Oh, Play That Thing

by Roddy Doyle

  —Why didn’t he kill the baddie in the end?

  We’d been to see The Gaucho, with my pal, Douglas Fairbanks.

  —I don’t know; he didn’t have to.

  —They usually do in the end.

  —I know.

  —So, why didn’t he?

  —He didn’t kill anyone.

  —Why did all the ladies in the fillum like him?

  —He’s good looking.

  —No, he’s not.

  —He used to be. Maybe they remembered.

  —How?

  —Maybe they liked the way he got up on his horse.

  —That’s not why ladies like men.

  —I don’t know; you might be right.

  She let me hold her hand; my hand always went to get hers. But I didn’t think she held mine. I understood – the little fingers through the glove, the squeeze not given back.

  —Why d’you say I Don’t Know so much?

  —I don’t know, I said. —I don’t know. Most of your questions are hard.

  —No, they aren’t.

  —They are.

  —Which ones?

  —All of them.

  —You said Most.

  —Fair enough. Why didn’t he kill the baddie in the end?

  —What’s hard about that?

  She went for the thin white ice that had been water a few hours before; she let go of my hand. She pushed her toe at the ice.

  —Well, I said.

  —I know the answer already, she said.

  —What?

  —It’s only a fillum, she said. —It has to end tidy.

  —Good answer.

  —The goodies win and the baddies don’t. And it doesn’t matter what happens when it’s over. And it’s nicer.

  —That’s right.

  —Were the fellas you killed baddies?

  —Shhhh!

  We weren’t the only ones walking home from the pictures, through the cold.

  —Well?

  —That’s a hard question. It is.

  —Why?

  —I don’t know.

  —Hah, she said. —Got yeh.

  I laughed, and held her hand again.

  —Mammy says they were, so what’s so hard about that?

  —Well—

  —They were English.

  —Did you like the bit where they dragged the house with their horses?

  —Weren’t they?

  —Some of them.

  —How many?

  I stopped walking.

  —I don’t know.

  —Hah.

  —That’s the answer. I don’t know. I don’t know how many were English, or Scottish or Welsh. Or Irish.

  —Not Irish, she said.

  We were moving again. She pulled me; she walked ahead and held my coat.

  —I wish I’d never killed them.

  —She said you’d say that.

  —Well, I said. —She was right.

  —I know, she said. —See? You say, I don’t know. But I say, I know.

  —Good for you.

  —I know.

  —Why the fuck did you tell her I killed people? I asked her mother.

  —You’re far from home, Henry, said Miss O’Shea.

  She smiled at me.

  —So she’d be proud of you. You were dead.

  She kissed my shoulder.

  —Fair enough.

  I was ready for every skidding wheel, each fast step behind me; I was ready to face them and run. I hung on as long as I could.

  —Out of here, O’Pops, he said.

  It was still cold, but not savage all the time. Our feet were well into 1929 and the snow was off them. We could walk without looking down, but we had to keep watch everywhere else – front, back, corners, roofs. We did most of our travelling under the ground, when we had to, through pipes made fat by spring. We were wet most of the time, or drying.

  —I have to.

  I’d said it before. She’d understood then – I know – but, now, I saw it cross her face: the hurt. I saw it and decided that it hadn’t stayed.

  —Where?

  She understood. I made up her mind; she knew, she understood. A man on the run, I had to go.

  Louis was hiding.

  —Where are you going? she said.

  —New York.

  —I thought you couldn’t go back there.

  It was the only place to go, the city where Louis could still exist. A black man couldn’t go west and Louis couldn’t go home; that would have been no escape. New York was the only place where Louis could become Louis.

  —They ran you out of that place, she said.

  —It’s a big place, I said.

  I almost believed it, even though I’d walked its length and breadth.

  —Harlem, I said.

  —City inside the city, O’Pops.

  —They won’t be looking for me there.

  —For how long this time?

  —I don’t know, I said. —It’s not safe here and Louis can’t work.

  —And, so?

  —What?

  —Your Louis friend can’t work and I’m sorry for his troubles but you don’t play the trumpet for him, do you?

  —No.

  —So?

  —It’s my job.

  —What’s your job?

  —Looking after him.

  —The poor suffering eejit, that he can’t look after himself.

  —It’s complicated.

  —I’m sure it is complicated.

  —Okay.

  —Looking after a black man, instead of your own family.

  —When did you ever need looking after?

  —I’m tired.

  —So am I.

  She didn’t bother challenging my lie. I was itchy to move even as we sat there, in the kitchen; I was the least tired man on earth. She wasn’t trying to nail me down with guilt. She was tired; I could see it. And the day was only starting; the coffee was still in the air. It had caught up with her. It was in her face, on her shoulders.

  —I won’t be long, I said.

  She looked at me.

  —It was six years the last time, Henry, she said. —More.

  —I won’t be, I said. —He has to get out of town, for a while. I’ll be back once he’s set up in New York. I’ll visit. We’ll see how it goes.

  —We will.

  —I’m not messing, I said. —Ah, look it.

  I stood up, and sat down. I wanted to touch her.

