No Pockets in a Shroud

by Horace McCoy

'Some of them do, I guess. I didn't.'

  'How much do you want to work for me?'

  'I don't know, Mr. Dolan. I'd like a little something I could count on, and then a percentage of what I sell.'

  'Hey, Mike!' Bishop called from downstairs. 'We're going over and get a sandwich. You want one?'

  'I want two. Bring me a couple,' Dolan said, over the railing.

  'What kind?'

  'Any kind. Well, Gage, do you think you can sell space in the Cosmopolite!'

  'I can try,' Gage said, smiling.

  'You don't sound very hopeful—'

  'I'm not one of the Rover boys, Mr. Dolan. I don't believe all that stuff I read in the magazines about high-powered salesmanship. I'll give you a run for your money, all right—'

  'I believe you will, at that. Had lunch yet?'

  'No, sir—'

  'You don't need to be formal around here. Call me Mike. What's your name?'

  'Cecil.'

  'Well, Cecil, you go get some lunch and then we'll talk about rates and things. The reason we can't talk about them now is because I don't know a thing about them. I've never fooled with that end before—wait a minute, we didn't agree on salary. You got twenty a week from the Courier. How much do you want from me?'

  'Anything you say is all right with me.'

  'How about fifteen?'

  'Fine. I only hope I can bring you in some business—'

  'So do I. If you don't you won't last but a week, I'll tell you that. Here, here's five bucks on account—'

  'Thank you,' Gage said, taking the money, standing up, 'I'll be back in about half an hour...'

  * * * * *

  That night Dolan took five Anacin tablets in a space of forty-five minutes, trying to stop the hammering inside his skull.

  'If you'd stop pacing the floor and sit down and stop worrying about things over which you got no control, your head would stop aching,' Myra said. 'Carlisle's dead.'

  'I'm not worrying about him,' Dolan said.

  'Well, what are you worrying about?'

  'I'm not worrying about anything.'

  'I didn't know that copy of the New Masses was going to upset you,' Myra said. 'I showed you that story to prove that this is not the only town in the country where strange things are happening—'

  'That's not what upset me,' Dolan said. 'That only made me sore. Every day I'm finding out more to get sore about. That's why I want to put out a bigger magazine, a national magazine, so I can do something about these things. I think Dorothy Sherwood had a perfect right to kill her two-year-old son. She knew he didn't have a chance in a billion to achieve self-respect or happiness or enough to eat—and she was right. She didn't want that boy to grow up cursing her for having him—like I used to do my mother. And my father. Like I still do. What goddam right did they have to bring me into the world? They couldn't take care of me, they let me learn the facts of life behind billboards and in dark alleys, goddam 'em both—'

  'Mike!' Myra said sharply, getting up, going to him.

  'You think this is just a wild moment I'm having? Well, lady, you're mistaken. I know exactly what I'm saying. I know exactly how Dorothy Sherwood felt! What did this country have to offer her son? What the hell has this country got to offer any son? A bread-line or a piece of shrapnel in the belly? Was it her fault she killed him? Why the hell didn't the jury sentence the man who brought about this condition to the chair? Hell, that would have made sense—'

  'My God! The power and force you've got,' Myra said softly, staring at him. 'Michael Dolan, you're going to be a big man one of these days! You're going to be so goddam big—'

  There was a knock at the door.

  'Come in,' Dolan called, over his shoulder.

  It was Ulysses.

  'There's a man downstairs to see you,' he said.

  'What about?'

  'I don't know, Mister Mike. I asked him and he said it was personal.'

  'What does he look like?'

  'He's funny looking. Little bitty guy, with a moustache. I think he's a foreigner—'

  'Didn't say what it was about?'

  'No, sir. I told him I didn't think you was home. Maybe I better tell him you ain't here—'

  'Bring him up, Ulysses—'

  'Wait a minute, Ulysses,' Myra said. 'Look here, Mike. You know you oughtn't to be doing things like this. I wish you'd realize that we're engaged in a dangerous business.'

  'Go ahead, Ulysses,' Dolan said.

  Ulysses went out reluctantly, shaking his head.

  'One of these days you'll wish you had listened to me,' Myra said.

