Solomon's Vineyard

by Jonathan Latimer

  “Sure. We gotta special fish dinner-.”

  “What kind of fish?”

  “Black bass. Is very good.”

  “What do you say, Ginger?”

  “It sounds all right.”

  “Okay. Two bass dinners.”

  We drank our drinks. Ginger smiled at me over the top of her glass. She didn't look quite so sullen. “Here's to Pug,” she said. She tried to drink to him, but her glass was empty. I ordered two more. Then we decided to wash for dinner.

  The bartender showed me where the men's room was. While I was there two guys came in. One of them had on a tan gabardine suit. The other was a waiter. He had a broom. The guy in the tan suit was bawling him out for not having swept the washroom. I guess that was what it was. They were speaking Greek. The waiter took the broom and cleaned the door. The guy in the tan suit and I watched him. The waiter got a dustpan and swept the dirt into it. Then he went out.

  The man in the tan suit grinned at me. He had a gold tooth. “Damn Greeks,” he said. “Loaf all time.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Say, you're Gus Papas, aren't you?”

  “Tha's right.”

  I held out my hand. “I'm Karl, in the City Clerk's office.”

  We shook hands. He pretended to know me. Maybe he actually thought he did. Greeks are like that. They can believe anything they think they ought to believe.

  “Anything I can do for you, Karl?” he asked.

  “Maybe I can do something for you.”

  The smile went off his face. His lips sort of puffed out, like red rubber tyres. He thought I was going to try to sell him something.

  “You know Pug Banta? I asked.

  His face changed again. He didn't look so soft. He nodded. “I think he's going to try to break up your place.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Don't get me wrong. I don't know it. It's only something I overheard at Tony's.”

  The man in the white suit came into the washroom. He was a little drunk. He went to one of the urinals.

  “You come to my office,” Papas said.

  I followed him. There was a desk littered with papers and two chairs. A window looked out on the lake. “Sit down, please; now what you hear?”

  “It wasn't much. Maybe I shouldn't bother you with it.”

  “Do you think it's a bother to me, to hear how Pug wants to break up my joint? Don't make me laugh.”

  “Okay. I heard Pug talking to a Greek-looking fellow.”

  “Nick,” Papas said. “He used to work for me.”

  “I didn't know that,” I said. “Anyway, I heard Pug say: 'He's been in my hair long enough.' And this Nick says: 'Why don't you drive him out? He's yellow. Break up his joint and he won't stop running until he hits Athens.'”

  “Some kid, that Nick,” Papas said.

  “And Pug says: 'By God! I'll do it. Tomorrow night. I'll make it look like he started the trouble.' And then Nick says: 'If you need a good fella to take Gus Papas's place, I'm him. I know how the place runs.'”

  I looked at Papas to see how he was taking it. He looked scared and mad. He muttered something in Greek. Then he asked: “Why you tell me this?”

  “Pug beat me up once.”

  “He beat up too many people,” Gus said. He pushed a button. A waiter stuck his head in the room. “Tell Prank I want him.”

  I stood up. “Well, I'll be getting back to my girl.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Why you come out here? Why you get into trouble?”

  “I thought I'd like to see the fun.”

  He nodded. “Hokay. There be plenty fun. How many men Pug bring?”

  “I didn't hear any more.”

  “Hokay. We fix'em.”

  I went to the door, then stopped. “He'll invent some excuse to get in. That's what he wants to do: get in and start the trouble.”

  “He no get in.”

  I went back to the bar. Ginger was waiting for me. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I took a bath.”

  “I want another drink.”

  I looked on the bar. She'd drunk both the old-fashioneds. I ordered four more. When the bartender brought them, I gave her one and kept three. “That'll even us up.”

  She drank hers and reached for one of mine.

  “Not scared, are you?”

  “A little.”

  “He'll never come out here.”

  “He would if he knew.”

  “Let's eat,” I said.

  A waiter had set up a table for us in a corner of the porch. There was celery and olives and jellied soup in cups, and beside the table stood a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.

  “I didn't order that.”

  “Mr. Papas sent it,” the waiter said.

  Ginger stared at me. “How come?”

  “Gus is a friend of a friend of mine.”

  She didn't believe me, but she didn't ask any questions. She didn't talk much while we ate. She was thinking. I knew what about. She was trying to figure out why I should want to make Pug Banta sore again.

  “You're quiet.”

  “I wish you had a chance of beating Pug. “Let's don't talk about Pug.”

  “I wish somebody could beat him.”

  “I'll beat him for you.”

  “You haven't a prayer. He'll knock you off. “Maybe he'll get it first.”

  “I wish,” Ginger said.

