“In your birthday suit?”
“Sure. Why not? It’s a business like any business.”
“I guess it’s all right as long as they had a stove in the room.”
Robbie laughed and sat down. Arky lit a cigarette and gave it to her, then lit one for himself.
“You fracture me, Elmer,” she said. “To look at you, a person would think you just came in with a car load of cattle, except for the clothes. But here we are, in the nicest little house I’ve ever seen in my life. You call people on the phone and order them around. Leon’s scared to death of you and, whether you know it or not, admires you very much. Cadillacs, a Barrymore wardrobe, French cuffs and beautiful cuff-links; clean fingernails, even; and the prettiest baby I ever saw. What’s with you, Elmer?”
“Just forget the baby,” said Arky. “But aside from that, all this you’re talking about is just because once in my life I met an A-number-one man. It’s got nothing to do with me. I might still be swinging a pick, or back in Dry River trying to make a living with cotton on ground hardly worth farming.”
“Well, all I can say is, it’s fun,” said Robbie. “I don’t even want to know what’s coming next. I can wait and see.”
As she talked, the Cadillac drove up, then a caterer’s truck. Arky rose to look out the window and Robbie came over beside him. He put his arm around her.
“Here’s supper,” he said. “They got good country sausage at this joint—Langenbeck’s. The Mover—I mean, a friend of mine told me about it. And as for what’s coming next—after supper I got a pretty good idea.”
Robbie felt a faint flutter of excitement. “You don’t say. Just like that. Well, all I can say is, I hope you didn’t order country sausage for me.”
“No,” said Arky. “Chicken a la king. Dames like it.”
“Next time maybe it might be a good idea if I ordered my own dinner. Is that possible?”
“Sure,” said Arky, looking at her in surprise. “And mine, too. This was a special occasion, sort of. You don’t think I’m going to have Langenbeck’s every night, do you? It’s your business to look after the meals. I like ham and ham gravy with mush; I like country sausage, and T-bone steaks. I don’t like hash or meat loaf or croquettes.”
“You want me to write all this down?” asked Robbie innocently.
“No,” said Arky. “You can remember it, can’t you?”
It was ten p.m. Turkey was snoring in the small but beautifully furnished three-room suite that had formerly been occupied by Gordon King’s old colored servant, Ambrose.
In the main part of the cottage, Orv was sleeping in his alcove, cooing a little and occasionally pulling at his thick, silky blond hair; Arky was in the study, wearing a maroon silk dressing-gown and watching the late innings of the baseball game on television; and Robbie was in her large, pink-tiled bathroom, taking a bubble-bath in the sunken tub.
She felt shaken, disoriented. As a general thing, she could take men or leave them. In two short years of intimacy with the opposite sex she had grown almost apathetic, and had begun to say to herself: “Surely there must be something more to it than this. Such a hullabaloo about so little!” Now she wasn’t so sure. Either Arky was unique, or she hadn’t met the right people. Arky was rough, direct, almost brutal. No softness about him, even in love; and maybe that was the way a man should be. “I don’t know,” Robbie reflected as she stretched lazily in the tub, “but maybe there’s something to be said for Arkansas after all.”
Sensitive to her own reactions, she realized that her feelings toward Arky had changed radically. Very strange. It had never happened to her before, even with Charley Cousins—the boy she’d had such a crush on in Chicago—the Lake Forest snob who dressed like a bum, let his hair grow, and tried to pretend he was suffering for Art in a Rush Street studio that was hardly more than a brothel. She’d gone around in a fog all right; but she realized now that it had been mostly pretense. With Arky there was no pretense. At the moment she really felt as if she belonged to him, like a dog, or a daughter, or maybe even a wife.
Thinking about the over-handsome Charley Cousins, with his little childish white teeth, his pretty blue eyes with dark lashes, and his girlish complexion, she laughed out loud and kicked around exuberantly in the tub. “I’d like to hear his comments on Arky,” she mused. “Why, Charley would think I’d lost my mind.” She remembered the autographed picture Charley had given her one Christmas: an “art” photo of himself posing on the beach, and signed: “To my beloved beautiful one, to my adored one, to my confrere in the Arts.” Robbie began to giggle uncontrollably, and finally had to call a halt when she realized she was getting hysterical.
