by Irwin Shaw
“If something is right here,” McMahon went on, without raising his voice, “people can say it’s William McMahon’s doing. If something is wrong here they can say it’s William McMahon’s fault. I like that, Mr. Grimmet. When I die people can say, ‘William McMahon left a monument, the bar at Grimmet’s Restaurant. He never served a bad drink in his whole life.’” McMahon took his coat out of the closet next to the bar and put it on. “A monument. I will not have a monument made out of Thesing’s private stock. Mr. Grimmet, I think you are a dumb bastard.”
McMahon bowed a little to the two men and started out. Mr. Grimmet gulped, then called, his words hard and dry in the empty restaurant. “McMahon!” The bartender turned around. “All right,” Mr. Grimmet said. “Come back.”
McMahon gestured toward Thesing.
“Any liquor you say,” Mr. Grimmet said in a choked voice. “Any goddamn whisky you want!”
McMahon smiled and went back to the closet and took his coat off and took the shingle out of his pocket. He went back of the bar and slipped on his apron, as Thesing and Grimmet watched.
“One thing,” Mr. Grimmet said, his eyes twitching from the strain, “one thing I want you to know.”
“Yes, sir,” said McMahon.
“I don’t want you to talk to me,” Mr. Grimmet said, “and I don’t want to talk to you. Ever.”
Thesing quietly picked up his hat and stole out the door.
“Yes, sir,” said McMahon.
Mr. Grimmet walked swiftly into the kitchen.
“I will tell you something about debutantes,” the first waiter was saying in the rear of the restaurant, “they are overrated.”
McMahon tied the bow in his apron strings and, neatly, in the center of the whisky shelves above the bar, placed the shingle, “William McMahon, In Charge.”
I Stand by Dempsey
The crowd came out of Madison Square Garden with the sorrowful, meditative air that hangs over it when the fights have been bad. Flanagan pushed Gurske and Flora quickly through the frustrated fans and into a cab. Gurske sat on the folding seat, Flanagan with Flora in the back.
“I want a drink,” he said to her as the cab started. “I want to forget what I saw tonight.”
“They were not so bad,” Gurske said. “They were scientific.”
“Not a bloody nose,” Flanagan said. “Not a single drop of blood. Heavyweights! Heavyweight pansies!”
“As an exhibition of skill,” Gurske said, “I found it interesting.”
“Joe Louis could’ve wiped them all up in the short space of two minutes,” Flanagan said.
“Joe Louis is overrated,” Gurske said, leaning across from the little folding seat and tapping Flanagan on the knee. “He is highly overrated.”
“Yeah,” Flanagan said. “He is overrated like the S. S. Texas is overrated. I saw the Schmeling fight.”
“That German is a old man,” Gurske said.
“When Louis hit him in the belly,” Flora said, “he cried. Like a baby. Louis’ hand went in up to the wrist. I saw with my own eyes.”
“He left his legs in Hamburg,” Gurske said. “A slight wind woulda knocked him over.”
“That is some slight wind,” said Flanagan, “that Louis.”
“He’s built like a brick privy,” Flora remarked.
“I woulda liked to see Dempsey in there with him.” Gurske rolled his eyes at the thought. “Dempsey. In his prime. The blood would flow.”
“Louis would make chopmeat outa Dempsey. Who did Dempsey ever beat?” Flanagan wanted to know.
“Listen to that!” Gurske pushed Flora’s knee in amazement. “Dempsey! The Manassa Mauler!”
“Louis is a master boxer,” Flanagan said. “Also, he punches like he had a baseball bat in his both hands. Dempsey! Eugene, you are a goddamn fool.”
“Boys!” Flora said.
“Dempsey was a panther in action. Bobbing and weaving.” Gurske bobbed and weaved and knocked his derby off his small, neat head. “He carried destruction in either fist.” Gurske bent over for his hat. “He had the heart of a wounded lion.”
“He certainly would be wounded if he stepped into the ring with Joe Louis.” Flanagan thought this was funny and roared with laughter. He slapped Gurske’s face playfully with his huge hand and Gurske’s hat fell off.
“You’re very funny,” Gurske said, bending over for his hat again. “You’re a very funny man.”
