by Irwin Shaw
He didn’t like to drink, and the members, as they downed their post-exercise whiskies at the bar, commented favorably on that, too.
There was no plan to his behavior; he wasn’t looking for anything; he just knew that it was better to ingratiate himself with the solid citizens who patronized the club than not. He had knocked around too much, a stray in America, getting into trouble and always finishing in brawls that sent him on the road again. Now the peace and security and approval of the club were welcome to him. It wasn’t a career, he told himself, but it was a good year. He wasn’t ambitious. When Dominic talked vaguely of his signing up for some amateur bouts just to see how good he was, he put the old fighter off.
When he got restless he would go downtown and pick up a whore and spend the night with her, honest money for honest services, and no complications in the morning.
He even liked the city of Boston, or at least as much as he had ever liked any place, although he didn’t travel around it much by daylight, as he was pretty sure that there was an assault and battery warrant out for him as a result of the last afternoon at the garage in Brookline, when the foreman had come at him with a monkey wrench. He had gone right back to his rooming house that afternoon and packed and got out in ten minutes, telling his landlady he was heading for Florida. Then he had booked into the Y.M.C.A. and lain low for a week, until he had seen the article in the newspaper about Dominic.
He had his likes and dislikes among the members, but was careful to be impartially pleasant to all of them. He didn’t want to get involved with anybody. He had had enough involvements. He tried not to know too much about any of the members, but of course it was impossible not to form opinions, especially when you saw a man naked, his pot belly swelling, or his back scratched by some dame from his last go in bed, or taking it badly when he was losing a silly game of squash.
Dominic hated all the members equally, but only because they had money and he didn’t. Dominic had been born and brought up in Boston and his a was as flat as anybody’s, but in spirit he was still working by the day in a landlord’s field in Sicily, plotting to burn down the landlord’s castle and cut the throats of the landlord’s family. Naturally, he concealed his dreams of arson and murder behind the most cordial of manners, always telling the members how well they looked when they came back after a vacation, marveling about how much weight they seemed to have lost, and being solicitous about aches and sprains.
“Here comes the biggest crook in Massachusetts,” Dominic would whisper to Thomas, as an important-looking, gray-haired gentleman came into the locker room, and then, aloud, to the member, “Why, sir, it’s good to see you back. We’ve missed you. I guess you’ve been working too hard.”
“Ah, work, work,” the man would say, shaking his head sadly.
“I know how it is, sir.” Dominic would shake his head, too. “Come on down and I’ll give you a nice turn on the weights and then you take a steam and a swim and a massage and you’ll get all the kinks out and sleep like a babe tonight.”
Thomas watched and listened carefully, learning from Dominic, useful dissembler. He liked the stony-hearted ex-pug, committed deep within him, despite all blandishments, to anarchy and loot.
Thomas also liked a man by the name of Reed, a hearty, easy-going president of a textile concern, who played squash with Thomas and insisted upon going onto the courts with him, even when there were other members hanging around waiting for a game. Reed was about forty-five and fairly heavy, but still played well and he and Thomas split their matches most of the time, Reed winning the early games and just losing out when he began to tire. “Young legs, young legs,” Reed would say laughing, wiping the sweat off his face with a towel, as they walked together toward the showers after an hour on the courts. They played three times a week, regularly, and Reed always offered Thomas a Coke after they had cooled off and slipped him a five-dollar bill each time. He had one peculiarity. He always carried a hundred-dollar bill neatly folded in the right-hand pocket of his jacket. “A hundred-dollar bill saved my life once,” Reed told Thomas. He had been caught in a dreadful fire one night in a night club, in which many people had perished. Reed had been lying under a pile of bodies near the door, hardly able to move, his throat too seared to cry out. He had heard the firemen dragging at the pile of bodies and with his last strength he had dug into his pants pocket, where he kept a hundred-dollar bill. He had managed to drag the bill out and work one arm free. His hand, waving feebly, with the bill clutched in it, had been seen. He had felt the money being taken from his grasp and then a fireman had moved the bodies lying on him and dragged him to safety. He had spent two weeks in the hospital, unable to talk, but he had survived, with a firm faith in the power of a single one-hundred-dollar bill. When possible, he advised Thomas, he should always try to have a hundred-dollar bill in a convenient pocket.
