Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “Pilato,” screamed the Judge, “this is not evidence!”

  “You were lying?” Mike said inexorably, the chair still held, ax-like, above him.

  “Mike, oh, Mike,” wailed Dolores.

  “It was not my idea,” Victor babbled. “As God is my judge, I didn’t think it up. Alfred Lotti, he suggested it, and Johnny Nolan. I am under the influence of corrupt men. Mike, for the love of God, please don’t kill me, Mike, it would never have occurred to me myself, forgive me, forgive me …”

  “Guiness!” the Judge called to the court policeman. “Are you going to stand there and let this go on? Why don’t you do something?”

  “I can shoot him,” Guiness said. “Do you want me to shoot the plaintiff?”

  “Shut up,” the Judge said.

  Guiness shrugged and turned his head toward the witness stand, smiling a little.

  “You were lying?” Mike asked, his voice low, patient.

  “I was lying,” Victor cried.

  Slowly, with magnificent calm, Mike put the chair down neatly in its place. With a wide smile he turned to the Judge. “There,” he said.

  “Do you know any good reason,” the Judge shouted, “why I shouldn’t have you locked up?”

  Victor was crying with relief on the witness stand, wiping the tears away with his sleeve.

  “There is no possible excuse,” the Judge said, “for me to admit this confession as evidence. We are a court of law in the State of Illinois, in the United States. We are not conducting the Spanish Inquisition, Mr. Pilato.”

  “Huh?” Mike asked, cocking his head.

  “There are certain rules,” the Judge went on, quickly, his voice high, “which it is customary to observe. It is not the usual thing, Mr. Pilato,” he said harshly, “to arrive at evidence by bodily threatening to brain witnesses with a chair.”

  “He wouldn’t tell the truth,” Mike said simply.

  “At the very least, Mr. Pilato,” the Judge said, “you should get thirty days.”

  “Oh, Mike,” wept Dolores.

  “Mr. Fraschi,” the Judge said, “I promise you that you will be protected. That nobody will harm you.”

  “I did it,” sobbed Victor, his hands shaking uncontrollably in a mixture of fear, repentance, religion, joy at delivery from death. “I did it. I will not tell a lie. I’m a weak man and influenced by loafers. I owe him three hundred dollars. Forgive me, Mike, forgive me …”

  “He will not harm you,” the Judge said patiently. “I guarantee it. You can tell the truth without any danger. Do you owe Mr. Pilato three hundred dollars?”

  “I owe Mr. Pilato three hundred dollars,” Victor said, swallowing four times in a row.

  The young lawyer put three sheets of paper into his briefcase and snapped the lock.

  The Judge sighed and wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he looked at Mike. “I don’t approve of the way you conducted this trial, Mr. Pilato,” he said. “It is only because you’re a working man who has many duties to attend to on his land that I don’t take you and put you away for a month to teach you more respect for the processes of law.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said faintly.

  “Hereafter,” the Judge said, “kindly engage an attorney when you appear before me in this court.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said.

  “Mr. Pilato,” the Judge said, “it is up to you to decide when and how he is to pay you.”

  Mike turned and walked back to Victor. Victor shrank into his chair. “Tomorrow morning, Victor,” Mike said, waving his finger under Victor’s nose, “at eighty-thirty o’clock, I am coming into your store. The money will be there.”

  “Yes,” said Victor.

  “Is that all right?” Mike asked the Judge.

  “Yes,” said the Judge.

  Mike strode over to the young lawyer. “And you,” he said, standing with his hands on his hips in front of the young man with the pinstripe suit. “Mr. Lawyer. You knew he didn’t pay me. A boy with an education. You should be ashamed of yourself.” He turned to the Judge, smiled broadly, bowed. “Thank you,” he said. “Good morning.” Then, triumphantly, smiling broadly, rolling like a sea captain as he walked, he went through the little gate. Dolores was waiting with his hat. He took the hat, put Dolores’ arm through his, marched down the aisle, nodding, beaming to the spectators. Someone applauded and by the time he and Dolores got to the door all the spectators were applauding.

