There was an alcove off the living room with some high fidelity equipment, with racks of tapes in bright dog-eared boxes, with tilted stacks of records. The room was getting cool very quickly. I went over and checked the controls on the beast and cut it from high cool to cool, from max fan to medium. It shuddered and smoothed to about the sound of a good chain saw on idle. I was back looking at the pictures when she came out in an overblouse and faded blue shorts and sandals.
She was a slight and pretty woman, with the residual marks of old tensions in her face, with a firmness to her mouth and corners of her jaw.
"That's Jerry," she said.
"It seems incredible. He was stopped right there in time, just thirteen months after this picture. In another year Linda will be as old as I was when I met Jerry."
"Combat?"
"No. He was trade school. He wore the ring. They used to have more flameouts in fighter jets back then. He was on a night exercise, just two of them. That particular model, the way it worked, there was an interlock so that if you didn't jettison the canopy first, you couldn't eject, you couldn't make the charge go off to blow the seat out. It was supposed to be a safety thing, so a green pilot couldn't get nervous and blow himself through the canopy. But his canopy release jammed and all the way down he told his wingman exactly what he was doing to try to free it. No messages for anybody. Just technical information. A real pro."
"They must have to take a special course in cool."
"If I sound bitter, it's because they were already turning out a better canopy release thing and making the change in the field as the kits came in." So I told her about the radio tape years ago, made in Lauderdale, and broadcast only once before NASA came galloping in, all sweaty, and confiscated it. The interviewer had asked one of those good and tough-minded and freethinking men of the early days of space orbiting how he felt as the rocket was taking off. Maybe it was because he had heard that question too many times. He answered it with a question.
"How would you feel, taking off, sitting up there on top of fifty thousand parts, knowing that every one had been let to the lowest bidder?"
" "Grissom?" she asked. I nodded.
"I thought so. It sounds like Gus. I knew those guys. I came close to marrying one. The girls were little. They liked him. I was half in love and telling myself the girls needed a father. So maybe the new father was going to end up frozen hard as marble, circling us all forever, haunting us all forever. I dilly-dallied and I dithered and shilly-shallied and all those words. And the train left the station before I could make up my mind whether to buy a ticket. Maybe it's best.
Who knows? Well, my troubles aren't what you came to talk about."
"This problem could give you trouble you don't need. If the investment items are gone, Hirsh is going to have to make it good with Sprenger.
With a man like Sprenger, I don't think there'd be a choice, even if Hirsh did want to look for an out. It might clean him out. It might take the store and the stock to do it."
She was sitting in the corner of the couch. She pulled her legs up under her and made a face.
"That would really be rotten. For him, I mean. He's been so good to me.
I can't believe I've been there fifteen years. I answered a blind ad, and when I found out what it was, I didn't want it at all. He liked my letter. He begged me to try it. He offered me too much money. I couldn't even type. I thought somebody was going to take advantage of this crazy little man, so it might as well be me. I didn't find out until later he'd interviewed at least thirty-five girls before me without finding anybody he wanted. He was looking for a nut who'd go to a business school nights and learn to type just because it would make things easier for him. Trav, don't talk about the troubles I could have. I'll manage.
With the pay and the pension and being able to use the PX at Homestead, I've stuck rainy-day money away.
Jerry's folks have helped some, and they'd help more if I had to let them. The thing is to help Hirsh so he doesn't have to sell everything." "That's what Mary Alice says too, but she can't really believe the good stuff isn't still in that book in the safety deposit box."
"Hirsh doesn't imagine things like that. Know what I keep thinking?"
"What?"
"Don't tell Hirsh. If one investment account could be cleaned out like that, so could the others, couldn't they?
He hasn't had a chance to look at any one of the other five during the past two weeks."
"You certainly know how to relax a person, Jane."
"You thought of that already, huh?"
"They're all handled alike, pretty much, aren't they?"
"Yes and no. The oldest account is Mr. Riker Benedict, and that was started about the same time I came to work.
In fact, it was the first account Hirsh set up that way, mostly because Mr. Benedict couldn't really believe that the things Hirsh wanted to buy for him would keep going up in value year after year. He's bought nineteen classic pieces in fifteen years, famous items. And he's looking for another one now. The collection is worth so much more than Mr. Benedict put into it, there's really no point in keeping on with it in the same way. But it's a ceremony, adding a new piece. The two of them will spend half a morning in the bank going over the great rarities, one by one, whether they are adding a new one or not. With the other accounts I would say that sometimes they go over the things previously purchased and sometimes they don't.
