The Feather Merchants

by Max Shulman

  Miss Fligg stuck her leg through the slit in her dress and bowed in acknowledgment of the ovation.

  “Tonight,” the m.c. went on, “we’re all going to have a chance to make a further contribution toward speeding the day of victory. Come out, Miss Petite.” Miss Petite came out. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dawn Petite!”

  Dawn Petite was dressed in a costume of four strategically placed war bonds. “Who’ll buy my bonds?” she asked.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” said the m.c., “who’ll buy Miss Petite’s bonds and win the privilege of taking them off? The first one goes for $18.75.”

  A large man in a black, pin-striped suit with a black shirt and a yellow tie rushed forward. He lunged at Miss Petite. “Whoa,” chuckled the m.c. “Just a minute. What is your name, sir?”

  “Ed Tarboosh,” he said impatiently, and started for Miss Petite.

  “And what is your occupation?”

  “Riveter.”

  “Riveter!” cried the m.c.

  The patrons stamped and whistled.

  “I suppose you’re working on war materials,” said the m.c.

  “Yeh, yeh.”

  “Well, Mr. Tarboosh, I want to say for everyone here that we’re grateful to you home-front soldiers.”

  “The bond,” said Mr. Tarboosh.

  “All right. Now, Miss Petite, will you kindly turn around and let Mr. Tarboosh take his $18.75 bond?”

  Although Mr. Tarboosh was more than a little disappointed, he made the best of it.

  “The next two go for $37.50 apiece,” said the m.c.

  “I’ll take ’em both,” cried a slavering fellow running up with cupped hands.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Hitler,” he answered. “Everybody kids me about it. I don’t think they should. I’m a good American.”

  “I should say you are, Mr. Hitler,” said the announcer. “You are certainly showing the proper spirit tonight.”

  “I do my best,” said Mr. Hitler.

  Which he also did in collecting his bonds.

  “The last bond goes for $75,” said the m.c.

  Instantly the place was in an uproar. From the melee one man finally reeled, his left arm hanging useless, a broken beer bottle in his right. He snarled at the m.c., knocked the microphone down, and went forward to claim his reward as the lights went off. When they went on again, Miss Petite was in her dressing room nursing a chill and the m.c. was imploring everyone out on the floor to dance.

  “Tell us about the bridge,” said Blanche to me.

  “Would you care to gavotte?” I asked.

  “You got to show me how,” she said, taking my arm.

  The dance floor was jammed with war workers and their wives, war workers and other men’s wives, war workers’ wives and other men, and war workers’ wives dancing with war workers’ wives. Blanche and I inserted ourselves into the mass and were there imbedded in erotic juxtaposition until the music stopped. We met Sam, who had also been dancing, as the impressions of his brass buttons on Madge’s bare midriff testified, and we all went back to our table.

  There were four strangers sitting at it, a pair of twin brothers and a pair of twin sisters. We looked at them askance. “Your table?” asked one of the brothers jovially. “Well, think nothing of it. Come on, Al, we’ll get some more chairs.” They reconnoitered briefly, unseated four near-by women, and came back in a moment with the chairs.

  “Sit down, sit down,” boomed the one who wasn’t Al. “Plenty of room. Glad to have you, soldiers. We’ve got a couple of twin brothers in the Army ourselves, haven’t we, Al?”

  “Yes,” said Al.

  We squeezed around what had been originally a tête-à-tête table.

  “P.B. Gelt’s my name,” continued Al’s brother, “and this is my brother Al. Used cars is our business. You’ve heard of Gelt and Gelt. ‘If your last car smelt, try Gelt and Gelt.’ And these are the Vanocki twins, Vera and Viola. Met ’em at the twins’ convention in St. Paul last year. Damn fine girls.”

  They blushed in unison.

  “Charmed,” said Sam. “This is Madge Spetalnik and Blanche Gooberman and Robert Jordan and I am Montag Fortz.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” said P.B. “Waiter, eight shots of gin. Fortz, did you say your name was? I used to know a Fortz, didn’t I, Al?”

  “Yes,” said Al.

  “I remember now. Sold him a ’27 Essex a couple of years ago. Had over 100,000 miles on it, two sprung axles, cracked block, and not an inch of wiring. He never even got it home,” chuckled P.B. “No relation of yours, I hope.”

