Oh, Play That Thing

by Roddy Doyle

  We were heading uptown, at a fairish clip.

  —Where? I asked.

  —I got a name from a gent came in to buy silk for the missis. So he said. Should have seen his kisser when I asked him if he wanted it delivered. We knock at a door and tell them Joe sent us. All there is to it, according to the gent buying the silk.

  He liked me, he wanted my company; I could tell by the way we stepped together. But there was more than that going on. I looked behind me. Nothing sudden, no one diving. I could still feel water; I could feel it pulling.

  I walked.

  Corners, streets.

  He surveyed the bare wall around the lone, black door. We were the only people on this street off a real street. No lights lit the puddles. I looked around.

  —It’s got a name, he said. —Did I tell you that? Although you’d never know it from this side of the door. Which is the point, I guess.

  He knocked on the door. There was no bell, no brass knocker.

  —Max’s Little Estonia, he said. —According to the gent buying the silk.

  No bell, but there was a judas window; I heard its screech before I saw it. I remembered the last time I’d been stared at from a judas, before I’d walked out of Kilmainham Gaol. This was a fairer version. The window trap was bigger; I could see most of a face – black eyes, a mouth that hung over the painted iron of the trap.

  —Yare? said the mouth.

  —Joe sent us, said my friend.

  —That a fact? said the mouth.

  The door opened out like a jail door and it was darker in there than on our street side. My friend went in, past the mouth. I followed him.

  My first speakeasy.

  I’d delivered Olaf’s goods to back doors but I’d never carried them inside. As far as the door: that was the deal. Inside was where I’d meet old faces and grudges; I wasn’t the only retired gunman in New York. I didn’t want to run or hide, but strolling the daytime streets, every corner propped up by a cop, each a rednecked reminder of home, and carrying Exhibit A on my memorable back; it wasn’t the ideal way to stay out of harm’s way. It would be temporary, until I became an onside man of business. I delivered, and legged it.

  This was before I realised that I could carry a barrel around all day, and no one was going to stop or even notice me. The copper on the corner was on a weekly retainer to make sure that no one stopped me, and his boss and his boss and their political bosses were all in for their cut of the action. It was all a done thing, down to every step and drop, all of it arranged long before I’d arrived. I was just the new guy who’d do what the old guy had done – I never knew what had happened to the old guy but it was nothing dramatic, nothing with gunsmoke or screeching wheels. It was simple business expansion. More kegs, shoulders, speakeasies.

  There were two hundred and seventy dry agents in Manhattan but most of them were lazy or affordable. There hadn’t been a raid in over a year, and most of those had been well rehearsed, part of the cabaret. On Manhattan Island, it was business as usual. It was more business than usual. There wasn’t a sober pigeon in the city. Good tenants were evicted to make room for new speakeasies. And there was a constant flow of booze from elsewhere, from Canada and further. There’d never been a night out like it.

  And the citizens loved bellying up to a bar, on the chance that the belly beside them belonged to a real live hoodlum. Because the hoodlums were in there. They’d turned from real live crime to this more sedate law-breaking. A room, a few stools, a couple of teacups, maybe a piano and a lad willing to play it – and easy, cosy profit. Manufacture, distribution, retail, ambience – the right guys chose the drapes, they supplied the sawdust that soaked up the spillage and tears. Their teamsters hefted the grain across the states. Old men were paid to sweep up each night’s sawdust, and boys were paid to squeeze the juice from the dust – it could be done – back into old bottles. The guys had carved the city amongst themselves, invisible borders that were seen and respected. A time of peace and plenty. The shoot-outs and screeching drive-aways were for the visitors. The odd expendable body, the hat lying close by, one knee always bent. A photo, a reminder – business as usual, if called for. Only the saps and the mad died, the ones too stupid to see or too bright to conform. And even they were in on it. They always brought their hats, they died with style – their chalked outlines on the sidewalk were a hard but elegant message. And they drew the thirsty crowds.

