Little Men, Big World

by W. R. Burnett

  “I’m in a hurry. Come on, Zand.”

  “I’ll be back,” said Zand grinning.

  “You ain’t kidding,” said Robbie. “No use to lock the door. You could crawl under it. I wish I knew why Ozark is so cold to me today. I thought it was one of my good days.”

  “I may give you a ring,” said Arky. “And I may not.” Wanting Anna back was one thing. Going without a woman was another. He might feel different in a few days. If he did, him for Robbie!

  Robbie scribbled something hastily on a pad, tore off a sheet and handed it to Arky. “Home phone, too; and you’re the only man who has got it.”

  “The only tall slim guy named Ozark,” said Arky, and went out laughing.

  “Oh, well,” said Zand to Robbie, “I tried.”

  “Don’t give up,” said Robbie. “You never know. And half a man is better than none.”

  Zand went out roaring. But in the hallway he sobered, jerked his thumb over his shoulder and asked Arky:

  “Is that Rudy slippery or stupid?”

  “Stupid,” said Arky. “The Mover better get a new man.”

  They found Turkey waiting for them calmly. As they got in he said; “Guy with a badge buzzed me. Tall guy.”

  “What did he want to know?” Arky demanded.

  “What I was doing here.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Told him I was driving for a guy inside. The colored boy came and tried to chase him away. He got pretty tough with the colored boy. Then a prowl-car went down the alley and he beat it.”

  Arky and Zand exchanged a quick look, then Arky said: “All right, Turk. Let’s go home.”

  As they turned into the alley, a prowl-car, lights out, slid up beside them and cut them off. Turkey had to stop to avoid a collision.

  “Arky?” called one of the cops.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me—Lon Bucher.”

  The big cop, Bucher, was one of Arky’s customers at the bookie room. “Yeah, Lon?”

  “A bastard from the D.A.’s office was buzzing your boy while you were inside.”

  “Yeah. The kid told me. Know him?”

  “Yeah. Pal of Harry Radabaugh’s—kind of a bird-dog for him. We don’t like them D.A. jerks horsing around on the Front so we run him off. Did you hear about Harry?”

  “No. What?”

  “He got into some kind of a thing with the D.A. and the D.A. kicked him out. Harry’s running out of law-enforcement bodies to work for. Crooked bastard—they always catch up with him. Guess he’ll end up as a private dick. Them kind usually do.”

  “Oh, he’ll light someplace. Much oblige, Lon.”

  “It’s okay. Get moving.”

  Turkey drove off. His face was set as before but his eyes were big and uncomprehending. Coppers for friends. What next?

  While newspapermen ran round in circles, and a twenty-four-hour watch was kept at the Judge’s house, and daily bulletins dealing with the Judge’s condition were front-page stuff, the coroner’s inquest into the death of one Anna Hunchuk, 35, went practically unnoticed.

  It took place in a dingy comer of the old Criminal Courts Building in the 17th Ward. Two policemen from the Pier 7 Station House testified with professional aplomb; then Zand (identified as Alexander Aydeb) and Lola (identified as Rosalka Novotny) gave their versions of what had happened, according to their knowledge; then the doctor testified, and the coroner’s man, and the report of a police ballistic expert was read; finally Arky (identified as Orval Smith Wanty) told his story in a low-pitched, flat-sounding voice, staring at the floor. He gave his occupation as “pool-hall owner, cigar store on the side,” and his place of birth as Dry River, Arkansas.

  There was hardly anything at all to the inquest: the evidence was so cut-and-dried, so obvious, and a verdict was reached without difficulty: death at the hands of a person, or persons, unknown—murder—full exoneration for Arky. Downy sat in, wondering what it was all about, and why Reisman was so interested in Arky, a mighty dull fellow in Downy’s opinion. When it was over he hurried out, made a routine report to the paper, then called Eunice, who was just getting up. She had crazy hours: went to work at ten in the evening and quit at six in the morning. But things were panning out. Eunice was no pushover, but a clever, teasing little girl, always holding out a promise, never fulfilling it—till maybe next time. Would next time ever come? Downy felt that it would; meanwhile, he was in no hurry—the exploratory phase was far from unpleasant with a doll like Eunice.

