Black Friday (5 page)

Mattone raised his head from Ed Sullivan's column, glanced at Hart and went back to Sullivan.

Charley looked up from the fourth page and examined Hart and nodded slowly. "I thought it was about the right fit," he said. "Where did you find the cuff links?"

"In the second drawer, way in the back, under some handkerchiefs."

Charley smiled. "I've been looking for those cuff links more than a year. I got them out of an estate in Chestnut Hill. Frieda's got breakfast for you."

Mattone raised his head again and looked at Charley.

Hart walked into the kitchen. Frieda was wearing the quilted robe of orchid satin. Myrna was at the sink, wearing a plain dress of checkered blue and yellow cotton.

Frieda put a tall glass of orange juice on the table and smiled at Hart and said, "Look, honey, there's got to be some stipulation about that bathroom."

"Was I in there long?" Hart said. He lifted the glass.

"It depends on what you call long," Frieda said. "What do you do in there?"

"Dream," Hart said. "But I'll cut it out. All I want is toast and coffee.(Black I'll be right back." He went out and came back seconds later with a lighted cigarette in his mouth.

Frieda said, "I fix up a banquet for him and all he wants is toast and coffee."

"I never eat more than that," Hart said. "My usual meal in the morning is six or seven cigarettes and three or four cups of black coffee without sugar. But if you've prepared something I'll eat it."

He finished the orange juice. Frieda was putting hot dishes on the table. He smiled at her. She walked back to the stove. When she came back to the table she poured coffee with her right hand and with her left hand she reached over and put a soft fat palm over Hart's mouth and with her soft fat fingers she gave his face a soft squeeze.

Myrna was placing dishes in a wall cabinet.

Hart lowered his head and began to eat his meal. Frieda put an ashtray in front of him. He balanced the cigarette on the ashtray and the smoke went up in front of his face as he ate slowly. Frieda and Myrna were moving around in the kitchen. Outside it was beginning to snow. The snow came down haphazardly at first, the flakes gradually forming a pattern as they came streaming down from a dismal grey sky, then all at once parading in thick white columns, an army of white, with limitless reserves. Hart asked Frieda for another cup of coffee, and he sat there sipping the coffee and watching the snow. All at once he sensed that Frieda was no longer in the kitchen. He turned and looked at Myrna. She was on her knees, reaching for something in the floor opening of the wall cabinet.

Hart said, "Hello, Myrna."

She turned and stood up and took two steps going backward. Her eyes were focused on the wall behind his head. She said, "Look, you. I don't want you to talk to me."

Hart took another gulp of coffee, got up and walked out of the kitchen. When he came into the living room he asked Rizzio for another cigarette.

"Let's have some radio," Mattone said.

Hart reached over and turned on the radio. A woman was weeping and a gentle elderly man was saying, "Now, now, Emily--"

Hart tried another station. A crisp young man was saying, "And Ladies, if you've never tried it you don't know what you've missed. Really, Ladies--"

Hart turned off the radio.

Rizzio peeled some pages from the section he was reading and handed the pages to Hart, and Hart tried to concentrate on the rapid progress of a young colored welterweight from Scranton and the boy from Pittsburgh this Scranton boy was slated to meet next week, and also on the card was a promising lightweight from Detroit; and Hart felt the quiet of the living room, the essence of something heavier than the quiet. He started to put down the paper so that he could get a look at Charley and Mattone and Rizzio, and when the paper was halfway down he saw that Charley and Mattone and Rizzio were watching him.

He started to read about how Temple had played a game of basketball with Penn State and the game went into several overtime periods. He liked basketball and at Penn he had played on one of the intramural teams, and this writeup should have interested him even if he had other things on his mind, but it didn't interest him.

He started to lower the paper again, bringing it to one side so he could get a look.

Then he looked and he saw them watching him, and he gazed back at them, one at a time, and finally brought his gaze to rest on Charley.

He was waiting for some sort of a break or a sign, and Charley wasn't giving him anything. He knew he was getting angry, and he sat there wondering whether it would be wise to get angry, or wise to try and stay calm in the face of a colder calm.

Finally Charley broke it. Charley said, "We were talking it over a little while ago. We thought maybe you were going to change yourmind."