  Corners, streets.

  Sharp corners.

  An old face, a new one. A gun, a knife.

  Down black steps to noise behind a door. No one behind me. We’d been let in and left alone. My friend pulled back the drape. The door opened – light, the quiet voices of people enjoying the place, a piano playing a ragtime thing. A guy standing at the door. No real meanness in the face, no real interest either. He’d show us the door if we acted up, but he wasn’t there to stop us. This place survived on regularity. There was nothing here to be giddy about, none of the ballyhoo.

  The bar ran the length of one long wall. Dark shining wood with a foot rail, and nicely rounded dents where elbows had grazed for years. It was dark, but hiding nothing. All the corners plainly there, no cloths hiding the tables or anything under them. No lull or increase as we walked to the bar – no whispers, glaring eyes. A place used to coming and going. Sawdust under my feet. The drapes and wood panels, the painted ceiling – little fat angels, with overflowing glasses of beer – they told the story: the place had never been raided. And the two cops drinking in the corner told the same story. Just a bar. No cover charge or floor show – and it was a player-piano, no longer playing, no one interested in walking over to crank it back to life. No flappers or raggles, no right guys passing death eyes over the not-so-right guys. Just men like ourselves, a few women, backs leaning into the bar, a few more at the tables, chatting, laughing quietly, sending smoke to the angels. More a night in than a night out. Five years ago, this place would have been on the street. It was heaven, and a disappointment.

  A barman in front of us. A wiry guy in a blue bow-tie and boiled shirt, sleeves rolled up as far as he could get them. He rubbed the counter, stopped rubbing and waited.

  I looked at the high shelves behind him.

  —Is there Vat 69 in that keg that says Vat 69?

  —Could be.

  —Sounds good, said my friend.

  —Could be.

  —Any whiskey? I asked.

  —Sure.

  —Irish?

  —Could be.

  —I’ll have one of them and he’ll have the Vat 69.

  —Rocks?

  —Yes, said my friend.

  —Rocks is extra, said the barman.

  —Extra is fine.

  —Then that’s fine, said the barman.

  He turned and took two white china teacups from the lower shelf. He held one under the Vat 69 keg, and then the other one. He turned again and brought the cups.

  —Who’s for the Vat 69?

  —That’s him.

  He put the first cup in front of my friend, then he parked the second cup in front of me.

  —And a cup of the Fenian tears for you.

  I listened to his voice, to anything still held in the air. No accent that I could hear, no malice or sarcasm. I’d been stupid, asking for Irish when I knew it would be pure Lower East Side; I’d been very stupid.

  —What about the rocks? said my friend.

  —We’re all out of rocks.

  I still couldn’t hear a past in his voice; he left us to ourselves.

  —Well, said the fourth Mister Levine.

  He picked up his cup.

  —What’s your name? I asked him.

  He looked at me like I’d pinched him.

  —Well, he said. —Which one?

  —I’m Henry, I told him. —What are you?

  —Why, I’m Henry too. As a matter of fact.

  And he hoisted his cup. I hoisted mine. We brought them together and tapped.

  —Here’s t
o, he said.

  —Fair enough.

  We looked at each other and sipped. It went down, and stayed. My tongue and throat wouldn’t blister. So far, so good.

  —Could be worse.

  —And that’s as much as we can expect, I guess.

  He took a step backwards, away from the counter. He put his hands in his pockets and took a good, long look around.

  —Suits me, he said. —And you?

  —Fine.

  —Not disappointed? he said. —You weren’t expecting more razzmatazz?

  —No, I said. —But, to be honest.

  He joined me again at the bar.

  —Please. Go on.

  —Well, I said. —I thought you might be.

  —Be?

  —Disappointed.

  —No, he said. —Not at all.

  He brought the cup to his mouth and drank again, a less tentative sip. He looked into the cup.

