Herman Wouk - Don't Stop The Carnival

by Don't Stop The Carnival(Lit)

  Norman, busy as he was, insisted on driving Klug to the airport himself. Hazel came along, of course, as sweet and gay as the Sending was acid and morose. Her display of affection at the plane gate was touching. She kissed him several times, and clung to him, and put a handkerchief repeatedly to her eyes. "I wish you'd change your mind," she said as the loudspeaker announced the plane's departure. "Please, Sheldon. Promise me you'll come back after you've been decompressed."

  "I don't think I can afford it. A round trip down here costs a fortune, Hazel, and to tell the truth I'm just sour on the West Indies." He put an arm around her and groaned. "God, this elbow. It feels like it's full of broken glass. Goodbye, darling. See you in New York."

  And so the Sending departed. It *vas the day after Christmas. Norman watched the plane snarl off the runway, and sighed and smiled. "Nobody will ever convince me after this," he said, "that there isn't a Santa Claus. The thing is, Santa moves in a mysterious way. But he grinds exceeding small."

  "I never heard such nonsense. I hate you," Hazel said, putting away her handkerchief. "My vacation is ruined, and I'm heartbroken."

  "Where did you say you're meeting Bob? The sub base?"

  "No, he said he'd have the boat at the Old Mill landing. It's closer." Hazel glanced at her watch. "My gosh, we're late, let's step on it."

  Norman turned Hazel over to Cohn and four other brown swimmers in a navy boat tied up near the airport, and returned to town. He was driving along Prince of Wales Street in an unusually happy mood, when a few feet ahead of him on the crowded narrow thoroughfare, a taxi abruptly stopped; and the driver poked out his head to discuss life with a passing girl. It was second nature to Paperman by now to watch for this general Kinjan custom; he jammed on his brakes in good time, and silently waited. Blowing the horn in such circumstances was considered rude.

  "Mister Paper-mon. Well, this is luck-ee." The banker Llewellyn halted on the sidewalk, putting his hand on the window of the Rover. "Here you are, and I've been trying for an hour to call you and Mr. Ot-loss at the Club."

  "Why, Lester is there."

  "So they told me, but he was on the long distance phone for ever so long, and then I couldn't reach him. I want to congratulate both of you. You are the proud owners of Crab Cove."

  "We are?" Norman was nonplussed by this news, Crab Cove being the furthest thing from his mind.

  "The bids were opened this morning. Mr. Ot-loss is a clever man. He bid three hundred and sixty-five thousand. The closest bid was only twenty-five hundred less. I was sure he would bid at least four hundred thousand. The property is worth far more than that. Very shrewd, very able."

  Cars were lining up behind Norman. Ahead of the cab, the traffic lane was empty all the way to the waterfront, but the driver's chat with the giggling girl seemed to be just getting started. Norman ventured a honk, and was rewarded by two glares. However, the driver shifted gears, and talked a little faster and louder.

  "I'll tell Lester, of course," he said to the banker. "He'll be pleased."

  "You might tell him that it would be extremely practical to come in tomorrow to execute the papers. It is Thursday, so we'll only be open till noon."

  "How about today? There's still time."

  "Ah, but today is Boxing Day. Friday is Carnival Parade, Monday and Tuesday are New Year, Wednesday is Columbus Day, and it'll be a whole week to wait if he doesn't come in tomorrow morning."

  "Columbus Day? Right after New Year? It's in October," Norman protested.

  "We have an old Kinjan tradition," said the banker, "that Columbus stopped here for fresh water on the second of January."

  Norman could still hear the banker's jolly laugh as he drove off, leading a long procession of cars.

  It was lunch time when he got back to the Club. Atlas wasn't in sight on the dining terrace. He didn't answer a room call. Norman went to the bar and there Lester was slumped on a stool with his head on his arms, naked except for flowered swimming trunks.

  "What's this?" Norman said in a low voice to Church.

