by Irwin Shaw
Hawkins stood up. It was hard to walk, but he moved slowly over to the gate in the barbed wire at the other end of the dock Madox was there, sweating but looking pleased.
“Very well done, Hawkins,” Madox said. “I watched you. Are you hurt?”
“A little, sir,” Hawkins said, surprised at the croaking, strange noise that came from his throat. “Not too bad.”
“Good,” said Madox. “It’s just about finished here. We’ll be going back to camp in a minute.” He looked solicitously at Hawkins’ torn throat. “You’re in rather bad shape. You’d better not go with the others in the lorry. I’ll take you with me in my jeep.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hawkins flatly. He walked slowly over to where the jeep was parked and laboriously climbed into the back. He leaned against the canvas. He closed his eyes, thinking of nothing.
Ten minutes later, Madox and his driver got into the jeep, and the jeep rolled slowly through the gate. Hawkins did not look back purposely, but he could not help seeing the dock, the two boats, the old, silent, broken, deserted schooner, and the full transport, beginning to work up steam for the voyage to Cyprus. They were singing again on board the transport, but softer now, and wearily, and Hawkins thought, I must get Esther to translate that song for me. And on the dock, with the Arab laborer, still holding his wheelbarrow, standing curiously over him, lay the dead man, flat and alone. Hawkins closed his eyes as the jeep spurted away from the waterfront.
I wonder, he was thinking, slowly and painfully, because his head did not seem familiar or normal to him any more, I wonder if I can get off tonight to go into Tel Aviv to take Esther to the movies. Then there was the explosion, and even as he felt himself slamming through the air, Hawkins thought, They must have got hold of some Army mines. Then he hit. He moved with crawling, broken slowness, feeling everything slippery and sliding all around him, thinking with dull persistence, I must tell them, they mustn’t do this to me, they don’t understand, I was at Belsen. Then he lay still.
The Dry Rock
“We’re late,” Helen said, as the cab stopped at a light. “We’re twenty minutes late.” She looked at her husband accusingly.
“All right,” Fitzsimmons said. “I couldn’t help it. The work was on the desk and it had to …”
“This is the one dinner party of the year I didn’t want to be late for,” Helen said. “So naturally …”
The cab started and was halfway across the street when the Ford sedan roared into it, twisting, with a crashing and scraping of metal, a high mournful scream of brakes, the tinkling of glass. The cab shook a little, then subsided.
The cabby, a little gray man, turned and looked back, worriedly. “Everybody is all right?” he asked nervously.
“Everybody is fine,” Helen said bitterly, pulling at her cape to get it straight again after the jolting.
“No damage done,” said Fitzsimmons, smiling reassuringly at the cabby, who looked very frightened.
“I am happy to hear that,” the cabby said. He got out of his car and stood looking sadly at his fender, now thoroughly crumpled, and his headlight, now without a lens. The door of the Ford opened and its driver sprang out. He was a large young man with a light gray hat. He glanced hurriedly at the cab.
“Why don’t yuh watch where the hell yer goin’?” he asked harshly.
“The light was in my favor,” said the cabby. He was a small man of fifty, in a cap and a ragged coat, and he spoke with a heavy accent. “It turned green and I started across. I would like your license, Mister.”
“What for?” the man in the gray hat shouted. “Yer load’s all right. Get on yer way. No harm done.” He started back to his car.
The cabby gently put his hand on the young man’s arm. “Excuse me, friend,” he said. “It is a five-dollar job, at least. I would like to see your license.”
The young man pulled his arm away, glared at the cabby. “Aaah,” he said and swung. His fist made a loud, surprising noise against the cabby’s nose. The old man sat down slowly on the running board of his cab, holding his head wearily in his hands. The young man in the gray hat stood over him, bent over, fists still clenched. “Didn’t I tell yuh no harm was done?” he shouted. “Why didn’t yuh lissen t’ me? I got a good mind to …”
“Now, see here,” Fitzsimmons said, opening the rear door and stepping out.
“What d’you want?” The young man turned and snarled at Fitzsimmons, his fists held higher. “Who asked for you?”
