Beggarman, Thief

by Irwin Shaw

  “Look for yourself,” Rudolph said blindly.

  “You got one last chance to show us where it is, mister,” the man said.

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  The man with the gun was breathing heavily, irregularly, and his eyes were flicking about, reflecting the light from the various lamps fitfully. “What do you say, Elroy?” he asked.

  “Teach the cocksucker a lesson,” Elroy said.

  The man with the gun palmed it in a sudden gesture and swung against Rudolph’s temple. As he crumpled to the floor it seemed to Rudolph that he was falling slowly and not unpleasantly through space and the floor seemed like a beautiful soft bed when he reached it. After a while a voice somewhere far off said, “That’s enough, Elroy, you don’t want to kill the bastard, do you?”

  He was dreaming. Even while he dreamed he knew it was a dream. He was searching for Enid on a beach. There was the roar of breakers. Somehow, there were buses parked on the beach, in an irregular pattern, and people kept running in and out of them, people he didn’t know or recognize, who paid no attention to him, who sometimes blocked him, sometimes dissolved into shadows, as he pushed through them, shouting, “Enid! Enid!” He knew it was a dream but he was tortured just the same because he knew he would never find her. The sense of loss was intolerable.

  Then he awoke. The lights were still on. Now they were a glare that stabbed his eyes. He was lying on the floor, and everything hurt, his head, his groin. It was torture to move. His face was wet. When he put up his hand it came away streaming with blood.

  Around him the room was demolished. All the upholstered chairs and the sofa had been slashed with knives and the stuffing lay like heaps of snow on the floor. The clock was lying, shattered, on the brick apron of the fireplace. Every drawer in the desk and chests and sideboard had been pulled out, their contents thrown around the room. The mirror above the fireplace was splintered into jagged pieces. The wooden chairs and the coffee table and small sideboard had been fractured with the poker from the set of fireplace utensils and the poker itself was bent at a crazy angle. All the bottles from the sideboard had been hurled against the wall and there was broken glass everywhere and a pervading smell of whiskey. The front panel of the piano was leaning against the sofa and the exposed, torn strings hung, broken and loose, over the keyboard, like an animal’s intestines. He tried to look at his watch to see how long he had been lying unconscious, but the watch had been cut away from his wrist and there was an ugly seeping wound there.

  With a gigantic effort, groaning, he crawled to the telephone. He took the instrument off its cradle, listened. It was working. Thank God. It took him what seemed like many minutes to remember Gretchen’s number. Painfully, he dialed. It rang and rang. He lay on the floor with the phone next to his cheek. Finally he heard the phone being picked up at the other end.

  “Hello.” It was Gretchen’s voice.

  “Gretchen,” he said.

  “Where’ve you been?” she said. She sounded cross. “I phoned you at five; you said you’d be back by …”

  “Gretchen,” he said hoarsely, “come over here. Right away. If the door is locked, get a policeman to break it open for you. I …” Then he felt he was falling again. He couldn’t talk anymore. He lay there on the floor with Gretchen’s voice in his ear, crying, “Rudy! Rudy! Rudy, do you hear me …?” Then silence.

  He let himself go all the way and fainted again.

  He was in the hospital for two weeks and he never did get to Nevada with Johnny Heath.

  VOLUME

  THREE

  CHAPTER 1

  He had delivered seventeen dollars’ worth of groceries to Mrs. Wertham from the supermarket and Mrs. Wertham had invited him to have a cup of coffee. Mr. Wertham worked in Mr. Kraler’s bottling plant and that, Wesley thought, bridged the social and sexual gap in Mrs. Wertham’s mind between a comfortably well-off housewife and a sixteen-year-old delivery boy. He had accepted the coffee. It was the last call of the day and he never was served coffee at the Kralers’.

  After the coffee, Mrs. Wertham, coyly, with a certain amount of giggling, told him he was a very handsome young man and invited him into her bed. Coffee was not the only thing he wasn’t being served at the Kralers’ and Mrs. Wertham was a generously built, dyed-blond lady. He accepted that invitation, too.

