Little Men, Big World

by W. R. Burnett

  “Did you have an open fugitive-warrant?”

  “Don’t be bitter, Red.”

  “All the same, it’s funny.”

  A phone in the hallway began to ring. They all made a grab for it; Red got it; but it was some silly citizen trying to find the humane society.

  “At this time of night?”

  “Yes,” said an agitated voice. “There’s an enormous bat flying around in my bedroom.”

  “What do you expect, flamingos?” asked Red. He was on the point of hanging up when Casey appeared, puffing. “Here, Casey,” said Seaver. “This is for you. Very important.” The fat desk-sergeant, who was just going off duty, gave Red a suspicious look then picked up the phone.

  “Yes? Sergeant Casey speaking.” An infuriated voice began to yammer at him over the line. “But, mister,” Casey protested, looking at Red Seaver in disgust, “I didn’t say ... Now wait a minute. Sure, I’m a public servant but ... look, mister, the humane society closes at five-thirty—unless there is an emergency. That’s no emergency. Get a broom and chase him away. What? I can’t help it how nervous you are. I’m nervous, too, and my feet hurt and I want to go home to bed. Mister, you shouldn’t talk like that…” A loud slam came over the wire and Casey grimaced sadly, then hung up.

  He looked at Red for a long time then he took him by the suspenders and shook him gently. “Red,” he said, “do you know what you are?”

  “Yes,” said Red, “I’m the most brilliant newspaperman in the city, bar Reisman, and I only say that to show my modesty.”

  “Red,” said Casey, “I don’t like to speak to you in this tone of voice, but you are the nearest thing to a horse’s ass I ever saw in clothes.”

  “Now isn’t that a coincidence!” cried Red.

  “I won’t even ask ‘what?’ ” said Casey, going out hurriedly.

  “He’s learning,” said Red.

  The Rooster came in out of breath. “Can’t find him anyplace, Red,” he panted. “Had the girls on the switchboard downstairs half-crazy. Can’t be found.”

  “He’s out looking,” said somebody.

  “For what?” Red demanded. Then he turned to Len Seyter of the Examiner. “Why do you think Judge Greet was shot?” Seyter shrugged. “He was a Criminal Courts Judge at one time. He sent a lot of guys up. Might be.”

  “That’s very conventional thinking,” said Red. “But the truth is almost always conventional, so you are probably right.”

  “What are you hoping for—a fourteen-year-old baby-sitter that he deflowered one night while they were watching the wrestling matches on television?”

  “Those matches give guys ideas. Not bad. Anybody else?”

  “I think he was shot by mistake,” said somebody.

  “By a deer-hunter, no doubt,” said Red.

  “Well, people are shot by mistake.”

  Red groaned and sank down into his chair. “Rooster,” he said, “go keep trying, will you?”

  “That I will, Red,” said the Rooster, running out eagerly.

  13

  IT WASten a.m., weak sunshine showed in the cluttered streets of the 17th Ward, and there was a faint haze over the river.

  Like a lost soul, Arky wandered about the big apartment, which seemed as empty now as an abandoned barn. Lola had put all of Anna’s clothes away and Anna’s bedroom looked as cold, as uninviting, as devoid of any personality, as a sample-room at an hotel. It was as if Anna had never been. And now Orv was gone, too, and all his small furniture had been removed from the spare bedroom; the padded-silk basket, the crib, all the bottles and clothes, all the odds and ends of a baby’s little life.

  Arky looked in one room after the other. He felt a piercing sense of loneliness. At the moment he would even have been glad to hear the animal, Milli, stumbling up the stairs, out of breath, afraid of getting hell from somebody.

  He heaved a long sigh of relief and made a dash for his bedroom when the phone rang. It was young Mr. Black of Dighton and Black. The firm would handle Arky’s interests at the coroner’s inquest. Young Mr. Black, who seemed to consider himself a ball of fire, assured Arky that there would be no difficulties of any kind and that he should rest easy and not worry. Arky assured young Mr. Black that he was not worrying.

