Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “All right,” Archer said, “I want it.”

  Mr. Sandler nodded. He looked down at his watch again. “If you skip coffee,” he said, “you can make the two-o’clock train.”

  Archer stood up. “I’ll get my coffee in the diner,” he said. “Thanks for the lunch.”

  Mr. Sandler sat in his place, looking up at Archer, his forehead wrinkled, as though there was one last doubt he was pondering. Then he shook his head and stood up. He put out his hand and Archer shook it.

  “Come down again, some time,” Mr. Sandler said. “I’ll take you through the plant.”

  “Thank you,” said Archer. “I’ll try to make it.”

  “I think I’ll just sit here for a moment,” Mr. Sandler said, sliding back into his chair. “If you don’t mind. Have my coffee quietly.” He was almost mumbling now. Suddenly he seemed like a tired old man, wrinkled, low in energy, full of doubts and premonitions, testy, wanting to be left alone with his old man’s reflections.

  “Of course,” Archer said. “Good-bye.” He walked past the other tables. Somebody had just told a joke and the four men at one table were laughing loudly.

  By the time the train reached Trenton, Archer felt that he had engineered a triumph that noon in Philadelphia.

  16

  “YOU CAN GO IN NOW,” MISS WALSH SAID. “MR. HUTT IS READY FOR you now.” There was a frost on Miss Walsh this morning. Like a sensitive pet, she reflected the mood of her master. As Archer went toward Hutt’s door, he noticed the slight glitter of perspiration all over Miss Walsh’s face. Maybe, he thought cruelly, I’ll put one of those advertisements for the new deodorants in an envelope and send it to her through the mails, anonymously. The Chlorophyl tablet, to be taken by mouth, and guaranteed to neutralize all body odors, all vapors of sweat and metabolic processes, for twenty-four hours at a time. Neutrality in Miss Walsh was much to be desired.

  Hutt was behind his desk, his face sunburned and peeling over his neat gray flannel suit. O’Neill was sitting, very straight, near the window. The night before, at midnight, Hutt had called Archer from the airport in Florida and had told him to be in the office at three o’clock. Over the long wire, Hutt’s voice had been remote and without passion. “I’ll be in by then,” he had said, without any preliminaries. “I want to talk to you.”

  Whatever O’Neill or Miss Walsh had said to the contrary, Hutt had not been out of reach of the telephone. Momentarily, Archer wondered what the conversation between Mr. Sandler and Hutt, sunburned, in a gay shirt, on a warm beach, had been like the day before.

  “Sit down,” Hutt said, in his soft voice. O’Neill said nothing. He stared at Archer, his face grave, sober, waiting.

  Archer seated himself on a hard chair. He tried to arrange his legs so that he looked at ease.

  “You’ve been very clever, Archer,” Hutt said flatly, almost whispering. The bright wedge of his vacation-stained face was calm and expressed nothing. “You’ve won what might be called a temporary success.” He waited, as if to hear what Archer had to say to this. But Archer remained silent.

  “I don’t know what you said to Mr. Sandler,” Hutt went on. “But you must have been very convincing.” There was almost a tone of flattery in his voice. “The old man is not ordinarily easy to convince. You also managed to get me on a plane and interrupt a very pleasant vacation.” Still, there was no complaint or censure in his voice. Even now, he sounded as though he was surprised and impressed by the far-reaching ingenuity of a man whom he had not regarded particularly highly before this. “Prior to your little journey to Philadelphia,” Hutt went on, “you knew, of course, about our rule about approaching any of our sponsors?”

  “Yes,” Archer said. “I did.”

  Hutt nodded pleasantly. “I thought as much. So it wasn’t ignorance that led you to violate one of the oldest customs of this organization.”

  “No,” Archer said. “It was quite deliberate.” He saw that Hutt was waiting for him to continue, but he kept silent, resolved not to defend himself.

  “It may interest you to know,” Hutt said, “that before you came in here O’Neill and I were discussing the advisability of dropping the Sandler account altogether.” He waited again, but Archer merely peered blandly at him, refusing to be drawn out.