  The coffee had been good, but the sex better. He had to perform quickly, because the store bike, with the delivery box between the two front wheels, was parked outside, and it was a neighborhood with a lot of kids who could be counted upon to steal anything they could lay their hands on, even a bike with U.M. Supermarket painted in big letters on the box.

  That had been just a month ago. He had made ten deliveries to Mrs. Wertham since then. The orders for groceries in the Wertham household depended upon the fluctuations in Mrs. Wertham’s libido.

  This time, as he was getting dressed, Mrs. Wertham put on a housecoat and sat smiling at him as though she had just had a big, creamy dessert. “You sure are a strong-built young man,” she said admiringly. “You could lift up my husband with one hand.”

  “Thanks, ma’am,” Wesley said, getting into his sweater. He had no desire to lift Mr. Wertham with one hand.

  “I don’t usually do things like this,” Mrs. Wertham said, perhaps forgetting that Wesley knew how to count, “but …” She sighed. “It makes a nice break in the day, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wesley said.

  “It would be a sweet gesture on your part,” Mrs. Wertham said, “if the next time you have to make a delivery here, you just kind of slipped a little present into the package. Half a ham, something like that. I’m always home between three and five.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wesley said ambiguously. That was the last time Mrs. Wertham was going to get him into her bed. “I have to go now. My bike’s outside.…”

  “I understand,” Mrs. Wertham said. “You’ll remember about the ham, won’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wesley said.

  The bike was still downstairs. He swung on it and pedaled, disgusted with himself, toward the post office. Half a ham. She thought he came at bargain prices. It was degrading. He felt he had reached a turning point in his life. From now on he wasn’t going to accept anything just because it was offered. America was full of wonderful girls. The nice, shy one in the Time office in New York, for example, old as she was. He wasn’t going to settle for trash anymore. Outside of Indianapolis there must be a girl somewhere whom he could talk to, admire, laugh with, explain about his father and himself, a girl he could love and feel proud of, a girl who wouldn’t make him feel like a pig after he left her bed. Meanwhile, he decided, he could just wait.

  At the post office there were two letters for him at General Delivery, one from Bunny, the other from Uncle Rudolph. Since he had used Uncle Rudolph’s idea and picked up his mail at General Delivery, he had received letters from Bunny and Kate regularly. They made life in Indianapolis almost bearable. He stuffed the letters in his pocket, unread, because Mr. Citron, the manager of the U.M., always looked at him sharply if Wesley took even five minutes more than Mr. Citron thought was absolutely necessary, and Mrs. Wertham had already put him slightly behind schedule. Mr. Citron, Wesley thought, smiling innocently at the manager when he got back to the store, must have a time clock in his head. Try always to be your own boss, his father had said, it’s the only way of beating the bastards.

  In the stockroom behind the market he took the letters out of his pocket. He opened Bunny’s letter first. His strong, clear handwriting looked as though it were written by a man who weighed over two hundred pounds.

  Dear Wesley,

  The news is that the Clothilde’s been sold for a hundred and ten thousand dollars. More dough for you and Kate and Kate’s kid. Congratulations. Now I can finally tell you that the real owner wasn’t Johnny Heath, as it says in the ship’s papers, but your Uncle Rudolph. He had his reasons for hiding it, I suppose. I
was beginning to think that we’d never sell it. I tried to talk your uncle into letting me change the name, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s got principles. Maybe too many principles. The new owners are German, very nice people; they knew about what happened, but it didn’t seem to bother them. I guess Germans aren’t superstitious. They fell in love with the Clothilde at first sight, the lady told me. They wanted me to stay on as captain, but I decided against it. There’re a lot of reasons and I don’t think I have to tell you what they are.

  I got to know an American couple with two boys aged around 11 and 9 hanging around St. Tropez who have a 43-foot Chris-Craft and they asked me to work it. I’m the only one in crew, but the kids can help clean up and the wife says she don’t mind doing the cooking. The father says he can read a chart and handle the wheel. We’ll see. So I’m still on the good old Mediterranean. It should be ok. It’s nice having two kids on board.