  The bartender scratched his beard. "I guess he's asleep, sir. Or-or passed out, you might say. He's just had four double bourbons in a row. He drank them sort of fast."

  Norman put a hand on his shoulder. Atlas smelled rankly of whiskey, cigars, and locker room. "Lester? How about having some lunch with me? There's good news, and we ought to celebrate. Maybe open a bottle of champagne?"

  Lester raised his head and looked at Paperman, his bloodshot eyes half closed, his jaw hanging, his lower lip pulled in, all the heavy lines on his gray face creased and sagging. "Good news? There's no good news. What good news?"

  "You bid in Crab Cove."

  Atlas stared, then an understanding light flickered dully in his eyes. "We did?" His voice was hardly more than a croak. "What was the next lower bid? Do you know?"

  "It was twenty-five hundred dollars under yours."

  "Son of a bitch." The old truth teller haggardly smiled. "Really? And I was this close to bidding four hundred thousand." He pulled himself erect. "I knew there was nobody with enough brains around here to make a sensible bid, Norm. It's a steal. I took a chance and saved us thirty-five thousand dollars. And you'll get your finder's fee and you can buy off old Amy Ball with it. You're right. It's good news." He nodded his head heavily, and his melancholy smile faded. "Good news.

  Real good news. Let's have a drink. -Boy! Bring us a couple of drinks over there." He seized Norman's arm and stumbled with him to a corner table. He fell in a chair, lit a cigar with wandering gestures, then put his head on his arm on the table again.

  Paperman had never seen Atlas in this state; and he had more than once seen him drink a whole bottle of bourbon in an evening. When the drinks came Lester sat up, took a small sip, and sighed piteously. "I'm getting old, Norm. I don't know. I guessed right on Crab Cove. But I sure guessed wrong on that Montana situation. Norm"-Atlas leaned forward, putting his arm around Paperman's shoulder in a feeble parody of his usual charm routine-"I told you about Montana, didn't I? How I was buying stock, competing against another outfit for control, Norm, and the price was going up and up?"

  "Sure, but you said you had no problem because you were stronger than your competitors."

  "That's what I said, and that's what I thought, and Norm, let this be a lesson to you, Norm. Those Montana bankers and politicians were either awfully good at playing dumb, or awfully dumb, or the biggest liars in the world, or all three. Norm, do you know who I was fighting against for control of that company?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Norm, I was fighting the Anaconda Copper Corporation." He gave Paperman a clumsy hug and released him. Atlas was smiling like a dazed boxer on the floor. "Ever hear of them? The snotnose from Longfellow Avenue was taking on Anaconda Copper. That's what I just found out from St Louis. I've been had, Norm."

  "How bad is it, Lester? You're not in trouble?"

  Atlas laughed harshly. "Me? Listen, mister, if my whole structure collapses, if everything goes sour, every single thing I've got a hand in, I dust myself off and walk away. I've got a company in North Carolina that makes kids' clothes, and an electronics outfit in Oregon, small corporations you never heard of-these I never touch, and on these I live and can go right on living. No, Norm, I'm kind of clean right this minute. But if I die tomorrow, what does it amount to? Three or four million less to leave to a couple of daughters who are set for life anyway, and who can't stand me. So what? I haven't been hurt. I've been had."

  "Will you go ahead with Crab Cove?"

  "Hell, YES." Atlas brought his big fist down on the table, and the glasses jumped. "I took a licking like this in 'fifty-two and I came back. One of the ways I'm coming back is with Caribbean real estate, and by God, we're going to be a winning team, Norm. We're starting out lucky with Crab Cove. That's the sign. This Caribbean's one big uranium lode and we're still in ahead of the mob. -Boy! Double Old Granddad."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Tilson Party

