Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, book 1)

by Henry Miller

  O'Rourke immediately pricked up his ears.

  «You know his son?» he repeated.

  «Why yes. We were sweethearts. We come from the same town.» She mentioned a little town up State. «You could hardly call it a town, I guess.» She gave a bright little laugh.

  «I see,» said O'Rourke, lingering over his words to draw her on.

  «Now I understand why I was fired,» she said. «He doesn't think I'm good enough for his son, this Mr. Harcourt. But I didn't think he hated me that much.»

  As she rattled on I recalled more and more clearly the circumstances of her first visit to the employment bureau. One detail stood out clearly. She had specifically requested, when filling out the application blank, that she be sent to a certain office building. It was not an unusual request; applicants often gave their preference for certain localities for one reason or another. But I remembered now the smile she had given me when thanking me for the courtesy I had shown her.

  «Miss Andrews,?» I said, «didn't you ask me to send you to the Heckscher Building when you applied for the job?»

  «Of course I did,» she replied. «I wanted to be near John. I knew his father was trying to keep us apart. That's why I left home.»

  «Mr. Harcourt tried to ridicule me at first,» she added. «I mean when I first delivered telegrams to his office. But I didn't care. Neither did John.»

  «Well,» said O'Rourke, «so you don't mind too much losing your job? Because, if you'd like to have it back, I think Mr. Miller could arrange if for you.» He glanced in my direction.

  «Oh, I don't really want it back,» she said breathlessly. «I've found a much better job—and it's in the same building!»

  The three of us burst out laughing. O'Rourke and I rose to go. «You're a musician, aren't you?» asked O'Rourke.

  She blushed. «Why yes... why, how did you know? I'm a violinist. That's another reason, of course, why I decided to come to New York. I hope to give a recital here some day—perhaps in Town Hall. It's thrilling to be in a big city like this, isn't it?» She giggled like a school-girl.

  «It is wonderful to live in a place like New York,» said O'Rourke, his voice suddenly dropping to a more serious register. «I hope you will have all the success you are looking for...» He paused, a heavy pause, and then taking her two hands in his, he placed himself squarely in front of her and said:

  «Let me suggest something to you, may I?» «Why of course!» said Miss Andrews, reddening slightly.

  «Well then, when you give your first concert at Town Hall, let us say, I would suggest that you use your real name. Marjorie Blair sounds just as good as Nina Andrews... don't you think? Well,» and without pausing to observe the effect of this retort, he said, grasping my arm and turning towards the door, «I think we should be getting along. Good luck, Miss Blair. Good-bye!»

  «I'll be damned,» I said, when we got to the street.

  «She's a fine little girl, isn't she?» said O'Rourke, dragging me along. «Clancy called me in this afternoon... showed me the application. I've got all the dope on her. She's absolutely O.K.»

  «But the name?» I said. «Why did she change her name?»

  «Oh that, that's nothing,» said O'Rourke. «Young people find it exciting to change their name sometimes.... It's lucky she doesn't know what Mr. Harcourt told Mr. Twilliger, eh? We'd have a nice case on our hands, if that ever leaked out.»

  «By the way,» he added, as though it were of no importance, «when I make my report to Twilliger, I'll say that she was going on twenty-two. You won't mind that, will you? They suspected, you see, that she was under age. Or course you can't check every one's age. Still, you have to be careful. You understand, of course....»

  «Of course,» I said, «and it's damned good of yon to cover me up.»

  We walked in silence for a few moments, keeping our eyes open for a restaurant.

  «Wasn't Harcourt taking a big risk in giving Twilliger a story like that?»

  O'Rourke didn't answer at once.

  «It makes me furious,» I said. «Damn him, he almost lost me my job too, do you realize that?»