  I poured champagne in the glasses. Then we had dinner. It was good. We ate black bass and drank champagne. The small man in the white suit was joined by some friends at the bar. There were two other men and a woman. They had a round of drinks, and then they went to a table near ours. They began dinner as we finished with coffee and frozen custard. I wondered if Gus Papas was taking my story seriously. I told Ginger I'd be back in a minute and went to the washroom. I went by way of the front entrance. I saw the door was fastened with heavy chain. By a window near the end of the room, standing under a moose head, was a guy with a rifle. He was watching the road. I walked into the washroom, rinsed off my hands, and went back to the table. The guy in the white suit was in my chair. He'd been talking to Ginger. He got up, holding to the back of the chair to balance himself. “I know you,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I saw you play for Notre Dame against Army. And later against Southern Cal.”

  I felt the warm glow of being recognized, and at the same time I knew it was a bad idea. At that, the guy had a good memory. Fifteen years!

  “You're wrong,” I said. “I never went to college.” He ignored me. “Best tackle I ever saw,” he said to Ginger. “Come have a drink at our table. I'll think of the name.”

  “Smith,” I said. “And Mrs. Smith.”

  “Best tackle ever lived. Can't think name. You have drink, Mrs. Smith?”

  Ginger looked at me. “We'll be glad to join you,” I said.

  He giggled happily. “I knew you would.” He led us over to the other table. “Meet Winnie and Jonesy and Peter Davison,” he said. The two men stood up. They were both middle-aged. The woman was a little younger. We sat down. “What have you been drinking?” asked the guy in the white suit.

  “Champagne,” I said.

  That surprised him, but he was game. He ordered a bottle for us. Then he told the waiter to start the radio. “Get dance music,” he said. He leaned over Ginger. “How do you feel about dancin'?”

  “I can take it or leave it.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.” He giggled. “How about a dance with me?”

  The music started. Ginger looked at me. “Why not?” I said. “He's buying us champagne, isn't he?”

  She didn't like it, but she danced with him. The one they called Jonesy danced with the woman. That, left me with Davison. He hitched his chair nearer to me.

  “What line you in, Mr. Smith?”

  I was going to tell him I sold machine-guns when I heard some cars drive up. They come fast and skidded to a stop. “They're in a hurry,” I said.
/>   “Drunks, probably,” Davison said. “What line did you say, Mr. Smith?”

  “Gunpowder.”

  His eyes widened. I heard the sound of voices at the front door. Somebody said: “Open up.” Davison said: “That's a rather odd line.”

  There was an argument at the door. I recognized Gus Papas's voice. He kept repeating: “The place is close. The place is close.” His voice was high with excitement. “Like hell it is,” a deeper voice said.

  “Do you handle dynamite, too?” Davison asked.

  “Sure.”

  Ginger forced the guy in the white suit to dance close to the table. He tried to kiss her neck. I couldn't hear the voices any more. Ginger looked at me angrily, but I shook my head. “Who's your friend?” I asked Davison.

  “Don't you know him? Caryle Waterman, of the Waterman Drop Forge?”

  “A big shot, eh?”

  “His family are worth a couple of million.” Gus Papas came into the room. His face was green. He went behind the bar and turned off the radio. He said: “There's some people outside want to speak to a girl named Ginger.”

  Ginger got pale, but she didn't say anything. She stood in Waterman's arms. He was holding her like they were still dancing. “There isn't any Ginger here,” Davison said. Gus Papas looked at Ginger. “Pug Banta says there is.” Waterman took his arms from around Ginger. “Gus,” he said; “you have known me for a long time. You will believe me when I tell you this girl is named Mrs. Smith.” I said to Gus: “He wants an excuse to get in.”

  “Hokay,” Gus said. “I tell him to get the hell out of here.” He started the radio again and went out. Ginger walked around Waterman and came over to me. She was scared. “Sit down,” I said. “We've been talking about explosives.”

  “Very interesting business,” Davison said. Waterman hung over the back of Ginger's chair. He wanted her to dance again. “Come on, dear,” he said.

  “You probably don't know, Mr. Waterman,” I said, “but they've found nitro-glycerine to be very effective in putting out oilfield fires. Its effect is like that of a giant blowing out a candle. However, it's very dangerous to use.”

  “Who gives a damn about oilfields?” Waterman said. I heard angry voices by the door. I heard someone cursing. Then there was a sound of pounding. Somebody swore again, and a shot was fired. There was a moment of absolute silence; then a volley of shots and a crashing of glass.

  “My God!” Davison said.

  Gus Papas ran on to the porch. “Get inside,” he yelled, waving his arm at us. “They shoot you here.”

  We hurried inside. Papas herded us into his office.

  Waterman asked: “What's the matter, Gus?”

  “Some people try break in.”

  “By God, they can't do that. Have you got a gun, Gus?”

  “You stay here. You no wanta get shot.”

  “Sure I do,” Waterman said.