“I saw the whole thing,” Fitzsimmons began, “and I don’t think you …”
“Aaah,” snarled the young man. “Dry up.”
“Claude,” Helen called. “Claude, keep out of this.”
“Claude,” the young man repeated balefully. “Dry up, Claude.”
“Are you all right?” Fitzsimmons asked, bending over the cabby, who still sat reflectively on the running board, his head down, his old and swollen cap hiding his face, blood trickling down his clothes.
“I’m all right,” the cabby said wearily. He stood up, looked wonderingly at the young man. “Now, my friend, you force me to make trouble. Police!” he called, loudly. “Police!”
“Say, lissen,” the man in the gray hat shouted. “What the hell do yuh need to call the cops for? Hey, cut it out!”
“Police!” the old cabby shouted calmly, but with fervor deep in his voice. “Police!”
“I ought to give it to yuh good.” The young man shook his fist under the cabby’s nose. He jumped around nervously. “This is a small matter,” he shouted, “nobody needs the cops!”
“Police!” called the cabby.
“Claude,” Helen put her head out the window. “Let’s get out of here and let the two gentlemen settle this any way they please.”
“I apologize!” The young man held the cabby by his lapels with both large hands, shook him, to emphasize his apology. “Excuse me. I’m sorry. Stop yelling police, for God’s sake!”
“I’m going to have you locked up,” the cabby said. He stood there, slowly drying the blood off his shabby coat with his cap. His hair was gray, but long and full, like a musician’s. He had a big head for his little shoulders, and a sad, lined little face and he looked older than fifty, to Fitzsimmons, and very poor, neglected, badly nourished. “You have committed a crime,” the cabby said, “and there is a punishment for it.”
“Will yuh talk to him?” The young man turned savagely to Fitzsimmons. “Will yuh tell him I’m sorry?”
“It’s entirely up to him,” Fitzsimmons said.
“We’re a half hour late,” Helen announced bitterly. “The perfect dinner guests.”
“It is not enough to be sorry,” said the cab driver. “Police …”
“Say, listen, Bud,” the young man said, his voice quick and confidential, “what’s yer name?”
“Leopold Tarloff,” the cabby said. “I have been driving a cab on the streets of New York for twenty years, and everybody thinks just because you’re a cab driver they can do whatever they want to you.”
“Lissen, Leopold,” the young man pushed his light gray hat far back on his head. “Let’s be sensible. I hit yer cab. All right. I hit you. All right.”
“What’s all right about it?” Tarloff asked.
“What I mean is, I admit it, I confess I did it, that’s what I mean. All right.” The young man grabbed Tarloff’s short ragged arms as he spoke, intensely. “Why the fuss? It happens every day. Police are unnecessary. I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do with yuh, Leopold. Five dollars, yuh say, for the fender. All right. And for the bloody nose, another pound. What do yuh say? Everybody is satisfied. Yuh’ve made yerself a fiver on the transaction; these good people go to their party without no more delay.”
Tarloff shook his arms free from the huge hands of the man in the gray hat. He put his head back and ran his fingers through his thick hair and spoke coldly. “I don’t want to hear another word. I have never been so insulted in my whole life.”
The young man steppe
d back, his arms wide, palms up wonderingly. “I insult him!” He turned to Fitzsimmons. “Did you hear me insult this party?” he asked.
“Claude!” Helen called. “Are we going to sit here all night?”
“A man steps up and hits me in the nose,” Tarloff said. “He thinks he makes everything all right with five dollars. He is mistaken. Not with five hundred dollars.”
“How much d’yuh think a clap in the puss is worth?” the young man growled. “Who d’yuh think y’are—Joe Louis?”
“Not ten thousand dollars,” Tarloff said, on the surface calm, but quivering underneath. “Not for twenty thousand dollars. My dignity.”
“His dignity!” the young man whispered. “For Christ’s sake!”
“What do you want to do?” Fitzsimmons asked, conscious of Helen glooming in the rear seat of the cab.
