by Horace McCoy
He parked the car half a block away and then went down the street and up the long steps to the big veranda. A Negro man in a white coat answered the bell, holding the door half-open, cautiously.
'Miss Lillian here?' Dolan asked.
'No, sir,' the Negro said firmly.
Dolan put his foot against the bottom of the door, pushing and going inside to the ornate entrance hall. The Negro did not try to stop him.
'Lillian!' he called, up the stairs. 'Lillian!'
There was no answer.
'She isn't here, sir—'
'Where'd she go?'
'She didn't say. She went out early this morning with her mother—'
'Did you give her my messages?'
'I gave them to her mother. Mrs. Fried's instructions—'
Dolan nodded and walked out, going back to his car.
'I'm glad it's still raining,' he said to himself...
He drove around a couple of hours and then went back to the apartment, putting his car in the garage and then going upstairs. Ulysses was in the living-room, wiping the window-sills where the rain had leaked through.
'Anybody call?'
'Yes, sir—Miss April and a Mr. Thomas. He said it was important.'
'That all? None from Miss Lillian?'
'No, sir—'
Dolan went on into his room, taking off his trench coat and hat and throwing them on the desk. He lighted a cigarette and sat down on the edge of the bed. In a minute or two Ulysses came in.
'Seen the papers, Mister Mike?'
'About me?'
'Yes, sir. They said you got married—'
'I did, Ulysses. Early this morning.'
'Miss Lillian did come around here, did she, Mister Mike?'
'No, I don't think so. Blonde. Big girl. Pretty.'
'I'll say she is. Her picture's in the paper. She's very pretty. Are you gonna move, Mister Mike?'
'I don't know—sit down, Ulysses.'
Ulysses sat down, draping the wet rag over the metal waste-basket.
'The reason I asked you is because it looks like we're all gonna have to move, and maybe you getting married was a good thing. That man was around here this afternoon—'
'What man?'
'You know, the agent. Mrs. Ratcliff's agent. He said if they put over a deal with the oil company they'll tear down the house and put up a big gas station here.'
'Well, I guess it's time we got thrown out. We can't go on for ever without paying rent—'
'But this old house is falling to pieces, Mister Mike. Nobody wants to rent this place.'
'That's why Mrs. Ratcliff has put us on the cuff so long. It'll be tough on the other boys.'
'Sure will. There ain't two dollars between 'em. If you hadn't fed 'em, they'd of starved long ago.'
'Maybe they'd been better off, Ulysses. Have you been here all day?'
'Yes, sir—'
'And you're sure Miss Lillian didn't call?'
'Yes, sir. Nobody but them two I told you—Miss April and the man from the Times-Gazette.'
'Well. I've got myself into a mess, Ulysses—'
'Seems to me, Mister Mike, that you's always in a mess,' Ulysses said, grinning.
'This one's a honey.'
'Her people?'
'Yes. Her old man's liable to take a shot at me—'
'You tell me what he looks like, and I'll see he don't get in here.'
'I'm not as much worried about that as I am why I'm such a goddam fool when it comes to women. Why am I, Ulysses?'
'I don't know, sir. If I knew the answer to that I could save myself a lot of misery—'
'—Look, Ulysses. I'm going to try to get some sleep. If Miss Lillian calls, wake me up—'
'All right, sir,' Ulysses said, taking the rag off the waste-basket, standing up. 'Is there something I can do for you—fix a hot bath or something?'
'No, but tell you what you can do: If you see a grey-haired, distinguished gentleman at the door with a machine-gun, yell and start running ...'
* * * * *
When Dolan woke up the first thing he was conscious of was that it was still raining and that there was something in his stomach, directly under his navel, that was warm and cheerful; and then he was aware that the lights were on and that somebody was in the room and that he was being shaken. When he opened his eyes he saw Bishop bending over him, and when Bishop saw his eyes open he sat down on the bed beside him.
'Mike—are you awake?'
'I'm awake. What's the matter?'
'It's about the magazine—'
'What about the magazine?' Dolan asked, sliding up in the bed, sitting up against the wall, wide awake now.