  There was a new burst of shooting. Papas ran out of the room, closing the door on the run. “If this isn't the damnedest thing!” Davison said.

  The woman, Winnie, said: “I want to get out of here.”

  “So do I,” Jonesy said. There was a silence.

  Winnie's voice whined: “I never could stand guns.”

  “It's quick,” Davison said. “Let's go now.”

  “I wouldn't,” I said.

  I tried the door while they thought this over. It wasn't locked. “I'll take a look around,” I said.

  Nobody said anything. Waterman sat on a table by Ginger. She watched me, trying to figure out what it was all about. She slid off the table and came over to me. “Why won't they let Pug in?” she whispered. “Gus is afraid he isn't housebroken,” I said, going through the door.

  She started to follow me. Waterman caught her arm. “Don't go, dear. Stay with papa.”

  She looked as though she'd like to bite him, but she stayed. I went to the front room with the rugs and the heads of animals. Two men were kneeling under windows with the glass shot out. One of them was the bartender. Another man was lying on the floor by the fireplace. I walked over to him. He'd been shot through the shoulder. His coat was off and somebody had tied a towel over the wound.

  One of the men by the window said: “You'd better duck, mister.”

  I bent down. “Where are they?”

  “Back of the cars, I guess,” the bartender said. “I can't see 'em.”

  “How many?”

  “About ten.”

  The other man took a snap shot at something. I fell flat on the floor. There was a jerky series of shots outside and the rest of the glass went out of the windows.

  “Holy Christ!” the bartender said.

  They gave us a burst with a machine-gun. Then a voice called: “Gus. Gus Papas.”

  Papas crawled into the room. He crawled with a pistol in his hand, banging it on the floor each time he put the hand down. I moved so I would be behind him if it went off. “Gus Papas,” the voice outside called.

  “What you want?”

  “Either we come in, or we blast you.”

  “Go ahead,” Gus said. “Blow 'im up.”

  “Look, Gus,” said another voice. “We just want to take a look around. We won't hurt you. Or your joint.”

  “Why you shoot my windows out?”

  “Because you shot at us.”

  “Sure I shoot. Why you try to break my door down?”

  “Let's let 'em have it,” said another voice. “You can't reason with a Greek.”

  “Come on, Gus. Use your head.”

  “You go “way,” Gus said.

  There was a shot out in back. The machine-gun let go in front, bringing down an elk's head over the fireplace. It damned near scared me to death. I had my revolver out before I realized what had happened. There was a lot of shooting out in back. The parley had just been a fake to give Pug's men time to close in on the place. There was another burst in front. The man with the bartender by the windows yelped with pain and dropped his rifle. A splinter of wood had torn a gash in his cheek. He started to run across the, room towards Papas's office, but a bullet brought him down. He thrashed around on the floor, bleeding from his cheek. I started to crawl across the room. I wanted to get to the office. I saw Ginger and Waterman standing by the door, and the other behind them.

  “Go back,” I shouted.

  Waterman pushed Ginger back and started for the windows on hands and knees. He went past me. “This isn't your fight,” I said.

  There was shooting on all sides of the house. The bartender was firing out his window. I could hear another tommy-gun in back. Gunpowder smoke began to fill the room. Waterman kept on crawling. “Don't be a damn fool,” I called after him.

  Papas had gone I don't know where. Ginger and the others were standing well back in his office. Waterman reached the windows and picked up the rifle the wounded man had dropped. He stood up and began to fire at the parked cars. A man came up right in front of him. He had been hiding under the window. He poked a pistol at Waterman and let him have the load. It was as though somebody had opened up Waterman's stomach with an axe. He bent over and hit his head on the floor. Winnie screamed. I braced myself against the floor with my left elbow and brought the revolver to bear on the man and squeezed the trigger. There was the explosion and the whunk of lead hitting bone. Part of the man's face tore away and he slid out of sight. Waterman lay on the floor, bent like a pretzel. There was heavy shooting out in back. I crawled to the door of Papas's office. The two men were trying to quiet Winnie.

  “Don't, Winnie; don't,” Jonesy was saying.

  Ginger stared at me, her face excited. “Scared?” I asked her.

  “Get me a gun.”

  I peered into the trophy room. The bartender was still shooting out his window. I could just see him through the smoke. I saw Waterman and the two wounded men on the floor. The tommy-gun began to work again; the bullets knocking pieces off the fireplace.

  “If you think I'm going to let you go out there, you're nuts,�
� I told Ginger.

  Winnie had calmed down a little. “Is he dead?” she asked between sobs.

  “He's fine,” I said.

  There was a shout outside and the shooting stopped. The silence seemed strange. I put my revolver away and found a pack of cigarettes. I lit one for Ginger, and then one for myself. The smoke burned my mouth. “I guess we beat 'em off,” I said.