He also told Thomas to save his money and invest in the stock market, because young legs did not remain young forever.
The trouble came when he had been there three months. He sensed that something was wrong when he went to his locker to change after a late game of squash with Brewster Reed. There were no obvious signs, but he somehow knew somebody had been in there going through his clothes, looking for something. His wallet was half out of the back pocket of his trousers, as though it had been taken out and hastily stuffed back. Thomas took the wallet out and opened it. There had been four five-dollar bills in it and they were still there. He put the five-dollar bill Reed had tipped him into the wallet and slipped the wallet back in place. In the side pocket of his trousers there were some three dollars in bills and change, which had also been there before he had gone to the courts. A magazine which he had been reading and which he remembered putting front cover up on the top shelf was now spread open on the shelf.
For a moment Thomas thought of locking up, but then he thought, hell, if there’s anybody in this club so poor he has to steal from me, he’s welcome. He undressed, put his shoes in the locker, wrapped himself in a towel and went to the shower room, where Brewster Reed was already happily splashing around.
When he came back after the shower, there was a note pinned onto the inside of the locker door. It was in Dominic’s handwriting and it read, “I want you in my office after closing time. D. Agostino.”
The curtness of the message, the fact of its being written at all when he and Dominic passed each other ten times an afternoon, meant trouble. Something official, planned. Here we go again, he thought and almost was ready to finish dressing and quietly slip away, once and for all. But he decided against it, had his dinner in the kitchen, and afterward chatted unconcernedly with the squash pro and Charley in the locker room. Promptly at ten o’clock, when the club closed, he presented himself at Dominic’s office.
Dominic was reading a copy of Life, slowly turning the pages on his desk. He looked up, closed the magazine and put it neatly to one side of the desk. He got up and looked out into the hall to make sure it was empty, then closed his office door. “Sit down, kid,” he said.
Thomas sat down and waited while Dominic sat down opposite him behind the desk.
“What’s up?” Thomas asked.
“Plenty,” Dominic said. “The shit is hitting the fan. I’ve been getting reamed out all day.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Dominic said. “No use beatin’ around the bush, kid. Somebody’s been lifting dough out of people’s wallets. Some smart guy who takes a bill here and there and leaves the rest. These fat bastards here’re so rich most of ’em don’t even know what they have in their pockets and if they do happen to miss an odd ten or twenty here or there, they think maybe they lost it or they made a mistake the last time they counted. But one guy is sure he don’t make no mistakes. That bastard Greening. He says a ten-dollar bill was lifted from his locker while he was working out with me yesterday and he’s been on the phone all day today talking to other members and now suddenly every
body’s sure he’s been robbed blind the last few months.”
“Still, what’s that got to do with me?” Thomas said, although he knew what it had to do with him.
“Greening figured out that it’s only begun since you came to work here.”
“That big shit,” Thomas said bitterly. Greening was a cold-eyed man of about thirty who worked in a stock broker’s office and who boxed with Dominic. He had fought light-heavy for some school out West and kept in shape and took no pity on Dominic, but went after him savagely for three two-minute rounds four times a week. After his sessions with Greening, Dominic, who didn’t dare really to counter hard, was often bruised and exhausted.
“He’s a shit all right,” Dominic said. “He made me search your locker this afternoon. It’s a lucky thing you didn’t happen to have any ten-dollar bills there. Even so, he wants to call the police and have you booked on suspicion.”
“What did you say to that?” Thomas asked.
“I talked him out of it,” Dominic said. “I said I’d have a word with you.”
“Well, you’re having a word with me,” Thomas said. “Now what?”