'Carlisle's taken them off the news-stands—'
'Carlisle?'
'Jack Carlisle. I suppose that's who it is. There's not a copy of the Cosmopolite left on any news-stand in town—'
'How? What happened?' Dolan said, swinging his feet around, getting to the floor, frowning at Bishop.
'As near as I can get the story it was a regular raid—perfectly timed in the downtown section. A few minutes after the regular deliveries, a couple or three guys visit each news-stand at the same time, grab all the magazines, throw 'em in a car, and beat it.'
'Strong-arm stuff—'
'Several of the news dealers squawked and tried to resist, but the hoods told 'em to shut up or this would only be the beginning. Looks like the old Carlisle technique. He's making damn sure that story about his brother isn't put into circulation—'
'He can't do that!' Dolan exclaimed. 'Heavens—this is the United States of America!'
'Ever hear the old one about the dinge they threw into jail. They couldn't do it—but they did.'
'So—the only magazines out now are the ones in the mail and the ones at the neighborhood drug-stores—'
'I guess those flying squadrons have even visited the drug-stores by this time. It's after nine o'clock. It wouldn't surprise me if Carlisle had got into the mail and taken those too—'
'I hope to hell he has. Oh, God—how I hope he has! I'd like to see him fool with the government—'
'Funny thing about those guys—they don't care who they fool with—Hell, I been trying to raise you on the phone for two hours, and they said you were out—'
'Yeah,' Dolan said, sitting down, lighting a cigarette, scraping his thumb-nail over his teeth. 'Well—we've got to print another edition, that's all. The sonofabitch. Who does he think he is—Hitler—or Mussolini—'
'He is—in a small way. Hell, this country's full of 'em.'
Dolan dragged studiously at his cigarette, scraped his thumbnail over his teeth a few more times, and then got up abruptly and went into the living-room to the telephone. He looked up Lawrence's home phone number and dialed it. Somebody there said Mr. Lawrence was gone for the evening and wouldn't be home until around midnight. Dolan went back into the bedroom.
'Lawrence is at a movie or something. If I could get hold of him I'd make him raise the printers and we'd go right to work on another edition. God, of all the nights for him to be out—'
'We can do it in the morning. If he'll go for it—'
'What do you mean—if he'll go for it?'
'He's a kind of a weak sister, you know. He's pretty likely to run for his hole the first sign of trouble—and this is what you might call trouble. One word from Carlisle and Lawrence'll fold up like an accordion.'
'We'll make him print it!'
'Not if he doesn't want to, you won't,' Bishop said. 'It's his plant. My guess is we're up that old creek without a paddle.'
'You think so?—'
'Yeah. Don't get me wrong. I got plenty of guts. But you might as well look this smack in the face. Carlisle still doesn't take us too seriously or he wouldn't have been content with just grabbing all the magazines—'
'By God, that was plenty—'
'Not for him. This is just his characteristic way of warning you. You'll hear more about this any minute—maybe a visit from Hitl
er himself. If he ever goes to Lawrence and tells him to lay off, you can damn well imagine what will happen—'
The telephone rang. Dolan jumped.
'Get that, will you?' he asked. 'I'm not here—'
Bishop went out to the telephone. Dolan heard him apologizing and in a minute he came back.
'You're getting up in the world,' he said. 'That was the eminent ex-senator, Mark Fried—'
'Lord!' Dolan exclaimed. 'I'd forgotten I was married—'
'It's a good thing to forget. Your father-in-law wants you to call him. Said no matter what time you got in. By the way, I see you got quite a play in the afternoon papers—'
'I didn't see them. Look, Ed—this is a hell of a spot we're in, isn't it?'
'I'm compelled to admit that it is. Mike, you're delightful. You're the most ingenuous sonofabitch I've ever met. You haven't the faintest idea what you're going to do, have you?'