  “We decided not to drop it,” Hutt said, “for the time being. We will go on with it—under the—ah—new conditions imposed by you and Mr. Sandler. Looking at the question in the round, we agreed that it was inadvisable to force this particular issue at the moment. Didn’t we, Emmet?”

  “Yes,” said Emmet, staring stonily ahead of him.

  “From now on, Archer,” Hutt whispered, his freckled hands flat out on the desk in front of him, “we will institute a change in system. Emmet will do all the hiring for University Town. You can, of course, submit a list of people to him, but the final choice will be with him. Is that clear?”

  Archer hesitated. When he had signed the contract for the program, he had fought hard for the right to choose his own people. Without it, a director could hardly be responsible for the quality of what went over the air. Still, he thought wearily, I’ve made so many compromises—one more or less is of small importance. And O’Neill was a reasonable man. “OK,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “Exactly.” Hutt smiled gently. “We’ve decided that University Town is in need of more direct supervision than heretofore.”

  Heretofore, Archer thought, I don’t know another man who would use “heretofore” in conversation.

  “I don’t know,” Hutt went on, “whether you’ve informed Mr. Herres and Mrs. Weller of their new—ah—status. …”

  “No,” Archer said, “I haven’t. I was waiting to talk to you and O’Neill.”

  “Ah,” Hutt said softly, “were you? Technically, which would you prefer? Would you like Emmet to speak to them or would you prefer to do it in person and savor the full taste of victory yourself?” Hutt smiled obliquely and softly at him from behind the desk.

  “I’ll call them,” Archer said.

  Hutt shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He looked down at his desk reflectively, incongruously and humorously sunburned, with his nose peeling and the tips of his ears very red. “I think that about clears it up. Except for one thing. I’m sorry you didn’t decide to heed my warning the last time you were in this office. If you recall, I told you that it was dangerous in these times to find yourself defending unpopular causes. …”

  “I’m not defending any cause,” Archer said. “I’m defending two people who deserve it. That’s all.”

  Hutt waved his hand deprecatingly and smiled again. “Unpopular people, then,” he said gently. “I don’t know exactly what your reasons are but I no doubt shall discover them in good time.” The threat was there and Archer noted it. “Meanwhile,” Hutt went on, his voice barely audible on the other side of the desk, “I’m afraid I have to tell you that you’ve destroyed any value you might have had in the future to our organization. …”

  Our organization, Archer thought. He says it in the same way he might say our church, our regiment, our flag, our country. He never uses the word company or corporation or business.

  “Somehow,” Hutt said with a thin smile, “you seem to have mesmerized poor foolish old Mr. Sandler and I must keep you on for the time being for his sake. …”

  Archer stood up. “I got him full of gin,” he said, “and promised him two blondes the next time he came to New York, if you want to know how I worked it. I’ll be going now. I have some work to do.” He felt himself trembling and knew that a dozen rash and hateful and hurting things were forcing themselves to his tongue and he knew he shouldn’t say them. He made himself walk slowly to the door.

  “One final word, Mr. Archer,” Hutt said, still seated at his desk, looking down reflectively at his hands, flat on the desk, with the mark of the Southern holiday sun on them, “before you leave. Let me advise you to be discreet. After University Town is finished—and perhaps soone
r—you will find yourself no longer working for us. I would be less than candid if I didn’t tell you that it is entirely possible that you will find yourself working for no one at all.” He looked up then, staring at Archer, thin-faced, urbane, baleful, pleased to let Archer know that he was his enemy and that he was powerful.

  Amazing, Archer thought, even when he threatens a man, he does it in paragraphs. Archer looked at the slender man behind the desk, feeling that all means of communication were down between them. There was nothing to say. Archer turned on his heel and went out. Miss Walsh looked at him damply as he passed her.

