Arky handed him a slip of paper. “There’s an address on there. That’s where I want you and Robbie to go…”
Joe glanced at the slip of paper, then looked up blankly at Arky. “Polishtown?”
“Yeah. Deliver this kid to Mrs. Hunchuk. She’s a big fat good-natured dame about sixty. You can hear her laugh two blocks away.”
“Deliver ... the ... kid ... ?” Joe stammered.
Robbie was staring in unbelief. “What are you talking about, Arky? I thought we were all going to Detroit. I thought…”
“We are,” said Arky. “All but the kid. He’s going to stay where he belongs—with Anna’s people. No sense us dragging him all over hell and back. For what?”
“For what?” cried Robbie. “You want him to grow up in the slums? Polishtown!”
“Anna grew up there, and she was a hundred per cent okay. Now I ain’t going to argue about this. I was talking tonight with a guy who knows what he’s talking about. This kid deserves a chance. Slums don’t matter. When he grows up, he can figure out himself what he wants to do. You kidding yourself about us being the right people to raise him?”
“Why not?” cried Robbie, defiantly.
Arky looked at her for a long time. She slowly lowered her eyes and studied Orv, who was nodding on her lap.
“Now listen,” said Arky, “you and Joe deliver the kid. Here’s a hundred bucks. Give it to the old lady—tell her there’ll be two hundred coming in every month and that she’s to look after the kid. Tell her a friend of mine’s gonna check on it every once in a while. And take your time with her—be patient. She don’t understand English so good. See what I mean?”
Robbie began to cry.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Arky demanded, violently irritated.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Robbie.
There was a long silence. Joe tossed his cigarette away and stood waiting. He felt depressed and bewildered; things weren’t working out the way he’d hoped they would.
“What’s a good little hotel in Detroit?” Arky asked Robbie. “Not one of the swell ones.”
Robbie thought for a moment, then said: “The Randall. Nice place.”
“Randall, eh? All right. I’ll meet you there.”
“Aren’t you going with us?” Robbie demanded.
“I can’t,” said Arky. “I’m hot. Nice mess if they’d happen to run up on me with you and Orv and Joe in the car. Damn fine mess. No. I got to go by myself.”
“In what?” asked Joe.
“Zand’s getting me a car. Okay, Joe. You wait outside.”
Joe shrugged and went out. They heard a car door slam.
“I wish I knew what this was all about,” said Robbie, jiggling Orv who was whimpering.
Arky wagged his head impatiently, then he went to a small table, unlocked the drawer with a key he took from his wallet, and extracted a thick manila envelope from which he counted out a stack of bills.
“Here’s five G’s, Robbie,” he said. “Put ’em in your purse. You might need ’em.”
Robbie sobered at the sight of the money; she glanced up at Arky, searching his face, then she delicately took the bills from him with her long, pointed fingers. And Arky remembered how she’d taken that large bill from him in the same manner that day in Leon’s outer office. Robbie was an all-right kid; and she really liked the baby; but with her, money talked—and loud!
She rose, holding Orv.
“All right, Arky,” she said. “Whatever you say.”
“You and Joe deliver the kid, then keep right on going. It’s on your way. Come on.”
Arky opened the front door, then took Robbie by the arm and led her across the porch and down the pathway through the shrubbery to the parked Cadillac. Joe got out and opened the rear door. Robbie leaned in and put Orv in his basket. He was sound asleep now.
A fleeting picture crossed Arky’s mind: Anna in her blue kimono, plump, blonde, amiable, and pretty, bouncing Orv on her knee and laughing as he waved his arms and chortled.
“Well, goodbye,” said Robbie, looking at Arky strangely. “Be seeing you soon in Dee-troit.”
Robbie was like she used to be now. Arky grinned.
“Okay, ball of fire.”
“Okay, Elmer.”
He kissed her perfunctorily. A curtain seemed to drop between them. They looked at each other uneasily, and laughed; then he helped her into the back seat.
“Just keep moving, Joe,” said Arky, then he handed the kid a few bills. “Spending money.”
“Thanks, mister,” said Joe, his face stiff.
