Rich Man, Poor Man

by Irwin Shaw

  When he returned to Gretchen and gave her her glass, she made a face. “Gin and tonic. I hate it.”

  “If Jean happens to come up on deck, we can pretend it’s just plain tonic. It disguises the smell of the gin.”

  “You hope,” Gretchen said.

  They drank. “It’s Evans’s favorite drink,” Gretchen said. “Among our many points of difference.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “The same,” she said carelessly. “A little worse each year, but the same. I suppose I ought to quit him, but he needs me. He doesn’t want me so damned much, but he needs me. Maybe needing is better than wanting at my age.”

  Jean came on deck, in tight, low-waisted pink denim pants and a pale-blue cashmere sweater. She glanced at the glasses in their hands but didn’t say anything.

  “How’s Enid?” Rudolph asked.

  “Sleeping the sleep of the just. She asked if Kate and Uncle Thomas got to keep the rings they gave each other.” She shivered. “I’m cold,” she said and snuggled up against Rudolph’s shoulder. He kissed her cheek.

  “Fee-fie-fo-fum,” Jean said. “I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

  The tonic hadn’t fooled her. Not for an instant.

  “One drop,” she said.

  Rudolph hesitated. If he had been alone, he would have held onto his glass. But Gretchen was there, watching them. He couldn’t humiliate his wife in front of his sister. He gave Jean the glass. She took a tiny sip, then handed the glass back to him.

  Dwyer came out on deck and began to set the table for dinner, putting out little weighted brass hurricane lamps with candles in them. The table was always tastefully set on board, with the candles at night and straw place mats and a little bowl of flowers and a wooden salad bowl. Somehow, Rudolph thought, watching Dwyer work, neat in his pressed chino pants and blue sweater, somehow among the three of them they have developed a sense of style. The candles winked in their glasses, like captured fireflies, making small, warm pools of light in the center of the big, scrubbed table.

  Suddenly, there was a dull, thudding noise against the hull and a chattering under the stern. The boat throbbed unevenly and there was a clanking below decks before Wesley could cut the engines. Dwyer ran to the after rail and peered at the wake, pale in the dark sea.

  “Damn it,” he said, pointing, “we hit a log. See it?”

  Rudolph could see a dim shadow floating behind him, just a bare two or three inches protruding from the water. Thomas came running out, barefooted and bare chested, but clutching a sweater. Kate was on his heels.

  “We hit a log,” Dwyer said to him. “One or maybe both of the screws.”

  “Are we going to sink?” Jean asked. She sounded frightened. “Should I get Enid?”

  “Leave her alone, Jean,” Thomas said calmly. “We’re not going to sink.” He pulled on his sweater and went into the pilot house and took the wheel. The ship had lost way and was swinging a little in the light wind, bobbing against the swell. Thomas started the port engine. It ran normally and the propeller turned smoothly. But when he started the starboard engine there was a metallic clanking below and the Clothilde throbbed irregularly. Thomas cut the starboard engine and they moved forward slowly. “It’s the starboard propeller. And maybe the shaft, too,” he said.

  Wesley was near tears. “Pa,” he said, “I’m sorry. I just didn’t see it.”

  Thomas patted the boy’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Wes,” he said. “Really not. Look into the engine room and see if we’re taking any water in the bilge.” He cut the port engine and in a moment they were drifting again. “A wedding present from the Med,” he said, but without bitterness. He filled a pipe and lighted it and put his arm around his wife and waited for Wesley to come up on deck.

  “Dry,” Wesley said.

  “She’s solid,” Thomas said. “The old Clothilde.” Then he noticed the glasses in Rudolph’s and Gretchen’s hands. “We continuing the celebration?” he asked.

  “Just one drink,” Rudolph said.

  Thomas nodded. “Wesley,” he said, “take the wheel. We’re going back to Antibes. On the port engine. Keep the revs low and watch the oil and water gauges. If the pressure drops or it begins to heat up, cut it right away.”

  Rudolph could sense that Thomas would have preferred to take the wheel himself, but he wanted to make sure that Wesley didn’t feel guilty about the accident.

  “Well, folks,” Thomas said as Wesley started the engine and slowly swung the Clothilde’s bow around, “I’m afraid there goes Portofino.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” Rudolph said. “Worry about the boat.”

