by Irwin Shaw
“Name it,” said Herres. “Name the thought.”
“I thought you were a very good actor.”
“Mention me in dispatches,” Herres said, grinning, “the next time you go up to Division.”
“Too good for radio.”
“Treason,” Herres said gravely. “Biting the hand that murders you.”
“You never have to extend yourself,” Archer went on seriously, looking into a bookstore window. The window had a display of books from the French, all celebrating despair in bright, attractive covers. Collaboration, guilt and torture, imported especially for Madison Avenue, at three dollars a copy. “Everything’s so easy for you, you win every race under wraps.”
“Good blood lines,” Herres said. “My sire was a well-known stud in Midwestern stables. His get took many firsts. In the sprints at second-class meetings.”
“Aren’t you curious to see what you could do against tougher competition?”
Herres looked thoughtfully down a side street. “Why?” he asked. “Are you?”
“Yes,” Archer said. “On the stage. Where you could be fully used. You’re a good type. You’re still young-looking. And you’ve got a simple, open face, with the necessary touch of brutality in it for the older trade.”
Herres chuckled. “Hamlet, 1950,” he said, “wearing his major H.”
“Listening to you reading Barbante’s silly lines,” Archer said, “I get a sense of waste. Like seeing a pile driver used for thumbtacks.”
Herres smiled. “Think how comfortable it is,” he said, “for the pile driver to be asked only to handle thumbtacks. Last forever and be as good as new a hundred years from date of sale.”
“Think about it, dear boy,” Archer said, as they turned down Fifty-sixth Street.
“Dear boy,” said Herres. “I won’t.”
They smiled at each other and Herres held the door of Louis’ bar open for him. They went in, out of the cold.
The first drink was fine, after the day’s work and the brisk walk. Nancy hadn’t come yet and they sat at the bar, on the high stools, rolling the cold glasses in their hands, enjoying watching the bartender handle the bottles and the ice.
Woodrow Burke was sitting by himself around the curve of the bar, staring into his drink. He looked drunk and Archer tried to keep from catching his eye. Burke had been a famous correspondent during the war. He was always being spectacularly caught in surrounded towns and burning airplanes and because of this specialty his price had gone very high in those days. Since the war he had become a news commentator on the radio and his washboard voice, hoarse with criticism and disdain, had for awhile been the disturbing incidental music at dinner tables all through the country. He had been fired suddenly over a year ago (his enemies said it was because he was a fellow-traveler and he said it was because he was an honest man) and since that time had sat in bars, deciding to divorce his wife, and announcing that free speech was being throttled in America. He was a fattish pale young man, with bold, worried dark eyes, and with all that weight he must have landed very hard the time he had to bail out of the airplane. During the war he had had a reputation for being very brave. He had grown much older in the last year and his tolerance for alcohol seemed to have diminished seriously.
He looked up from his drink and saw Archer and Herres. He waved and Archer saw the gesture out of the corner of his eye, but pretended not to. Carefully, Burke got down from his stool and walked, steadily but slowly, around the curve of the bar toward them, holding his drink stiffly to keep it from spilling.
“Clem, Vic,” Burke came up behind them, “we who are about to die salute thee. Have a drink.”
Archer and Herres swung around in their chairs. “Hi, Woodie,” Archer said, very heartily, to make up for the fact that he was sorry Burke had come over. “How’s it going?”
“I am sinking with all hands on board,” Burke said soberly. “How’s it going with you?”
“Fair,” Archer said. “I’ll probably live at least until the next payment on the income tax is due.”
“Those bastards,” Burke said, sipping his whiskey, “they’re still after me for 1945. The Vosges Mountains,” he said obscurely. “That’s where I was in 1945.” He stared gloomily at himself in the mirror. His collar was rumpled and his tie was damp from spilled whiskey. “Were you there?” He turned pugnaciously on Herres.
“Where?” Herres asked.
“The Vosges Mountains.”
“No, Woodie.”