'I've got one idea—Bud McGonagill. I'm going to get you a special deputy's commission the first thing in the morning, and we're going to put out that magazine if we have to stand guard over the presses. Even if we have to call out the militia to protect the news-stands—'
'That's fine. I'll take the commission, because there are a couple of bastards in this town I'd like to shoot anyway. But don't concern yourself about the militia or the county cops or the city cops. Carlisle bosses the whole works. If we get out this magazine, we'll do it without any help. Personally, I don't think we've got any more chance than a poop in a whirlwind—'
'Maybe I can sell Lawrence on standing pat. I sold him before—'
'But then there wasn't any chance of getting a bomb thrown in the front end of his joint. Now there is. You mark my words, that bastard'll crawl the minute Carlisle opens his mouth. The only way to go about this is to have Carlisle bumped off—'
'There's another way—'
'Yeah, try and find it.'
'—I will. Well... I'm going out.'
'Where?'
'Oh—for a ride,' Dolan said, picking up his trench coat and hat, starting out.
'Hey. You better take that along,' Bishop said, pointing to the automatic.
Dolan thought briefly.
'I guess I had,' he said, going back and getting the pistol.
'You'd better be careful where you stick your nose, too,' Bishop said, getting up. 'I wish you'd let me go with you—'
'Come on. I'll be all right,' Dolan said, snapping out the light, walking out, getting into his coat.
They went down the stairs, not saying anything. Bishop's car was parked at the curb, and in the light from the street lamp on the corner Dolan recognized Myra sitting in it. He had the impulse to walk on around the house to the garage to his car and say nothing to her, but he decided there was no sense in causing any more unpleasantness.
'Whyn't you tell me she was down here?' he said to Bishop, walking to the car. '—Hello, Myra—'
'Hello, Mike—'
'Whyn't you come up?'
'It was all Ed could do to get in,' Myra said, smiling. 'That darky of yours is a pretty faithful watchdog... Where're you going on a night like this?'
'... For a ride—'
'Mike,' Myra said soberly, 'you're not going to do anything crazy?'
'I'm only going for a ride—'
'Where's he going, Ed?' Myra asked, turning to Bishop, who was inside, under the wheel.
'Search me.'
'Mike, you're not going to fool with Carlisle or anything like that?'
'No—'
'Do you mind if I go with you?'
'I thought you were off me,' Dolan said, in spite of himself.
'This is no time to be childish,' Myra said sharply. 'I'm going with you.'
She pulled at the handle, but Dolan put both hands against the door and pushed, keeping her inside.
'No, you're not,' he said. 'For God's sake, you've got me into enough trouble already. Hadn't been for you I never would have married Lillian—'
'I know it. You cut off your nose to spite your face.'
'—Take her to her flat, Ed. I'll see both of you in the morning—early. Around eight.'
He walked around to the garage and got in his car. As he was backing it out, Walter came down the driveway from Ulysses' room.
'Some guy named Thomas wants you to call him at his home. Said it was very important.'
'I'll bet...' Dolan said, continuing to back out.
* * * * *
He drove around in the rain, going nowhere in particular, through streets that were flooded over the curbings, hardly steering the car, thinking it was a shame that the rain was letting up and how swell it would be if it would keep on raining, hard, and that this was the reason the South Sea archipelagos fascinated him so much—the eternal rain; but in the back of his mind was Carlisle—and the Cosmopolite, and what a hell of a shape this country was in to permit such things, and that there was a Carlisle in every town in the country, but that millions upon millions were too stupid to care, and that it was that way all over the world: millions upon millions of people who believed Hitler and Mussolini were great fellows, not knowing (or caring) that they were madmen beating on drums, poor diseased bastards, driving a lot of cattle (these same stupid millions upon millions) to slaughter, and that they would surely suck us into it (Hemingway was right about the radio in the next war when he said you can imagine what that will do for hysteria): thinking we should nip all these Carlisles and Hitlers and Mussolinis right now: oh yes, everything is peaches and cream in this superb, marvellous, wonderful paradise called the United States of America, the only country where the radio is free and uncensored, and the press is free and uncensored, and speech is free and uncensored—oh yes, a man can say what he pleases, any time he pleases—the hell he can—you try it, and you get your magazine taken away from you.