  Dolan smiled at her, throwing his tie on the bookcase, hanging his coat on the back of the chair. He moved to the desk and took the six-shooter (a new one, the second one McGonagill had given him, late that afternoon) out of the holster in his hip pocket and laid it on the desk, covering it with a newspaper. He arranged the chair by the desk so if he had to he could get to the gun without delay from a sitting position ... and pretended to be very casual when Ulysses brought the stranger in.

  The man obviously was a foreigner, a little shabby, and very small, a light-weight. Italian, Dolan thought. He looked worried, but Dolan wasn't sure this was genuine, having reached the point where he was suspicious of everybody.

  'This here is Mister Dolan,' Ulysses said, not too graciously, walking slowly towards the door as if undecided whether or not to leave. Dolan motioned him out with his head, and the stranger waited until he was gone before he spoke.

  'Mr. Dolan,' he said then, 'I need your help.'

  Dolan was surprised to hear the man speak precise English. To look at him you would think he would have one hell of an accent.

  'Sit down,' Dolan said, watching him closely.

  'My name is Bagriola,' the man said, still standing, twisting his hat, looking warily at Myra. 'I am a barber—'

  'This is Miss Barnovsky. She's my secretary. Sit down—'

  Bagriola nodded to Myra with a quick jerk of his head and finally sat down on the edge of the chair. Myra moved to the bookcase, a little behind him, and stood leaning on her elbow, watching him intently, hostility written all over her face. Bagriola was conscious of this, because he turned a couple of times and looked at her, a look of fear in his eyes.

  'Relax, Mister Bagriola,' Dolan said. 'Nobody's going to hurt you. What did you want to see me about?'

  'I'll tell you,' Bagriola said, slightly reassured, speaking directly to Dolan. 'I've been to the police and the newspapers, but nobody can help me. Today I shaved a man, and he was talking to another man about your magazine and how much courage you had to fight for what was right—'

  'What do you mean, the police won't help you?'

  'Twice now some men have taken me to the river bottoms and whipped me. The last time they left me tied to a tree—'

  'What's that?' Dolan said. 'What men?'

  'I do not know what men. They wear robes. They wear helmets. They tar and feather people.'

  'Jesuschrist!' Dolan exclaimed. 'The Crusaders!'

  Bagriola nodded, smiling a thin, cold smile, and stood up, taking off his coat. He slipped his tie off and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  'I show you,' he said, taking off the shirt. 'Look—'

  'For God's sake,' Dolan said, amazed. 'Myra, come around here and look at this—'

  Bagriola's back was an artistic criss-cross of welts and cuts.

  'Heavens, I can lay my finger in a couple of these valleys,' Dolan said. 'I never saw anything like this in my entire life. My God, it's a wonder you're alive—I never saw anything like this in my entire life.'

  'You evidently don't know much of what goes on in this great free country of yours,' Myra said quietly.

  'You ought to have those fixed by a doctor,' Dolan said to Bagriola. 'You're liable to get infection—'

  'I have been to the doctor several times. Tonight I tell him to leave off the bandages, I will come show you,' Bagriola said calmly putting on his shirt again.

&n
bsp; 'Jesuschrist!' Dolan said again. 'Look here, what did the police say to you?'

  'Nothing. They said unless I could identify the men they could do nothing. Of course, I couldn't do that because they wore masks and travel in a mob. Very brave men,' Bagriola said, shrugging, buttoning his shirt.

  'Would you—do you want a drink or something?' Dolan asked.

  'Thank you, no,' Bagriola said, smiling. 'I want only justice—'

  'Well, I'll be a sonofabitch,' Dolan said to himself, still disturbed by the impact of what he had seen.

  'Don't be too upset,' Bagriola said sincerely. 'I am only one. There are others—'

  'Do you mean to say this sort of thing is common?'

  'Very common. There are dozens and dozens. Nobody knows about them because they are not written up. That is what convinced me that somebody in the police department or the newspapers knows all about it. Why else would the facts be suppressed?'

  'You speak pretty good English for a foreigner,' Myra said.

  'So do you,' Bagriola said, smiling softly.

  'I'm not a foreigner—'

  'Neither am 1. I was born in this country. Sometimes, when I am a little excited, my grammar is bad—but otherwise I speak very well. See—I am an American,' he said, holding out his coat, turning the lapel.