“Old Purple-Heart Vic,” Burke said, patting Herres on the shoulder. “You were a good boy, they told me. Never saw for myself, but I heard you were a good boy. But watch out now, Vic, the Big Wound is coming up now.”
“Sure, Woodie,” Herres said. “I’ll take good care of myself.”
“The wounds of peace,” Burke said, his prominent eyes angry and troubled. “Jagged and with a high percentage of fatalities. Invisible bursts at treetop level on Fifth Avenue. The Big One. No medals for it and no points toward discharge, either. Watch out for the big one, though.”
“I sure will, Woodie,” Herres said.
“How about you?” Burke swung his head and aimed it at Archer.
“How about me what?” Archer said mildly.
“Where were you?”
“No place, Woodie,” Archer said. “I was a continental limits man.”
“Well,” said Burke, generously forgiving him, “somebody had to stay home.” He sipped his drink noisily. “My big mistake,” he said, “was not being kicked out of Yugoslavia when I had the chance.” He nodded, confirming himself.
Archer kept silent, hoping that Burke would notice that he was not being encouraged to talk. But Burke was now on his nightly subject and refused to stop. “I left of my own free will,” Burke went on, “instead of being invited out, and I didn’t write that Tito raped a nun every day before breakfast, and the hand of suspicion was laid on me. I said what I had to say as an honest man, and the bastards got me. Powerful agencies at work, Archer, throttling the means of communication. Sinister and powerful agencies,” he whispered over his glass, “weeding out the honest men. Don’t laugh, Archer, don’t laugh. Somewhere, somebody has your name on a list. Treetop level.” He drained his whiskey and put the glass down on the bar. He looked shabbier and more lonesome without a glass in his hand. “Archer,” he said, facing around, “can you lend me a thousand dollars?”
“Now, Woodie …” Archer began.
“OK.” Burke waved his hands. “No reason for you to lend me any money. Hardly know me. Barroom bore, with his credit running out, always telling the same old story of everybody’s life. Forget it. Shouldn’t’ve asked. It’s just that I happen to need a thousand dollars.”
“I can let you have three hundred,” Archer said. He was surprised at the figure as he said it. He had meant to offer a hundred, but three hundred came out.
“Thanks,” Burke said calmly. “That’s nice of you. I need a thousand, but three hundred helps, I suppose.”
Herres turned his back on them, and said something to the man on his left, delicately trying not to overhear Burke.
“You couldn’t let me have it now, could you?” Burke peered uncertainly at Archer. “Tonight? I could use three hundred in cash tonight.”
“Now, Woodie,” Archer said. “I don’t carry money like that on me. You know that.”
“Thought I’d ask,” Burke mumbled. “No harm in asking. People carry all kinds of things on them these days. Inflation, maybe, the general feeling of insecurity, always being ready to cut and run if necessary.”
“I’m not running any place,” Archer said.
“No?” Burke nodded soberly. “Who knows?” He put his face closer to Archer. “Maybe you have it at home,” he whispered. “In the old safe behind the picture on the dining-room wall. I’d be happy to go downtown with you and wait. Pay the taxi myself.”
Archer laughed. “Woodie, you’re drunk. I’ll put the check in the mail tomorrow morning.”
/> “Special delivery,” Burke said.
“Special delivery.”
“You’re sure you can’t make it a thousand?” Burke asked loudly.
“Woodie, why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep?” said Archer.
“The minute a man lends you a buck,” Burke said angrily, “he begins to give you advice. Traditional relationship of creditor to debtor. Archer, I thought you’d be above that. I’ll go home and go to sleep when I’m damn well ready.” He turned and started back toward his place at the end of the bar. After he had gone two steps, he stopped and reversed himself. “You said special delivery, remember,” he said threateningly.
“I remember,” Archer said, trying not to be angry.
“OK.” Burke turned again and walked, without swaying, back to his stool. He sat down, very straight. “Joe,” he said to the bartender, “Bell’s twelve-year-old. Double. With water.”