The dirty goddam sonofabitch, he said to himself, meaning Carlisle (but thinking, too, of Hitler and Mussolini).
... Presently he drove through the great stone arch, the entrance to Weston Park, and then he discovered that he was riding in his car and that this was the section where Lillian lived, his new wife, and he suddenly felt he had been married a long, long time, and he reached for his beard—but knowing there would be no beard. His new wife: well, how do you do, Mrs. Michael Dolan, how do you do! Fawncy meeting you here! And who is that distinguished old fluff-duff over there, who sat at the head of the table. I didn't quite catch his name—oh yes, to be sure; to be sure—the Senator. I remember his constructive service in Washington, his distinguished efforts on behalf of his constituents. Well, bah jove, Senator, you're looking fit Yes, Dolan, Michael Dolan, you remember me, my ancestors came over on the Mayflower, oh yes, indeed, the same Dolans, the old kings of grand old Ireland (only now my crest is a crossed pick and shovel beneath a street car rampant); and how do you like this dreadful weather, Senator, you old crooked son of a bitch—and that's a funny one they tell on you, a very funny one (slapping him on the back), that you paid out fifty thousand dollars in Washington to try to get back your wasted powers (whispering in his ear: I read an advertisement in a magazine that might help you); oh, hello, there, darling, there you are, your father and I were just reminiscing; oh yes, Senator, we'll drive carefully, the streets certainly are slick; it's really dreadful weather, and thank you again for that little house you gave us as a wedding present, it is too, too divoon and the dinner was too, too divoon, and we'll only play a few rubbers of bridge with the Burlington-Whimseys; yes, if I see the Count I certainly shall give him your warmest... good night, good night!!!!!
The Negro butler answered the door-bell.
'Is Miss Lillian home?' Dolan asked.
'Come in, sir. Come in,' the butler said affably, opening the door.
'Are you the boy who let me in this morning?' Dolan asked, stepping inside.
'I certainly am, Mr. Dolan,' the butler said, helping him off with his coat.
'You seem different—'
'Perhaps it's this
black coat, sir. This morning I wore a white one—'
'No, it's something else. Something about your personality. You're different—'
'You're different, too, sir,' the Negro said, smiling.
'Oh yes, I realize that. I'm in character now. I've been riding around for an hour or two getting in character... Will you tell Miss Lillian I'm here—'
'She's expecting you, sir. This way—'
Dolan followed him through the drawing-room into the library, stopping at the far side of the library door. The Negro tapped lightly on the door, then stuck his head inside.
'Mr. Dolan is here,' he said, and in a moment he stepped back. 'Go in, Mr. Dolan—'
Dolan went inside, and the door was pulled closed behind him. Dolan looked around curiously. This was a man's den.
'Are you Dolan?' a voice boomed.
'Er—yes. How do you do? You scared me. I didn't see you behind the chair—'
'I just wanted to be sure. I'm Lillian's father.'
'I know. I recognized you from your pictures, Senator. But I thought the boy said Lillian was expecting—'
'I told him to say that. I wanted to be sure I got to see you in case you did come. Sit down—'
'Isn't she here??
'I don't think she wants to see you—'
'In that case there's no point in staying,' Dolan said, turning to go.
'Sit down,' the Senator said, using his cigar for a pointer.
Dolan sat down.
'How'd all this happen—this marriage?'
'Well—it simply happened, that's all—'
'Why?'
'For the most obvious reason in the world, my dear Senator—we are very fond of each other.'
'Crap,' the Senator snorted, walking around in a small half-circle, fiddling with his cigar, acting like a district-attorney in a court-room. 'I'm going to tell you something that may surprise you, Dolan. I've heard about you before. Fred Coughlin told me all about you. Did you know that when you were having that affair with his daughter he had a private detective trailing you for several weeks?'
'Not weeks—about ten days,' Dolan said slowly. 'Peculiar thing, too. All my friends kept telling me some guy had been asking them all sorts of embarrassing questions. Well, one day I called up three or four of my pals and told them that sooner or later some guy would come in and start asking about me, and when he did I wanted them to phone me at the office.