  Heard from Kate. She’s got a job as barmaid in a pub not far from where she lives, so she gets to see a lot of her kid. I guess you know she named him Thomas Jordache.

  Sorry you fell into a pile of shit in Indianapolis. According to your uncle when you’re eighteen you can split. It’s not so far off and time goes fast, so sweat it out and don’t do anything crazy.

  The name of my new ship is the Dolores—that’s the lady’s first name and her home port is St. Tropez, so you can keep writing me here care of the Captain of the Port.

  Well, that’s the news, friend. If you find yourself along the coast, drop in and see me.

  Au revoir,

  Bunny

  Wesley folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope. He’d written Bunny twice asking him if he’d heard anything about Danovic, but Bunny never mentioned him. Time goes fast, Bunny had written. Maybe on the Mediterranean. Not in Indianapolis. There were few things he liked in Indianapolis. One was the big old market building, with its high ceiling and stalls heaped with fruit and vegetables and the smell of baked bread over everything. He went there as often as he could, because it reminded him of the market near the port in Antibes.

  When he opened his uncle’s letter two twenty-dollar bills fell out. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. He hadn’t asked for money—ever—but he was grateful when it came. His uncle had a habit of coming through at odd times for everybody. It was nice, if you could afford it. And Uncle Rudolph obviously could. Don’t rap it. The letter began,

  Dear Wesley,

  Note the address on top of the page. I finally moved out of New York. Since the robbery, the city has lost much of its charm for me and I began to worry, exaggeratedly, I’m sure, for Enid’s safety. I’ve rented this house here in Bridgehampton out on Long Island for a year for a trial run. It’s a quiet, charming community, except in the summer months, when it’s enlivened by artistic and literary folk, and my house is near the beach and just about fifteen minutes’ drive from my ex-wife’s house. Enid stays with her during the school week and visits me on the weekends and with that arrangement no longer needs a nurse to look after her. She is happy in the country and even if it were only for her sake the move would be a good one.

  I’ve fully recovered from the two operations on my face, and although I snort like an old war-horse when I jog along the beach, due to certain rearrangements made on my nasal passages after my accident, I feel fine. The doctors wanted to operate on my nose once more for cosmetic reasons, but I said enough is enough. Gretchen says I look more like your father now, with my flattened nose.

  Gretchen, incidentally, is off on a new career. She finishes with the movie she is cutting with Mr. Kinsella this next week and is launching out as a director, having bought a screenplay that she likes and that I’ve read and liked very much myself. In fact, not knowing just what to do with my money, I am investing in it and counseling Gretchen as tactfully as possible on the business end of the venture. Be careful the next time you see her. She thinks you would have a great success in one of the roles in the movie. We have had almost everything in the family by now, but never a movie star and I’m not sure how that would reflect on the family name.

  I’m afraid that in the to-do after I got beaten up I forgot to keep my promise about sending you the names of some of the people you wanted to know about who might give you information about your father. There’s Johnny Heath, of course, who chartered the Clothilde with his wife. I don’t remember if you were already on board at that time or not. Then there’re Mr. and Mrs. Goodhart, who also chartered the ship in different seasons. I’m writing the addresses on the enclosed sheet of paper. If you want to go as far back as when your father was the age that you are now, there was a boy—now a man, of course—called Claude Tinker, in Port Philip, who was a partner of your father in some of his escapades. The Tinker family, I have heard, is still in Port Philip. Then there’s a man named Theodore Boylan, who must be quite old by now, but who had intimate ties with our family.

  I only saw your father fight professionally once—against a colored boy named Virgil Walters, and perhaps he would have something to remember. Your father had a manager called Schultz and I found him once through Ring Magazine when I wanted to get in touch with your father.

  If other names occur to me I’ll send them along to you. I’m sorry you couldn’t come to visit me this summer and hope you can manage it another time.

  I’m enclosing a little gift to start the new school year with. If by any chance you need more, don’t hesitate to let me know.