“The trouble with you, Eugene,” Flanagan said, “is you don’t have no sense of humor.”
“I laugh when something’s funny.” Gurske brushed his hat off.
“Am I right?” Flanagan asked Flora. “Has Eugene got a sense of humor?”
“He is a very serious character, Eugene,” Flora said.
“Go to hell,” Gurske said.
“Hey, you.” Flanagan tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t you talk like that.”
“Aaah,” Gurske said. “Aaah—”
“You don’t know how to argue like a gentleman,” Flanagan said. “That’s what’s the matter with you. All little guys’re like that.”
“Aaah!”
“A guy is under five foot six, every time he gets in a argument he gets excited. Ain’t that so, Flora?”
“Who’s excited?” Gurske yelled. “I am merely stating a fact. Dempsey would lay Louis out like a carpet. That is all I’m saying.”
“You are making too much noise,” Flanagan said. “Lower your voice.”
“I seen ’em both. With my own eyes!”
“What the hell do you know about fighting, anyway?” Flanagan asked.
“Fighting!” Gurske trembled on his seat. “The only kind of fighting you know about is waiting at the end of a alley with a gun for drunks.”
Flanagan put his hand over Gurske’s mouth. With his other hand he held the back of Gurske’s neck. “Shut up, Eugene,” he said. “I am asking you to shut up.”
Gurske’s eyes rolled for a moment behind the huge hand. Then he relaxed.
Flanagan sighed and released him. “You are my best friend, Eugene,” he said, “but sometimes you gotta shut up.”
“A party,” Flora said. “We go out on a party. Two gorillas. A little gorilla and a big gorilla.”
* * *
They rolled downtown in silence. They brightened, however, when they got to Savage’s Café and had two Old-Fashioneds each. The five-piece college-boy band played fast numbers and the Old-Fashioneds warmed the blood and friends gathered around the table. Flanagan stretched out his hand and patted Gurske amiably on the head.
“All right,” he said. “All right, Eugene. We’re friends. You and me, we are lifelong comrades.”
“All right,” Gurske said reluctantly. “This is a party.”
Everybody drank because it was a party, and Flora said, “Now, boys, you see how foolish it was—over two guys you never even met to talk to?”
“It was a question of attitude,” Gurske said. “Just because he’s a big slob with meat axes for hands he takes a superior attitude.”
“All I said was Louis was a master boxer.” Flanagan opened his collar.
“That’s all he said!”
“Dempsey was a slugger. That’s all—a slugger. Look what that big ox from South America did to him. That Firpo. Dempsey had to be put on his feet by newspapermen. No newspaperman has to stand Joe Louis on his feet.”
“That’s all he said,” Gurske repeated. “That’s all he said. My God!”
“Boys,” Flora pleaded, “it’s history. Have a good time.”
Flanagan toyed with his glass. “That Eugene,” he said. “You say one thing, he says another. Automatic. The whole world agrees there never was nothing like Joe Louis, he brings up Dempsey.”
“The whole world!” Gurske said. “Flanagan, the whole world!”
“I want to dance,” Flora said.
“Sit down,” Flanagan said. “I want to talk with my friend, Eugene Gurske.”
“Stick to the facts,” Gurske
said. “That’s all I ask, stick to the facts.”
“A small man can’t get along in human society,” Flanagan said to the company at the table. “He can’t agree with no one. He should live in a cage.”
“That’s right,” Gurske said. “Make it personal. You can’t win by reason, use insults. Typical.”
“I would give Dempsey two rounds. Two,” Flanagan said. “There! As far as I am concerned the argument is over. I want a drink.”
“Let me tell you something,” Gurske said loudly. “Louis wouldn’t—”
“The discussion is closed.”
“Who says it’s closed? In Shelby, Montana, when Dempsey—”
“I ain’t interested.”
“He met ’em all and he beat ’em all—”
“Listen, Eugene,” Flanagan said seriously. “I don’t want to hear no more. I want to listen to the music.”
Gurske jumped up from his chair in a rage. “I’m goin’ to talk, see, and you’re not going to stop me, see, and—”
“Eugene,” Flanagan said. Slowly he lifted his hand, palm open.