  He waited until he got outside, in the bright morning sunshine down the steps of the courthouse, before he said anything to Dolores. He put his hat on carefully, turned to her, grinning. “Well,” he said, “did you observe what I did?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was never so ashamed in my whole life!”

  “Dolores!” Mike was shocked. “I got the money. I won the case.”

  “Acting like that in a court of law!” Dolores started bitterly toward the car. “What are you, a red Indian?”

  Dolores got into the car and slammed the door and Mike limped slowly around and got into the other side. He started the car without a word and shaking his head from time to time, drove slowly toward home.

  No Jury Would Convict

  “I come from Jersey City,” the man in the green sweater was saying, “all the way from Jersey City, and I might of just as well stood home. You look at Brooklyn and you look at Jersey City and if you didn’t look at the uniforms you’d never tell the difference.”

  Just then the Giants scored four runs and two men a few rows below stood up with grins on their faces and called to a friend behind us, “Johnny, Johnny! Did you see that, Johnny? You still here, Johnny? We thought you mighta left. What a team, Brooklyn!” They shook their heads in sardonic admiration. “What a team! You still here, Johnny?”

  Johnny, wherever he was, didn’t say anything. His two friends sat down, laughing.

  The man in the green sweater took off his yellow straw hat and carefully wiped the sweatband with his handkerchief. “I been watching the Dodgers for twenty-three years,” he said, “and I never seen anything like this.” He put his hat on again, over his dark Greek face, the eyes deep and sad, never leaving the field where the Dodgers moved wearily in their green-trimmed uniforms. “Jersey City, Albany and Brooklyn, that would make a good league. One helluva league. I would give Brooklyn twenty-five games headstart and let them fight it out. They would have a hard fight stayin’ in the New York-Penn League. They would have to get three new pitchers. They’re worse than Jersey City, I swear, worse …”

  “Ah, now, listen,” the man beside him said, “if that’s the case why isn’t Brooklyn in Jersey City and Jersey City in Brooklyn?”

  “I don’t know,” the man in the green sweater said. “I honestly couldn’t tell ye.”

  “They haven’t got such a bad team.”

  “They ought to move them into the New York-Penn League. A major league team …” He laughed sadly. “Look at that!” A man named Wilson was striking out for Brooklyn. “Look at Wilson. Why, he’s pitiful. They walk two men to get at him in the International League. I bet Newark could spot them five runs and beat them every day. I’d give odds.”

  “You can’t make a supposition like that,” the man beside him protested. “They never play each other. It’s not a fair supposition.”

  “Five runs, every day. If they didn’t have those green caps they could play in a twilight league in Connecticut and nobody’d ever tell the difference, not in ten years. Look at that!” The Brooklyn shortstop fell down leaping at a grounder to his right. “No guts,” the man from Jersey City said, “a major league shortstop woulda had it and threw the man out. He fell to make a alibi.”

  “It was a hard-hit ball,” his neighbor protested.

  “Bartell woulda had it. He ain’t no Bartell.”

  “He’s got nine yards of tape on him,” the man next to him said. “I saw with my own eyes in the dugout. He’s a mass of cuts and bruises.”

  “That’s Brooklyn. Always got tape all
over them. They spend more money for tape than for players. Look at that.”

  One of the Giants hit a home run and three runs scored. The two men in front of us stood up with grins on their faces and called to their friend in back of us, “Still there, Johnny?” and sat down.

  “For twenty-three years,” the man in the green sweater said, “I been rootin’ for this team. I’m gettin’ tired of rootin’ for a minor league team in a major league. I would hate to see what would happen to those guys in Jersey City.”

  “I come to see them every day,” his neighbor said stubbornly, “and they’re a major league team.”

  “Look at them,” the man in the green sweater pointed his scorecard in accusation at the nine weary figures. “Take ’em one by one. Look at Wilson. Why, he’s the worst ballplayer in the world. He’s even worse than Smead Jolley.”

  He sat back triumphantly, having silenced his adversary for the moment.

  He watched the play quietly for a few seconds, his Greek eyes bitter but resigned. “Why,” he continued, “in Jersey City they put a catcher in to play center field instead of him. A catcher. I know Wilson.”

  “Wilson isn’t the only one on the team,” his neighbor said.