  Through the lapel ran the red, white, and blue ribbon of the Distinguished Service Cross.

  'In the Argonne. At Cunel, with the First Army,' he said.

  'Yes,' Dolan said. 'You're an American, all right. If I wrote this story, people wouldn't believe it. They'd swear I invented that D.S.C. story just to make it ironic—'

  'But it did happen. You can see it for yourself,' Myra said.

  'Sure it happened, but I mean it's an old situation that by now nobody would believe ... I'm sorry for interrupting, Mr. Bagriola. Go ahead. Why did they whip you?'

  'Immorality. They said—' he stopped, looking self-consciously at Myra.

  'Go ahead, Mr. Bagriola,' Myra said.

  'They said I was sleeping with my sister and my sister-in-law and my daughters—'

  'How'd they happen to say that?'

  'It was the natural thing, Mister Dolan. We are a very big family, and we all live in a very small house. If I had the money, I would live in a big house where everybody could have their own room—'

  'But you aren't immoral, are you?'

  'No, sir,' Bagriola said. 'I am not immoral. You must believe that.'

  'We believe it,' Myra said. 'How did these men happen to pick on you?'

  'I do not know,' Bagriola said. 'You can investigate me. I send my children to school, I am a good barber, I am religious—I pay my bills. Not all of them, but I pay some each month. I do not know how they picked me out. Neighbours, perhaps—'

  'Somebody trying to get revenge on you?'

  'Revenge for what? I have harmed nobody—'

  'People don't need a very good reason to take men out and whip them,' Myra said. 'They just do it—'

  'There are many who have been whipped. There are some who have been crippled. I know one man who was hanged by the neck—'

  'What?' Dolan gasped.

  'He did not die,' Bagriola said. 'They were teaching him a lesson. He will live, but he will always be paralysed. Some nerves were injured—'

  'Look here—can you take me to this man?'

  'Surely. Any time you say'

  'Right now. I want to go right now—'

  'Just a minute, Mike. There's no use rushing this. The world's not going to end tonight.'

  'Why, this is the goddamdest thing I ever heard of,' Dolan said, his thin lips white. 'I don't care what the man has done. No gang of yellow sonsabitches have got a right to string him up. Was it the same gang, Bagriola?'

  'They wore black robes and black helmets. There probably are many gangs, but they all are the same organization—'

  'Why, this is the goddamdest thing I ever heard of,' Dolan said, putting on his tie. 'This is a hell of a form of amusement!'

  'Just the same, you're a fool to get excited about it now,' Myra said, going over to him. 'Listen, Mike. I've been around quite a bit in my time, and believe me, this is just another example of good old-fashioned Americanism. This country's full of stuff like this. My God, you can't fight the whole system single-handed. You've got to take it in stride, calmly and dispassionately. You mustn't dissipate your energy on these things that upset you. Be rational... I'm assuming,' she said, turning to Bagriola, her voice cold again and the hostility in her face again, 'that what you've said is the truth?'

  'It is the truth. You know it is the truth,' Bagriola said.

  'I believe you, anyway,' Dolan said, putting on his coat. 'I've heard about these babies, but this is the first time I've seen a sample of their work—'

  Myra walked over to the desk and lifted the newspaper off the pistol. Bagriola watched her, but not a flicker of emotion was in his pale face. Myra picked up the pistol and walked back to Dolan, putting the holster in his hip pocket, unstrapping the belt so he could run it through the slot in the holster.

  'Mister Bagriola,' she said, turning to him, 'I'm inclined to believe you, too. But this is a dangerous business we're in, and we must be careful. If there is the slightest indication that you are trying to lead Dolan into a trap, he will shoot you immediately. Remember that.'

  'It's not that bad, Bagriola,' Dolan said. 'Come on—'

  'Before you leave,' Myra said to Bagriola, 'would you mind giving me the address of your barber shop and your home?'

  'My barber shop is at ten-thirty-eight North Las Cruces. My house is next door, ten forty.'

  'Thank you,' Myra said, writing them down. 'Mike, if I don't hear from you in two hours, I shall get McGonagill and come to this address. You'd better see that he gets home safely, Mister Bagriola.'