  Standing in the telephone booth downstairs, Archer listened to the buzzing in the receiver and watched the traffic in the lobby. Portly middle-aged men in overcoats trotted by, stenographers with glasses, office-boys carrying bags in which the mid-afternoon coffee was put up in containers. All of them with hurried, business faces, discontented, wishing it was five-thirty. Watching them, Archer decided that he would be more careful from now on about the expression on his face. The mouth, he decided, is the crucial feature. The women, he thought, are the worst. Woman after woman who would otherwise have been quite pretty passed the booth window, unconscious of being watched, their youth and their good looks canceled by the down-pulling lines of petulance, self-pity, disappointment, hunger. Has it always been like this, Archer wondered, or is this a special stigma of the time and place, of New York and 1950?

  He heard the click at the other end of the wire, and then Vic’s voice.

  “Vic,” Archer said, “this is Clement.”

  “I remember the name,” Vic said.

  Archer smiled. “How are things at home?”

  “The measles,” Vic said, “have been contained. I’m spending a quiet afternoon trying to decide whether to take a nap, pay last month’s bills, or go out and get the evening papers. What’s doing in your sector?”

  “You’re still in business,” Archer said lightly. “The American public is not going to be deprived of the sweet sound of your voice after all.”

  “Oh,” Vic said. There was a pause on the wire. “Many thanks,” he said offhandedly. “How did you do it?”

  “I went down to Philadelphia and talked to the sponsor.”

  “You must have made quite a speech,” Vic said. He sounded embarrassed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hear the golden flood of oratory.”

  “I hardly said anything,” Archer said. “He talked most of the time. But his wife met you at a cocktail party. …”

  “I remember her,” Vic said. “Weight one-ninety, growing bald on top.”

  “Don’t say anything mean about her. She dropped to the floor senseless with your charm.”

  “Delightful lady,” Vic said. “I wouldn’t have her a pound lighter. Still, you don’t mean to say the old man really let that change him.”

  “Not exactly,” Archer said. He hesitated, sorry that he was conducting this conversation over the phone. “I told him about the Silver Star and the wound.”

  “Oh,” Vic said, “did the patriot weep?”

  “He had a kid killed in Tunisia,” Archer said, displeased at Vic’s light tone.

  “I will appear at the next broadcast,” Vic said, “in full regimentals, with fourragere, carrying a well-worn carbine.”

  “It wasn’t only that, Vic,” Archer said seriously. “I told him what you’d said to me.”

  “You mean you vouched for me?”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” Archer said.

  “I get all kinds of service out of you, don’t I?” Vic’s tone was still light, but Archer could detect the note of tenderness behind it.

  “Forget it,” Archer said brusquely, anxious suddenly to hang up the phone.

  “How about Hutt?” Vic asked. “Is he being sporting?”

  “Not very. He had to cut his vacation in Florida short.”

  Vic chuckled. “Sad,” he said. “Oh, that’s very sad.” Then he became serious. “How about the others?”

  “I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  “Not good, eh?”

  “Not too good,” Archer admitted.

  “From now on,” Vic said, “have more foresight. Hire character actresses who have the Purple Heart.”

  Archer disregarded the sour joke. “When do we see you?” He asked.

  “Tonight at five-thirty,” Vic said. “Nancy and I’re going with you to see Jane’s play. Nancy arranged it with Kitty. We’re going in my car. We can eat on the road.”

  “Don’t expect too much from the play,” Archer said, protecting Jane in advance. “I heard her reading over her lines on Sunday. She’s not the most accomplished young actress in the world.”

  Vic laughed, “Don’t worry, Papa,” he said. “I’ll take into account age, weight and the playing conditions of the field. See you later. And thanks again for Philadelphia.”

  “Sure,” Archer said hurriedly. “I’ll let you pay half the fare.”

  Vic was chuckling as he hung up. Archer held the receiver down with one hand, while he dug in his pocket with the other hand for some nickels. That was the easy one, he thought, as he put the nickel in the slot and dialed Atlas’s number. Now it gets tougher.