  “All right. Cooney. What can Cooney do?”

  “Cooney can field.”

  “All right, Cooney can field. But he has an air rifle for an arm. He can’t reach second base in under seven bounces. Don’t talk to me about Cooney.”

  “His arm’s not so bad,” the neighbor insisted.

  “Not so bad? Why, Mac, if Cooney had an arm he’d be a pitcher.”

  “I never noticed anything wrong with his arm.”

  “Mac,” the man in the green sweater said, “then you’re the one man in the United States that don’t know Cooney got a glass arm. The one man.”

  “How about Winsett?” his neighbor wanted to know.

  Winsett was up at the plate by this time and the man in the green sweater watched him critically. “A cigar store Indian,” he said finally. “Watch him swing.”

  “He hit sixty home runs the year before they brought him up,” the Brooklyn fan said. “Cigar store Indians don’t hit sixty home runs.”

  “I saw him,” the man in the green sweater said, “when he was playin’ in the International League. Do you know what he hit in the Internatinal League.…250 … You know why? It’s an outcurve league. The National League is also an outcurve league. He ought to be out somewhere playin’ night baseball.” At the top of his voice he called, “Come on, you cigar store Indian!”

  Winsett hit a home run.

  “This is a fine time to hit it,” the man from Jersey City said, “they’re behind seven runs and there’s nobody on base and he hits a home run.”

  In the next inning a pitcher named Cantwell took up the bitter burden of pitching for Brooklyn. The face of the man in the green sweater lightened. “There’s a pitcher,” he said. “One of the best. Out in Jersey City they were goin’ to give him a new automobile but he went to the Giants. Watch him!” he said as Cantwell disposed of the first two batters. “A prince of a fellow. A prince. Everybody likes him.”

  “He’s been pitching lousy,” his neighbor said, as Cantwell suddenly filled the bases.

  “What do you expect?” the man from Jersey City said, anxiously watching the misery below. “He don’t look like the Cantwell of Jersey City. Terry double-crossed him, he wanted to stay in Jersey City, he woulda got an automobile, but Terry took him and double-crossed him and shipped him to Brooklyn. How do you expect him to pitch? He broke his heart.”

  Cantwell struck out the third batter. The man in the green sweater stood up and applauded as the pitcher trudged into the dugout. “You bet your life he can pitch, the poor son of a gun, he’s disgusted, the poor fella. That’s it, Ben!” He sat down. “Wonderful pitcher, Ben, he’s got a head.”

  “I never saw him strike out a man before,” the Brooklyn fan said.

  “There’s very few of them makes a living out of strikeouts. Now if they only give Ben something to work on …”

  Brooklyn scored three runs. Two men died on base when Wilson popped out.

  “That Wilson,” the man in the green sweater said, “they ought to trade him to the Salvation Army. He’s the worst player in the world. Why, he’s worse than Smead Jolley.”

  But he cheered lustily when Cantwell came through another inning unscored upon. “There’s a pitcher,” he said, “if I had a team, I’d buy him.”

  “You could buy him for the fare to Jersey City,” a man in back said, “eleven cents.”

  “The only major leaguer on that ball club!” the man in the green sweater said with finality. “If only those cheap bastards would buy a couple more like him, they’d have something. I’m not saying Brooklyn’s bad as a town, because it’s not, but they got office boys running the ball club, office boys with snot in their ears. That cheap Grimes. I heard he used the groundkeeper’s truck to move his furniture in.”

  The Dodgers scored three more runs and the man in the green sweater was shouting triumphantly, the ancient Greek sorrow gone from his eyes for the first time in the entire afternoon. There was only one out and there was a man on third base and the Dodgers needed only one run to tie the score. Wilson was coming up to bat and the man in the green sweater groaned. “That’s what happens when you have somebody like that on a team. He comes up at a time like this. That’s always the way it happens. He’s pitiful. In the International League they walk two batters to get at him.”

  But at the last moment somebody else batted for Wilson and struck out. “On low ones,” the man in the green sweater said in pain, “a pinch hitter swinging at low ones.”

  Cantwell was to bat next.