  15

  NOBODY could find Reisman, although it was reliably reported that he’d been seen here and there in the City Building and even in the morgue at the Journal. No matter where anybody called him, he never seemed to be in. Red Seaver finally got into a rage about it and made up his mind he’d find him or else. First he sweated Downy; but Downy, usually docile enough, couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help; then he began to call Reisman’s house at all hours until Mrs. Reisman finally told him that if he didn’t stop calling she’d complain to the police; at last he drove out to Lakeside Village and camped outside Reisman’s door. Nothing happened that day.

  The next day, however, Red had just taken up his stand when Reisman slipped out the back door and into the alley where a taxi was waiting for him. Smiling grimly, Red trailed him to the airport and accosted him at the barrier.

  “Why hello, Red,” said Reisman. “Where have you been lately?”

  “Look, Ben. This is no time for gags. I work on the Journal, too. I’m a co-worker, a fellow employee, and also a friend of yours. What is all this?”

  “All what? I been sick. I’m flying up to Cleveland to see Dr. Grunwald, the stomach specialist.”

  “Dr. Grunwald’s in Europe. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Dr. Grunwald is crossing the Atlantic at this moment, out of Lisbon.”

  “Just to look at your stomach, I suppose.”

  “It’s pretty. But I checked with his office. Nothing to do with my stomach.”

  “Ben—man and boy we’ve known each other for many years. I hate to say this to you. You are a Goddamned, double-crossing liar.”

  “Please, Red. The children.”

  Red looked about him wildly, immediately contrite; then his face hardened as he turned once again to Reisman. “What am I doing—playing straight man? I’m beginning to act like Casey. So you won’t break down.”

  Reisman’s plane was called. “You know something, Red,” said Reisman; “I’ve been going stale on my reading lately—nothing satisfies me. So I decided to take a shot at Shakespeare. Haven’t read him for some time. I picked up one of the volumes at random and began to read the first play I came to: The Two Gentlemen of Verona—never read it before…”

  “Listen, Ben…”

  “Well, it’s a masterpiece: beautiful. I almost fell out of bed laughing. Funny thing, Red; but I wouldn’t give Launce and his dog, Crab, for War and Peace, or even the works of T. S. Eliot—all of them.”

  “Wait a minute, Ben. All right; you’re a cultured guy, I’m a yahoo—but I’m also a reporter. I work for Mush Head ... we…”

  “Do me a favor, Red,” said Reisman, putting his hand on the big fellow’s shoulder, “read The Two Gentlemen of Verona. You’ll like it.”

  Turning, Reisman made a dash down the runway for his plane. Red called after him futilely, then subsided in disgust.

  “Well, after all,” said Red philosophically, as he went back toward his car, “he has got that stomach ulcer—and that column must be one hell of a chore.”

  Red headed out from the airport and made for a country tavern he liked where they had good beer, a plump barmaid who leaned over the counter in a low blouse, and a quarter machine that sometimes paid off.

  Although Reisman had taken a sedative, and his nerves felt fairly steady, he turned green on the take-off and longed to be home. He detested flying.

  In a moment the plane was up and levelled off. Reisman looked about him morosely at all the happy,
careless people, hating them, and also hating the little chic brunette stewardess with her uniform cap cocked over one eye. Invincible, she looked: immune to the terrors of the sky.

  “The trouble with me is,” Reisman told himself, “that I’m a Neolithic man at heart. Left to myself—on a desert island, say—in ten years I couldn’t think up an improvement on a flint arrowhead. If I killed anybody it would be with the same old artifact. I’m just a slob, one of the million. Look at the march of civilization: flint, copper, bronze, iron; gunpowder, dynamite, TNT, atom bomb, hydrogen bomb. The field is unlimited. But, look at you—Reisman: still throwing rocks!”

  Although Reisman had bought a through ticket to Cleveland, when the plane landed at the State Capitol airport he disappeared into the bar, took a stiff drink, went out the back way, and caught a taxi for town. With him was a small briefcase containing a change of underwear, a toothbrush and toothpaste, an electric razor, a suit of pajamas, and a few documents: he might not have to stay overnight but on the other hand he might, and he liked to have his own things with him. New things irritated him.