  “My father,” said Sam. “He spent his last nickel for that car. My mother was selling shoelaces door to door at that time. She was out at a little settlement about thirty miles north of here when she was suddenly stricken with scrofula. The only chance was to get some serum to her immediately, and the only way to reach her was by car. Dad pawned everything he had in the world to buy that car. He didn’t make it.”

  “Well, see here,” said P.B., “I feel I ought to do something—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Sam. “She was getting old anyway.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so,” said P.B. The waiter brought the drinks. “Eight more. By God, Fortz, you’re not paying for a thing tonight. That’s the least I can do.”

  “I’ll bet you gentlemen have seen plenty of action,” said Vera and Viola in unison.

  “Robert has,” said Blanche. “Tell them about the bridge, Robert.”

  “Mustn’t let our drinks get cold,” I said brightly.

  We drank. “We’ve got a pair of twin brothers in the service,” said P.B. “They’re walkie-talkies.”

  “What about the bridge?” chorused Vera and Viola.

  “Oh,” I said, “I used to play a little bridge, that’s all. Tell me, Mr. Gelt, how is the used-car business? I understand it’s getting difficult to find good ones.”

  “Well,” said P.B. pontifically, “it is and it isn’t. You got to know where to find them. I got a ’38 Olds on the lot—drive it away for $1,100, cash or terms—that’s a little dandy. Just as good as brand new. Even better, ’cause it’s been broke in. Used to belong to an old one-legged lady who just drove it back and forth in the garage for a few minutes every Sunday afternoon. Hardly a mile on the speedometer. Interested, Jordan? Might make a price for a serviceman.”

  “No,” I said, “no, I don’t think so. I was thinking of something bigger than an Olds. Mercedes-Benz or a Rolls, perhaps.”

  “He got used to foreign cars while he was on the other side,” Sam explained.

  “Why don’t you tell ’em about the bridge, hon?” asked Blanche.

  “Well, look who’s here!” I said. “The waiter! I certainly am glad to see you.”

  We drank, and P.B. ordered eight more. “By God, Fortz,” he said, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “Forget it,” said Sam. “She was a nuisance.”

  Blanche tugged at my sleeve. “Go on, tell ’em, Bob,” she urged.

  Miss Fligg was making the rounds of the tables. “Oh, Miss Fligg.” I called. She came over. “I just wanted to tell you how much we’re enjoying ourselves.”

  “That’s real nice, dearie,” she said. “I try to run a nice homey place where people can have a little fun and take their minds off this terrible war.”

  “Ain’t it the truth?” Blanche agreed. “I seldom ever drink, but it helps sometimes to get away from the war, like you say.”

  The waiter brought the drinks. “Won’t you have one?” I asked.

  Miss Fligg laughed lightly. “No, thanks, dearie. Got to watch my figger.” She exhibited her gnarled leg through the slit in her gown. “What you drinking, gin? Have you tried a Sty Stinger? Specialty of the house. One part rye, one part beer, and one part pure U.S.P. alky. Bring these folks a round of Sty Stingers,” she told the waiter. “Well, folks, enjoy yourselfs. I got to go to the kitchen and watch the cook. That sonofabitch puts butter in the sandwiches
when I ain’t looking.”

  We drank the gin. The waiter brought the Sty Stingers and we drank those.

  “How about the God-damn bridge?” asked Madge.

  “Yes, tell us, Bobby,” said Blanche.

  “Yes, tell us about the bridge,” said Vera and Viola together.

  “We’d like to hear about it, Jordan,” said P.B. “Wouldn’t we, Al?”

  “Yes,” said Al.

  “You tell them or I will,” Sam threatened.

  It was the Sty Stinger on top of the gin and whisky that did it. “Go obscenity thyself,” I told Sam. “I will tell them. Who blew the bridge?”

  “Thee,” said Sam.

  “Clearly,” I said. “It was really nothing. Nada. A little bridge. A boy of twelve could have blown it.”

  “Thou art modest,” said Sam. “It was a formidable bridge. The grandmother of all bridges. The Frank Sinatra of bridges.”

  “Was it a cantilever bridge or a suspension bridge?” asked P.B.

  “What’s the difference?” inquired Madge.