"Look," Hart said, and he stood up. "If I was going to change my mind I wouldn't let you know about it. I'd just pick myself up and walk out. Even then you wouldn't have anything to worry about, because I wouldn't gain anything by making speeches to the police or anybody. But that's a sideissue. The main issue is your point of view, and it's up to you to decide whether I'm in or I'm out. If I'm in it's got to be all the way in. If I'm out you might as well tell me now and I'll leave the neighborhood."

"Don't get all upset," Charley said.

"I'm not upset. I'm just damned curious, that's all."

"That's understandable," Charley said. "It works both ways, we're curious about you and you're curious about us."

And Hart said, "What was it with Renner?"

Mattone turned to Charley and said, "Now do you see what's happening?"

Charley didn't hear what Mattone said. Charley looked at Hart and said, "We did away with Renner because he became greedy. His share of our last job was twelve hundred. He knew where I had the rest of the money and he did a sneak caper, took the eleven thousand and waited thirty minutes and then told me he wanted to buy something on Germantown Avenue. I already knew he had the money, so I took Paul and we went out and did away with him."

"That makes sense," Hart said.

"Sure it does," Charley murmured. Then he grinned. "What say we stop this talk and play some poker?"

They set up a card table, pulled chairs around it and sat down. Then Rizzio fanned a pack of cards on the table, scooped up the cards, riffled them, fanned them again, caressed them, tossed them up, turned them over, smacked then flat on the table and indicated them for a cut.

Charley cut the cards as he sat down.

"Open," Mattone said. "Quarter, half and seventy-five."

Frieda came in from the kitchen. She sat down at the table.

Rizzio picked up the deck, riffled the cards four times and extended them for another cut.

Charley again cut the cards.

Hart smiled and said, "I'll be a spectator."

"No," Charley said. "You did some work last night in the cellar. You get paid for that work. What do you think it was worth?"

"Around thirty," Hart said.

Charley took out some bills and selected three tens.

"Open," Mattone said. "Quarter, half and--"

"No," Frieda said. "Why should anybody get hurt? Make it closed poker, jacks or better to open the pot, nickel up and dime to open."

Frieda was sitting across from Hart and she smiled at him and he smiled back. Charley asked Rizzio for a cigarette and Rizzio got up from the table, ran upstairs and came down with three packs of cigarettes. He tossed the packs on the table, then eagerly gathered up the cards, riffled them, fanned them in a straight line, riffled them as he watched the others putting their money on the table, fanned the cards in a half-circle, then fanned them in a full circle, a perfect circle, then cut them swiftly three times, held them in front of Hart and told him to take one.

Hart took one, shuffled the deck, cut the deck, and while he was cutting it again Rizzio grinned and said, "All right, your card was a lady, right?"

"So far."

"A black lady."

"Right."

"A black lady in clubs," Rizzio said as he lit a cigarette.

"Right," Hart said, noticing that the others were busy lighting cigarettes and arranging change and bills on the table.

Rizzio riffled the cards, extended the deck to Hart, and Hart cut the cards.

At the end of an hour Hart was winning ten dollars.

At the end of three hours Hart was down to a dollar sixty-five.

When the game ended at five fifteen the following morning, Hart had won three hundred and twenty dollars. Frieda was ahead about fifty, Charley was even, and Mattone and Rizzio were having a dull argument. They were blaming each other for progressively suggesting raising the ante.

6

Next morning they slept late, started another poker game at three in the afternoon, finished it at four in the morning. This time Hart dropped sixty from his winnings, Frieda was a heavy loser and Charley was even again. On the following day Hart climbed out of bed at two in the afternoon. When he came downstairs be didn't see Charley or Mattone or Rizzio. He didn't see Myrna, either. He went into the kitchen where Frieda was mixing batter for a cake. She had her back turned to him and without looking up from what she was doing she told him to sit down and she'd serve him some breakfast.

He seated himself at the white-topped table. Lighting a cigarette, he said, "Don't fix anything. Just give me black coffee."

She went to the stove and put a fire under the percolator.

The morning paper was on the table and he picked it up and glanced at the front page. An airliner had crashed in the Mediterranean, no survivors. In downtown Philadelphia a stockbroker had tossed himself out of the ninth-floor window of his hotel. In City Hall the District Attorney was blaming the current wave of juvenile delinquency on television and the movies. A local theatre-owner was blaming the current wave of juvenile delinquency on the negligence of the District Attorney. Hart turned the pages and came to the sports section. He looked at a picture of Kid Gavilan in training camp. Alongside the picture there was an interview with the Kid's manager.