That’s a hell of an expensive drink for a man to order in front of somebody who’s just loaned him three hundred dollars, Archer thought. Then he heard Herres whispering harshly at him, “Why did you give that scrounging windbag that money?”
Archer shrugged as he swung around to face Herres. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m as surprised as you are.”
“You’ll never get it back,” Herres said. “He’ll never get a job again, and he’ll be too drunk to hold one if he does.”
“Why, Vic,” Archer said, “I thought he was a friend of yours.”
“The only friend he has is Haig and Haig. You’ve just kissed three hundred bucks farewell,” Herres said. “I hope you can afford it.”
“Mr. Herres.” It was the headwaiter, standing behind them. “Mrs. Herres is on the telephone.”
“Thanks, Albert,” Herres said, swinging off his chair. “Probably she wants to say she will only be three days late for drinks.” He followed the headwaiter toward the phone in the back room.
Archer watched his friend stride easily and gracefully past the tables. He noticed with amusement that, as usual, two or three ladies looked away from their escorts to examine Herres as he passed. One hard-faced woman in a veil got out her handbag mirror and surreptitiously followed Herres’ progress over her shoulder. What went on in women’s minds, behind those weighing faces at a moment like this? Archer wondered: Better never to know. A bald man, he thought ruefully, is in no position to speculate on this subject, just as a starving man could not judge a banquet. He looked at himself in the mirror on the other side of the bar. Gold-tinted in the soft light above the bottles, his face stared back at him. I have lost weight, Archer decided, and I look a lot better than I did five years ago. The prime of life, he said to himself, smiling at what he thought was vanity, the prime man. Good for another five years without refrigeration.
Herres came back and Archer looked away a little guiltily from the mirror. “Nancy on her way?” he asked.
“No,” Herres said. He seemed worried. “Young Clem woke up yelling, with a hundred and three fever. She’s waiting for the doctor.”
Archer made the usual face of the adult confronted by the report of the wanton and inconvenient illnesses of the young. “That’s too bad,” he said, hoping it wasn’t polio or meningitis or a psychosomatic symptom of a mental disorder that would send young Clement to a psychiatrist twenty years later. “But you know how kids’ fevers are. They don’t mean anything.”
“I know,” said Herres. “But I’d better get home.”
“One more drink?”
“Better not.” Herres started to leave. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He stopped. “Oh,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “The bill …”
“Forget it.” Archer waved him away.
“Thanks.” Herres strode swiftly out of the bar.
Archer looked after him for a moment and asked for the check. Nearly four dollars, nearly five with the tip. He felt the recurrent twinge of extravagance as he paid. Some day, he thought, for the hundredth time, I am going to keep an account of what I spend in bars for one month. Probably be scandalizing. We live to support the Scotch. And three hundred dollars promised to Burke, staring at his twelve-year-old whiskey down the bar with a cold, unthankful eye. That shiver you feel each month is your bank balance opening and closing.
He got his coat, regretting the necessity of tipping the girl a quarter, and went out. I really should go by subway, he thought, standing in the dark wind, feeling tired and economical, and looked for a taxi.
Then he heard his name called. “Clement … Clement …” It was O’Neill, bulky in his coat, hurrying up the street toward him. “Wait a minute.”
“I thought you were going to a party,” Archer said as O’Neill came up to him.
“I have to talk to you,” O’Neill said.
“We have a date for tomorrow at eleven-thirty,” Archer reminded him.
“I just saw Hutt and the sponsor,” O’Neill said, “and I have to talk to you tonight.” He peered at the dark fronts of the buildings, broken here and there by a restaurant’s lights. “Where can we go?”
“I just came from Louis’,” Archer said. “I guess they’ll take me back.”
O’Neill shook his head impatiently. “No,” he said. “Some place quiet. Where nobody knows us. I don’t want anybody barging in.”
“What’s the matter, Emmet?” Archer asked as O’Neill took his arm and started toward a little Italian restaurant on the other side of the street. “The police after you? Have they finally got you for double-parking?”