  When the conversation was at an end, Arky hung up absent-mindedly and sat looking off down the hill toward the river. It was a funny thing how a man never knew when he was well off. Yeah, a funny thing. A man never seemed to get any satisfaction out of the present minute; it was always tomorrow that he was going to be happy, always tomorrow.

  Arky got up and started to pace the floor. A couple of tough, quarrelsome little sparrows began to hop about the window-sill, and Arky stood idly watching them. They were a hardy breed; the only birds that stayed north the year around. He’d often seen them hopping about in the snow on a cold winter’s day, searching for food.

  The phone rang again. It was the Paymaster and he sounded agitated.

  “How’s the Mover?” asked Arky.

  “Not so good, but he thinks he’s fine. He wants you to stand by—all day if necessary. The linesman’s working on the telephone now—fixing the private line so he can talk in the bedroom. Arky, I want you to know the truth. The Mover’s in a bad way. I had a long talk with the doctor. We’re not saying anything to the Mover’s wife or the rest of the family, but I think you ought to know. It’s not the wound so much: of course that’s not helping matters any; but the Mover’s blood pressure is very high and the doctor’s afraid of a heart attack or apoplexy. All the Mover’s family go that way and at just about his age. The Mover even makes jokes about it. A couple of months ago he made a new will, and he told me over a month ago that everything was in order in case he popped off. That’s exactly what he said: popped off. Never saw such a man, Arky. Guess I don’t have to tell you.”

  “No,” said Arky, feeling lonelier than ever. Anna, Orv, Milli, now maybe the Mover. “Looks like I’m running out of people,” he thought.

  “Among other things,” the Paymaster went on, “the Mover said he’d like to see you and talk to you, but I made him understand the impossibility of that. Reporters all over the place: men from headquarters, and even the district attorney’s office. What about Harry Radabaugh, Arky?”

  “He’s a rat—cheap friend of Leon’s. Keep him away from the Mover. If you have any trouble with him, call me. I’ll settle his hash.”

  “All right. Now stand by.”

  “I’ll be right here, day and night.”

  The Paymaster got into his little coupe and drove back to the Judge’s house. Mrs. Greet was in the study, taking care of some chores with the help of Miss Waite, her social secretary. Byron Greet, tall, slim, bespectacled—nothing like the Judge —was pacing in the hallway, nervously smoking a cigarette. “Did you talk to him yet, Byron?” asked the Paymaster.

  “Yes,” said Byron. “Briefly. But we seem to have nothing to say to each other, which is not surprising. We haven’t had since I was sixteen or seventeen. You know he hates my guts.”

  “Now, now, Byron; nothing of the kind. Nonsense.”

  “Don’t try to soothe me, Gord, or kid me. I’m a Byron, not a Greet, and he’s never forgiven me for it. He wanted me to be an athlete like himself, and a ... well, God! I don’t have to go through the catalogue for you! He thinks a scholar is the next thing to a preacher—and you know what he thinks of preachers. I don’t see why he and Mother didn’t have a few more children…”

  “They lost two.”

  “I know. But couldn’t they have kept on trying?”

  “Your mother’s health wouldn’t stand it.”

  “Oh, she’s fifty, and she can still dance all night and run around to all hours. It’s more than I can do.”

  The Paymaster glanced at Byron, then lowered his eyes. From the Judge’s viewpoint, Byron was a weakling and the Judge did not have any sympathy for weaklings. It was unfortunate and unjust and unfatherly. But how could you put the Judge right about it?
You could not put the Judge right about anything. You accepted him, or left him. No other alternative. At times the Paymaster had the suspicion that the Judge thought more of Arky than he did of his own son, which was grotesque! But the Judge was a strange man, very strange; none like him.

  “Byron,” said the Paymaster, “why don’t you go back to town? No use getting yourself in a state. If there’s anything you can do, I’ll call you.”

  “There won’t be anything I can do,” said Byron. “There never has been.”

  Without another word, he picked up his hat, nodded to the Paymaster, and went out. The Paymaster stood watching him go, feeling very sorry for him. Byron, with all his advantages, was a very unhappy young man. He had always wanted his father’s approval—he’d even tried to play football in high school, weedy and thin-chested as he’d been, and his failure, against odds, had only made his father more contemptuous. Then Byron had revolted from his father’s authority, still hoping, some day, to gain his approval. He’d never succeeded.