  “There’s nothing we can do tonight,” Thomas said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll put on the masks and go down and take a look. If it’s what I think it is, it’ll mean waiting for a new screw and maybe a new shaft and putting her up on land to fit them. I could go on to Villefranche, but I get a better deal from the yard in Antibes.”

  “That’s all right,” Jean said. “We all love Antibes.”

  “You’re a nice girl,” Thomas said to Jean. “Now, why don’t we all sit down and have our dinner?”

  They could only do four knots on the one engine and Antibes harbor was silent and dark as they entered it. No horns greeted their arrival and no flowers were strewn in their wake.

  IV

  There was a small, insistent tapping sound in his dream and as he swam up from sleep Thomas thought, Pappy is at the door. He opened his eyes, saw that he was in his bunk with Kate sleeping beside him. He had rigged up another section to the lower bunk so that he and Kate could sleep comfortably together. The new section could be folded back during the day, to give them room to walk around the small cabin.

  The tapping continued. “Who’s there?” he whispered. He didn’t want to wake Kate.

  “It’s me,” came the answering whisper. “Pinky Kimball.”

  “In a minute,” Thomas said. He didn’t turn on the light, but dressed in the dark. Kate slept deeply, worn out by the day’s activities.

  Barefoot, in sweater and pants, Thomas cautiously opened the cabin door and went out into the gangway, where Pinky was waiting for him. There was a huge smell of drink coming from Pinky, but it was too dark in the gangway for Thomas to tell just how drunk he was. He led the way up to the pilot house, past the cabin where Dwyer and Wesley slept. He looked at his watch. Two-fifteen on the phosphorescent dial. Pinky stumbled a little going up the ladder. “What the hell is it, Pinky?” Thomas asked irritably.

  “I just came from Cannes,” Pinky said thickly.

  “So what? Do you always wake up people when you come from Cannes?”

  “You got to listen to me, mate,” Pinky said. “I saw your sister-in-law in Cannes.”

  “You’re drunk, Pinky,” Thomas said disgustedly. “Go to sleep.”

  “In pink pants. Listen, why would I say a thing like that if I didn’t glom her? I saw her all day, didn’t I? I’m not that drunk. I can recognize a woman I see all day, can’t I? I was surprised and went up to her and I said I thought you were on the way to Portofino and she said I am not on my way to Portofino, we had an accident and we’re bloody well in Antibes harbor.”

  “She didn’t say bloody well,” Thomas said, not wishing to believe that Jean was anyplace else but on the Clothilde, asleep.

  “A turn of phrase,” Pinky said. “But I saw her.”

  “Where in Cannes?” He had to remember to keep his voice down, so as not to awaken the others.

  “In a strip-tease joint. La Porte Rose. It’s on the rue Bivouac Napoléon. At the bar with a big Yugoslav or something in a gabardine suit. I’ve seen him around. He’s a pimp. He’s done time.”

  “Oh, Christ. Was she drunk?”

  “Looping,” Pinky said. “I offered to take her back to Antibes with me but she said, This gentleman here will drive me home when we are ready.”

  “Wait here,” Thomas said. He went down into the saloon and along the aft gangway, passing
the cabins where Gretchen and Enid slept. There was no sound from either cabin. He opened the door to the master cabin in the stern. There was a light on in the gangway all night, in case Enid wanted to go to the bathroom. When Thomas opened the main cabin door, just enough to look in, he saw Rudolph sleeping in pajamas, in the big bed. Alone.

  Thomas closed the door gently and went back up to Pinky. “You saw her,” he said.

  “What’re you going to do?” Pinky asked.

  “Go and get her,” Thomas said.

  “Do you want me to come with you? It’s a rough crowd.”

  Thomas shook his head. Pinky sober was no help. Drunk he’d be worthless. “Thanks. You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” Pinky started to remonstrate, but Thomas said, “Go ahead, go ahead,” and pushed him gently toward the gangplank. He watched Pinky walk unsteadily along the quay, going in and out of shadow, toward where the Vega was berthed. He felt his pockets. He had some loose change in his wallet. Then he went down to his own cabin, stepping carefully past the cabin that Dwyer and Wesley shared. He woke up Kate with a slight tap on her shoulder.

  “Keep it low,” he said. “I don’t want to wake up the whole ship.” Then he told her Pinky’s news. “I’ve got to go get her,” he said.

