then turned, looking curiously like a performer on a tiny, bright-lit stage. He pointed an accusing finger at Coffey. "You won't get her," he shouted. "She's coming to me. Irish Ape, you'll fail! She's mine, do you hear me? Mine!"
That crying voice, that bloodied mouth, that accusing finger, the sight of Grosvenor in the bright-lit elevator cage — all filled Coffey with an unreasoning dread. It was as though Grosvenor had formally pronounced a curse on him. And at that moment, MacGregor appeared, Jehovah at the far end of the corridor, attended by Clarence, his fat ministering angel. In sudden panic Coffey ran forward, tried to close the elevator gate.
"Take him down," he whispered to the operator. "Hurry, hurry—"
Startled, the elevator operator closed the gate. The elevator cage fell shuddering into the black shaft. Coffey turned and walked back up the corridor towards MacGregor, a man approaching the altar of his hope. Surely in this minute his luck must change? Surely in this very minute MacGregor would dispel the curse of Grosvenor's hate?
Clarence, riffling through his notebook, said: "Eleven hundred lines, sir."
"That's it," MacGregor said. "Shoe Week Convention. Tell the city desk to send a man to cover it. Good advertising tie-in."
"Yes, Chief," Clarence said.
Coffey was level with them now. He turned towards MacGregor, his face like a child's in its longing.
"A few wee features on the local page," MacGregor said. "To keep the advertisers happy."
"Right, Chief."
They passed him by. They had not seen him. He did not exist. Irish Ape, you II fail!
That night when he got home, Veronica was sitting up in bed reading a book. "What did you do to Gerry?" she said.
"He started it. He came in drunk and acting like a blithering idiot."
"So you broke two front teeth for him?"
"That was an accident, dear. Besides, he asked for it."
"An accident?" she said. "Well, let me tell you, you're wasting your time/'
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, hitting Gerry, what good's that going to do you? Gerry's more of a man than you'll ever be. Gerry loves me. That's why he was so upset tonight when I told him I'd have to stay here. That's why he got drunk."
Coffey began to undress.
"And another thing," she said. "I've no intention of staying here one minute longer than I have to. Today, I spoke to the mothers of those girls Paulie goes around with, and we're all going to make sure that gang of hoodlums are chased out. We're going to arrange more evenings at home for Paulie and the others. I can come over here two or three evenings a week and supervise. I don't have to live here all the time, just for that."
"Ah now, wait, Kitten — why, at the end of this week, I'll have that new job and maybe then we could —"
"New job," she said. "Oh, for God's sake!"
"No, I'm getting it, dear. Honestly."
"Want to bet?" She reached up and put the light off. "Good night," she said. "I have to work tomorrow."
Slowly, he finished undressing. He put on his pajamas. If she left now . . . He went over to her bed, sat on the edge, and put out his hand. It hovered over her, then settled on her shoulder. "Vera?" he said.
"What?"
"Vera, I know Grosvenor loves you. But I do too."
"Ha, ha!"
"Don't laugh, Vera. I do love you. Honestly I do."
"Listen to me," she said. "You don't know what love is. Just remember this, Ginger. Love is unselfish, it's doing things for other people and not asking them to do things for you. If you really loved me, you'd let me go. You'd give me a divorce. You'd think of my happiness and not your own. Gerry does. Now, go back to your own bed. Good night."
He stood up. Heavily he recrossed the room. He got into his bed and lay down on his side, looking at the darkness where she was
. Unselfish. So that was what she wanted. Some proof of devotion greater than self. Was that the thing that would win her back? Was it? He rolled over and stared at the invisible ceiling. Love is unselfish. Was that what she had found lacking in his love for her? Was that why Grosvenor, weeping but prepared to wait, had won her instead? If only he could think this out. If only his brain could puzzle out what she had said and find the answer, that absolute answer he felt he had almost grasped.
It was tiring to think. He was not used to thinking in abstractions. But still — was selflessness what he lacked? Was that true love? Would the greatest proof of his love for her be his willingness to sacrifice himself, the way Jesus had sacrificed himself for mankind? Jesus considered that the highest form of love, didn't he? Well, there you are, then.
"Vera?" he said.
"Go to sleep."
