The Brick Foxhole

by Richard Brooks

  Twelve minutes left and the girl was still talking about home.

  “You ought to see the big tree in our front yard,” she said.

  “I love yuh,” said the Marine passionately. He tried to unbutton her dress. Her hands locked his.

  “Will you fix me a drink, please?”

  He handed her the bottle and gallantly removed the cork. She drank. He drank.

  “Gee, it’s sure strong this way, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, baby, I love yuh.” He looked at his watch.

  “This is an awfully nice room, isn’t it?”

  “Do you feel the same way about me like I feel about you?” he demanded.

  “I think you’re awful nice,” she offered.

  “I love yuh.”

  “But you hardly know me. And besides.…”

  “Are yuh tired? Wouldn’t yuh like to stretch out?” He stretched out on the opened bed to show her how comfortable you could really be when lying down.

  “Gee, honey, I’m fresh as a daisy.”

  “Yuh are, huh?” he said, fierce-eyed. “Come on over. I want to tell yuh something.”

  “I’m listening, honey.”

  “Don’t be so far away. Yuh don’t really like me, I’m thinking.”

  She got the bottle and brought it over as an excuse. He pulled her down to him. The bottle fell to the floor but didn’t break. He kissed her hard. She returned the pressure. He pulled up her dress, she pulled it down.

  “I love yuh,” he said, frothing.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “I’m crazy about yuh,” he said.

  “Please, honey. Don’t.”

  He seriously considered banging her on the head with the bottle. His time was running out. For a small girl she was too strong in her hands.

  “Are you a virgin?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” she wanted to know, and sat up to straighten her dress.

  “I want to know do yuh love me?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I guess you never know till you’re married.”

  “I’ll marry yuh.”

  “You will?”

  “Sure. But right now.… Can’t you see?”

  “Gee, honey, but you’re awful fresh, ain’t you?” She laughed coyly.

  “I’m not fresh. I love yuh.”

  He pulled up her dress again. She pulled it down but not quite so firmly. He pulled it up again. The dress would not stand much more strain.

  “Be careful, honey. You’ll tear my dress.”

  “Why’nt yuh take it off? Be terribul to have it tear.”

  “Well.…” She was weakening.

  “Sure. Let me help yuh.”

  “Silly. I don’t need help.” She got up. He looked at his watch. Five minutes or less. “’Scuse me, honey,” she said, and went to the bathroom.

  He paced the floor. He lit a cigarette. He took a drink. This baby sure had taken a lot of warming up, but she was getting hot at last. When the others came he would let them bang on the door. It would have to be the fifty yard dash. But what the hell was taking her so long? He took another drink. He heard the toilet flush. He knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Whatcha doing?” he demanded.

  “Silly,” she said, and giggled.

  He swore at all women and promised himself that if his wife ever pulled anything like that on him he’d strangle her. Finally the bathroom door opened. He started, aghast. She still had her dress on!

  “I thought yuh’re gonna take it off?” he said.

  “Silly,” she said. “We’ve got all night, haven’t we?”

  He had two minutes.

  He sighed. He picked up the bottle and drank. She felt something had gone wrong.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  She went to the bed and stretched out langorously. “It is awful nice here,” she sighed. “Got a drink for me, honey?” He came to the bed and handed her the bottle. She took a long draught. She put her arms around him.

  “I love you,” she said.

  Somebody was knocking at the door.

  The Marine patted her plump little behind and decided he would wait another hour and try it again.

  “Who’s that?” she asked about the knocking.

  He got up and went to the door. He knew who it would be. He was surprised to find both the other Marines there plus a third man in uniform and a woman in uniform. They all came into the room and the girl got off the bed.

  “You know Frenchy, don’t you?” one of the Marines asked.

  “No,” said the Marine whose time was up.

  “This is Frenchy. And this is his wife, Dot.”

  They shook hands all around.

  “They need a room.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “This is different.”

  Henri explained what the trouble was. The first Marine listened and was bored. Dot tried a little persuasion. She pleaded that they had been all over D.C. trying to get a room. There was none to be had. Not a single room. They had to have a room. It was vital. It was important. The Marine thought it was important for him, too.

  Finally he said, “Okay. Half hour. Same as the rest.”

  Henri and Dot said, “Thank you.” The three Marines and the girl left. The girl told the Marine she didn’t think Henri and Dot were married.

  The door closed. Henri and Dot embraced. He asked her not to cry. They were lucky as it was. She said she was not crying because she was unhappy. But half an hour … it was not much time. They did not need much time.

  When she was in bed Dot prayed aloud: “Please God, let me have a baby.”

  They were both very tired. He looked at his watch. They had twenty-five minutes.

