The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan

by Callaghan, Morley; Atwood, Margaret;

  “Harry, I know what a hot iron can do to a lining.”

  “I don’t know anything about hot irons. Are you going to put another lining in that coat?” Harry asked, losing his temper.

  “Well, all right, I’ll put a lining in the coat.”

  “You’re damn right you will.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mike said, also losing his temper. “If I put a lining in this coat I do it as a favor,” and he straightened up and they faced each other. They were both the same height, though Harry was slimmer. But something in Harry’s peremptory tone had reminded Mike of Scotty Bowman and of his own conviction that Harry had taken advantage of Bowman and escaped scot-free. When Harry had come into his store to order the suit he hadn’t held this against him at all, but now some hidden resentment flared up. “Don’t try and push me around,” he said. “You can’t get away with it with me.”

  “With you? What do you mean?” Harry asked, waiting white-faced. But Mike didn’t answer. His eyes shifted; he wasn’t sure what he meant; it just came out. “I’m not asking any favors,” Harry said angrily. “Just cut out all this cheap bluffing.”

  “Cheap bluffing. You insult me. Don’t insult me. You can’t make me do anything by walking in on me. I’m not dirt. To hell with the coat.”

  “Okay,” Harry said, and his hand trembled as he grabbed the coat and hurried out.

  Mike took a few steps after him, bewildered by his own unreasonable resentment. Although he was sure he was right about the cleaning fluid having damaged the lining, he wished he hadn’t thought of Scotty Bowman. Angry and ashamed, he turned and walked slowly back toward the office where Willie, the fitter, had been standing at the door, listening. “That was the high-handed Harry Lane, Willie. Thinks he was slumming when he got a suit from me,” he said bitterly.

  Taking off his glasses and rubbing them with his handkerchief as he held them up to the light, Willie said sympathetically, “A little thing like that and you and a customer lose your tempers. Why, Mike? It isn’t like you.”

  “He was snotty with me, Willie. Trying to look down on me. You heard him.”

  “Think about it a little, Mike. It could have been the pressing, yes, but if it had been the fluid it would have damaged the cloth too. You know that, Mike. Once in blue moon we get a piece of defective lining, don’t we? It’s not our fault. Why should you feel it’s such a disgrace this time, with him?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the guy. That guy,” Mike said uneasily. “I guess I was wrong, Willie,” and then he cursed and the more he cursed the more humiliated he looked. “I’ll have to get the coat back,” he muttered bitterly. “I’ll have to go after him and apologize. Why does it gripe me so? I don’t even know where he’s living now. Well, he’ll come into Dorfman’s. I’ll see him in Dorfman’s,” and then he sighed. “Why did he have to come to my store?”

  ✧ XIV ✧

  Hurrying away with the coat on his arm Harry looked like a man with a fine new suit finding the weather too hot for comfort. When he stopped at the corner to put the coat on it still looked like a handsome garment, although now he didn’t care how he looked. He was blind with anger. His rage was deepened by a secret lonely desolation coming from his knowledge that he had sought from Mike Kon some reconciliation. He felt rejected.

  Back in his room he sat down by the window and pondered, wondering if he might have been a little on edge and over-suspicious with Mike. With all his heart he longed to believe that he might have misinterpreted some of Mike’s remarks. Granted that Mike had been bluffing about the lining it was possible that he hadn’t been thinking of Scotty at all. In fact Mike might be astonished to hear that he was suspected of being capable of such a gesture, and laugh and say, “Oh, I see, I see. Now look here, Harry . . .” This seemed to him to be the natural and human explanation. The little things that make the world go round, he thought, and he lay down on the bed feeling tired, and soon fell sound asleep.

  A knock on his door woke him up. It was dark in the room, and outside the street lights were lit. “Just a minute,” he called, groping his way to the door. Annie Laurie was there in the hall light. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “About ten,” she said, coming in. “Why don’t you turn on the light?”

  “I forgot,” he said, turning it on. “Have a drink.”

  “You were going to let me know what Mike did about the coat.”

  “Well, it was embarrassing,” he said awkwardly. “We got off on the wrong foot. Maybe it was my fault. I don’t know. He blamed the cleaners, and of course I knew it was not the cleaners, then he said I wasn’t going to take advantage of him, and of course I thought he had Scotty Bowman in mind.”