But really it was too funny. Charley and Arky!
16
ARKY WOKE about seven. Sunshine was flooding the master bedroom where he lay alone in a huge, low bed. Faint cooking odors drifted in through the open windows, and Arky got up at once, washed, combed his hair, brushed his teeth, put on his maroon silk dressing-gown and hurried toward the dining room. He’d had a fine sleep and he was very hungry. Pretty nice of Robbie, getting up this early to cook breakfast. And then he remembered Orvie. “Hell,” he said, “she feeds him at six. No wonder she’s up.”
But there were no signs of life in the dining-room, the table wasn’t set, the curtains were still drawn, so Arky went on through the swinging door into the kitchen. The kid Joe Batz, wearing an apron over his new pajamas, was at the stove, frying eggs; coffee was percolating on another burner and the electric toaster was buzzing.
“I woke up, mister,” said the kid, “so I went out to get the paper. Baby woke me up. Sure was yelling like hell.”
“Deal me in,” said Arky, gesturing at the stove, then he walked over to the kitchen table where the paper was opened at the sports page.
“That ball team!” muttered the kid, shaking his head; then: “How many eggs, mister?”
“Three,” said Arky. “Turn ’em over.” He sat down and began absent-mindedly to read the sports news.
Bustling about, the kid said: “They sure knocked ’em over on the Front last night.”
Arky glanced up at the kid quickly, then without a word turned back to the first page. A headline read:
POLICE ATTACK FRONT IN A GIANT RAID
Smiling grimly to himself, Arky glanced indifferently through the account of the raid.
… fifteen gambling-houses raided, some of them very plush places ... patrons not arrested but herded out, told to go home … gambling equipment estimated at a hundred thousand dollars destroyed ... flying squads led by Lieut. John Motley of the Pier 7 Station ... largest raid in over ten years ... does the new Commissioner, James Creeden, mean business...?
“Yeah,” said Arky at last, “they sure did knock ’em over.”
“What’s the idea?” asked the kid. “Same places been running for a long time.”
“New orders from above, I guess,” said Arky, innocently.
“I don’t get it. A guy puts his capital in a place, they let him open, they let him run—then one night they knock him over and bust up his stuff. Is that justice?”
“You looking for justice?” asked Arky. “Well, stop looking.”
The phone rang and the kid went to answer it. In a moment he came back, smiling slightly. “It’s Zand,” he said. “Kinda upset, sounds like.”
He was right. Zand was definitely upset. He began to shout at Arky over the wire. “They been calling for you since four o’clock. Twenty calls an hour. We’re going nuts here. I just keep telling ’em you left. Maybe you’re in Arkansas by now. But, look here, Arky…”
“Keep telling ’em,” said Arky. “Anybody who should get to me has got my number. Just keep telling ’em.”
“How about Rudy? He’s about to cut his throat.”
“Tell him the same as everybody else.”
“What a hassle!”
“Some people have to be taught the hard way.”
“Okay, Arky. Okay. How does it feel to
be living up there with the plutocrats?”
“Smells a little better. Beds are softer.”
“How’s the nurse?”
“She’s sleeping, and so is Orv—at least I don’t hear him yelling, so he must be asleep. Lola okay?”
“No. She’s crying because the baby left. Can you beat it? The older I get, the less I know about women. The kid was killing her, now she wants him back.”
“Don’t make much sense, does it? Okay, Zand. Tell ’em nothing. I’ll be here all day if you want me.”
Just as he was hanging up, Robbie came into the study, looking beautiful in a Chinese banker’s coat and Chinese slippers. Arky studied her with open admiration.
“Well, look at you,” he said. “Pretty as a guinea hen on a fence.”