“I—” Gurske watched the big red hand, with the heavy gold rings on the fingers, waggle back and forth. His lips quivered. He stooped suddenly and picked up his derby and rushed out of the room, the laughter of the guests at the table ringing in his ears.
“He’ll be back,” Flanagan said. “He’s excitable, Eugene. Like a little rooster. He has got to be toned down now and then. Now, Flora. Let’s dance.”
They danced pleasantly for a half-hour, taking time out for another OldFashioned between numbers. They were on the dance floor when Gurske appeared in the doorway with a large soda bottle in each hand.
“Flanagan!” Gurske shouted from the doorway. “I’m looking for Vincent Flanagan!”
“My God!” Flora shrieked. “He’ll kill somebody!”
“Flanagan,” Gurske repeated. “Come on out of that crowd. Step out here.”
Flora pulled at Flanagan as the dancers melted to both sides. “Vinnie,” she cried, “there’s a back door.”
“Give me a ginger-ale bottle,” Flanagan said, taking a step toward Gurske. “Somebody put a ginger-ale bottle in my hand.”
“Don’t come no nearer, Flanagan! This is one argument you won’t win with yer lousy big hands.”
“Where is that ginger-ale bottle?” Flanagan asked, advancing on Gurske step by step, keeping Gurske’s eyes fixed with his.
“I warn you, Flanagan!”
Gurske threw one of the bottles. Flanagan ducked and it smashed against the back wall.
“You are going to regret this,” Flanagan said.
Gurske lifted the other bottle nervously. Flanagan took another step, and then another.
“Oh, my God!” Gurske cried, and threw the bottle at Flanagan’s head and turned tail and ran.
Flanagan caught the bottle in mid-flight, took careful aim with it, and let it go across the dance floor. It hit Gurske at the ankle and he went sailing over a table like a duckpin caught all alone on a bowling alley. Flanagan was on him and had him by the collar immediately. He lifted Gurske into the air with one hand and held him there.
“Gurske,” he said. “You cockeyed Gurske. The hundred-and-thirty-pound Napoleon.”
“Don’t kill him!” Flora came running over to them distractedly. “For God’s sake, don’t kill him, Vinnie!”
For a moment Flanagan looked at Gurske hanging limply from his hand. Then he turned to the other guests. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “no damage has occurred.”
“I missed,” Gurske said bitterly. “I ought to wear glasses.”
“Let everybody dance,” Flanagan announced. “I apologize for my friend. I guarantee he won’t cause no more trouble.”
The orchestra struck up “The Dipsy Doodle” and the guests swung back with animation into their dancing.
Flanagan carried Gurske to their table and set him down. “All right,” he said. “We will finish our discussion. Once and for all.”
“Aaah!” Gurske said, but without spirit.
“Eugene,” Flanagan said, “come here.”
Gurske sidled up toward Flanagan, who was sitting with his feet out from the table, his legs spread comfortably apart.
“What about those prizefighters we mentioned some time ago?”
“Dempsey,” Gurske said hoarsely. “I stand by Dempsey.”
Flanagan laid his hand on Gurske’s arm and pulled. Gurske fell face downward, seat up, over Flanagan’s knees.
“The old woodshed,” Flanagan said. He began to spank Gurske with wide, deliberate strokes. The orchestra stopped playing after a moment and the smacks resounded in the silent room.
“Oh!” Gurske said at the seventh stroke.
“Oh!” the roomful of people answered in a single hushed tone.
At the ninth stroke the drummer of the band took up the beat and from then on the bass drum sounded simultaneously with the hard, unrelenting hand.
“Well,” Flanagan said on the twenty-fifth stroke. “Well, Mr. Gurske?”
“I stand by Dempsey!”
“O.K.,” Flanagan said, and continued with the spanking.
After stroke thirty-two Gurske called tearfully, “All right. That’s all, Flanagan.”
Flanagan lifted Eugene to his feet. “I am glad that matter is settled. Now sit down and have a drink.”
The guests applauded and the orchestra struck up and the dancing began again. Flanagan and Flora and Gurske sat at their table drinking Old-Fashioneds.
“The drinks are on me,” Flanagan said. “Drink hearty. Who do you stand by, Eugene?”
“I stand by Louis,” Gurske said.
“What round would he win in?”