  —No, he said. —I’m quite happy. Good company, bad booze. It’s as much as a man can ask for. You thought I was out for a taste of high-hat living?

  —I wondered.

  —No, he said. —This does me.

  He brought the cup to his mouth again.

  —And women? I said.

  —No, he said. —Don’t get me wrong. I know a mammal when I see one. And there’s that to be said about dry goods. The sweeties keep walking in the door. And they make my day. Especially in the winter months when we keep the door shut. I hear that ding and I look, and it’s a looker or it ain’t a looker. And if it ain’t, she’ll still want cotton. And there’s this much to be said.

  He sipped again.

  —Jewish girls, he said. —They make my heart sing. They pretend they’re not girls, but they’re girls till they’re eighty. They’re girls when they’re six feet under. Dolls from start to end. It’s a secret but it’s the truth.

  He looked into the cup.

  —There’s something in there, at that. So.

  He smiled.

  —I want to look at women, I get up in the morning. I want to shtup one, I stay in bed that extra ten minutes. Did I say that?

  He looked into the cup again.

  —My oh my.

  And he sipped again.

  —I’m a happily married man, is what I’m saying. With an eye for a Jewish ankle. And I’m no bigot; I’ll take any ankle walks my way. What about you, Henry? Are you a married man?

  —No.

  I wanted to show him the photograph; I knew I could talk all night. But I didn’t want him to see Henry Smart. There was a machine-gun in my lap in the picture; there were bandoleers crossing my chest. There was Ivan Reynolds, and a whitewashed cottage wall. My whole life and times. I was here because I didn’t exist. But, God, I wanted to look at the picture, to hold it to my face.

  —Footloose and fancy free, he said.

  —Something like that.

  —Want to know if I envy you?

  —You don’t.

  —Not even a bit. Believe me?

  —No.

  —You’re right not to. I do envy you. Cup’s empty. Now, how did that happen?

  The barman was there again, wiping the counter.

  —Same again?

  —Try a different keg this time, I said.

  —Same again, it is.

  I emptied my own cup – it got no easier, it got no worse – and put it on the counter. The barman took the cups to the same squat keg. He quarter-filled both and brought them back.

  —The Irish for you, the usual for your friend.

  He went away. We left the cups alone.

  —But you’re right, Henry, said the other Henry. —I don’t envy you. And, by God, I do.

  He picked up his cup and sipped.

  —I’ve got my future, he said when he’d recovered. —I’ve chosen my direction. And I have my best girl right beside me. Might I be crude for a minute here, Henry?

  —Fire away.

  —I have to bend double when I think of that girl upstairs when I’m downstairs in the store. Her, wandering through all that Levine furniture up there. All that rosewood and varnish. The pants weren’t invented to hide my happiness.

  —Sounds good.

  —Oh, it is. By crikey. The things that girl does. I won’t quote chapter and verse. You know the score.

  I said nothing, but kind of nodded.

  —It’s what I said about Jewish women, Henry. They’re girls.

  He drank again.

  —I love her so.

  —But, I said.

  —No, he said. —No but. In that regard, no. I landed on my feet there. Although, granted, I could do without the brothers. And, aha now. That brings me to the point—

  —What about their wives? I asked, before he got there.

  —They undress me with their eyes.

  —Do you undress them?

  —With my eyes?

  —Yes.

  —No. But, the point. Do I envy you? Yes, I’m afraid I do. You got any direction you want. You got your business there, you’re doing fine. But. You can grow, you can move. Me? I got dry goods. I share dry goods. With three dry men. I got ambition, they got haemorrhoids. But.

  He drank, and emptied his cup.

  —You’re free to fly. I see that when we talk, when you come into the store. It kills me. We’re not in competition but it’s what I want. The freedom. To grab the opportunity. You see it, I see it. You grab it, I mind the store. What age are you, Henry?

  I gave him the truth.

  —Twenty-three.