  “Alone?”

  “The fewer the better,” he said. “I’ll bring her back and put her in her husband’s bed and tomorrow he can say his wife has a headache and is staying in bed for a day or so and nobody’ll catch on to anything. I don’t want Wesley or Bunny to see the lady drunk.” He also didn’t want Wesley or Dwyer to be around if there was going to be any trouble.

  “I’ll go with you,” Kate said. She started to get up. He pushed her down.

  “I don’t want her to know that you’ve seen her drunk with a pimp either. We’ve got to live the rest of our lives as friends.”

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Of course, I’ll be careful,” he said. He kissed her. “Sleep well, darling.”

  Any other woman would have made a fuss, he thought as he went up on deck. Not Kate. He put on the espadrilles he always left at the gangplank and went down to the quay. He was lucky. Just as he was going through the archway a taxi drove up and let off a couple in evening clothes. He got into the taxi and said, “La rue Bivouac Napoléon, Cannes.”

  She wasn’t at the bar when he went into La Porte Rose. And there was no Yugoslav in a gabardine suit, either. There were two or three men standing at the bar, watching the show, and a couple of hookers. There were some single men at tables and three men whose looks he didn’t like, sitting with one of the performers at a table near the entrance. Two elderly American couples sat at a table on the edge of the dance floor. An act was just beginning. The band was playing loudly and a red-headed girl in an evening dress was swaying around the floor in the spotlight, slowly taking off a long glove that went up nearly to her shoulder.

  Thomas ordered a Scotch and soda. When the barman brought the drink and placed it in front of him, he said, in English, “I’m looking for an American lady who was in here awhile ago. Brown hair. Wearing pink pants. With a monsieur in a gabardine suit.”

  “Have not zee no American lady,” the barman said.

  Thomas put a hundred-franc note on the bar.

  “Maybe I begin to remembair,” the barman said.

  Thomas put down another hundred-franc note. The barman looked around him quickly. The two notes disappeared. He took up a glass and began to polish it assiduously. He spoke without looking at Thomas. With all the noise from the band there was no danger of his being overheard.

  “Be’ind les toilettes,” the barman said, speaking rapidly, “is found un escalier, staircase, to ze cave. Ze plongeur, ze dishwasher, he sleep there after work. Per’aps you find what you look for in cave. The name of fellow is Danovic. Sal type. Be careful. He has friends.”

  Thomas watched while the strip-teaser took off one stocking and waved it and began to work on the garter of the other stocking. Then, still seeming to be interested in the act, he strolled slowly toward the illuminated sign in the rear that said Toilettes, Telephone. Everybody in the room seemed to be watching the girl in the spotlight and he was fairly sure that no one noticed him as he went through the archway under the sign. He passed the stink of the toilets and saw the steps going to the cellar. He went down them quickly. There was a thin, veneered wooden door at the bottom of the steps, with patched strips showing in the dim light of the small bulb that lit the stairway. Over the noise of the band, he could hear a woman’s voice from behind the door, pleading hysterically, then being cut off, as though by a hand across the mouth. He tried the door, but it was locked. He backed off a little and lunged at the door. The rotten wood and the flimsy lock gave at the same time and he plunged through the doorway. Jean was there, struggling to sit up, on the dishwasher’s cot. Her hair was streaming wildly about her face and her sweater was half torn from one shoulder. The man in the gabardine suit, Danovic, was standing beside her, facing the door. In the light of the one bulb strung on a wire from the ceiling, Thomas could see stacks of empty wine bottles, a work bench, some carpentry tools spread about.

  “Tom!” Jean said. “Get me out of here.” She had been frightened out of her drunkenness or she hadn’t been as drunk as Pinky had imagined. She tried to stand up, but the man pushed her back roughly, still facing Thomas.

  “What do you want?” Danovic said. He spoke English, but thickly. He was about the same size as Thomas, with heavy shoulders. He had a knife or razor scar down one side of his face.

  “I came to take the lady home,” Thomas said.

  “I’ll take the lady home when I’m good and ready,” Danovic said. “Fout-moi le camp, Sammy.” He pushed heavily at Jean’s face, as she struggled again to get up.

  Overhead, the noise of the band increased as another garment came off.