  «Harcourt's case is more complicated,» said O'Rourke slowly. «I'm telling you this in strict confidence, you understand. We're not going to say anything to Mr. Harcourt. In my report I'll inform Mr. Twilliger that the case has been satisfactorily dealt with. I'll explain that Mr. Harcourt was in error as to the girl's character, that she immediately found another position, and recommend that the matter be dropped.... Mr. Harcourt, as I suppose you have already gathered, is a close friend of Twilliger's. Everything the girl said was true, to be sure, and she's a fine little girl too, I like her. But there's one thing she omitted to tell us—naturally. Mr. Harcourt had her dismissed because he's jealous of his son... You wonder how I learned that so quickly? Well, we have our way of learning things. I could tell you a lot more about this Harcourt, if you'd care to hear it.»

  I was about to say «Yes, I would,» when he abruptly changed the subject.

  «You met a chap named Monahan recently, I understand.»

  I felt as if he had given me a jolt.

  «Yes, Monahan... of course. Why, did your brother tell you?»

  «You know, of course,» O'Rourke continued in his easy, suave way, «what Monahan's job is, don't you? His assignment, I mean?»

  I mumbled some answer, pretending that I knew more than I did, and waited impatiently for him to continue.

  «Well, it's curious in this racket,» he went on, «how things connect up. Miss Nina Andrews didn't go immediately to the messenger bureau in search of that job, when she got to New York. Like all young girls, she was attracted to the bright lights. She's young, intelligent, and knows how to take care of herself. I don't think she's quite as innocent as she looks, to be candid with you. Knowing Harcourt, that is. But that's none of my business.... Anyway, to make it short, Mr. Miller, her first job was that of a taxi girl in a dance hall. You may know the one...» He looked directly ahead of him as he said this. «Yes, the very place that Monahan has his eye on. It's run by a Greek. Nice chap too. Absolutely on the level, I should say. But there are other individuals hanging around who would bear looking into more closely. Especially when a pretty little thing like Nina Andrews walks in—with those red cheeks and that demure country-like manner.»

  I was hoping I would hear more about Monahan when again he switched the subject.

  «Funny thing about Harcourt. Shows you how careful you have to be when you begin checking up on things...»

  «What do you mean?» said I, wondering what he was going to blurt out next.

  «Well, just this,» said O'Rourke, measuring his words. «Harcourt has a whole string of dance halls here in New York, and in other places too. The insurance agency is just a blind. That's why he's breaking his son in. He isn't interested in the insurance game. Harcourt's one passion is young girls— the younger the better. Of course, I don't know this, Mr. Miller, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had already tried to seduce Miss Andrews—or Marjorie Blair, to use her right name. If anything had happened between them Miss Andrews wouldn't be apt to tell any one, would she? Least of all the young man she's in love with. She's only nineteen now, but she probably looked the same at sixteen. She's a country girl, don't forget. They start in early sometimes—you know, red, warm blood.»

  He stopped, as if to study the restaurant which, unknown to me, he had been gently and slowly leading me to.

  «Not such a bad place, this. Shall we try it? Oh, just a minute, before we go in... About Harcourt.... The girl, of course, doesn't suspect that he has anything to do with dance halls. That was just a coincidence, her walking into that place. You know the one I mean, don't you? Just opposite...»

  «Yes, I know it,» I said, a little annoyed with him for practising these sly digs on me. «I have a friend working there,» I added. And you know damned well what I mean, I thought to myself.

  I was wondering how much Monahan might have revealed to him. I wondered too, suddenly, if Monaha
n hadn't known O'Rourke for many a year. How they liked to put on these little acts, these expressions of surprise, of ignorance, of amazement, and so on. I suppose they can't help it. They're like cashiers who say «thank you!» in their sleep.

  And then, as I waited for him to continue, another suspicion entered my mind. Maybe those two fifty dollar bills that Monahan had dropped came from O'Rourke's pocket. I was almost certain of it. Unless.... but I dismissed the following flash—it was too far-fetched. Unless, I couldn't help repeating to myself, the money had come from Harcourt's pocket. It was a fat roll of bills he had flashed on me that night. Detectives don't usually walk around with huge sums of money in their pockets. Anyway, if Monahan had shaken Harcourt down (or perhaps the Greek!) O'Rourke wouldn't know about it.