“I would like to take him to the station house and make a complaint,” Tarloff said. “You would have to come with me, if you’d be so kind. What is your opinion on the matter?”
“Will yuh tell him the cops are not a necessity!” the young man said hoarsely. “Will yuh tell the bastidd?”
“Claude!” called Helen.
“It’s up to you,” Fitzsimmons said, looking with what he hoped was an impartial, judicious expression at Tarloff, hoping he wouldn’t have to waste any more time. “You do what you think you ought to do.”
Tarloff smiled, showing three yellow teeth in the front of his small and childlike mouth, curved and red and surprising in the lined and weatherbeaten old hackie’s face. “Thank you very much,” he said. “I am glad to see you agree with me.”
Fitzsimmons sighed.
“Yer drivin’ me crazy!” the young man shouted at Tarloff. “Yer makin’ life impossible!”
“To you,” Tarloff said with dignity, “I talk from now on only in a court of law. That’s my last word.”
The young man stood there, breathing heavily, his fists clenching and unclenching, his pale gray hat shining in the light of a street lamp. A policeman turned the corner, walking in a leisurely and abstracted manner, his eyes on the legs of a girl across the street.
Fitzsimmons went over to him. “Officer,” he said, “there’s a little job for you over here.” The policeman regretfully took his eyes off the girl’s legs and sighed and walked slowly over to where the two cars were still nestling against each other.
“What are yuh?” the young man was asking Tarloff, when Fitzsimmons came up with the policeman. “Yuh don’t act like an American citizen. What are yuh?”
“I’m a Russian,” Tarloff said. “But I’m in the country twenty-five years now, I know what the rights of an individual are.”
“Yeah,” said the young man hopelessly. “Yeah …”
The Fitzsimmonses drove silently to the police station in the cab, with Tarloff driving slowly and carefully, though with hands that shook on the wheel. The policeman drove with the young man in the young man’s Ford. Fitzsimmons saw the Ford stop at a cigar store and the young man jump out and go into the store, into a telephone booth.
“For three months,” Helen said, as they drove, “I’ve been trying to get Adele Lowrie to invite us to dinner. Now we’ve finally managed it. Perhaps we ought to call her and invite the whole party down to night court.”
“It isn’t night court,” Fitzsimmons said patiently. “It’s a police station. And I think you might take it a little better. After all, the poor old man has no one else to speak up for him.”
“Leopold Tarloff,” Helen said. “It sounds impossible. Leopold Tarloff. Leopold Tarloff.”
They sat in silence until Tarloff stopped the cab in front of the police station and opened the door for them. The Ford with the policeman and the young man drove up right behind them and they all went in together.
There were some people up in front of the desk lieutenant, a dejected-looking man with long mustaches and a loud, blonde woman who kept saying that the man had threatened her with a baseball bat three times that evening. Two Negroes with bloody bandages around their heads were waiting, too.
“It will take some time,” said the policeman. “There are two cases ahead of you. My name is Kraus.”
“Oh, my,” said Helen.
“You’d better call Adele,” Fitzsimmons said. “Tell her not to hold dinner for us.”
Helen held her hand out gloomily for nickels.
“I’m sorry,” Tarloff said anxiously, “to interrupt your plans for the evening.”
“Perfectly all right,” Fitzsimmons said, trying to screen his wife’s face from Tarloff by bending over to search for the nickels in his pocket.
Helen went off, disdainfully holding her long formal skirt up with her hand, as she walked down the spit- and butt-marked corridor of the police station toward a pay telephone. Fitzsimmons reflectively watched her elegant back retreat down the hallway.
“I am tired,” Tarloff said. “I think I will have to sit down, if you will excuse me.” He sat on the floor, looking up with a frail, apologetic smile on his red face worn by wind and rain and traffic-policemen. Fitzsimmons suddenly felt like crying, watching the old man sitting there among the spit and cigarette butts, on the floor against the wall, with his cap off and his great bush of musician’s gray hair giving the lie to the tired, weathered face below it.