Arky stood still watching the Cadillac drive off; then he turned and started back to the cottage.
After Arky returned to the cottage he paced the floor for a moment, then went back through the house, turning off the lights. He took a small revolver from a dresser drawer, and returned to the living-room. Putting out all the lights there but one, he lay down on the big davenport, slipped the gun in between the cushions, settled himself, and tried to relax.
Things were rough now and maybe Zand wouldn’t be able to deliver. It didn’t matter too much, however. For the moment, he was safe. If he didn’t hear from Zand by morning, he’d go to the Village, grab a taxi, give the driver some cock-and-bull story, and have him drive to the nearest town where Arky could catch a train for Detroit. Much safer lamming by taxi in the daytime. Might make the driver suspicious if he tried it at night.
Arky sighed and lay staring at the ceiling. He felt nervous but tired, and little by little a not altogether pleasant lassitude began to steal over him; a sudden letdown after all the excitement, he told himself.
Finally he dozed. Vague scenes began to pass before his eyes. Anna when he’d first met her: wearing a tight pale-blue dress, her yellow-blonde hair to her shoulders. She had made several shocking remarks, which convulsed him, and later she’d smoked a cigar. Big Anna—nobody like her: good-hearted, amiable, human; a fiery temper, but no meanness—she seemed to be looking at him through a pale haze, smiling at him. Then she had Orv in her arms but she was calling him “Thaddeus”! Now she was gone ... somehow; and he could see Robbie holding Orv and weeping. What the devil was the silly fool woman weeping about? She had that fine big kid in her arms, didn’t she...?
… Orv seemed to have grown up. He was quite large now, although his face looked the same, fat and babyish, and his hair was soft and silky. He was walking along hand in hand with a very pretty girl who seemed no older than himself. “Why, I didn’t know she was that young,” Arky mused. “She don’t look a day over sixteen, so how could she have been around the Front with Leon and all them other bums all that time?”
… Robbie in a white dress—her thick black hair long and hanging down her back. But almost at once she seemed to thicken and grow fat, her hair turned blonde, she shortened; and then, finally, she was gone ... and there was the animal Milli, and Orv was a baby again. “What the hell is going on here?” asked Arky.
He woke with a start, sweating, sat up, and glanced at his watch. What a doze! He had been out for over an hour and a half. His head ached and he had such a heavy, lethargic feeling all through him that he could hardly force himself to get to his feet and walk to the kitchen. But it was no good lying there with silly, unsettling dreams running through his head.
He made himself some coffee and, as he sat at the kitchen table drinking it, he remembered Robbie and that night in his apartment in the 17th. An all-right kid, Robbie, but no Anna. Nobody could ever take Anna’s place; just as nobody could ever take the Judge’s place, no matter what the Commissioner thought of him.
Arky gradually realized that he was now looking out on a different world, and was greatly surprised that such a familiar, taken-for-granted place could change so radically. Was that all there was to it—people? Didn’t a man in himself mean anything at all?
Arky tried not to think about the future, but visions of it kept rising in his mind in spite of himself, visions without savor. A new life? W
hat kind? Arky had plenty of money; too much, if anything. Most of it free of taxes, it had accumulated like corn in a bin over the years. But he was not much for spending money. Sucker gambling bored him. The thought of travelling left him cold; and as for leisure, loafing, all he knew of it was an armchair or bed, four walls, some cigars, maybe a fifth of gin, and a few newspapers, and magazines, like the Racing Form and the Sporting News—took no money for that. And as for women—well, women were damned interesting and necessary, but they didn’t fill your life ... couldn’t be your whole future. Couldn’t be his, anyway. Maybe with Leon it was different.
Arky sighed heavily, finished the last of his coffee, then rose and went back to the living-room.
“Damn it,” he said to himself, “I feel like a watch with a broken mainspring.”
He searched the living-room, then the study, for a deck of cards but couldn’t find any; finally he went back and sat on the davenport, stared at the floor, and waited for the phone to ring. Two clocks ticked in staggered time, lulling him. At last he lay down, put his hands under his head, and studied the ceiling, following the various patterns of light with his eyes. Once or twice he sighed heavily, then his eyes closed and he fell asleep.