O’Neill didn’t smile, not even politely, and Archer wondered whether he had had time to get drunk since the program went off the air. The radio business, Archer thought resignedly, as O’Neill held the door open for him; everything is treated as though it’s a matter of life and death.
2
IN THE RESTAURANT, WHICH WAS SMALL AND DARK AND SMELLED OF dried cheese, O’Neill picked a table in a corner. He waited until the bartender had put their drinks on the table and gone off before he said anything. He took a quick sip of his whiskey, looked briefly at Archer, then kept his eyes down, staring at his fingers.
“The party I went to,” he said, “wasn’t really a party. It was more of a conference. Hutt and the sponsor.” Lloyd Hutt was the president of the agency that put on University Town. “They thought it would be better if I got to you tonight.”
Archer watched him, puzzled, but didn’t speak.
“The program tonight,” O’Neill said officially, keeping his eyes lowered, “was well liked.”
Archer nodded. University Town had stayed on a comfortable, even keel for more than four years now, but it was pleasant to hear that the individual show had done well.
“And the next two scripts have gone through mimeograph and been approved,” O’Neill went on. Archer could tell he was slowly getting himself ready to say something disturbing. “But …” O’Neill picked up his glass, looked at it absently, and put it down again. “But, there’s a … a feeling that this is about the time to … make some changes, Clem.” Suddenly O’Neill began to flush. A deep plum color tided into his cheeks and forehead. Only the skin around his lips remained pale and looked surprisingly white.
“What sort of changes, Emmet?” Archer asked.
“Well,” O’Neill said, “the general impression is, maybe we’ve been using the same people a little too much. Too familiar, maybe. Not enough variety. The music, too. Maybe it’s a little too modern,” O’Neill said lamely.
“Now, Emmet,” Archer said, annoyed with him, “you just said the program was fine. What’s the sense in tampering with it now?”
“This might just be the time to do it. Not wait until it starts to slide. Keep ahead of it, in a manner of speaking. Shake it up. Not rest on our oars.”
“Emmet,” Archer said, “did I hear you say, ‘not rest on our oars’?”
“Yes, you did,” O’Neill said angrily. “What the hell’s wrong with that?”
“What’re you practicing to do
—make speeches to conventions of vacuum-cleaner salesmen?”
“Cut it,” O’Neill said. He was redder than ever. “Save your jokes for the program.”
“Look,” Archer said. “You’re embarrassed. I can tell that. You’re passing on somebody’s message and you don’t like the assignment. OK. You don’t have to be delicate with me. Let’s have it.”
“I’m not passing on anybody’s message,” O’Neill said loudly. “I’m representing a general consensus of opinion.” His voice had the same unaccustomed rhetorical falseness in it. “We want to make some changes. What’s so damned curious about that? An agency’s entitled to improve a radio program from time to time, isn’t it? You don’t have any feeling we’re putting Holy Writ on the air every Thursday night, do you?” The flush was receding now that he was getting angrier and arguing himself into righteousness.
“All right,” Archer said. “What changes are you thinking of? Specifically.”
“First of all,” O’Neill said, “the music’s been getting more and more highbrow every week. We’ve got to remember that we’re working in a popular medium and our listeners like to hear a little melody once in a while and at least one resolved chord a week.”
Archer couldn’t help smiling. “OK,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll talk to Pokorny.”
“The feeling is,” O’Neill said slowly, “we want somebody new. Get rid of Pokorny.”
“You want my opinion?” Archer asked.
“Of course.”
“Pokorny’s music is the best thing on the show.”
“We’ve discussed it,” O’Neill said, “and we decided Pokorny is too European.”
“What does that mean, for the love of God?” Archer demanded. “Every other writer of incidental music steals it all from Tschaikovsky. Where do they think Tschaikovsky comes from—Dallas, Texas?”
“We want someone else to start doing the music for next week’s show,” O’Neill said stubbornly.
“What else?” Archer asked. He would argue about Pokorny later, he decided, when he heard the whole story.