“Did you take the dough?”
“No. Do you believe me?”
Dominic shrugged warily. “I don’t know. Somebody sure as hell took it.”
“A lot of people walk around the locker room all day. Charley, the guy from the pool, the pro, the members, you …”
“Cut it out, kid,” Dominic said. “I don’t want no jokes.”
“Why pick on me?” Thomas asked.
“I told you. It only started since you came to work here: Ah, Christ, they’re talking about putting padlocks on all the lockers. Nobody’s ever locked anything here for a hundred years. The way they talk they’re in the middle of the biggest crime wave since Jesse James.”
“What do you want me to do? Quit?”
“Naah.” Dominic shook his head. “Just be careful. Keep in somebody’s sight all the time.” He sighed. “Maybe it’ll all blow over. That bastard Greening and his lousy ten bucks … Come on out with me.” He stood up wearily and stretched. “I’ll buy you a beer. What a lousy day.”
The locker room was empty when Thomas came through the door. He had been sent out to the post office with a package and he was in his street clothes. There was an interclub squash match on and everybody was upstairs watching it. Everybody but one of the members called Sinclair, who was on the team, but who had not yet played his match. He was dressed, ready to play, and was wearing a white sweater. He was a tall, slender young man who had a law degree from Harvard and whose father was also a member of the club. The family had a lot of money and their name was in the papers often. Young Sinclair worked in his father’s law office in the city and Thomas had overheard older men in the club saying that young Sinclair was a brilliant lawyer and would go far.
But right now, as Thomas came down the aisle silently in his tennis shoes, young Sinclair was standing in front of an open locker and he had his hand in the inside pocket of the jacket hanging there and he was deftly taking out a wallet. Thomas wasn’t sure whose locker it was, but he knew it wasn’t Sinclair’s, because Sinclair’s locker was only three away from his own on the other side of the room. Sinclair’s face, which was usually cheerful and ruddy, was pale and tense and he was sweating.
For a moment, Thomas hesitated, wondering if he could turn and get away before Sinclair saw him. But just as Sinclair got the wallet out, he looked up and saw Thomas. They stared at each other. Then it was too late to back away. Thomas moved quickly toward the man and grabbed his wrist. Sinclair was panting, as though he had been running a great distance.
“You’d better put that back, sir,” Thomas whispered.
“All right,” Sinclair said. “I’ll put it back.” He whispered, too.
Thomas did not release his wrist. He was thinking fast. If he denounced Sinclair, on one excuse or another he would lose his job. It would be too uncomfortable for the other members to be subjected daily to the presence of a lowly employee who had disgraced one of their own. If he didn’t denounce him … Thomas played for time. “You know, sir,” he said, “they suspect me.”
“I’m sorry.” Thomas could feel the man trembling, but Sinclair didn’t try to pull away.
“You’re going to do three things,” Thomas said. “You’re going to put the wallet back and you’re going to promise to lay off from now on.”
“I promise, Tom. I’m very grateful …”
“You’re going to show just how grateful you are, Mr. Sinclair,” Thomas said. “You’re going to write out an IOU for five thousand dollars to me right now and you’re going to pay me in cash within three days.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Sinclair said, sweat standing out on his forehead.
“All right,” Thomas said. “I’ll start yelling.”
“I bet you would, you little bastard,” Sinclair said.
“I’ll meet you in the bar of the Hotel Touraine, Thursday night at eleven o’clock,” Thomas said. “Pay night.”
“I’ll be there.” Sinclair’s voice was so low that Thomas could barely hear it. He dropped the man’s hand and watched as Sinclair put the wallet back into the jacket pocket. Then he took out a small notebook in which he kept a record of petty expenses he laid out on errands and opened it to a blank page and handed Sinclair a pencil.
Sinclair looked down at the open notebook thrust under his nose. If he could steady his nerves, Thomas knew, he could just walk away and if Thomas told anybody the story he could laugh it off. But never completely laugh it off. Anyway, his nerves were shot. He took the notebook, scribbled in it.