This time he did not dream.
... He woke with a start. Dawn was showing greyly at all the windows. A big man was standing over him with a gun in his hand. The man had a set, determined look in his eyes. Arky’s right hand fumbled sleepily among the pillows.
“Go ahead,” said the big man. “Reach for it. Give me an excuse.”
Arky blinked rapidly and came fully awake. Lieutenant Morgan was standing over him with a police revolver in his hand.
“Hello, lieutenant,” said Arky, smiling slightly. “This is sure a surprise.”
“What do you take us for—idiots?” snapped Morgan. Then he pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. “I want to see you get out of these.”
“Well,” said Arky, rising slowly, “looks like the hounds treed the coon after all. I guess that’s nature. The coon ain’t got a chance.”
Morgan made no reply. He was all business now. He'd had a bellyful of Arky and his disarming, homely talk. It had almost got him busted by the Commissioner after all his hard work and application, his years of effort. He clicked on the heavy cuffs with a feeling of deep satisfaction and jerked Arky toward the door with unnecessary roughness.
What he would never know was that as they moved across the dewy grass through the lavender-grey twilight of early morning his prisoner was experiencing a swiftly growing sense of relief.
A carrier-boy rode past on his bicycle and tossed a newspaper up onto the porch of Gordon King’s house.
“That’s a copy I’ll never get to read,” said Arky.
Morgan made no comment.
Reisman was back in the hospital again. They had decided to operate. He had made his will and had been very heroic about it, he thought; and Sarah had even cried over him, with his three daughters looking on, round-eyed. Yes, outwardly he had been very heroic, joking with everybody; inwardly, he was petrified. Was this it? Could be, could be.
Although it was a hard thing to admit to himself, he knew that he was no more immortal than anybody else. People died every day. Why not him?
He had visitors. Red Seaver, diffusing a strong odor of bourbon, was sitting with his feet propped up, smoking a cigar. Across the bed from him was young Downy, also diffusing an odor of bourbon. In fact, they were both mildly drunk.
Occasionally Red reached down, picked up a newspaper from the floor, and stared at it with a bemused expression.
“You sure had me fooled for a while, Ben, you old bastard, you! I was thinking many unkind thoughts about you—yes I was. Don’t shake your head at me. But I might have known you’d come through. I might have known.” Red smiled happily and slapped the paper where it read :
… Commissioner Stark acknowledges the help given him by the Journal in tracking down the Greet Ring, the greatest source of corruption our city ever saw in its long history … Commissioner Stark, now Director of Public Safety as well as Justice of the Supreme Court, and a future Governor, we hope, goes further than a mere acknowledgement; he names names: and we, with the Commissioner, want to cite the following trio for their services as public servants as well as crack newspapermen: Ben Reisman, well-known columnist and former police reporter; Langley “Red” Seaver, and Francis Downy III …
Red and Downy were glowing with triumph; they had been taking bows all afternoon, and allowing people to buy them drinks. But Reisman felt only a kind of mild sadness. By the grace of God, he’d run the thing down. Luck, hunch, and random information had done the trick. Actually, there was nothing to it at all, and in a few days it would be forgotten. Or maybe by tomorrow. Compared to the trouble in Korea this was all very small potatoes!
Reisman groaned faintly and surreptitiously slid his hand under the covers to massage his stomach. In spite of the dope, the pain was nagging at him faintly—the enemy within! Pain was a very mysterious thing and very demoralizing. There you were, enjoying a good meal, or a good book, or merely a good doze, when all of a sudden ... whap! ... and the world was a different place. A man with a toothache thinks that everyone who hasn’t got a toothache is happy. And as for stoicism... the silent and patient bearing of pain: well, it sounded pretty to read about in tranquility. But philosophy was always great for past ills, or future ones: never for present ills. “I’d like to see Epictetus with a boil on his ass,” Reisman told himself, groaning slightly.
Red glanced at him in irritation. Damn it all! Ben was spoiling their triumph. Couldn’t he smile a little, for God’s sake? This was terrific, unheard of! Why, Red was even a hero to his wife at the moment. Of course that wouldn’t last very long ... maybe until he spilled cigar ashes again on the new living-room rug.