  I was routed out of these interior speculations by an even more startling remark of O'Rourke's. We were in the hallway, just about to enter the restaurant, when I distinctly heard him saying:

  «In that particular dance hall it's almost impossible for a girl to get a job without sleeping with Harcourt first. A least, that's what Monahan tells me.»

  «Of course there's nothing irregular about that,» he continued, allowing a moment's pause for the observation to sink in.

  We took seats at a table in the far corner of the restaurant, where we could talk without fear of being overheard. I noticed O'Rourke glancing about with his habitual keen, all-encompassing yet thoroughly unobtrusive gaze. He did it instinctively, just as an interior decorator takes in the furnishings of a room, including the pattern of the wall-paper.

  «But the fact that Miss Marjorie Blair had taken the job under another name almost led him to commit an indiscretion.»

  «God, yes», I exclaimed. «I never thought of that!»

  «It was fortunate for him that he had taken the precaution to ask for her photograph first....»

  I couldn't help interrupting him.«I must say that you learned a devil of a lot in a short time.»

  «A pure accident,» said O'Rourke modestly. «I bumped into Monahan on my way out of Clancy's office.»

  «Yes, but how did you manage to put two and two together so quickly? I persisted. «You didn't know when you met Monahan that the girl had been working in a dance hall. I don't see how the devil you just fell on to that piece of information.»

  «I didn't,» said O'Rourke. «I extracted it from Harcourt. You see, while talking to Monahan... he was talking about his assignment—and about you, incidentally... yes, he said he liked you very much-he wants to see you again, by the way... you should get in touch with him... well, anyway, as I was saying, I had a hunch to go and telephone Harcourt. I asked him a few routine questions—among them where had the girl worked before, if he knew. He said she had worked in a dance hall. He said it as if to say: 'She's just a little tart.' When I went back to the table I just took a flier and asked Monahan if he knew a girl named Andrews—at the dance hall. I didn't even know then which dance hall. And then, to my surprise, after I had explained the case, he began telling me about Harcourt. So there you are. It's simple, isn't it? I tell you, everything connects up in this racket. You play your hunch, you throw out a feeler—and sometimes it tumbles right into your lap.»

  «I'll be damned,» was all I could say .

  O'Rourke was studying the menu. I looked at it distractedly, unable to decide what I wanted to eat. All I could think of was Harcourt. So Harcourt fucked them all! Jesus Christ, I was furious. I wanted more than ever to do something about it. Maybe Monahan was the man; maybe he was already laying his traps.

  I ordered something at random and sat looking disconsolately at the diners.

  «What's the matter?» said O'Rourke. «You look depressed.»

  «I am,» I answered. «It's nothing. It'll pass.»

  Throughout the meal I only half listened to O'Rourke's talk. I kept thinking of Mona. I wondered what she would say if I were to mention Harcourt's name. That son of a bitch! Fucking everything in sight 'and then, b'Jesus, almost fucking me out of a job! The gall of him! Well, another clue to work on. Things were happening fast....

  It took several hours for me to break away from O'Rourke. When he wanted to hold you he could tell one story after another, gliding from one to another with the most dexterous ingenuity. I was always exhausted after spending an evening with him. It exhausted me just to listen, because with every sentence he let fall I watched like a bird of prey for my opening. Besides, there were always long interruptions in the stories, demanding regressions, recapitulations and all manner of acrobatics. Sometimes he'd keep me waiting a half hour or more in a telegraph office while, with that patience which exasperated me, he laboriously went through the files in search of some trivial detail. And always, before resuming his story, he would make a long, windy detour, as we went from one office to another, concerning the clerk or the manager or the telegrapher in the office we had just left. His memory was prodigious. In the hundred or more branch offices scattered throughout the city he knew all the clerks by name, the record of their progress from one job to another, one office to another, and thousands of intimate details about their family life. Not only did he know the present staff—he knew the ghosts who had occupied their places before them. In addition he knew many of the messengers, both of the night and the day shifts. He was especially devoted to the old fellows, some of whom had served the company almost as many years as O'Rourke himself.