“I thought I smelled food. I’m starved. Orv just finished his bottle—in fact, he took over eight ounces. Who’s doing the cooking? Not you?”
“Are you kidding? Joe’s out there struggling with the eggs. Give him a hand.”
“Why, okay, master. Okay,” said Robbie. “Sorry to be dilatory about my duties. Kin I eat at the first table, pa, huh?”
They were walking up and down in the trim little garden just outside the french windows of the living-room. It was a warm night and a cloudy yellow moon showed vaguely through the trees.
Inside, beyond the open french doors, a little clock on the mantel softly chimed seven.
They’d already eaten dinner. Feeling expansive, Arky had had it sent in again from Langenbeck’s. He’d let Robbie do the ordering and had eaten pizza, spaghetti, and Italian-style veal without a murmur.
Now he turned to Robbie. “A guy would just never think you were an Italian to look at you. But you sure liked that food, didn’t you?”
“I get hungry for it.”
“Raised on it, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Like me with ham and mush and stuff. All in what you’re raised on. Say, how big is that home town of yours?”
“About twenty thousand.”
“Too small.”
“How big is Dry River?”
“Five hundred. But what’s that got to do with it? I guess Detroit’s the place for me.”
Robbie stopped and turned to look at him. “What do you mean, Arky?”
“I figure to be pulling out of here soon. Might try Detroit. Sounds all right.”
“What about me and Orv?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“You mean we’re all going?”
“Sure. Why not? We can’t live in this joint forever. Besides, it don’t belong to me. The guy that owns it may get well and want it back.”
Robbie looked about her quickly with a certain amount of regret. This was the nicest place she’d ever found in her whole life. However…
“You’re the boss, Ozark,” she said. “Whatever you say.” They walked up and down in silence for a little while. Finally Robbie stopped and looked up at the moon. “Swell night,” she said. “In the city somehow you never notice that there’s a moon or a sky.” As Arky made no comment, she gave an embarrassed laugh. “So there’s a moon and a sky!”
“Yeah,” said Arky, as if coming to himself. “Down home you see the moon rise every night, or at least when it’s rising early enough. And as for the sky—hell, down there it’s all you think about. Will it rain? Damn it, if it don’t rain we’re ruined.” Arky laughed.
Just as Robbie started to say something, the kid put his head out of the french doors. “Mister—phone.”
Arky walked away from Robbie without a word. She called after him. “Two bits it’s Sam.”
He paused, then came back. “What do you know about Sam?”
“What do I know about Sam?” laughed Robbie. “You talk pretty loud on the phone sometimes, Ozark. It’s Sam this, and okay, Sam, and don’t let me down, Sam. Et cetera. Et cetera. I’m expecting you to come out any time and say to me: ‘That was Sam.’ ”
“Aw, you’re just too smart for your britches,” said Arky. “You’re so smart you’ll probably outsmart yourself someday.”
“What do you mean—someday?”
Arky went in the house, laughing. A few minutes later he came back. He was no longer laughing. His face had a tense look that was not habitual, and although he tried to keep his eyes veiled, Robbie noted the flash.
“I got to go to town,” he said. “Joe’ll drive me. You’ll be okay.”
“Of course I will.”
“Listen, Robbie. Get everything packed. We’re blowing tonight I ought to be back in a couple of hours.”
“Tonight?” cried Robbie.
“Yeah. A little deal come up all of a sudden.”
“Something wrong?”
Arky patted her awkwardly. “No, no. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
Arky forced a smile, then he disappeared into the house. After a moment, Robbie heard a door slam; then she heard the Cadillac drive off. She felt uneasy, worried, disoriented. To pick up and run just when…? But such thinking was futile, and she brushed it aside and in a moment went into the house and started to pack. In his crib, Orv was sleeping with a crooked smile on his fat face and his tiny fists raised.
Robbie bustled about, trying not to think. Finally she told herself: “If there’s a man around who knows what he’s doing, it’s Ozark.”
The kid pulled into a dark, one-way side-street, half a block from the Regent Hotel, and parked.