&nb
sp; I

  Paperman opened his eyes on the morning of Thursday, December 27th, excited and anxious, without knowing why; as a man will wake on his wedding day in a boil of emotions, before the reason for his turmoil dawns on him. This was the day of the Tilson party. It was eight in the morning. Henny lay beside him in blue, lacy baby-doll pajamas, sound asleep. Even in repose her face had the humorous, satirical, slightly bitter cast that had captivated him two decades ago. He considered romantic overtures, here and now. Henny often voiced sleepy objections in the morning, but could be persuaded to forget them. Norman didn't want to go downstairs and face the oncoming Tilson party. He had double-checked all arrangements the night before. So far as he knew, everything was in order. Supplies and personnel were converging on the hotel by now-chairs from the undertaker, tables from the Eagle Republican Club, steaks and other fragile New York delicacies from the freezer plant, extra kitchen maids, waiters, and waitresses from all over Amerigo-an operation like the invasion of Normandy, already in motion beyond recall. It was a tempting notion to blot out an hour or so of this portentous day with a little love-making. But Norman got himself out of bed, and shaved and dressed, leaving Henny in peace. Sheila might need him for some small thing. Downstairs he went.

  He had only to step into the lobby to see that this was no ordinary day at the Gull Reef Club. The red-and-gilt chairs from the undertaker, two hundred of them, towered in stacks along one wall. Negroes with unfamiliar faces paraded through the lobby toward the kitchen, shouldering cases of beer and champagne, or boxes of rattling soda bottles, or smoking freezer cartons, or baskets of fresh vegetables; coming back, they chattered, laughed, and wiped their perspiring faces. On the wide center wall, a poster blared in Church's flamboyant style, red script letters on gold:

  Now Hear This! COOKOUT AND DANCE ON LOVERS' BEACH!!

  (Northeast Side, Gull Reef Club) Exclusive for Club Guests Only Tonight

  From 5:30 p.m. until--?

  Steel Band, Drinks, Charcoal-Broiled Chickens and Steaks with All Fixings

  Everything on the House!

  Dress: No Shoes, No Ties, No Shirts, No Nothing (Well, maybe trunks or bikinis. Police, you know.)

  EXTRA ADDED ATTRACTION!!

  Death-Defying Leap of Six Intrepid Navy

  Parachutists!! From an Airplane at 10,000 Feet,

  Directly into the Waters off Lovers' Beach!

  Promptly at 6:30.' Be There!

  Talk to the Daredevils afterward. Get their autographs! They're the Honored Guests of the

  Gull Reef Cookout!

  Your host, Norman Paperman

  Below all this, in very small black print, were these words:

  (Regular bar and dining terrace reserved tonight for private party. Hotel service at cookout only.')

  Tom Tilson sat in an armchair, stooped and red-faced, reading the placard.

  "Hello there!" he shouted, waving his stick at Norman and then at the poster. "Paperman, I used to have my doubts about you, but so help me I'm beginning to think you've got a flair for running a hotel. This is inspired."

  "We had to do something," Paperman said.

  "It's great! How in the devil did you get the UDT to put on an air show for you?"

  "Well, my daughter-she hangs around with them-told me these fellows were planning a water jump this week. I called the commanding officer and said if they'd jump at Lovers' Beach tonight, I'd give the team drinks and a steak dinner. They're delighted and it sort of saved us. The main problem of your party was getting the hotel crowd out from under foot."

  "Of course. And they'll be out there to the last man. Damn keen thinking! I've been talking to Sheila, and I must say I've never seen a better-organized affair. You've thought of everything, Paperman. This is going to be the best damned party anyone ever had on this miserable island. I'm thoroughly pleased."

  "Well, thank you," Paperman said. "We haven't had the party yet."

  Tilson wrinkled his face at him. "By the bye, who's 'the fot porson'?"

  "Eh? What? Who talked to you about him?" One of Norman's worries about tonight was that Lester Atlas might erupt into the Tilson party and scatter it like a crazed elephant. Lester had been drinking without cease since the Anaconda Copper disclosure, and there was no telling what state he was in by now.