Four men threw open the outside doors and walked into the police station with certainty and authority. They all wore the same light-gray hats with the huge flat brims. The young man who had hit Tarloff greeted them guardedly. “I’m glad you’re here, Pidgear,” he said to the man who, by some subtle mixture of stance and clothing, of lift of eyebrow and droop of mouth, announced himself as leader.
They talked swiftly and quietly in a corner.
“A Russian!” Pidgear’s voice rang out angrily. “There are 10,000 cab drivers in the metropolitan area, you have to pick a Russian to punch in the nose!”
“I’m excitable!” the young man yelled. “Can I help it if I’m excitable? My father was the same way; it’s a family characteristic.”
“Go tell that to the Russian,” Pidgear said. He went over to one of the three men who had come in with him, a large man who needed a shave and whose collar was open at the throat, as though no collar could be bought large enough to go all the way around that neck. The large man nodded, went over to Tarloff, still sitting patiently against the wall.
“You speak Russian?” the man with the open collar said to Tarloff.
“Yes, sir,” Tarloff said.
The large man sat down slowly beside him, gripped Tarloff’s knee confidentially in his tremendous hairy hand, spoke excitedly, winningly, in Russian.
Pidgear and the young man who had hit Tarloff came over to Fitzsimmons, leaving the other two men in the gray hats, small, dark men with shining eyes, who just stood at the door and looked hotly on.
“My name is Pidgear,” the man said to Fitzsimmons, who by now was impressed with the beautiful efficiency of the system that had been put into motion by the young driver of the Ford—an obviously legal mind like Pidgear, a man who spoke Russian, and two intense men with gray hats standing on call just to see justice done, and all collected in the space of fifteen minutes. “Alton Pidgear,” the man said, smiling professionally at Fitzsimmons. “I represent Mr. Rusk.”
“Yeah,” said the young man.
“My name is Fitzsimmons.”
“Frankly, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” Pidgear said, “I would like to see you get Mr. Tarloff to call this whole thing off. It’s an embarrassing affair for all concerned; nobody stands to gain anything by pressing it.”
Helen came back and Fitzsimmons saw by the expression on her face that she wasn’t happy. “They’re at the soup by now,” she said loudly to Fitzsimmons. “Adele said for us to take all the time we want, they’re getting along fine.”
“Mr. Rusk is willing to make a handsome offer,” Pidgear said. “Five dollars for the car, five dollars for the nose …”
“Go out to di
nner with your husband,” Helen muttered, “and you wind up in a telephone booth in a police station. ‘Excuse me for being late, darling, but I’m calling from the 8th Precinct, this is our night for street-fighting.’”
“Sssh, Helen, please,” Fitzsimmons said. He hadn’t eaten since nine that morning and his stomach was growling with hunger.
“It was all a mistake,” Pidgear said smoothly. “A natural mistake. Why should the man be stubborn? He is being reimbursed for everything, isn’t he? I wish you would talk to him, Mr. Fitzsimmons; we don’t want to keep you from your social engagements. Undoubtedly,” Pidgear said, eyeing their evening clothes respectfully, “you and the madam were going to an important dinner party. It would be too bad to spoil an important dinner party for a little thing like this. Why, this whole affair is niggling,” he said, waving his hand in front of Fitzsimmons’ face. “Absolutely niggling.”
Fitzsimmons looked over to where Tarloff and the other Russian were sitting on the floor. From Tarloff’s face and gestures, even though he was talking in deepest Russian, Fitzsimmons could tell Tarloff was still as firm as ever. Fitzsimmons looked closely at Rusk, who was standing looking at Tarloff through narrow, baleful eyes.
“Why’re you so anxious?” Fitzsimmons asked.
Rusk’s eyes clouded over and his throat throbbed against his collar with rage. “I don’t want to appear in court!” he yelled. “I don’t want the whole goddamn business to start all over again, investigation, lawyers, fingerprints …”
Pidgear punched him savagely in the ribs, his fist going a short distance, but with great violence.
“Why don’t you buy time on the National Broadcasting System?” Pidgear asked. “Make an address, coast to coast!”