  'Now, will you please not telephone Ed and bother him?' Dolan said to her. 'His kid is still sick, and anyway he'll probably have to work nights from now on. Please don't bother him.'

  'That's exactly what I intend to do,' Myra said firmly. 'I am going to phone him, I am going downstairs and get Ernst's Luger, and I am going to stand by. I don't like the looks of this a bit. I think you're a goddam obstinate fool, that's what I think—'

  'Come on, Bagriola,' Dolan said, starting out. 'She loves to be dramatic ...'

  * * * * *

  An hour and a half later Dolan returned to his apartment and found Myra and Bishop sitting there waiting for him.

  'I'm sorry she got you down here, Ed,' he said. 'You see, wise guy,' he said savagely to her. 'I'm back. Nothing happened. I knew damn well nothing happened.'

  'It's a good thing,' Myra said. 'I was on the level about getting McGonagill and coming after you—'

  'I suppose she's told you about Bagriola?'

  'From A to Z. Did you see the gentleman who was paralysed by them?'

  'Yes, I saw him. Bagriola also took me to a Negro who had been severely whipped. This is what these Crusaders've been up to. I tried to get Thomas to print this story when I was on the paper. All this might have been prevented.'

  'This Bagriola guy is a sort of ambassador for the oppressed, I take it—'

  'This may be very funny to you, Ed—but I wish you could have seen what I saw. It was awful.'

  'I don't doubt it,' Bishop said. 'Many things are awful. You went through the war. That was awful. Everything is awful. But why do you get so much steam up about this particular thing? Why don't you take it in your stride?'

  'I get it,' Dolan said. 'That last remark tells me all I want to know. She thinks everything I do is wrong—'

  'She doesn't think so at all,' Bishop said.

  'She's always snapping and barking and fighting—'

  'Well, you silly bastard, that's because she's in love with you.'

  'Ed!' Myra exclaimed.

  'Certainly it is,' Bishop went on calmly. 'It's time somebody told this silly bastard that—'

  'Just the same,' Dolan said finally, 'I know what I
saw tonight, and I know that nothing in the world can prevent me from doing something about it. Not, by God, if I get killed doing it!'

  'That's fine,' Bishop said. 'Nobody's trying to keep you from doing anything about it. We're trying to help you. We want to do something about it, too. But you can't go slam-bang into things like this with nothing but your outraged sense of justice to help you. You can't clean up the whole world overnight.'

  'No? Well, I'm going to slam-bang into this—'

  'What about Nestor? What about Carlisle? I thought we were going to get them first?'

  'There's plenty of time for them later. This thing I've run across tonight is big. It's the goddamdest biggest thing you ever heard of. Look. You remember the Ku Klux Klan, don't you?'

  'Very, very well. Sit down. Take off your hat.'

  'Well,' Dolan went on, standing up, keeping his hat on, 'I don't know whether this is the Klan or not. These fellows wear black outfits and call themselves The Crusaders. At any rate, they were inspired by the Klan. God knows how many members they've got—thousands. It's all very secret and very mysterious—and not a word about them has been in the newspapers. They take people out at night and whip them and tar and feather them, just like the Klan used to do—make people kiss the flag and all that stuff- for God's sake, they even made poor Bagriola kiss the flag after they'd whipped him, and he's got a war decoration and is a better American than any one of those sonsabitches. And that poor guy Trowbridge, lying there in that bed, not able to move—I can't help it if I'm hopped up about this. It makes my blood boil—'

  'All right,' Bishop said. 'I listened patiently to you, and now you listen to me. I'm going to tell you something I've intended telling you for a long time. I think it's swell that you're steamed up about this. I honestly do. So does Myra. But what goes on in Colton goes on in every town in the United States. The graft and corruption, the bigotry, the fake patriotism—all that—goes on everywhere. Colton is typical and symbolic of the whole rotten mess. Suppose you end this Klan or Crusader business, whatever it is. Suppose you end it in Colton—'

  'I'm going to end it, all right—'

  'Wait a minute, goddam it, stop interrupting. Suppose you do smash this thing in Colton? What about the rest of the country? You can't do any permanent good until you get at the heart of it. You might end it here, yes—and next month it'll pop right up again. You see what I'm driving at?'