  For twenty-four hours and more, the card game in Room 1256 had been going strong. More than a thousand dollars had changed hands. Four decks of cards had been soiled, greased, torn, frayed, and ripped apart by disappointed players. The game was dealer’s-choice and the variations would have made Hoyle dizzy. High-and-low, baseball, seven card stud, red dog, and blackjack were child’s play. The American may be called, with some degree of accuracy, a lousy lover, a money-grubber, a sentimentalist, an overdressed, overstuffed Babbitt, a bleating Elmer Gantry, a pushover for a racket, a larcenous dreamer, and many other things, but he never can be accused of being a stodgy cardplayer.

  Room 1256 smelled as though cigarettes had been dunked in stale beer for hours on end … and they had. At that particular moment six soldiers were playing cards around a table, two guys were snoring in the bed, one man was on the floor pressing pants at a quarter a throw, two or three other nondescripts in T-shirts lounged and kibitzed, and a soldier was using the telephone. Some soldier was always using the telephone.

  Since soldiers rarely played with chips (except for officers, who think it is gentlemanly), the card table was decorated with many quarters, half dollars, and sweaty dollar bills, fives and tens. Personal checks were taboo. Money orders accepted. In the preceding twenty-four hours some forty or fifty men had taken part in the game and had drifted on, some broke, others well heeled. Ever since Keeley had seen a soldier win two farms, an automobile, and twelve thousand dollars at poker, he had been trying to turn the same trick, but without success.

  Keeley was now ahead of the game exactly four bucks and a little change.

  “What’re you playing this time?”

  “Closed poker. Black deuces and one-eyed jacks wild.”

  “What opens?”

  “Anything. Ante half a buck.”

  “Anybody else want his pants pressed?” from the soldier with the pressing iron on the floor.

  “Hello, Cora?” said the soldier on the phone. “I’m fine. How are you? Where you been? Chrissakes, the operator’s been ringing the phone for an hour trying to get you?… What? Talk louder, I can’t hear you. I said, talk louder.… I don’t know, it’s probably the operator trying to listen in.
… Listen, Cora, why weren’t you home?… Where? In the Loop? What the hell were you doing in the Loop?… Of course, I don’t expect you to sit around waiting for me to call.… What? Talk louder. I can’t hear you.… Well, it’s a long-distance call.… How do I know? Maybe the wires are weak or something.… Shopping? SHOPPING! That’s a laugh. You were in the Loop trying to pick up some guy.… Darling, what are you crying for? I didn’t get you. Talk louder.…”

  “Open.”

  “See.”

  “Raise a half.”

  “See.”

  “Up it a buck.”

  “How many cards you draw?”

  “Whyn’t you watch the game?”

  “I got a right to ask, ain’t I?”

  “We’re playing for real dough, bub. Watch the game.”

  “How many did he draw?”

  “I don’t know. Are you seeing?”

  “Yeah. Okay. I’m seeing.”

  “I think I’ll raise.”

  “What in hell is this? A pass and raise game?”

  “Stop bellyaching, will you?”

  “Yeah, sure, stop bellyaching,” said the complainer bitterly. “You can say that because you’re ahead. What if you were stuck, like me?”

  “In or out?”

  He put his money into the pot and stayed.

  Keeley did not win.

  “… Listen Cora, I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I can see some things you know.… You know damn well what I mean. You always had a yen for that insurance man.” He began to half sob. “Cora I can’t stand it any more. They’re going to ship us all out.… I don’t know when, but soon. Maybe I’ll even get killed. And there you are playing around in the Loop.… What? Will you for Chrissakes talk louder?… What?… Sure, I trust you, baby, but I don’t trust those lousy sailors around Chicago.… Do you dream of me? I dream of you.…”

  “How about raising the ante?” said Keeley.

  “What for?” asked a winner.

  “Because we’ll have to knock it off in half an hour,” Keeley said.

  “How come?”

  “My wife is getting in from New York at eleven o’clock and I still have to get this stinkhole fumigated.”

  “Okay, let’s play once around. Double ante.”

  “Whose deal?”

  “Mine. Seven card stud—the worst hand wins. You know, lowest hand, worst hand. One, two, three, four, five, is high. That counts for a straight. Lowest is one, two, three, four, six,”

  “Nothing wild?”

  “Nothing wild.”

  “… Cora, please stop crying. I didn’t mean anything.… Yes, I got socks and the candy. The candy had ants in it.… What? Of course, it’s not your fault.…”

  “I don’t see how you guys can play so long,” said the pants presser.

  “Okay, no editorials. Press the pants.”

  “Does the ace count for low or high?”

  “Only for low.”

  “Well, why the hell didn’t you say so at first?” shouted one of them, one, incidentally, who had not gotten an ace.

  “Please, fellas,” said the one on the phone, “this is long distance. I can’t hear.”

  “Hire a hall,” was the advice.

  There was a good deal of swearing then. As usual, the soldiers became personal. With verbs, adjectives, and nouns they damned and befouled one another. Impartially and without rancor they included parents and offspring in the indictment. No one became insulted, no one got angry, no one took it personally. It was just part of the language of the war. Then the game went on, the soldier on the telephone pleaded with Cora to be a good girl, Keeley continued to lose slowly. The pants presser said he loved a certain movie actress.