“You know where the old Metropole Hotel is?” asked Arky. The kid nodded. “Know the news-stand just beyond it?” The kid nodded again. “Okay. Wait for me there.”
“But that’s eight blocks from here, mister.”
“Never mind that. Wait for me there. Give me an hour and maybe fifteen minutes. If I don’t show up in that time, go home, load up the car, and wait. You’ll hear from me, one way or another.”
“Okay, mister.”
Arky stood back and waited for the kid to drive off. When the car had disappeared a short, fattish, stocky little man stepped out from a dark doorway and came over to Arky, who turned and studied him in the half-light. The man, about forty-five years old, was nondescript in every respect; it would be a cinch for him to lose himself in a crowd. Nobody would possibly pay the slightest attention to him.
“You the pitcher Sam sent me?”
The man nodded. “That I am.”
“How about the taxi?”
“Waiting on the next street. You just walk out of the side entrance and there it is. The hackie’s a hundred percent okay. In fact, he’s my brother.”
“All right,” said Arky. “Any change in what’s going on in the bar?”
“Hardly think so. But the hackie will know. He’ll office me if we lost.”
“Go ahead then.”
The pitcher nodded and went back to the through-street, then turned toward the Regent Hotel. He waddled slightly as he walked. It was the only thing about him, Arky decided, that anybody would notice.
Arky followed leisurely. At the far comer, the pitcher hesitated and lit a cigarette. When Arky paused at the entrance to the Regent, the pitcher nodded slightly. Arky went in.
The lobby was packed and bellboys and porters were falling over each other. A bus for the airport was parked outside and air passengers were checking out at the desk, all of them wanting to be looked after first.
Arky picked his way carefully through the thronged lobby, calmly smoking a cigar. Hardly anyone gave him a second glance. As he reached the far end of the lobby, he could hear the noise from the bar. It was jammed to the rails, and hummed like a hive of bees. Emil, the head bartender, had five helpers tonight.
It was a big night. The baseball team was in town; three new shows had opened during the week, including a huge musical; the Plainfield Race Track opened Saturday for its fall meet; and the night before, the Front had been given a knockout raid, and many gamblers and hangers-on had no place else to go.
/>
A sort of nervous and unnatural gaiety rolled over the big, old-fashioned bar in intermittent waves.
Arky paused in the doorway. Men were four and five deep at the bar. Drinks were being passed back overhead, and there were a few accidents, but everybody laughed. Arky did not look over his shoulder for the pitcher. He knew that he would be along in a minute.
Nobody noticed Arky, everybody being too intent on yackety-yacking and trying to find footholds and elbow room. This gave Arky plenty of time to look around, and finally he located the man he’d come to find.
The man was about halfway down the bar where several servile gents with cigars in their mouths were trying hard to keep a place for him and at the same time catch every word he said so they could laugh in the right places. His big shoulders bulged out his plaid sportcoat. He was talking and laughing and looking about him as if he owned the place; and from Emil’s attitude an outsider might have thought he did.
Yep, Harry had really got up in the world. No more penny-ante jobs with the police department or the D.A.’s office for him. He was a big man now.
Arky slowly elbowed his way into a far comer of the bar and ordered a drink. Turning now, he saw the pitcher standing outside the row of phone booths beyond the bar, leisurely leafing through a tattered phone-book on a stand. A professional, as he’d expected, knowing Sam!
After a long wait, Arky got his drink and the bartender stood with his hand out, waiting for the money.
“I may want another one,” said Arky.
“With a crowd like this, sir,” said the bartender, “we collect on serving—from strangers.”
“Okay, partner,” said Arky, exaggerating his accent. “I’m a stranger here all right.”
After another long wait, the bartender returned with the change. Arky shoved it back at him just to see the look on his face, then he laughed. The bartender flushed slightly, knowing he was being ribbed but able to stand it at the price.
“You drink whatever you like,” he said, “and pay whenever you like.”
Little Men, Big World Page 22