“In the second round,” Gurske said. The tears streamed down his face, and he sipped his Old-Fashioned. “He would win in the second round.”
“My friend Eugene,” Flanagan said.
God on Friday Night
Sol let himself quietly into the house and walked softly down the long hall toward the kitchen, the only sound the fashionable creaking of his pale tan shoes. He saw his mother bending over the stove, red-faced, peering into the roaster, basting a chicken.
“Ma,” he said softly.
Ma grunted, busily pushing the potatoes.
“It’s me, Ma. It’s Sol.”
Ma closed the oven and stood up wearily, her hand pushing helpfully at the hip.
“Kiss Mama,” she said.
Sol kissed her and she sat down and looked at him. “You don’t look so good, Sol. You don’t look the way you looked when you were a young boy.”
Every time she saw him she told him the same thing.
“What do you want, Ma?” Sol sighed, voicing the hopeless argument. “I’m not a young boy any more. I’m a man thirty-three years old.”
“Even so.” Ma wiped her forehead and looked anxiously at him. “The life you lead.”
“A man who makes his living entertaining in night clubs can’t live like a prize horse,” Sol said. He sat down across the table and stretched his hand out tenderly to cover hers. “How’re yuh, Ma?”
Ma sighed. “What do you expect? My kidneys. Always my kidneys. A woman with a family gets old like an express train.” She looked closely at her son. “Sol, darling,” she said, “you wear the worst clothes I’ve ever seen on a man’s back. You belong on a merry-go-round.”
“In my profession,” Sol said with sober pride, “this is the way they dress.”
“They should not be allowed out in the daytime.” She shook her head. “That tie. That material would be good to line closets with.”
“Violet picked out this tie.”
“How is Violet? Why can’t she come visit her mother-in-law once in a while? Is the Bronx another world?”
“Violet’s all right,” Sol said flatly, looking at the glitter on his shoe tips. “Only …”
Ma sighed, her large, fashionably supported bosom heaving under the black net. “O.K.
, Baby, tell Mama.”
Sol leaned over anxiously. “I must talk to you, private.”
Ma looked around the kitchen. “Are we in Grand Central Station?”
“Real private, Ma. I don’t want nobody to hear this. Nobody. Not even Pop.”
“What’ve you done, Sol?” There was a note of stern alarm in Ma’s voice, and she grabbed Sol’s arm tightly. “Tell Mama the truth.”
“I ain’t done nothing. Honest. At least nothing bad. Don’t worry, Ma.”
“Nobody’s sick?”
“Nobody’s sick.”
“All right.” Ma sat back in her chair, holding her feet off the floor to take the weight off them. “Do you want to stay to dinner? You can always cut an extra portion out of a chicken.”
“Lissen, Ma,” Sol said intensely, “you got to lissen to me and you got to promise you won’t tell nobody.”
“I promise. All right, I promise. Will you stay to dinner?”
“Yeah,” Sol said. “Well …” He hesitated. “This is complicated.”
Lawrence came into the kitchen, throwing his books on the floor. “Hiya, Sol. Hello, Mom. Am I hungry, oh, Momma, am I hungry … Mom, whatta ye got to eat? Oh, am I hungry!”
“I’m talkin’ to Ma, private,” Sol said.
“I’m hungry,” Lawrence said, looking in the icebox. “Go ahead and talk. I’ll forget it anyway.”
“I want to talk to Ma private,” Sol said in measured tones.
“What the hell’s so private?” Lawrence asked, gesturing with a bottle of milk. “What’re you, a German spy? Boy, am I hungry!”
“Don’t say ‘hell,’ Larry,” Ma said. “And get out of here.”
“I’m taking the bottle with me,” Lawrence announced, marching toward the door. He patted his mother on the head. “Mata Hari.” He went out.
“A brilliant boy,” Ma said. “He leads his class.”
Sol cleared his throat.
“Yes, Sol,” Ma said. “I’m listening.”
“I been thinking, Ma,” he began in a low thoughtful voice, twisting his heavy gold ring slowly around on his finger. “I ain’t a good boy.”
“That’s not such private news.” Ma laughed at the expression on Sol’s face. She pinched his arm. “You got a good heart, Sol,” she said. “My baby Sol, with a heart like a house.”