The Sprenger account is the one where he never looks at the old purchases or the new ones either. He just sits there like so much dead meat. He nods, shrugs, grunts, and that's that."
"What would happen to those accounts if anything happened to Mr. Fedderman?"
"That's all worked out in the agreement. It's clear that he had no ownership interest in anything in the investment accounts, and his lawyer has a power of attorney in the event of Mr. Fedderman's death, and I think it's on file at the bank with a signature card. In the agreement the lawyer and the investor meet at the bank along with an appraiser certified by the APS, and the investment account is appraised, and if the current estimated resale value is higher than the breaking point in the agreement, the account is then accepted by the investor, and the agreement is surrendered. If the resale is less, the difference between it and the guaranteed price becomes a claim against the estate.
But there would be no question of a claim of any kind on five of them.
And on the stuff Hirsh has bought for Sprenger, I think Hirsh would come out a little bit ahead, actually, the way the market is going. You see, he hasn't really been taking any risk at all. This was just an easy way of easing the fears of people with risk capital. Sort of satisfaction-or-your-money-cheerfully-refunded. You can do that when the product is really tops."
"Unless the product mysteriously disappears."
"It's made him sick. It really has. Physically sick."
"I keep wondering how come Mary Alice keeps all the records and does all the work on the investment accounts?"
"Because I've been there longer? I used to do it, and then when Moosejaw retired and Mary Alice came on, I taught her the routines."
"Moosejaw?"
"Excuse me. Miss. Moojah, a maiden lady with a very strong personality.
A creature of legend. She didn't believe in the alarm system. There are eight buttons in handy, inconspicuous places. She kept a toy baseball bat under the cash register. Twice when she was alone, a would-be robber aimed a gun at her. Twice she picked up her bat and let him have it. One needed two lumps before he went down, and one collapsed on the first one. Then she'd push the button. It made Hirsh so mad he couldn't speak.
He just made gobbling sounds. He was so afraid the next one would kill her. Anyway, I'm glad to have Mary Alice do the scut work. I'm sort of more into decision-making."
"Such as?"
"Well, the routine things, of course, that Hirsh hasn't time or patience for. When to reorder and how much. Albums and packets and mounts and so on. But the part I like best is watchi
ng the market and studying it and advising Hirsh. It's a lot of work, but he says I have a real talent for it. I study the changes in the catalog prices as they come out, Scott, Minkus, Stanley Gibbons, Sanabria.
Also, I get the list of prices realized from all the leading auction houses and find out what the lots are bringing in New York and on the West Coast and in London. It isn't all up, you know. I saw some little early warnings three years ago on Italian issues. They'd moved up or been pushed up too fast. So we had some pretty good things in counter stock, and some real good things in the investment accounts, and Hirsh moved everything out quickly. He lets me run a little risk account, Like speculation in inventory. I saw that early Canada was looking active, so I put the money in those issues, and they've really moved. They were always good, but sort of stodgy. Now they're glamor.
I think that Do you really care about all this?"
"Would Mary Alice rather be making decisions?"
She pursed her lips.
"N-No, I don't really think so. I'm more the cerebral type, and she's the manual type. That's oversimplifying. She loves to cut mounts and fix up pages.
She loves to appraise estate stuff, item by item, and bring out the watermarks and count the perforations and check the color charts. She'd rather not have me handling any of the really good things. She got furious at me last year.
When there is envelope paper stuck to the back of a stamp, you put it in a little wet box called a Stamp Lift, and after a while you can peel that paper right off the stamp. The old gum softens in the dampness.
It was a pretty good Columbian, a four-dollar denomination with a light cancel. I took it out too soon, and I peeled part of the stamp right off. That's like making confetti out of a couple of hundred-dollar bills. She got so mad she wouldn't talk to me for hours."
"But usually she's easy to get along with?"
"A personal or official question, sir?"
I wondered if my ears looked as red as they felt.
"It has to be personal, doesn't it?"
"Who should blame you? That is a pretty vivid hunk of lady. And you seem to have that old familiar look."
"Fox in the henhouse?"
She laughed.
"More like a pro linebacker trying to line up on the wrong side. But on the personal side, I can't tell you much. She's fun to work with.
The three of us make a good little team. I don't see her after work.
Maybe there have been a lot of men trying to get close to that. If it works out the way it works out with the customers and the guys who work near the store, then they don't get anywhere either."
"How am I doing?"
"Who knows? It's early. I shouldn't give advice. I would go very very slow."
"What's her trouble?"