  I had learned a great deal from these nocturnal inspections, things which I doubted that Clancy himself knew. More than a few of the clerks, I discovered through the course of these rounds with O'Rourke, had been guilty of embezzlement at one time or another in their seedy, cosmococcic career. O'Rourke had his own way of dealing with these cases. Relying upon the good judgment which his long experience had given him, he often took amazing liberties in dealing with these unfortunate individuals. Half the cases, I am certain, never became known to any one but O'Rourke. Where he had confidence in the man he would allow him to make restitution little by little, making it clear, of course, that the matter was to remain a secret between them. There was at times a twofold purpose in this benevolence. By handling the incident in this irregular way not only was the company certain of retrieving all that had been stolen but, because of his gratitude, the victim could henceforth be relied upon to act as a sort of stool pigeon. He could be made to squeal and squawk when occasion arose. Many a time, in the beginning, when I wondered why O'Rourke was taking such an interest in certain rat-like characters, I discovered that they were of the lost tribe whom O'Rourke had converted to useful instruments. In fact, I learned one thing about O'Rourke which explained everything, so far as his mysterious behavior was concerned: that was that every one to whom he gave the least time or attention had some importance in the scheme of his cosmococcic life.

  Though he gave the illusion of running rings around himself, though he often acted like a fool and an ignoramus, though he seemed to be doing nothing more than wasting time, actually everything he said or did had a vital bearing on the work in hand. Moreover, there was never just one case which occupied him exclusively. He had a hundred strings to his lyre. No case was ever too hopeless for him to drop. The company might have scratched it off the record—but not O'Rourke. He had the infinite patience of an artist, and with it the conviction that time was on his side. There didn't seem to be any phase of life with which he had not familiarized himself. Though, speaking of the artist, I must admit that perhaps in that realm he was least sure of himself. He could stand and look at the work of a pompier in a department store window with dewy eyes. His knowledge of literature was almost nil. But if, for example, I should happen to relate the story of Raskolnikov, as Dostoievski unfolded it for us, I could be certain of reaping the most penetrating observations. And what it was indeed that made me cherish his friendship, was the kinship he had, humanly and spiritually, with such writers as Dostoievski. His acquaintance with the underworld had softened and broadened him. He was a detective because of his extraord
inary interest in and sympathy with his fellow-man. He never caused a man unnecessary pain. He always gave his man the wide benefit of the doubt. He never held a grudge against any one, no matter what the man had done. He sought to understand, to fathom their motives, even when they were of the basest. Above all, he was to be relied upon absolutely. His word, once given, was adhered to at any cost. Neither could he be bribed. I can't possibly imagine what temptation one could put before him to deflect him from the performance of his duty. A further point in his favor, in my opinion, was that he was totally lacking in ambition. He hadn't the slightest desire to be anything other than he was. He gave himself body and soul to his task, knowing that it was a thankless one, knowing that he was being used and abused by a heartless, soulless organization. But, as he himself had more than once remarked, whatever the attitude of the company might be was none of his concern. Nor did it matter to him that, in the event of retirement, they should undo everything be had labored to build up. Having no illusions, he nevertheless gave his utmost to all who made demands upon him.

  He was a unique being, O'Rourke. He disturbed me profoundly sometimes. I don't think I've ever known any one before or since who made me feel quite so transparent as he did. Nor do I ever remember any one who so abstemiously withheld giving advice or criticism. He was the only man I've ever known who made me realize what it means to be tolerant, what it means to respect the other person's liberty. It's curious, now that I reflect on it, how deeply he symbolized the Law. Not the petty spirit of law which man uses for his own ends, but the inscrutable cosmic law which never ceases to work, which is implacable and just, and thus ultimately the most merciful.

  As I lay in bed wide awake, I would, after an evening such as this one, often ask myself what O'Rourke would do it he were in my boots. In endeavoring to make the transposition it had occurred to me more than once that I knew nothing about O'Rourke's private life. Absolutely nothing. Not that he was evasive—I couldn't say that. It was just a blank. Somehow the subject never came up.