  Justice Stark was staggered. Reisman sat watching him as he paced up and down the big sitting-room of his suite. He and Mrs. Stark were staying at the eighty-year-old River House, where the rooms were enormous, the ceilings high, and the food and service wonderful, even if the plumbing was somewhat primitive and the old cage-elevator often stalled.

  The Justice went to one of the tall old windows which reached to the floor, and stood looking out. Before him lay the sylvan expanse of the Capitol Square with its ancient trees, stone benches, scampering grey squirrels, and its many monuments. Beyond, the huge old Capitol, with its stained and weathered Doric columns and its huge three-story-high porches, seemed to sleep among the greenery, as if dreaming of another age.

  In 1865 the then governor had received the high officers of the victoriously returning Union Army in the front reception-room, the windows of which Stark could see as he looked out from the hotel. Early in 1919, other officers had been received in this same reception-room by another governor; and again in 1945. The tides of history had rolled steadily over the Capitol for more than a hundred years; it had watched, unchanged, age after age, administration after administration, wars, rebellions, depressions, all the hopes, fears and insanities of men; but it had never seen anything to equal the present, and stood now as silent reproach, a reproach, however, that went unheeded.

  Nobody had any love for the old Capitol any more. It was to be tom down in 1951 to make room for a modem office building. More and more floor-space was needed for more and more bureaux, necessitating more and more taxes, which of course meant more and more employees to collect and handle the taxes, which meant more office-holders, more Party voting strength, more campaign money, more of everything. This was progress, and the old Capitol had no place in it.

  The Justice sighed and turned away from the window. “I don’t know what to say, Reisman. I am dumbfounded. Surely there must be some mistake. Some…”

  “That’s why I came to you, Commissioner.” Reisman grimaced to himself. He just couldn’t think of Stark as anything but “the Commissioner.”

  “Do I call you Mr. Justice, or Judge ... what?”

  “I don’t care what you call me, Reisman. Let’s go over this again.”

  “All right. First, Arky. His name is Orval Wanty. He killed a man in a saloon brawl in 1930. Clear case of self-defense. I’ve got the whole record. At that time Judge Greet was on the bench in the Criminal Court. Wanty’s lawyer was incompetent and later debarred. Judge Greet refused to accept the plea and maybe saved our friend Arky a few years in the Walls. Apparently the Judge took a liking to this Arkansas boy, because he acted as the Judge’s chauffeur and factotum for over five years.”

  “All right. Nothing incriminating so far.”

  “No. For a few years I can’t find any record of Wanty; then he turns up again.” Reisman shuffled his papers. “Assault with a deadly weapon; no disposition—in fact, some of the records are missing. Arrested on bookmaking charges twice: dismissed, both times. No fingerprints in the files. I was told that they must have been mislaid. Things certainly get mislaid a lot, Commissioner…”

  Stark flushed slightly. “I’m afraid you are right. Go on, Reisman.”

  “It is obvious, Commissioner, that this man is being protected—and by high authorities. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Now let’s come to the attempt on Judge Greet’s life. There’s a lot more in between—you can read the documents. But this is the nub. The Judge and Arky were shot about the same hour of the same day. All right. Maybe it was a coincidence, you’ll say. Maybe it was. But this is no coincidence. For weeks the Judge’s house had been watched by prowl-cars from the Pier 7 Station House—Arky’s stamping ground. I’ve got affidavits here from a Riverview special policeman. I scared him and he talked. Not only that. Some unknown person, probably a police officer, saved the Judge’s life by shooting at the assassin after he had fired only one shot. Something else. A Pier 7 prowl chased the getaway car and was smashed up taking a curve at a high rate of speed. There is a definite police cover-up going on. Dysen won’t talk; and apparently no one is powerful enough to make him. Chief of Police Frick is in bed with a virus condition, or maybe, with a nurse—excuse me, Commissioner—but he can’t be reached…”

  “And what do you deduce from all this, Reisman?—just between ourselves.”

  “Leon Sollas was a cheap front. The same goes for Rudy Solano. Our Arkansas friend is a very big man indeed, and very smart to be able to seem so obscure. Leon runs the vice and collects. Arky is his boss. Arky is apparently Captain Dysen’s boss, too, and has the run of the police department, at least in the 17th Ward. This would be impossible without the strongest pressure from above. So who is Arky’s boss?