  There was no answer at the other end of the wire. Archer waited for five rings, then hung up and took back his nickel with a sense of relief. Atlas, he decided, could wait till rehearsal on Thursday. It was a pleasure that could bear postponement, Archer thought grimly. He put the nickel back in the box and dialed Alice Weller’s number.

  “Well,” Alice said worriedly, when Archer asked her if he could see her immediately, “I promised Ralph I’d take him ice-skating this afternoon and we were just going out the door when the phone rang. …”

  “Where does he skate?” Archer asked. He wanted to get it straight with Alice as soon as possible.

  “Rockefeller Center,” said Alice. “And he likes me to watch him and I …”

  “I’m down near there now,” Archer said. “He won’t mind if his mother talks to an old friend while he’s doing his figure eights, will he?”

  “Now, Clement,” Alice laughed uncomfortably, “now you’re making fun of me. It’s just that I’ve sort of gotten into the habit of going with him on Tuesday afternoons …”

  “Do you skate, too?”

  “Sometimes.” She giggled. “Do you think it’s silly?”

  “Of course not. Bring your skates today, too,” Archer said. “I can say everything I have to say in fifteen minutes.” He looked at his watch. “It’s three-thirty now. Will you be here by four o’clock?”

  “I don’t like to inconvenience you, Clement,” Alice said worriedly. “If you’d prefer coming up here, I’m sure Ralph would understand. …”

  There was a murmur on the other end of the wire and Archer was sure Ralph was in the room, listening, and showing signs that he wouldn’t understand at all. “Now, Ralph,” he heard Alice say firmly, away from the phone, “I’m talking to Mr. Archer. …”

  “Four o’clock,” Archer said loudly, annoyed with Alice’s self-sacrificing politeness. “At the entrance.” He hung up before Alice could say anything else.

  With a half-hour to waste, Archer strolled idly down Fifth Avenue, looking in the shop windows, trying consciously not to think of the interview with Hutt and its implications for the future. He passed the window of a men’s wear shop and remembered that Kitty had told him last week that his tailor had called and asked him to come up for a fitting of a new suit that he was having made. The tailor’s shop was only a couple of blocks away and he turned in that direction.

  Teague Brothers was a dark establishment one flight up on a side street. Mr. Teague was a tall, gloomy-looking gentleman who wore a high starched collar and a piped vest. He often worked over the cloth himself, his jacket off, the piping on his vest immaculate, his cuffs impeccably starched. Kitty, who liked more dashing clothes than Archer, complained that Teague Brothers made all their customers look like retired police capta
ins and it was true that most of the people Archer had seen in the course of years in the shop were bulky men with grave, official faces. They all had wide middles that Mr. Teague took a gloomy satisfaction in covering in fine, loose, dark cloth. Mr. Teague always made the waistband of Archer’s trousers an inch too large, as though it was inconceivable to him that any man who could afford his suits would not eat too much in the years ahead. Archer liked the slow, dark atmosphere of the shop and its hushed air of belonging to an older and more substantial time.

  Ministerially, Mr. Teague made marks with his tailor’s chalk on the soft tweed of the new jacket, as though he were conducting a baptism. The jacket felt free and light on Archer’s shoulders, and as he regarded himself in the three-way-mirror he looked forward with pleasure to wearing the suit. Mr. Teague disapproved of padding in the shoulders and stiff reinforcements under the cloth. “I send men out of my shop,” he was accustomed to say, “ready to go to board meetings and appear in proper restaurants, not to play in the line for the New York’ Giants.” Many of his customers had found the suits appropriate to be buried in, too, but Mr. Teague, whatever private satisfaction he might have taken in this fact, did not refer to it in his conversation.

  “Mr. Spinelli,” Mr. Teague called into the back room, where the cutting was done, “Mr. Spinelli, will you come in here, please?” He turned back to Archer and said, “Mr. Spinelli is our new head fitter, Mr. Archer. He has one or two bad mannerisms; he worked for a department store on Fifth Avenue which will be nameless …” The soul of discretion and disapproval, Mr. Teague lowered his voice as he said this. “But we are working on him.”