  It was my birthday. The 8th of October, 1924.

  —I’m twenty-nine, he said. —You’re passing me by. You’re only twenty-three?

  He was looking straight at me, examining my face.

  —Yep.

  —I’d have put you at older.

  The barman was there.

  —Same again?

  —Fill ’em up, said the other Henry.

  The barman took the cups.

  —Now, said the other Henry. —The point. Let me talk a while here, Henry. Will you bear with me?

  —Sure.

  —I thank you for that. So. I’m in the store. I got ideas there. More stores, better stores. The usual. Baloney, if you don’t act on them. And I want to. But how? Because, frankly.

  He whispered.

  —The store is not mine. Strictly speaking. Legally speaking. I am an employee. So. This is where you come in. I think. If I’m not mistaken. And I might be.

  The barman brought the cups, left us alone.

  —So, said the other Henry, after he’d picked up his cup and put it down again. —So. Into the store one day, not so long ago, walks a young lady.

  He stopped and looked at me.

  I looked straight back at him.

  —The bell does that ding, he said. —I look up. And there’s the young lady. And she comes on over to the counter. I’m on my own there. And she’s. She is be-yoodiful. And kind of breathless. Lips open, heaving nicely in the chest area. And what an area. In a red dress, of a cloth I wasn’t selling. Her coat open there. And she stops at the counter. Well, actual fact.

  He picked up his cup and helped himself to a mouthful. He was enjoying the story, but nervous.

  —She more or less walked straight into the counter. She knew exactly when to stop. She wasn’t even looking at it. Me. That’s what she was looking at. And she’s right there. Like she wanted nothing else but to saw through that counter with her hips. And. You Levine? she says. In a manner of speaking, I say, but, no. She looks disappointed but she’s still hugging the counter there. And I don’t want to disappoint her, so. I’m the man you might be looking for, if it’s the man in charge you’re hoping to meet, I say. So. She takes a breath. Never knew there could be so much to that particular exercise. No man could carry it off, I reckon. Her chest there. I’m not being salacious here, Henry?

  —No, I said. —Fire away.

  —Let’s just say, this was a performance. And I thought no less
of her for it. So. I just want to congratulate you, she says. And why? I say. Well, she says, I just loved your sandwich board. Made me want to come in here and buy up all your stock here. All your stock. Her exact words, and she sucked each one on the way out.

  He stopped and lifted his cup, and looked at me as the cup hid his face. I copied him. We stared at each other across the teacups. The fumes began to pull at our eyes. I put the cup back on the counter. So did he.

  —So, he said. —That’s the situation, as I recall it. There we are. She and me. The counter taking care of us, if you get my drift. And here, I say to myself, here is the work of Mister Glick. I didn’t know you as Henry at the time.

  —Yep, I said.

  —So, you can arrange it?

  —Arrange what?

  His mouth opened; his thoughts swerved around the question. I saw anger and fear behind the affable confusion.

  —She said – he started, and stopped.

  I decided to trust him.

  —Look, I said. —I’ll tell you what she does and then you tell me what she said and we’ll see if they match. First, though. Did she tell you that she works for me?

  —No, she did not.

  —You guessed it.

  —Yes, I did. She gushed about your product and I said to myself, here’s a girl that don’t gush for nothing. And here’s a man that knows how to choose the girls to gush.

  He was relaxing a bit.

  —Well, there you have it, I said. —That’s her job. She gushes about the boards. And the clients decide to spend some more. They’re all men, like yourself. Ambitious, but hemmed in. So I thought I’d dangle some of the investment possibilities in front of them. And it’s been working. I can’t keep up with demand, to be honest with you. Her name’s Mildred.

  —Oh.

  —What?

  —May I ask a question?

  —Fire away, I said.

  —What is the extent of the service you provide?

  I looked at him.

  —The boards, I said.

  —That it?

  He looked disappointed, and relieved, like he’d stepped over a big decision.