As for Downy, he was woozy with happiness. Eunice Kubelik ... now this! He was so woozy with happiness, in fact, that he didn’t even notice Ben’s long face or hear his rather apologetic groans.
“Come on, Ben,” cried Red. “Perk up! Perk up! You’re the biggest man in town. You can write your own ticket. You are also a gentleman and a scholar. The whole Seaver family loves you. Mush Head might even give me a raise now, though I doubt it. Come on, Ben. Let’s see a smile.”
Turning his head on the pillow, Reisman spoke to Red for a moment in uncouth monosyllables, making impossible suggestions as to what he should do; then in an altered voice he went on: “Why, let the stricken deer go weep, the hart ungalled play; for some must watch, while some must sleep: thus runs the world away.”
Red grimaced and got up. Nuts to this: he wanted action, good cheer! But Downy, smiling brightly, asked: “Hamlet?”
Reisman nodded. “Hamlet.”
FIN
ABOUT W.R. BURNETT
It has been written that if William Riley Burnett's major novels are judged solely for their influence, he was one of the most important writers of his time. His first novel, Little Caesar (1929), about the rise and fall of Rico Caesare Bandello of Chicago's Little Italy, was the prototypical gangster saga. It inspired numerous other writers and Hollywood filmmakers, created a new subgenre, and helped make film legends of Edward G. Robinson, James Cagney, and Humphrey Bogart. Public Enemy (1931), They Live by Night (1948), White Heat (1949), The Godfather (1972)--all are direct descendants of Little Caesar.
In addition, Burnett's 1941 classic, High Sierra, added poignant elements of humanity and high tragedy to the gangster story. Similarly, The Asphalt Jungle (1949) and its 1950 film version (Asphalt Jungle) also established a subgenre, that of the "big caper novel," which flourished in the 1950s and 1960s and which still has its proponents and practitioners.
Burnett's novels may fall short of art when judged solely on their literary merits. But as critic George Grella says of Burnett and his work: "He may be the single most successful writer on the notion of the criminal as the emblem of an era. He provides some of the most dynamic and
apposite metaphors for the life of America in the twentieth century."
All the first-rank novels by Burnett were written before 1950. In addition to those cited above, others of note include Dark Hazard (1933), Nobody Lives Forever (1943), and two historicals: Saint Johnson (1930), the first substantive novel about Wyatt Earp and the gunfight at the O.K. Corral (as well as the basis for the 1932 film Beast of the City), and The Dark Command (1938). Such post-1950 novels as Vanity Row (1952), Round the Clock at Volari's (1961), and Good-bye Chicago (1981), his last published fiction, are competent but undistinguished. Between 1931 and 1963, Burnett wrote numerous screenplays not only for "A" films such as High Sierra (1941) with John Huston, and This Gun for Hire (1941), with Albert Maltz, but also for lesser "B" movies.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Novels
Little Caesar (Lincoln MacVeagh/The Dial Press - 1929)
Iron Man (Lincoln MacVeagh/The Dial Press - 1930)
Saint Johnson (Lincoln MacVeagh/The Dial Press - 1930)
The Silver Eagle (Lincoln MacVeagh/The Dial Press - 1931)
The Beast of the City (Grosset & Dunlap - 1932)
The Giant Swing (Harper - 1932)
Dark Hazard (Harper - 1933)
Goodbye to the Past: Scenes from the Life of William Meadows (Harper - 1934)
The Goodhues of Sinking Creek (Harper - 1934)
King Cole (Harper - 1936)
The Dark Command: A Kansas Iliad (Knopf - 1938)
High Sierra (Knopf - 1941)
The Quick Brown Fox (Knopf - 1943)
Nobody Lives Forever (Knopf - 1943)
Tomorrow's Another Day (Knopf - 1946)
Romelle (Knopf - 1947)
The Asphalt Jungle (Knopf - 1949)
Stretch Dawson (Gold Medal - 1950). The film Yellow Sky (1948) was based on an early version of the novel.
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