  —It’s my job. I have to travel. I’ll be back.

  —But they’re after you, Henry. You said so. These Italians.

  —It’s not the same, I said. —It’s different here.

  —How?

  —Time works here, I said.

  —Six years is a long time anywhere.

  —No. I know. But it’s not like home.

  I put my hand out. She didn’t meet it. I left it there, on the table.

  —It stops, I said. —It’s like this. They’re after us, especially Louis – I’m just with him – and they want to get us and kill us, more than likely. Maybe just hurt Pops—

  —Who’s that?

  —Louis. They’ll just want to hurt him cos they want him to work for them. And they’ll kill me cos I’m a pain in the arse.

  She said nothing.

  —I’m in their way. I’m no use to them, so they’d bump me off if they got me. So, grand. They’re after us. But it stops. They’re out for us, for a while. Then they get on with business. They give up. There’s too much to do. It’s a big place, all sorts of money to make. It’s not weakness. But it’s not personal. After a while, they’ll lose interest. They’ve no memory here. It gets in the way of progress.

  —How do you know all that?

  —I don’t, I said.

  And, now, I felt her fingers take my hand.

  —But I think I do, I said. —I think I know. I’ve been here long enough. It’s not like Ireland. They forget here. There’s plenty to do.
D’you understand?

  —Oh, I do. You like it, don’t you?

  —Yeah, I said.

  —I don’t.

  —I know.

  —There are Irish boys here too, Henry. And they have memories. Remember that.

  —Will you wait for me?

  —Yes.

  I leaned across the table. I got up and stretched across. She grabbed my shoulders and held me there till I was lying on the table and my coffee cup was broken on the floor. She kept my tongue in her mouth; she held it tight. I couldn’t move, nearer or away.

  She stopped.

  —How much does he pay you, this Pops fella?

  —Nothing.

  —I knew you’d say that.

  —All we need is the gas, said Louis.

  He was hiding in Lil’s house, pretending he’d stay if she’d take him back. It was hard to watch but he’d nowhere else to go. His fiancée, Alpha, wouldn’t have him. She hadn’t much use for him, not while he wasn’t Louis. And he couldn’t be Louis till he ran.

  —Got a call from New York, O’Pops.

  —What is it? she asked.

  —What?

  —What’s all the fuss about?

  I liked that kitchen, in the mornings; the two of us. Saoirse was in school, and Missis Lowe kept out of our way, except when she couldn’t help it; she’d glide in and expect us to be riding on the table.

  The two of us. Every time was the last time. I was waiting for the word.

  I shrugged.

  —I love it, I told her.

  —Why?

  —It’s not Irish, I said.

  She smiled.

  —You’re gas.

  —It’s not anything, I said. —It’s just itself. New. I like that.

  —I know you do.

  —I like the speed. And the instruments. I just love it.

  —And him?

  —They want me there, Pops.

  —Who?

  —All of them.

  —The entire population?

  —That right. En-tire. Nice man called Mister Tommy Rockwell told me so. Wired me today.

  —Who’s he?

  —Management type. Wants me to be on Broadway.

  Which end of Broadway, I wanted to know. I’d be recognised at the lower end, with or without my sandwich boards. But I didn’t say anything.

  —A musical, Pops. About a plantation. Guess they’ll want me to play Massa.

  —What about the Italians there?

  —Different Italians.

  —Jaysis, Louis.

  I rubbed my face, down hard.

  —When are we going?

  —Now.

  He patted a pocket. The money was in there. I found out later, it had come from Lil.

  —Well, she said.

  I had the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe.

  —I’ll be back, I said.

  —Yes.

  —When he’s up and running.

  She wanted to say something; I could feel it.

  But she didn’t.

  Saoirse was just in from school. She was leaning over a cup of hot chocolate, drinking it slowly with a very small spoon. She washed it herself every time she used it, and hid it somewhere of her own.

  —Well, Saoirse, I said.

  She looked at me.

  —Bye.

  She looked back down at the chocolate. I wanted the hug but I wasn’t going to get it; I knew I’d no right to it.

  I picked up the case.

  She took a spoonful and looked at me again. She smiled, and got back to the chocolate.

  I put the case back down. I’d stay. I’d fight for her.

  But, even as it landed, I was bringing it back up. I was holding it again, going, on my way.

  —We’ll be here, said Miss O’Shea.

  She was looking at the window.

  —For now.

  PART THREE

  8

  Harlem was America; it was new every morning. I liked it there. I loved it.

  —Who the fuck are you?

  All over again.

  —I’m with Mister Armstrong.

  —That I fucking see. Who are you?

  The plantation musical, Great Day, never happened. Not for Louis. The producer or director, some clown, sacked, hired and re-sacked all around him, including Louis. He was out the stage door, trumpet under his arm.

  —It was shite, Pops.

  —It was Broadway, said Louis.

  —Fuck Broadway, I said. —Where’s your ambition?

  —I could’ve showed him.

  —The fuckin’ eejit thought you were there to mop the stage.