  “Oh, Harry.”

  “I’m sure I was mistaken. But, well, you know, he was Scotty’s good friend and all. That was in my mind. That was the trouble, see?”

  “I know, but over a little thing like a coat lining, Harry.”

  “You don’t think Scotty was in his mind at all, do you?”

  “I’d certainly be surprised. If I thought . . . Why I’d go over and and break his store windows. Oh, Harry, you’re wrong about the guy. He knows he has to fix that coat. Are you coming to Dorfman’s?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to put on a shirt, and shave,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face. “I guess no one will see the lining of that coat?”

  “Who’s going to look at a coat lining?”

  “That’s right,” he said, grinning. “I’ll see you later in Dorfman’s.”

  “Okay,” she said, then hesitating, she bent down and kissed him gently on the forehead.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said awkwardly, and then she laughed, and he laughed, and she left him sitting on the bed.

  ✧ XV ✧

  Mike was going up the street toward the big cool shadow across the sky which was the mountain slope with its pattern of lights, and leading up to it was the big glow of light at the hotel entrance, the lighted window of the exclusive little women’s shop, then the single hanging wrought-iron light over the steps to Dorfman’s, whose roof was touched with the pallid light from a hot red moon.

  Mike had never felt that he was really established in the old expensive restaurant. Patrons who sat around at night in the paneled barroom had substance, they had families, even the sporting editors who came there were the ones who had wives who had gone to college. It seemed to Mike that these people, welcoming him freely, encouraged him to talk out of a half-amused curiosity, although he was never sure of this. He liked to talk about what was going on in Indo-China, or Germany, or about the bomb, and he always got a hearing, but if a visitor from out of town sat down with them he would hear someone say, “He’s Mike the Scholar, an old fighter, but you should listen to the guy. Go on, talk to him. He’s got an angle — fresh,” and Mike would feel embarrassed.

  Standing by the bar he looked around to see who was there. At the table by the window Mollie Morris was sitting with Ted Ogilvie, and Eddie Adams, the fight promoter, and old Haggerty, the sporting editor. Mike always felt at ease with Haggerty, though the sporting editor had a son at college and a very dignified wife; and, of course, he was sure of himself, too, with Eddie Adams, who was a very rich man, owning two apartment houses even if he didn’t have much education. With Mollie Morris, though, Mike was never quite sure of himself; it was her kind of prettiness, her kind of style, and her cultivated voice; her friendly smile, too, always seemed to him to be good-naturedly indulgent. Yet he was glad Mollie was there for he was sure she would understand his difficulty with Harry. He was sure she was disgusted with Harry herself, not only because he had taken advantage of Scotty Bowman and got away with it, but because of his lofty manner of avoiding her, as if she ought to have approved of him for being a heel.

  A little man with oily black hair, beady eyes and a small heavily tanned face, who didn’t belong in Dorfman’s at all and knew it, was standing behind Eddie Adams. H
e was Ray Conlin, who called himself the manager of Johnny Bruno, the fighter, and thought he was big enough for Dorfman’s because his picture had appeared in a photo magazine as one of Rosso’s handmen, riding around in Cadillacs and controlling the boxing industry. Everybody who knew the facts had laughed when they read this story. Conlin was merely Bruno’s trainer.

  Even with the air conditioning, it was hot in the bar and Adams and Haggerty and Ogilvie were in their shirtsleeves with their coats draped over the backs of their chairs.

  “Good evening, Miss Morris,” Mike said.

  “Hi, Mike.”

  “Sit down, Mike.”

  “How are you, Mike?” Haggerty said, pushing out a chair to him with his foot. Tilting back in his chair, Mike saw Annie Laurie coming in, coming over to their table and he glanced at Mollie; maybe because Harry Lane was in his mind. Mollie’s mouth twisted a little as though the sight of Annie Laurie cheapened her intolerably, yet she didn’t get up and go, for Annie didn’t sit down at her table. She took a chair from the nearest table and pulled it over so she was on the fringe of the group, and Adams and Haggerty, who liked her, pushed back their chairs so their backs wouldn’t be to her and Adams called the waiter. As far as Adams was concerned, if he wanted to buy Annie Laurie a drink he would buy her a drink and if Mollie didn’t like it she could go home.