  “A cantilever bridge is supported by spans,” P.B. explained, “and a suspension bridge hangs from wires.”

  “Hangs from wires?” Madge asked. “Where do the wires come from?”

  “From the wire factory,” Sam said. “Tell them of the bridge, Roberto.”

  “That of the bridge fills me with sadness,” I sighed. “I keep thinking of Anselmo.”

  “Who’s Anselmo?” asked the twin sisters.

  “Private First Class Herbert Anselmo,” Sam said. “He helped Robert with the bridge. He was killed.”

  “Nevertheless, it was done,” I said stoutly. “The Moors did not attack over that bridge.”

  “Where was the bridge?” Madge asked.

  “Where do you suppose the Moors are?” asked P.B. irritably. “In Moorocco, naturally. Aren’t they, Al?”

  “Yes,” said Al.

  “Before I tell,” I suggested, “let us have more of those drinks with the rare name.”

  “Eight Sty Stingers,” P.B. told a waiter.

  “A rare name,” I said.

  “Did you blow up the bridge?” Blanche asked.

  “Did I not,” I said. “I ask thee, Montag.”

  “Oh, did thee not,” said Sam.

  “Oh, did I not,” I said.

  The waiter brought another round. I drank mine, and Sam kindly gave me his, which I also drank.

  “Tell them from the beginning,” Sam said. “Tell them that of Maria.”

  “Who’s Maria?” Blanche asked.

  “She of the short hair like a cropped wheat field,” I said dreamily.

  “Who?” Blanche demanded.

  “Maria Fashbinder,” Sam explained. “A woman with a feather bob who was sent along to keep house for Robert.”

  “Maria,” I breathed. “Ah, guapa. Ah, little rabbit.”

  “What?” said Blanche.

  “He says for suppa they used to eat a little rabbit,” Sam answered. “You get pretty tired of K ration.”

  “I can imagine,” said Madge. “That kind of stuff ain’t natural. One night Rex—Mr. Spetalnik—brought home a little package of green stuff. ‘What’s that?’ I says. ‘That’s dehydrated spinach,’ he says. ‘They’s a whole bushel here. All you got to do is add water.’ ‘Rex,’ I says, ‘if the Lord had intended for spinach to be like that, he would have grew it that way.’ I divorced Rex shortly after that. Don’t know how I stood him as long as I did. He used to work in the stockyards, and every night he came home with manure on his shoes. He tracked so much manure on the rugs things was growin’ there. Believe me, you don’t know what us women go through.”

  “Amen,” said Blanche. “Gooberman used to keep bees in our dresser. I opened the wrong drawer one night, and they raised lumps all over me. I’ve still got some.”

  “Yes,” said Al.

  “What about the bridge?” asked Vera and Viola.

  “A formidable bridge. The grandmother of all bridges,” I said.

  “Tell them how thou blewst it up after Pablo stole thy exploder,” Sam prompted.

  “Unprint him. I this and that on him. That he would steal a man’s exploder.”

  “That’s a shoddy thing to do,” said P.B.

  “It could have been done safely. There was no need for Anselmo to die,” I complained softly.

  “Tell them how thou climbst among the girders of the bridge and fastened grenades to the explosives,” said Sam.

  “I climbst among the girders of the bridge and fastened grenades to the explosives,” I said.

  A man materialized beside me. “Eight Sty Stingers,” I said. “A rare name.”

  “I’m not a waiter,” said the man. “I’m John Smith of the Press-Telegram. But I’ll be glad to buy the drinks if I can hear the rest of that story.”

  “A reporter?” asked Sam.

  “Well, sort of. I’m temporarily on classified ads,” John Smith replied.

  “A rare name,” I said. “Even as I fixed the grenades to the explosives I could hear them coming up the road.”

  “Who?” asked John Smith.

  “The fascists,” Sam answered.

  “How many of you were there?”

  “Only he and Anselmo, who was killed,” Sam said.

  “And where was this bridge?”

  “In Moorocco,” said P.B. “Wasn’t it, Al?”

  “Yes,” said Al.

  “Maybe I better get a photographer,” said John Smith.

  “By all means,” said Sam.

  “Here’s your drink,” John Smith said to me. “Now you drink this and I’ll be right back. Wait for me.”