  The Judge turned his head on his propped-up pillows when the door opened and the Paymaster came in. A colored male nurse bowed to the Paymaster, then went out.

  “Where’s the lineman?” asked the Paymaster.

  “Working around outside the house someplace,” said the Judge. “I can talk to Arky shortly. Terrible thing with poor Arky, losing his woman. Somebody will die for it eventually. Mark my word.” The Judge seemed to speak with a certain satisfaction, and the Paymaster glanced at him in surprise.

  “I hope this shooting won’t go on and on,” he said.

  “No more shooting,” said the Judge. “I’ll do my best to prevent it. But I won’t be around forever.”

  “There you go again.”

  The Judge laughed. “The penalty of a realistic view of life. In fact, my whole career—certainly from a conventional standpoint—has been ruined by a realistic viewpoint. Or maybe opportunist is the word. What do you think, Gord?”

  “I’ve got far beyond theory, Judge.”

  The Judge laughed again. “And you’re quite right. Amazing how we all drifted into this. Amazing!”

  “It crept up on me.”

  “Oh, I dragged you in, Gord. I needed somebody I could trust besides Arky. He’s trustworthy, God knows, but not very presentable with that pinched Arkansas face and that accent. Yes, I’m afraid I dragged you in.”

  The Paymaster made no comment, but sighed, sat down, and lit a cigar.

  “At least,” said the Judge, “life hasn’t been dull and I can’t stand dullness. A man’s got to make a choice. He can’t have it every way at once, although my son seems to think so. However, he’s young…”

  “I was talking to him downstairs. He didn’t seem very happy, Judge.”

  “Did you ever see him when he did? When I die he’ll inherit close to a million dollars in his own right. Give him some responsibility, some practical worries. May take him out of the cloister. May, and may not.” The Judge turned to his night-table for a cigarette, lit it, and puffed on it with little evidence of satisfaction. “Doctor’s idea,” he said. “Bars the cigars. It’ll be cubebs next. Oh, well. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get shot. Damned careless of me.” The Judge glanced down at the thick bandage on his arm, and the sling. “Yes, damned careless. I should have listened to Arky. When you live to fifty-five, you begin thinking you’re immortal, or at least that you won’t die by accident. Well…” There was a long silence and the two men sat in the huge shadowy bedroom, smoking and staring into space. Finally the Judge spoke.

  “I got to thinking this afternoon about how I drifted into this thing. Funny. Corruption breeds corruption. First, we’re collecting campaign money; and having quite a hard time getting any, with the local party showing definite signs of falling apart. Then the picture changes. We begin winning elections again. All over the city men start running to us with money: we have so much now we don’t know what to do with it.” The Judge laughed, then considered. “I just said ‘corruption breeds corruption.’ Maybe I should have said ‘success breeds corruption.’ We were a huge success, and we soon found ways to spend our money. This always happens. The more you spend the more in the habit of spending you get, and finally the business pyramids into an insanity. Pretty soon we were combing the town for money again. No matter how fast it poured in we never had enough. We took the gambling-house proprietors in, gave them service; then the bookmakers, and finally the panderers. Not very pretty, is it? But you have to be a moralist to separate, in this day and age, clean money from dirty. How do you draw the line?”

  The Judge paused and puffed on his cigarette, made a face, finally, and then stamped the cigarette out in an ashtray. “Tastes like the dry grape-leaves I used to smoke behind the carriage-house when I was seven years old. Whew! Well, Gord, how do you like my story?”

  “Fine,” said the Paymaster. “It sounds so harmless the way you tell it. But how will it end?”

  “End? It will never end, Gord. Never. To win elections you’ve got to raise money. To raise money you’ve got to do more than promise, you’ve got to perform. Men do not give you money because they love you, but in order to make more money. A candidate has only one choice—choice of masters.”

  “I’m glad you don’t speak this way in public.”

  The Judge laughed. “I’ve been tempted. Many times, Gordon. Many times.”

  There was a tap at the window and a young lineman, grinning, looked in.