  “Let him stay up there!” the man from Jersey City shouted. “Let him win his own game.” He turned to his public. “I would like to see old Ben smack one out and win the ball game,” he said, “and go right over to Terry and spit in his face.”

  But old Ben didn’t get a chance. Grimes put a man called Spence in to bat for him and Spence popped out.

  In the next inning the Brooklyn second baseman juggled a ball and another run scored. All hope fled from the dark Greek face. “Why is it,” he asked, “that other teams don’t do it?” He got up, preparing to leave. “A man on third and one out,” he said, “and no score. They ought to shoot Grimes for that. No jury would convict. Ah,” he said, moving down toward the exit gate, “I’m going to root for a winning team from now on. I’ve been rooting for a losing team long enough. I’m going to root for the Giants. You don’t know,” he said to the Brooklyn fan moving along with him, “you don’t know the pleasure you get out of rooting for a winning team.”

  And he went back to Jersey City, leaving his heart in Brooklyn.

  The Lament of

  Madame Rechevsky

  The telephone rang and rang through the silken room, tumbled with sleep, lit here and there by the morning sunlight that broke through the hangings in little bright patches. Helen sighed and wriggled in the bed, and, still with her eyes closed, reached out and picked up the phone. The ringing stopped and Helen sighed in relief and wearily put the phone to her ear.

  The sound of weeping, deep and bitter, welled along the wires.

  “Hello, Momma,” Helen said, still with her eyes closed.

  “Helen,” Madam Rechevsky said. “How are you, Helen?”

  “Fine, Momma.” Helen stretched desperately under the covers. “What time is it?”

  “Nine o’clock.” Helen winced, closed her eyes more tightly. “Momma, darling,” she said gently, “why must you call so early?”

  “When I was your age,” Madam Rechevsky said, weeping, “I was up at six in the morning. Working my fingers to the bone. A woman thirty-eight shouldn’t spend her whole life sleeping.”

  “Why do you always say thirty-eight?” Helen protested. “Thirty-six. Why can’t you remember—thirty-six!”

  “On this subject, Helen, darling,�
�� Madam Rechevsky said coldly, through her tears, “I am absolutely definite.”

  Helen finally opened her eyes, slowly, with effort, looked wearily up at the sun-streaked ceiling. “Why’re you crying, Momma?”

  There was a pause over the wires, then the weeping started afresh, on a new high pitch, deep, despairing, full of sorrow.

  “Tell me, Momma,” Helen said.

  “I must go to Poppa’s grave. You must come right downtown and take me to Poppa’s grave.”

  Helen sighed. “Momma, I have three different places I have to be today.”

  “My own child!” Madam Rechevsky whispered. “My own daughter! Refuses to take her mother to the grave of her own father.”

  “Tomorrow,” Helen pleaded. “Can’t you make it tomorrow?”

  “Today!” Madam Rechevsky’s voice reached across Manhattan high and tragic, as in the old days, when she strode on the stage and discovered that her stepmother was wearing her dead mother’s jewels. “I woke up this morning and a voice spoke to me. ‘Go to Abraham’s grave! Immediately! Go to the grave of your husband!’”

  “Momma,” Helen said gently. “Poppa’s been dead fifteen years. How much difference can one day make to him?”

  “Never mind,” Madam Rechevsky said, with magnificent, resounding resignation. “Forgive me if I have troubled you on this trifling matter. Go. Go to your appointments. Go to the beauty parlor. Go to the cocktail parties. I will take the subway to your dead father’s grave.”

  Helen closed her eyes. “I’ll pick you up in an hour, Momma.”

  “Yes,” said Madam Rechevsky decisively. “And please don’t wear that red hat. For your father’s sake.”

  “I won’t wear the red hat.” Helen lay back and wearily put the phone back on its pedestal.

  “This is a fine car to be going to a cemetery in,” Madam Rechevsky was saying as they drove out through Brooklyn. She sat up straight as a little girl in school, savagely denying her seventy-three years with every line of her smart seal coat, every expert touch of rouge, every move of her silken legs. She looked around her contemptuously at the red leather and chromium of Helen’s roadster. “A sport model. A great man lies buried, his relatives come to visit him in a cream-colored convertible automobile.”