"I don't really know. I don't know a thing about her marriage. She won't talk about it at all. And as far as I can tell, she has absolutely no sex life at all, and that is a lot of big healthy girl with a lot of little motors running. From a couple of casual remarks I'd say that she certainly was turned on to it at one time. The only thing I can think of is that it was such a rotten, hideous marriage that it somehow turned her all the way off. And she keeps herself quieted down with all that exercise. The impression I get, the minute the man makes the first grab, she's off and running, and he never gets another chance. You spent a lot of hours with her. What did you really find out about her?"
I went back over it in my mind.
"Not a hell of a lot. No family apparently. And she lived in Philadelphia when she was a kid." "And also in. Scranton. I've asked her direct questions.
She says, "Jane, someday when we have a lot of time, I'm going to tell you all about it." But we haven't had enough time yet."
The door opened onto the shallow hallway, and a young girl came in. She was slender, taller than her mother, with brown hair darker than Jane's dark blond. Her hair was long and lifeless, half-hiding a sallow and strangely expressionless little face. She wore missionary barrel work pants, too heavy for September in Florida, a soiled body shirt. Her feet were bare. Her hands were as grimy as her feet. She carried a notebook and two schoolbooks in the crook of her arm.
She gave us one swift, opaque glance and headed past us toward the rear of the apartment.
"Judy!" her mother said. She stopped and turned slowly.
"You want something?"
"This is Mr. Mcgee. My daughter, Judy."
"Hello, Judy."
She gave me a briefer taste of that original look. She swept it across me. I was absolutely without meaning to her. She was something in a forest, aware only of other creatures like herself. I was a tree, and she did not give a damn what brand of tree. She half-nodded and made a small sound and turned back on her way. I sat down again.
"Judy?" her mother said.
She stopped in the doorway.
"Now what?"
"I want to talk to you."
"So talk."
"Not this minute. I'm talking to Mr. Mcgee. I just don't want to come looking for you and find you've gone out again."
"They're waiting on me."
"Go tell them to be patient then."
"Screw that. I don't want you hassling me. I told you that already."
"Go to your room and wait right there!"
"Is that an order?"
"What does it sound like?"
"Shove it, you silly old bitch. Phone the probation officer and tell him I've gone out. Okay?"
Jane Lawson started up when the girl left and then sat back down again.
She put her fists on her bare knees and bent forward at the waist and rested her cheeks on her fists. In a little while she straightened, bunking, and gave me a frail smile.
"Sorry."
"There's a lot of it going around."
"Judy... is at a difficult age. It's very difficult for young people these days." ' "Don't you want to go talk to her?"
She gave me a grateful and appreciative look.
"I'll just be a minute."
Very difficult for young people these days. Or any days.
In what golden epoch was being a teenager a constant joy?
There has always been a generation gap. It is called twenty years. Too much talk about unresponsive government, napalm, irrelevant education.
Maybe the real point is that young lives have no accepted focal point.
The tribe gives them no responsibilities, no earned privileges, no ceremonial place. In the family unit they do not fit into a gap between generations, because the generations are diffused.
Maybe that is why they are scurrying pell-mell back to improvised tribal conditions, to communes. The schools have tried, in loco parentis, to fill a vacuum, condition the young on a fun-reward system.
It has been a rotten try.
The same vacuum spawns the rigid social order of the Jesus freaks, another try at structure and meaning. The communes themselves are devices of the privileged, because if everybody went into communes, the communes would become impossible.
So the kids float. They ram around, amble around, talk and dream, and rediscover all the more simplistic philosophical paradoxes. And the ones in the majority who make it (as apparently Miss. Linda Lawson was making it) find some bottom within themselves. A place to stand. A meaning derived from fractionated nonsense. They are not a brighter generation than ever before. They have been exposed to more input, so much they have been unable to appraise and assimilate it, but are able to turn it into immediate output, impressively glib, and commercially sincere.
And the few that can't make it, like the younger daughter, exude the ripe odor of the unwashed as opposed to the animal tang of healthy sweat. Their tangled and musty locks make the shining tresses of the others repugnant to all those Neanderthal spooks who would hate and resent young ness no matter how it might be packaged. The lost ones, like Judy, get so far into the uppers and the downers and the mind benders, hardly ever knowing what they are taking, seeking only something in the blood that
will bring the big rush, and warp the world that if told it would make a nice high, they would stuff a dead toad into their ear. The lost ones trade the clap germs back and forth until they cultivate strains as resistant to penicillin as were the Oriental brands of yore.
The Scarlet Ruse Page 8