  “Hey Mike,” Annie Laurie said bluntly. “What did you do to Harry’s coat?”

  “What do you mean, what did I do?” and he was startled.

  “I saw the lining.”

  “You mean already you’ve seen that lining?” he asked angrily. “You mean to say he’s showing that coat all around? What’s he trying to do?”

  “I said I saw it, Mike.”

  “What lining?” Ogilvie asked. “What’s this, anyway?”

  “The lining of the coat, a suit Harry got from Mike.”

  “When did you become Harry Lane’s tailor, Mike?” Haggerty asked.

  “I made the guy a suit last week.”

  “I heard he was broke,” Adams said, teasing Mike. “But was he afraid no one else would make him a suit?”

  “What does Harry say?” Mike asked uneasily.

  “He said you blame the cleaners.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “All over town people have got claims against cleaners. Would I gyp the guy?”

  “Oh, come on Mike,” Annie Laurie said. “Never mind the explanations. Why don’t you simply put another lining in the coat?”

  “Who said I wouldn’t put a lining in his coat?”

  “Why don’t you tell him you will?”

  “All right. I’ll tell him. Give me a chance.”

  Little Ray Conlin, who had been hovering around the table, waiting for a chance to get into the conversation, suddenly saw his opportunity. “Maybe he won’t want you to put in another lining,” he said suddenly; his small, dark, narrow-eyed and shifty face all screwed up in happy surprise. “Maybe Harry Lane will be too smart to let you touch that coat again, Mike.” His eyes were mocking. “Maybe he’ll be afraid this time you’ll try your own special lining — yellow. You always had a yellow lining, eh, Mike?” He slapped his knee and danced around, his hard little face full of happiness. It was the only time in his life he had ever been quicker than anyone else with a clever remark. “Ah, ha, aw, aw, aw ha,” he snickered and they all laughed and waited.

  “Yellow was never my color, Conlin,” Mike said quietly.

  “You mean to say those trunks you used to wear in the ring didn’t have a yellow lining?”

  “That’s right,” Mike said, smiling disdainfully.

  “What about that night in Philadelphia ten years ago. Remember?” he jeered, trying doggedly to hold his audience. “The night you went into the tank for Walters. Wasn’t the yellow lining showing then? Ho, ho, ho, ho,” and again he looked around for approval, as Mike eyed him steadily. It was true Mike had gone into the tank for young Walters who was on the way up; he had been told to do it; it was part of the life he had lived then; but he hated Ray for reminding them now of the days when he had been an illiterate unprincipled washed-up young hoodlum, when they were accusing him of gypping Harry Lane. His smile slow and patient, he said, “When it comes to tanks, Ray, you’d know all about them. You and the Rosso mob.”

  “Come on outside,” Ray blustered fiercely. “Come on and I’ll show you the color of the lining in your own coat.” Then he jerked away as though expecting Mike to smack him. Keeping his voice and his anger buried under a vast superior calmness and a slow lazy smile, Mike said, “Oh, go and peddle your papers, Ray.” He found it easy to be quiet and patient with the others smiling approvingly. Feeling unwanted, Ray moved over to the bar.

  “Nice guy, Mike,” Ogilvie said. “Conlin can’t help being a poor little rat.”

  “Ray’s just another rubber mouth,” Mike said, shrugging.

  Then they all saw Harry Lane come in carrying the coat over his arm. When he saw them all together, he stopped; he looked at Mike, then at Mollie, and then at Mike again; the two of them being there together seemed to disturb him. Turning away abruptly, he sat down at another table.

  “Harry, old boy,” Haggerty called, chuckling to himself, and he rose and went over to Harry with a fine judicial air. His gray-haired solemnity and plump white face fooled Harry, who looked up blankly. “What’s it this time, Haggerty?” he asked. “How can we have any opinion on the deal unless we see what you got for your money,” Haggerty said, and he picked up the coat and held it open so they could all see the lining. “Why the moths certainly got into it, that’s a fact,” he said innocently. “Moths in the cleaning fluid. Never heard of it.”

  “Come on, come on,” Harry said, very embarrassed.

  “Haggerty, cut it out,” Mike called, “What are you trying to do? Sit down.”