Thomas glanced at the page, put the notebook in his pocket and took back the pencil. Then he gently closed the locker door and went upstairs to watch the squash.
Fifteen minutes later Sinclair came onto the court and beat his opponent in straight games.
In the locker room later, Thomas congratulated him on his victory.
He got to the bar of the Touraine at five to eleven. He was dressed in a suit with a collar and tie. Tonight he wanted to pass for a gentleman. The bar was dark and only a third full. He carefully sat down at a table in a corner, where he could watch the entrance. When the waiter came over to him, he ordered a bottle of Bud-weiser. Five thousand dollars, he thought, five thousand … They had taken that amount from his father and he was taking it back from them. He wondered if Sinclair had had to go to his father to get the money and had had to explain why he needed it. Probably not. Probably Sinclair had so much dough in his own name he could lay his hands on five thousand cash in ten minutes. Thomas had nothing against Sinclair. Sinclair was a pleasant young man, with nice, friendly eyes and a soft voice and good manners who from time to time had given him some pointers on how to play drop shots in squash and whose life would be ruined if it became known he was a kleptomaniac. The system had just worked out that way.
He sipped at his beer, watching the door. At three minutes after eleven, the door opened and Sinclair came in. He peered around the dark room and Thomas stood up. Sinclair came over to the table and Thomas said, “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Tom,” Sinclair said evenly and sat down on the banquette, but without taking off his topcoat.
“What are you drinking?” Thomas asked, as the waiter came over.
“Scotch and water, please,” Sinclair said with his polite, Harvard way of talking.
“And another Bud, please,” said Thomas.
They sat in silence for a moment, side by side on the banquette. Sinclair drummed his fingers briefly on the table, scanning the room. “Do you come here often?” he asked.
“Once in awhile.”
“Do you ever see anybody from the Club here?”
“No.”
The waiter came over and put down their drinks. Sinclair took a thirsty gulp from his glass. “Just for your information,” Sinclair said, “I don’t take the money because I need it.”
�
��I know,” Thomas said.
“I’m sick,” Sinclair said. “It’s a disease. I’m going to a psychiatrist.”
“That’s smart of you,” Thomas said.
“You don’t mind doing what you’re doing to a sick man?”
“No,” Thomas said. “No, sir.”
“You’re a hard little son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“I hope so, sir,” said Thomas.
Sinclair opened his coat and reached inside and brought out a long, full envelope. He put it down on the banquette between himself and Thomas. “It’s all there,” he said. “You needn’t bother to count it.”
“I’m sure it’s all there,” Thomas said. He slipped the envelope into his side pocket.
“I’m waiting,” Sinclair said. Thomas took out the IOU and put it on the table. Sinclair glanced at it, tore it up and stuffed the shreds into an ashtray. He stood up. “Thanks for the drink,” he said. He walked toward the door past the bar, a handsome young man, the marks of breeding, gentility, education, and good luck clearly on him.
Thomas watched him go out and slowly finished his beer. He paid for the drinks and went into the lobby and rented a room for the night. Upstairs, with the door locked and the blinds down, he counted the money. It was all in hundred-dollar bills, all new. It occurred to him that they might be marked, but he couldn’t tell.
He slept well in the big double bed and in the morning called the Club and told Dominic that he had to go to New York on family business and wouldn’t be in until Monday afternoon. He hadn’t taken any days off since he’d started working at the Club, so Dominic had to say okay, but no later than Monday.
It was drizzling when the train pulled into the station and the gray, autumnal drip didn’t make Port Philip look any better as Thomas went out of the station. He hadn’t brought his coat, so he put up the collar of his jacket to try to keep the rain from going down his neck.
The station square didn’t look much different. The Port Philip House had been repainted and a big radio and television shop in a new, yellow-brick building was advertising a sale in portable radios. The smell of the river was still the same and Tom remembered it.