"Listen, Vera," he said. "I've made up my mind. If I don't get that reporter's job at the end of this week, I'll bow out. If I don't get it, you can go back to Gros-
venor and you can take Paulie. And 111 give you your divorce into the bargain. Now, isn't that unselfish of me? Isn't it?"
He waited for her answer. There was no answer. "I mean it," he said. He did mean it.
Twelve Next morning he awoke on the cross of his new obsession. He woke and went to work, a man who had decided to gamble his all on one event. He started fresh on that Wednesday morning, convinced that if he got the job, all his worries would end. Veronica would stay, Grosvenor would disappear, Paulie would be his Apple again, his future would be assured.
And if he did not get die job? If he did not get the job he would go down like a man. Lonely and proud, he would cast himself adrift from all who knew him, his boats burned forever. He would prove to her that he was a man of his word, the most unselfish lover in all the world, a man who could do a far, far better thing than Grosvenor ever would.
Not that he thought he'd have to, mind you. No, he was going to get the job, for sure. J. F. CoflFey, Journalist, Coffey of the Tribune, why that was only a matter of days and hours now. And so, that Wednesday morning, fixed on the cross of his obsession, he began to measure off those hours. As he drove through the city delivering diapers, his mind moved from hopes to faits accomplis. By mid-afternoon he had convinced himself that he had no time to lose. For, since he was getting this new job on
Friday next, he should be starting his preparations now, shouldn't he? Right, then. He had no time to lose.
At four-thirty that afternoon, his delivery route completed, he walked into the TINY ONES depot and gave notice.
"What?" Mr. Mountain rose up in alarm, his great stomach overlapping the military array of folders on the desk. "What's the matter, Coffey, we not treating you right?"
"It's not that, sir. It's just that this other job is more in my line. The job with you was more or less a stopgap."
"Well, eff me," Mr. Mountain said. "Reporter, eh? What paper?"
"The Tribune, sir."
"The Tribune, eh?" Distractedly, Mr. Mountain ran four plump fingers through the soft thickness of his detergent-colored hair. "This puts me on a spot," he said. "What am I going to tell the boss?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, this is strictly classified info, Coffey, but the fact is you're up for promotion."
"Oh?"
"Mr. Brott himself is interested. Told me to keep you happy. Said he was finding an office spot for you soon. It's
going to reflect on my department, you walking out like
. i . »
this.
Now that was nice to hear, wasn't it? Damn right it was. He wished to goodness Veronica were in the room. They want to keep me on and promote me. Well Vera, what do you think of that?
"Look, I'm not unhappy with the job or with the way I've been treated," Coffey told Mr. Mountain. Til be glad to explain that to Mr. Brott, if you like."
"Tell you what," Mr. Mountain said. "I think this is a
case for top brass. Tell you what —" He paused, staring with great solemnity at Coffey. "I'm going to the boss himself!"
He picked up the phone, a man assuming command. "Wait outside," he said.
So Coffey stepped outside. In a moment or two, Mr. Mountain dashed to the door, beckoning him. "Wants to speak to you himself" he whispered. "Mr. Brott."
He handed Coffey the telephone. At the other end of the line a crackly, testy voice said: "That you, Coffey? A. K. Brott here."
"Yes, sir."
"What's this about quitting? Now, you listen to me. You come right over here. I want to talk to you."
"But I have to start my night job, sir, I wouldn't be able to manage —"
"What time do you start?"
tcr, . . «
Six, sir.
"Give me Stan."
Coffey gave him Mr. Mountain. "Yessir," Mr. Mountain said briskly. "Right, sir. Roger, sir. Thank you, sir." He put the phone down. He picked up his hat, stared at Coffey with some distaste. "Get in my car," he said. "I've got to deliver you."
So they got in Mr. Mountain's car and drove up to the TINY ONES head office. There was no conversation en route: Mr. Mountain clearly believed this disruption in the chain of command to be above and beyond the call of duty. Coffey felt embarrassed. It was not Mr. Mountain's job to chauffeur him. Especially when it was all a waste of time.
Among the display of ex-voto scenes in A. K. Brott's office several advertising roughs were pasted on a board. They bore a vaguely familiar slogan:
RENT-A-CRIB SERVICE
Why Buy? We Supply
TINY ONES INC.