  “Okay, so you love her,” said a cardplayer.

  “Yeah,” said the pants presser, “and I’m gonna marry her.”

  “Okay. Okay. Marry her. Then you can press her pants too.”

  Someone was knocking on the door. No one bothered to answer it.

  “… Listen Cora, honey, we better hang up. This call is going to cost a lot of money.… What? Why, sure I reversed the charges.… Well, where the hell am I going to get the money to pay for a long-distance call like this?… Oh, for Chrissakes.… Hello.… Hello?… Hello!… Operator, please, I’m disconnected. Yeah. I had long-distance, Chicago.… What? What the hell you mean, get off the phone?”

  The knocking became louder.

  “Answer it, somebody,” said Keeley.

  The pants presser opened the door.

  The soldier hung up the receiver.

  The card game stopped.

  A policeman stood there with two M.P.’s. Behind them was a worried little man in a brown striped suit and narrow-gauge mustache.

  “Which one of you guys is Peter Keeley?” asked an M.P.

  Keeley looked around at them.

  “I am,” he said.

  “You know Jeff Mitchell?” asked the policeman.

  “Yeah.” said Keeley. He dropped his cards and stood up. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Get your cap and come on,” said the M.P.

  “Just a minute,” said Keeley. “What about Jeff? Where is he?”

  “Let’s go, soldier,” said the policeman. “This man, Mitchell, just murdered somebody!”

  CHAPTER XV

  The large, musty room in the central police station looked as if it were frowning on the story it was hearing. The heavy-legged table bore up well under the scribbling of a police recorder and two members of the press.

  Shrewd, sallow-faced, beak-nosed, sixty-two-year-old Captain Charles Finlay was conducting the examination. Finlay was no hawkshaw and he was no “dumb copper.” He was a good policeman. He was acquainted with the latest scientific methods of handling crime, and with this knowledge he often coupled the more direct methods of extracting information out of suspects and witnesses. His philosophy was a simple one. The world was divided into two types of people—those who had committed crimes, and those who were going to.

  When Keeley was brought into the room, Finlay, in his shirt sleeves, short-stemmed pipe in mouth, thick-lensed eyeglasses on his nose, was questioning Daniel T. Palmer, friend of the late Mr. Edwards.

  Finlay, quiet-voiced and always solicitous, said: How is it Mr. Palmer, that you walked right into the apartment? Was the door open?”

  “No sir,” said Palmer, “I … well … I had a key.”

  “I see,” said Finlay. He glanced up as Keeley came in between two policemen. The M.P.’s waited outside. Finlay rose and came over to Keeley. “How do you do, Sergeant,” he said. “Please sit down; we won’t keep you long.” He went back to the long table. He sat down and relit his pipe. He looked at Palmer, who fidgeted nervously. Finlay had marked him as a sexual pervert immediately upon seeing him. Now he was wondering why a man became one of “those.” Was it environment or heredity?

  “You had a key,” mumbled Finlay. “Uh-huh. Now, how did you happen to have this key, please?”

  “Well, for goodness sakes, Eddie gave it to me. For goodness sakes, how do you think?” Palmer was about ready to cry.

  “There’s no need to get excited, Mr. Palmer,” said Finlay quietly. “We’re only trying to find out exactly what happened. You see, things are not always what they seem to be. Especially in a … in an unfortunate event such as this.” He felt instinctively that to use the word “murder” would only upset Palmer more. “A lot of people have an idea that the police business is either pure guesswork or working miracles. All it is, really, is common sense. Yes. Common sense and facts. Now you say, Mr. Palmer, that he gave you the key to his apartment?”

  “Yes sir.” Palmer was more composed.

  “Did you share the apartment with him? I mean, did you use it? Maybe sleep there?”

  “Well … sometimes.”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “Sometimes I slept there. Eddie was a wonderful friend. His father is J. Christopher Edwards of New York, and.…”

  “W
e know that, Mr. Palmer.” Finlay tried to cut him off but it was too late. Both newspapermen had been startled to have such a well-known name turn up in what they had supposed was just another sordid, run-of-the-mill murder.

  “J. Christopher Edwards?” questioned one. “The millionaire?”

  Finlay didn’t answer. He tapped the tobacco out of his pipe and refilled it. One of the reporters wanted to leave the room to make a phone call. Finlay said if he left he couldn’t come back. He stayed.

  “Now, let’s go on, shall we?” asked Finlay.

  “Yes sir,” said Palmer. “May I smoke, please?”

  “Of course, my boy, of course,” said Finlay. He shoved a package of cigarettes, already on the table, toward Palmer. Then he held a match for him. Palmer inhaled deeply, and it seemed to help him.

  “Why did you go to Edwards’ apartment tonight?”

  “I already told you. I had an appointment to meet him.”

  “At what time?”

  “About six-thirty.”

  “But you didn’t get there at six-thirty.”

  “No sir. I was late.”