  Stark was staggered as before. “Incredible! Simply unbelievable. Why, I’ve known Judge Greet ... and his father the Old Judge, for... well, I can’t recall how many years. One of the ablest families in the whole county. Why, I…” Stark broke off and sat down heavily.

  There was a long silence. Finally Reisman spoke. “For a long time, Commissioner, there has been talk of George Cline coming in—but that was just talk. George is too small to make a dent now. But the Big City boys have had their eyes on us for a long time, and now with you out of the way... In other words, the Judge finally outfoxed himself.”

  “How do you mean, Reisman?” asked Stark, glancing up quickly.

  Reisman hesitated and took a deep breath. “Well, Commissioner, if you speak the word, I’ll leave quietly—but this I’ve got to say. Judge Greet was largely responsible for your appointment to the Supreme Bench.”

  Stark turned pale at once, glanced blankly at Reisman, then sat staring for a long time at the carpet. Finally he spoke, as if to himself. “Incredible! Simply beyond belief.” He rose now and walked back to the window. “There must be some other explanation. There must be.”

  “I hope there is,” said Reisman, moved to see the Commissioner so shaken. “I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  The Commissioner turned. “Would you mind leaving all the documents here? I’d like to study them carefully before I make up my mind to anything. Could you stay overnight, Reisman? I’ll call you early tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll stay as long as you say. You understand, Commissioner, that this is the biggest newspaper story in fifty years, and that I’m not going to print a word of it, even a hint, without your permission.”

  “I understand,” said Stark. “And I want to tell you how much I appreciate your co-operation. Too bad there aren’t more like you.”

  “That’s a horrible thought, Commissioner. But I’m learning. In the twenties, I’d have splashed this all over the paper, and screamed for a bonus.”

  “Well,” said Stark, “if we don’t improve with age and experience we should be shot. Will you stay here at the River House?”

  �
��Yeah,” said Reisman. “I’ll get a room right away.” Now he opened his brief-case and added a stack of documents to the ones already on the desk, dropping a striped pajama coat and a toothbrush in the process.

  Stark watched him absent-mindedly, his face puckered with thought. The phone rang and Stark answered it.

  “Yes? Yes, Justice Stark. I’ll hold on.” He turned to Reisman. “It’s Marley. Something must have happened in town.”

  There was a long wait. Reisman picked up the pajama coat and the toothbrush and stuffed them back into the brief-case.

  “Yes? I’m holding on,” said Stark. “Charles? Yes, it’s me. I can’t hear you. Lower your voice—stop shouting. What! When? Well, I’m certainly sorry to hear it. Yes. That’s the way we all feel. Yes. Yes…” Stark covered the transmitter and spoke in a low voice to Reisman. “The Judge just died.”

  Reisman did not hear any more of Stark’s phone conversation. The brief-case slipped from his hand and fell to the floor and Reisman sank down into a chair. After a moment Stark hung up.

  “Well,” said Stark, “at least this gives me an excuse to go back to town. I’ll fly back tonight.”

  “I’ll take the bus,” said Reisman. “Red Seaver’s on my trail as it is.”

  “Will you leave these documents with me?”

  “Yes. Do what you like with them. I’m afraid the big story is out of the window now.”

  “Time will tell,” said Stark shortly, then: “In your opinion, Reisman, what will happen now?”

  “I think the big boys will walk in—that is, with the present set-up in the city. Creeden’s a joke, and you know it, Commissioner.”

  Stark nodded, turned away and moved to the window. After a moment, Reisman went out, closing the door softly, and hurried down to the bar. The thought of that bus-ride back was making his stomach crawl: equaling babies, smelly people, oafs with their feet in the aisle, the guy who always wanted to talk to you and started by saying: “What’s your racket, brother?”; old ladies, far from home, clutching their purses and looking at you suspiciously; insolent brats who wandered up and down the aisle blowing bubble-gum which eventually ended up on the seat of your pants... Reisman pulled himself up short. “Quit kidding,” he told himself. “You’re tickled to death. No take-offs.”