"That's right," Mr. Brott said, pointing to the board. "I checked into that idea, had a survey done and now I'm ready to go. That's what I want to talk to you about. What's this about you quitting?"
"I'm going to become a journalist, sir."
"Reporter?"
CC-V7 . 99
Yes, sir.
"Never saw a reporter in this province you couldn't buy off for twenty bucks in a plain envelope. So, forget that. You're a smart fella, Coffey, and I'm going to make you a good offer. A once-in-a-lifetime offer — take it or leave it."
Coffey fiddled with his little green hat. Nice to know that old Brott thought well of him, but to tell the truth, if he never saw a nappy again, it would be far too soon. Still, it was a good omen, wasn't it? The tide was turning, his luck had changed and surely, surely, in less than forty-eight hours, MacGregor would come through and J. F. Coffey, Journalist, Coffey of the Tribune —
"Matter of fact, I should have acted sooner," Mr. Brott said. "Just goes to show, in things like this you've got to pee or get off the pot. So, okay. Here's what I'm going to do. I'll make you my personal assistant at ninety bucks a week."
Personal Assistant to the Managing Director of Kyle-more Distilleries . . . Personal bumboy to old Cleery in the advertising . . . glorified secretary at Coomb-Na-Baun. Coffey stared at A. K. Brott's small gray face.
"No," he said in a strangled whisper.
"No? Look, what's the matter with you? Personal Assistant, do you realize the chance I'm giving you?"
"Do I?" Coffey echoed. "Fetch me this and fetch me that. Run down for cigarettes. Book me a table. I'm no glorified secretary, I'll have you know. I'm going to be a reporter by the end of this week."
"You're crazy."
"Ah no," Coffey said. "What do you think I came to this country for? Sure, didn't I leave a job as Personal Assistant in a far bigger company than this — this laundry will ever be? No thank you."
"Well, that's your mistake," Mr. Brott said, shaking his little gray head. "Rent-A-Crib — now there you were using your head, Coffey. When a guy gives me a worthwhile idea, I like to pay for it. As my assistant, you could have had yourself a nice steady job. Reporter? You're nuts. Come on now?"
"No," Coffey said. "I want to be a reporter."
"Well, it's your funeral," A. K. Brott said. "Sorry you feel this way. Stan?"
Mr. Mountain appeared in the doorway.
"Yessir?"
"Stan, drive Coffey down to his newspaper. And get a replacement. He's quit us. Take him off the payroll."
"Roger Dodger," said Mr. Mountain.
Personal Assistant! It just showed you, unless you had the guts to believe in yourself, what you started off as you would wind up as, even over here. Thanks be to God he would never go back to that, thanks be to God he had the strength to refuse once and for all. Glorified secretary, indeed! Running errands now and forever more, amen. Ah, shove your bloody Personal Assistant once and for bloody all! Shove it!
"What's the matter with you? You look mad," Fox said.
"Nothing," Coffey said. "I was just thinking about something. I turned down a job today."
But Fox did not seem to hear. He fed two new galleys in Coffey's direction. "Let's get rolling," he said. "Old Billy Davis has reported sick tonight. We're a man short."
"What's the matter with Old Bill?" Kenny asked.
"A cold, he says."
Blast Old Billy, Coffey thought. What's he getting sick for when I need him here? But a cold was nothing. No need to panic, was there? Right, then. He picked up a fresh galley.
Next morning, Coffey broke the breakfast silence with an announcement. "This is my last day on the delivery job," he said.
"What happened?" Veronica wanted to know. "Did they lay you off?"
Now, wasn't that typical?
"They did not," he said. "I resigned. Matter of fact they offered to promote me and take me into the office. That's how well they think of me, if you want to know."
"And you resigned?"
"Too right, I did. I told you, I'm going on the editorial staff of the Tribune as of next week. Friday will be my last night in the proofroom."
"Honestly, Daddy?" Paulie said. It was the first direct word she had spoken to him in days.
"Yes, Pet. Word of honor."
"Oh, that's super," Paulie said, looking pleased. "Then you and I can go skiing. Remember, you promised?"
"Don't count your chickens," Veronica said to Paulie. "And hurry now, you'll be late for school."
The Luck Of Ginger Coffey Page 17