  "Why, Sheila just told me that a 'fot porson' threw Hippolyte off the place. I've been hearing rumors from the Montmartre bar, too. My gardener does his boozing there. He says Hippolyte's been drinking himself blind night after night, and telling everybody he's getting ready to kill 'the fot porson' at the Gull Reef Club."

  "He's Lester Atlas," Norman said, trying to put a calm face on his alarm. "You remember, the fellow I came down with originally. He's here for Christmas."

  "Oh, that one. The big tycoon. The fellow they wrote up in Time. I sure do remember him." Tilson pushed himself out of his chair with a grunt, leaning both hands on his stick. "Ha! Quite an encounter. Diamond cut diamond. I'd like to see it, but not tonight, please. The ladies won't appreciate it."

  "Has Hippolyte talked of coming here tonight?"

  "Well, I didn't hear that he specified a time."

  "Maybe I'd better ask for police protection," Norman said.

  "From Hippolyte?" Tilson laughed. "A Kinja cop? He'd simply warm up by whacking off the cop's head, then he'd look for your friend. Just make damn sure your people have orders not to let Hippolyte across in the gondola, if he shows. The other idea might be to put Atlas over on the shore, and let Hippolyte chase him around Amerigo all night. That would keep Hippolyte out of our hair. Give it some thought. Hee hee!"

  Tilson stumped off, uttering senile chuckles. Norman, not at all amused, went to the kitchen, where Sheila stood amid scampering scullery maids and new-hired male helpers, issuing orders right and left. She was strangely calm and cheery amid the chaos flooding the kitchen and spilling out into the hallway: bottles, bloody meats, cases, cartons, tumbled fruits and vegetables, giant gleaming new pots, all piled along temporary tables set up on sawhorses. A lunch with a savory Italian smell was already steaming in the old saucepans and cauldrons.

  "It look like one big confusion, don't it, Mistuh Papermon?" she said, laughing. "It all gon' come out not bad. We just layin' everyting out. We start de canapes when de girls clear off de lunch, and den-"

  "Did the grill come for Lovers' Beach?"

  "Yassuh, de Francis Drake cook, she did send it over first ting. We gettin' a Carnival boot', too, for de drinks at de cookout. Everyting okay, only I don't know where is Church. Church say he come six o'clock dis morning. He ain' come yet. Church he suppose start fixin' de bar down to de beach. I got him tree helpers, dey just waitin'."

  "I'll hunt him up."

  Church was nowhere in the hotel. Esm‚ hadn't heard from him, she said, but the hospital had telephoned three times this morning. Dr. Tracy Pullman urgently wanted to talk to Mr. Paperman. "He say someting about a bartender, I tink. I din' understand good," said Esm‚, fluttering her eyes away and down. The subject of Church somewhat embarrassed her.

  "Call him back. I'll talk to him in the office." It occurred to Norman that the Nevis girl now looked very, very pregnant. Without fail he would send her home tomorrow. Once past the Tilson party, he could clean up all these matters.

  "Yes? Dr. Tracy Pullman speaking."

  "Hello, this is Norman Paperman at the Gull Reef Club."

  "Ah yes. Mr. Paperman, I've been trying to reach you." Dr. Pullman had a powerful baritone voice, and sounded much like his brother, the absent senator. "Tell me, did you have in your employ a young fellow named Church Wagner? Good-looking white boy, with a beard?"

  "Did I? I still do. Has something happened to him? He's missing this morning."

  "He is, eh? Ah-Mr. Paperman, are there any ladies present there with you?"

  "Ladies? I'm alone in my office."

  "Good. Now you know about this little group of girls, seven of them, from our finest families, who are home for the holidays-the Sand
Witches, I understand they call themselves?"

  "Yes."

  "You do? Ah. Well! Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Paperman, the plain fact is, that Church Wagner has given six of the seven Sand Witches the clap."

  Paperman groaned as though he had been stabbed. "The clap? The clap?"