  Broadway was a grimy drag at this time of day, mid-morning. The stink of the night before and the corners the rain never washed, this alley wasn’t worth missing. I’d lived in alleys and I missed none of them.

  —Come on. It was shite. Believe me.

  Back up to Harlem. Up to Louis’s future. And away from faces that might have remembered my past. It was safe up there. The city inside the city. I was lost and happy. I’d no rivals or enemies.

  Except Tommy Rockwell.

  —I’m with Mister Armstrong.

  —That I fucking see. Who are you?

  Louis had gone to the jacks, on the next landing. We were in Rockwell’s office. Staring at each other. Him up, me down. Him sitting, me standing. Between us, his desk. Behind him, the window and some of 42nd Street. Behind me, the door. Behind that, the secretary.

  —Mister Rockwell is busy just now.

  He shouted at the door.

  —Mister Rockwell is busy just always.

  He looked back at me.

  —I know you are with Louie. Why – understand? – why are you with fucking Louie?

  —So cunts like you don’t mess with him.

  —Interesting, said Rockwell. —Cunts, eh? Your idea or his?

  —His.

  —Yare? Good for fucking him. All his?

  —Yeah.

  —Yare. Bullshit. Listen. I am Louie Armstrong’s manager. I am the manager. I am defining my professional relationship with the shine that just went out there to piss in my can. I am the manager. Do you understand what I say?

  I didn’t answer.

  —Do you have a problem with what I am saying now, here, to you?

  I took my eyes away from the grime in a corner of the window and I brought them down, no hurry, to Rockwell’s. He looked back up at me. The head of a pig but the eyes were relaxed, a powerful charm and hard to hang on to. He was right over the desk – a phone, a couple of theatre programmes, two letters, a penknife – but the eyes were sitting back.

  —No, I said. —I don’t.

  —Interesting, he said. —So? I return to my original question. Which went.

  —Who the fuck are you.

  —More or less.

  —Henry Smart.

  —Never heard of yis.

  —That doesn’t matter.

  Now, he sat back.

  —I guess. Take a seat.

  —No.

  He shrugged.

  —Fuck you. Don’t take a seat. Remember my second question, Smart?

  —I think so.

  —So?

  —Why am I with Mister Armstrong.

  —Yare. Why?

  —Remember my answer?

  —Fuck you.

  —I have something to add.

  He sat back further. Chair legs left the floor.

  —Yare? What’s that?

  —If you ever say Fuck You to me again, I’ll go around there and ram the phone down your fuckin’ throat.

  —Yare?

  —Yeah.

  —Hard guy.

  —That’s it, I said. —I make sure that the dealings are fair. I make sure that Mister Armstrong thinks that the dealings are fair.

  —That it?

  —That’s it.

  —How long does it take him to piss?

  —As long as he wants.

  —He wants, you wan
t?

  —He.

  —Yare.

  It was over, the fight. For now. But he worried me. It was Johnny No again. The cigar, the suit. The office, the style. It was dangerous. The connections were probably there. And we were learning, again, me and Louis: the action was in Harlem but it was controlled from elsewhere, downtown.

  Nowhere was safe. Rockwell’s office wasn’t safe.

  —Hey, Smart, you got a name for what you are? he said.

  —No.

  —No. Kinda like a pimp. I’d say. See, me, I’m the manager. The booking agent. These are jobs. They have names, measure. Percentages. I fucking represent. For fees. I know what I earn and I know why I earn it. But what’s with you, Smart?

  He opened a drawer and a bottle came out. Good bad stuff, a nice Scotch label on it. Connections again; it was dangerous. But every office had a bottle.

  He put it on the desk.

  —Rita! In here, baby! With glasses.

  He picked up the bottle and went at the cork with his teeth. The fumes were suddenly there, at the eyes before the nostrils.

  It was local stuff. I looked for feathers in the bottle.

  Louis walked in, right behind Rita and the glasses.

  I asked him the question later.

  —D’you like white women?

  —They’re all yours, Fido.

  Now, Rockwell poured. Rita had brought two glasses.

  —You forget Louie? said Rockwell.

  —No, I—

  —Louie’s your paycheck, sister. Go get a glass.

  —Sorry, Mister Rockwell.

  —Yare.

  —Maybe she forgot me, I said, as she passed.

  —No, said Rockwell.

  He was right. Her eyes were huge and full of Henry, and Louis was the black guy with me. And Rockwell had probably told her before we’d arrived, bring in two glasses when he called for them.

  —Louie, she forgot all about you.

  Louis shrugged.

  —Bound to happen, ’least once.

  They liked each other.

  Rita came back, the glass still dripping water. She handed it to Louis.

  —Over here, baby.

  She brought it to the desk. She was small but she walked big. Her arse cleaned up as she left. She shut the door silently behind her. We heard her at the typewriter.

  —Forty words a minute, said Rockwell.

  He’d filled the glasses. Small shot glasses. He handed one to Louis. He handed one to me. He looked at Louis.

  —Here’s to Louie.

  He knocked it back, didn’t gasp, and filled his glass again.

  —Louie Armstrong, he said as he poured. —The one and the only Louie Armstrong.