  Fondly,

  Rudolph

  Wesley folded the letter and put it back into the envelope, as he had with Bunny’s letter. He writes with an anchor up his ass, Wesley thought. He isn’t like that, there’s just a wall between what he is and what he sounds like. Wesley wished he could like Uncle Rudolph more than he did.

  He gave the two letters to Jimmy when Jimmy came in to help sweep up. Jimmy was the other delivery boy. He was a black, the same age as Wesley. Jimmy kept the photograph of his father in boxing trunks that the lady from Time had given him and whatever letters Wesley got, because Wesley’s mother went through everything in his room at least twice a week looking for signs of sin and whatever else she could find. Letters from his uncle and Kate and Bunny would be incriminating evidence of a giant conspiracy by everybody to rob her of her son’s love, an emotion she spoke about often. Her occasional outbursts of affection were hard to bear. She insisted upon kissing him and hugging him and calling him her sweet baby boy and telling him that if he only got a haircut he would be a beautiful young man and if he would accept the joys of religion he would make his mother blissfully happy and there wasn’t anything she and Mr. Kraler wouldn’t do for him. It wasn’t an act and Wesley knew his mother did love him and want him to be happy—but in her way, not his. Her demonstrativeness left him uneasy and embarrassed. He thought of Kate with longing.

  He never spoke about his mother or Mr. Kraler to Jimmy, although Jimmy was the only friend Wesley had in town. He had avoided all other overtures, except that of Mrs. Wertham, and that didn’t really count. He didn’t want to feel sorry at leaving anything behind when he departed from Indianapolis.

  He didn’t feel like going home for dinner, first of all because he knew the meal would be lousy and second because the house, which had been bad enough before, had been as gloomy as the grave since Mr. Kraler had gotten the telegram saying his son Max had been killed in Vietnam. They were expecting the body home for burial any day now and the time of waiting for it had been like one long funeral.

  He invited Jimmy to have dinner with him. “I can splurge tonight,” he told Jimmy. “My rich uncle came through again.”

  They ate in a little restaurant near the supermarket where you could get a steak dinner for one fifty and where the owner didn’t ask for proof you were of age when you ordered a beer.

  Jimmy wanted to be a rock musician and sometimes he took Wesley over to his house and played his clarinet for him with one of his sisters who played the piano, while his oth
er sister brought in the beers. Jimmy’s sisters treated Jimmy as though he were a precious object, and anybody Jimmy liked they couldn’t do enough for. There was no question of anybody’s robbing them of Jimmy’s love or theirs for him. Jimmy’s crowded warm house, filled with the presence of the two pretty, laughing girls, was another place in Indianapolis that Wesley liked. Indianapolis, with its factories and pale tides of workmen morning and night and its flat expanses of identical houses and its littered streets, made Antibes seem like a suburb of a city in heaven.

  Wesley didn’t tell his mother about Jimmy. She was polite with blacks, but she believed in their keeping their distance, she said. It had something to do with being a Mormon.

  After dinner, he remembered to tell Jimmy that from now on he’d appreciate it if Jimmy would make the deliveries to Mrs. Wertham’s house. He didn’t say why and Jimmy didn’t ask him. That was another good thing about Jimmy—he didn’t ask foolish questions.

  He walked home slowly. There was an unspoken rule that if he got home by nine o’clock there wouldn’t be any hysterical scenes about his tomcatting around town, disgracing his family, like his father. The usual routine was bad enough, but the scenes, especially late at night, tore at his nerves and made it almost impossible for him to get to sleep after them. He had thought again and again of just taking off, but he wanted to give his mother every chance possible. There had to be something there. Once, his father had loved her.

  When he got home, Mr. Kraler was sobbing in the living room and holding his son’s framed photograph. The picture had been taken with Max Kraler in a private’s uniform. He was a thin-faced, sad-eyed boy, who looked as though he knew he was going to be killed before he was twenty-one. Wesley’s mother took him into the hallway and whispered that Mr. Kraler had received notice that Max’s body was going to arrive in two days and had spent the afternoon making funeral arrangements. “Be nice to him, please,” she said. “He loved his boy. He wants you to get a haircut tomorrow and go with me to buy a new dark suit for the funeral.”