  “Okay now, Judge,” he said. “It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks, young fellow,” said the Judge, smiling; then he turned to the Paymaster. “Get him a bottle of the Johnny Walker out of the cabinet over there.”

  “Aw, now Judge,” said the lineman, grinning eagerly, “you don’t have to do that.”

  But when the Paymaster handed him the bottle he took it quickly and patted it. “Black Label,” he said. “Brother, that goes in the basement where I keep my fishing tackle, and none of my thirsty relatives can find it. Thank you, Judge, and long life and health to you, sir.”

  The Judge nodded and smiled.

  The Mover’s voice sounded about as usual: strong, healthy, pleasant, and Arky felt heartened.

  “How are you feeling, sir?”

  “Fine, fine. The bullet just ripped through my arm and shoulder. Didn’t touch the bone. I guess I’m tough. Sorry to hear about ... well, you know.”

  “Thank you, sir. Damn shame.”

  “More than that; a senseless, inexcusable thing, but don’t let it unsettle you. Don’t do anything foolish because of it.”

  “I’m waiting for orders.”

  “Why, business as usual. Collect at the usual time. Rudy’s still functioning as far as I know.”

  Arky laughed shortly. “No changes, eh?”

  “No. But, Arky—might be a good idea to take a man in with you just on the remote possibility there might be trouble. Not that I’m expecting any—the boys misfired and it will take them some time to recover. However, it’s not a bad idea to have a man behind you. We don’t want any accidents.”

  “Okay. Say, one time you told me you knew who this Mr. Kelly was. If you want him looked up, I’ll be glad to accommodate you—teach him a lesson.”

  The Mover laughed quietly. “A very intriguing idea, Arky; intriguing, but futile. Like trying to cut Russia down by shooting Stalin. Just means another Stalin right away and another Mr. Kelly. That’s a big organization. Not like us, Arky. We are strictly whistle-stop.”

  “All the same they want to cut in.”

  “An organization like that has got to expand. It’s inevitable. Besides, George Cline and Leon gave them the idea. They were practically asked in, and by now must be a little bewildered, if not deeply hurt.” The Judge chuckled.

  “What about Leon and George?”

  “Well, George will no doubt go back to Las Vegas or Reno or wherever he came from; and Leon will keep his head down. Or, maybe, Leon will try to come back in.”

 
“Let him try.”

  “Now wait a minute, Arky. Leon’s useful. We could do worse. Rudy’s a rather shaky citizen and who else is there? This has been my major problem for years. Maybe Leon has learned his lesson.”

  “He fingered us both and in my opinion he ought to join Anna in the cemetery.”

  “He didn’t finger us, Arky. Leon is a double-crosser but he’s a little squeamish about murder. No. We were fingered, all right, by somebody who knew, but I’m sure it wasn’t Leon. I think Leon left town so he wouldn’t have to finger us.”

  “Well, I’m damned.”

  “And you know it wasn’t Rudy.”

  “That you can bet on. What about George Cline?”

  “I doubt if he could have given them the necessary information. These boys knew what they were doing. They were just unlucky, shall we say?”

  “You got me going round in a circle.”

  “Well, it’s no great matter. Collect as usual, Arky—taking the suggested precautions, and don’t do anything rash. Things are booming, as you know. Goodbye, Arky.” The Mover hung up abruptly, as he often did, leaving Arky dangling.

  Arky replaced the receiver, then he sat staring out the window. It was late afternoon, the sun was setting beyond Italian Hill, and the slow-moving river, looking almost as still as a lagoon, showed faint tints of pink and mother-of-pearl, with greenish shadows where the big bridges arched across to the far shore. A squat, powerful, dirty-white tug moved slowly upstream, trailing a long plume of iron-grey smoke that was faintly touched with rose. Arky saw a man reach out and jerk the whistle-cord and a moaning blast drifted up to him, then another.

  He felt again that piercing sense of loneliness. Night would soon fall: the big apartment would be like a tomb without Anna and Orv. He even considered the possibility of moving into an hotel, but rejected the idea at once as fantastic. What about the calls from the Mover? The set-up was perfect now. What was the matter with him? Was he getting childish?