  Thomas took a step nearer the cot. “Don’t make any trouble,” he said to the man quietly. “The lady’s coming with me.”

  “If you want her, you will have to take her from me, Sammy,” Danovic said. He reached back suddenly and grabbed a ball-peen hammer from the workbench and held it up in his fist.

  Oh, Christ, Thomas thought, Falconettis everywhere.

  “Please, please, Tom,” Jean was sobbing.

  “I give you five seconds to leave,” Danovic said. He moved toward Thomas, the hammer ready, at the level of Thomas’s face.

  Somehow, Thomas knew, no matter what happened, he had to keep the hammer away from his head. If it hit him even a glancing blow, that would be the end of it. “Okay, okay,” he said, retreating a little and putting up his hands placatingly. “I’m not looking for a fight.” Then he dove at Danovic’s legs as the hammer swung. He got his head into the crotch, butting as hard as he could. The hammer hit his shoulder and he felt the shoulder going numb. The man was reeling backward, off balance, and Thomas wrapped his arms around his knees and toppled him. His head must have hit something, because for a fraction of a second he didn’t struggle. Thomas took the chance and pulled his head up. Danovic swung the hammer and hit the elbow that Thomas threw up to protect himself. He went for the hand with the hammer again, clawing at the man’s eyes with his other hand. He missed the hammer and felt a stab of pain in his knee as the hammer came down again. This time he got hold of the hammer. He ignored the blows of the other hand and twisted hard. The hammer slid a little way on the cement floor and Thomas leapt for it, using his knees to keep the man away from him. They both were on their feet again, but Thomas could hardly move because of his knee and he had to switch the hammer to his left hand because his right shoulder was numb.

  Over the noise of the band and his own gasping he could hear Jean screaming, but faintly, as though she were far away.

  Danovic knew Thomas was hurt and tried to circle him. Thomas made himself swing around, making the leg work for him. Danovic lunged at him and Thomas hit him above the elbow. The arm dropped, but Danovic still swung the
good arm. Thomas saw the opening and hit the man on the temple, not squarely, but it was enough. Danovic staggered, fell on his back. Thomas dropped on him, straddling his chest. He lifted the hammer above Danovic’s head. The man was gasping, protecting his face with his arm. Thomas brought the hammer down three times on the arm, on the shoulder, the wrist and the elbow, and it was all over. Danovic’s two arms lay useless alongside his body. Thomas lifted the hammer to finish him off. The man’s eyes were opaque with fear as he stared up, the blood streaming down from the temple, a dark river in the delta of his face.

  “Please,” he cried, “please, don’t kill me. Please.” His voice rose to a shriek.

  Thomas rested on Danovic’s chest, getting his breath back, the hammer still raised in his left hand. If ever a man deserved to get killed, this was the man. But Falconetti had deserved to get killed, too. Let somebody else do the job. Thomas reversed the hammer and jammed the handle hard into Danovic’s gaping, twitching mouth. He could feel the front teeth breaking off. He no longer was able to kill the man, but he didn’t mind hurting him.

  “Help me up,” he said to Jean. She was sitting on the cot, holding her arms up in front of her breasts. She was panting loudly, as though she had fought, too. She stood up slowly, unsteadily, and came over and put her hands under his armpits and pulled. He rose to his feet and nearly fell as he stepped away from the shivering body beneath him. He was dizzy and the room seemed to be whirling around him, but he was thinking clearly. He saw a white-linen coat that he knew belonged to Jean thrown over the back of the room’s single chair, and he said, “Put on your coat.” They couldn’t walk through the nightclub with Jean’s sweater torn from her shoulder. Maybe he couldn’t walk through the nightclub at all. He had to use his two hands to pull his bad leg up, one step after another, on the staircase. They left Danovic lying on the cement floor, the hammer sticking up from his broken mouth, bubbling blood.

  As they went through the archway under the Toilettes, Telephone sign, a new strip-tease was starting. The entertainment was nonstop at La Porte Rose. Luckily, it was dark outside the glare of the spotlight on the artiste, who was dressed in a black, skirted riding habit, with derby and boots and whip. Leaning heavily on Jean’s arm, Thomas managed not to limp too noticeably and they were almost out of the door before one of the three men sitting near the entrance with the girl spotted them. The man stood up and called, “Allô! Vous là. Les Americains. Arrêtez. Pas si vive.”