  He got back as I finished the Sty Stinger. A rare name. “Now let me have your name and address,” he said.

  “I’ll give you all that later,” said Sam. “Let him go ahead with his story. You got pencil and paper, Mr. Smith?”

  “Shoot,” he said.

  I continued. “I could hear them coming up the road. ‘Thee must pull the wire, Anselmo,’ I said, ‘if they reach the bridge.’ ‘Nay,’ he said, ‘not while thou arst on it.’ ‘It is of no consequence,’ I said. ‘Thee must pull the wire.’”

  “Jeez, what a story!” exclaimed John Smith. “They can’t keep me on classified ads after this one.”

  “She came to me as I lay in the sleeping bag,” I said. “‘Get in, little rabbit,’ I said. ‘Nay, I must not,’ she said. ‘Get in. It is cold out there,’ I said. ‘Thee must show me what to do,’ she said. ‘I will learn and I will be thy woman.’ ‘Yes,’ I said fiercely, ‘yes, yes.’”

  “What’s all this?” asked John Smith.

  “Nay,” said Sam. “Tell them of the bridge. How thou hadst finished one side and they were coming and thou strungst the wire down the other side and they started to fire and thou finished the other side just as they reached the bridge and thou saidst, ‘Pull, Anselmo,’ and he pulled and the bridge opened up just like a blossom.”

  “Did it not,” I said. “A formidable bridge.”

  “This story will make me,” said John Smith excitedly. “Waiter, a round of drinks for everyone.”

  “P.B. Gelt’s my name,” said P.B. Gelt. “I imagine a newspaperman like you needs a good car in his business, doesn’t he, Al?”

  “Yes,” said Al.

  “They’re getting scarce. You could do worse than invest in a good car a few years old. They knew how to build cars in those days, believe me. Now I got a ’27 Essex—”

  “Here’s my photographer,” said John Smith.

  “Of course, if you’d like something a little newer,” said P.B., “I got a ’38 Olds—$1,300 takes it, cash or terms—that used to belong to a paralyzed clergyman who just went out and sat in it on warm afternoons. Never even started the motor.”

  “Manny,” said John Smith to the photographer, “I want to get something a little unusual here. This guy blew up a bridge in Morocco. The fascist troops were shooting at him while he attached the explosives.
They got his buddy.”

  “The bastards,” said Manny.

  “What do you think?” asked John Smith.

  “Well, we’ll fake something,” said Manny. He turned to me. “You crawl under the table and I’ll give you this extension wire and you pretend you’re hooking it onto the table leg. You, the other soldier—what’s your name?”

  “Montag Fortz.”

  “—stand by with both your fingers in your ears.”

  “Swell,” said John Smith. “I won’t be writing classified adds much longer.”

  “Thee,” Sam said to me, “getst under the table.”

  I crawled under. “I had a cousin who was a photographer,” I said. “He smuggled a camera into an electrocution once. Had it strapped to his leg. When they turned the juice on the prisoner, my cousin hoisted his trousers and clicked the shutter. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to focus. All he got was the nape of H. V. Kaltenborn, who was covering the electrocution for the Brooklyn Eagle. Kaltenborn later bought a dozen enlargements from him.”

  “All right,” Manny said. “Now tie that wire around the table leg. That’s it. Montag, you stick your fingers in your ears. That’s fine. Now one more. Got it.”

  “Now, if you’ll give me the dope on your friend—” John Smith said to Sam.

  Sam took him aside.

  “Gelt and Gelt,” I said from under the table, “I see what you’re doing to those twins. A rare thing.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “We’ve had a fine day,” said Sam.

  We were sitting in the car in front of Sam’s house. “A rare day,” I agreed.

  “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  “All right now, I guess.”

  “Do you remember running over those four children on the way home?”

  “Five, wasn’t it?”

  “No. The fifth was their father. A midget. He works for Philip Morris.”

  “What became of those two bags we had?”

  “We took them home. Don’t you remember? You gave them all the fish we caught this morning.”

  “Did I? That was nice of me.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You made them sit up and bark like seals, and then you threw them the fish one at a time.”

  “Oh, Jesus, did I really?”

  “Did you? It’s a good thing that cop had a sense of humor.”