  “What is this?” Harry asked, rising with a blank, incredulous expression. He had always been a neat fastidious man, and wherever he was, drunk or sober, he always dressed with immaculate correctness and now his coat was being waved around as if it belonged to a buffoon. He looked over at Mike, knowing he must have been talking about the coat, for all the laughter came from that table; then their eyes met and Mike knew he was despising him for talking about the coat and making him the butt of a joke. Harry’s mouth twisted, his angry eyes still on Mike, as if he were getting from him only the kind of cheap treatment he should have expected. Never had Mike felt so looked down upon, or judged to be so unworthy, and it seemed to Mike to be so unfair, so untrue, that he glared at everybody indignantly.

  “Put the coat down, Haggerty,” Harry said.

  “What do you say if we take up a collection to have it mended,” Haggerty said, as he hung the coat on the back of the chair.

  “A great idea. And pass the word along old Harry’ll match every contribution dollar for dollar,” he said, trying to behave with some grace and dignity, and when Haggerty left he took the coat and folded it so the lining would not show and leaned back against it, and Mike watched him intently.

  When Haggerty came back to his own table Mike said bitterly, “That you should do such a very stupid thing, Haggerty. Why can’t people mind their own business? Look how hard you make it for me to speak to the guy, now. Already I’ve had words with him. I can see he wants to have more words.” He stared fascinated at the coat. “Maybe he came in here to make trouble.” Still bothered by that contempt and hostility in Harry’s expression he wondered if it would be better if he went home and tried to speak to him in the morning. Then he saw Harry turn to someone at the next table, laughing, making some bright, sharp joke about being taken to the cleaners.

  “That’s fighting dirty, real dirty,” Mike said, standing up. “This must go no further. This cheapens my shop. This is a public slander. He’s not going to use that coat to belittle me.” He stepped over to Harry and said angrily, “Look here, Harry Lane, I told you once I’d fix that coat.”

  “Who’s ordering me around?” Harry asked.
>
  “Do you want the coat fixed?”

  “Don’t push me around. I’m going to think about it,” Harry said slowly. “Yes, I’ll think about it. Mind you, I appreciate that you’re very anxious to get it and fix it now —now it’s in the public domain.” He smiled, enjoying his success in defending himself. Mike shrugged and turned away.

  On the way back to his table he brushed against Ray, which was what Ray wanted. “Take it easy, Mike,” he said, hoping for a little friendly grin in return. But Mike was too worried and angry to notice him.

  “What did you say, Mike?’ Ted asked.

  “I told him to bring the coat in.”

  “Good, and what did he say?”

  “I don’t like his attitude.” He was very stiff and still, his hands clenched on the table, and the others, feeling his frustration and anger, were sorry for him.

  “Have you heard anything about the Bruno fight, Mike?” Ted asked, helpfully.

  “Those New York fights of his never looked right to me, Mike,” Haggerty said.

  Little Ray Conlin, edging closer, heard them talking about his boy, Johnny Bruno, and it hurt that they were listening to Mike and not to him. He could see now that Mike had solid support, a following which he had underestimated. All his life Ray had had a profound respect for any man who had a following. On his own he would have judged that Harry Lane would be a top man in Dorfman’s and Mike a nobody, but Harry Lane had lost his prestige. Ray had no convictions at all about the Scotty Bowman case. He didn’t care. But he wanted to be always on the side of public opinion. He was a born meddler. He could see that Mike now was getting all the sympathetic attention.

  Then he heard Mike say bitterly, “All this talk about Bruno and the Dutchman. All I know is I’d give fifty dollars to get that coat for a few hours.”

  They’ve got no sense of humor, Ray thought profoundly. I make a joke about a yellow lining. Why has nobody got any sense of humor tonight?

  As he stared at the coat himself he tried to think of doing something very comical that would make even Harry and Mike laugh. He thought of grabbing the coat and tossing it up in the air, but he wasn’t sure this would get a laugh. As he passed he stared at the tattered lining and grinned at Harry. It was not only that he needed fifty dollars, he always needed money, but he could see himself slipping the coat to Mike outside or at the entrance. “I know how you feel, Mike. We’ll see that Lane gets it back.” Mike could put a new lining in the coat and it would be a big joke around Dorfman’s and Mike would be his grateful friend again.