Frieda poured coffee and put the cup in front of Hart. Then she stepped back and looked him over. He sat there and felt the pressure of her eyes. There was heat in the pressure and he started to wonder what her plans were. He told himself to let it ride, he didn't need anything she had, he didn't go for the meaty bulging type, and besides, a situation with Frieda would only complicate a set-up that was already damn well complicated.

"You look good today," Frieda said.

"Thanks."

The chocolate-brown flannel was holding up fairly well, and under it he wore one of Charley's high-priced white shirts and an olive-green tie with yellow diagonal stripes. His face was mowed smooth and his hair, although brushed dry, was a glimmering yellow. He had it brushed flat and smooth and Frieda put her fat hand on it, her palm gliding lightly across his head.

"Maybe I'll muss it up," Frieda said.

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"You might get excited."

"What's wrong with that?" Frieda asked.

"I think it might create a problem."

"Yeah?" Frieda spoke quietly. "That's one kind of problem I can always handle."

He looked at her. "You sure?"

She nodded solemnly.

"I wonder," he murmured.

"Don't let it bother you," Frieda said. "Let me take care of it. When I'm ready for you, I'll let you know."

He smiled slightly. He snapped his fingers. "Just like that?"

"Yeah." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that."

He told himself to change the subject. Turning his attention to the coffee, he said, "Where're the others?"

"Charley went out with Mattone and Rizzio. They're casing some real estate in Wyncote."

"And Myrna?"

"She's out shopping."

He waited a long moment, then said slowly, "You sent her out?"

"That's right," Frieda said. She put a little pause between each word. "I sent her out."

He was still trying to change the subject and he said, "How come Charley went out? I thought he'd stay inside a few more days. This neighborhood's still hot."

"It's cooled off a little," Frieda said. She picked up the newspaper, turned the pages and came to page four. Her finger pointed to a small headline near the bottom of the page.

Hart glanced through the story. It was about Renner. It said the body of the man found shot in Germantown had been identified as that of Frederick Renner, a former convict, wanted for skipping parole and suspected of several recent burglaries. Police said Renner was probably shot by a personal enemy or a business competitor. The tone of the story indicated that Renner's death was no loss to the public and the police wouldn't be knocking themselves out searching for the slayer.

"It looks like an all-clear," Hart said. "But then, the police are funny. You never know what they'll do."

"Charley knows," Frieda said. "They never fool Charley."

"Never?" He had it down near a whisper.

"That's what I said. Never. And that applies to other people, too. There's nobody can fool Charley. Not for long, anyway."

He decided to let it pass. Then he had a feeling he ought to take her up on that. She was getting at something and if it was going to come out, it might as well come out now.

He said, "Could you fool Charley?"

"I'd be crazy to try." She'd gone back to the shelf near the sink and she was busy again with the cake batter.

Hart waited a few moments and then he said, "What about me? You think I could fool him?"

As he said it, he was lifting the coffee cup to his mouth. He sipped the coffee and the only sound he heard was the gooey stirring of the wooden spoon in the batter bowl. The stirring went on and he sipped more coffee. Then he finished the cup and leaned back and lit a cigarette. And the sound of the stirring went on and on. He told himself she wasn't going to answer.

Then he heard her saying, "What do you think?"

"I'm asking you," he said.

She turned very slowly. "I'll tell you," she said. "If you were a mixture of Houdini and Thurston and the world's champion chess player, card shark and con man, your chances of fooling Charley would be one in a million."

"You quoting odds?"

"Sure as hell," Frieda nodded. "If I had a million I'd put it on Chancy against your dollar bill."

"Without worrying?"

"Without a moment's thought."

He took a long drag from the cigarette. He let it out slowly. "Well," he murmured. "Well, now. That's very interesting."

"Yeah," Frieda said. She turned back to the cake batter. "It's something for you to think about. But dQn't let it throw you."

I'll try not to, he said without sound. But a tiny frown appeared on his brow and began to grow. He took a tighter drag from the cigarette and hauled it down deep. He told his brain to pull away from Charley and think about Kid Gavilan or the British airliner. Or anything at all that would detour the wony. But the thing is, he said to himself, it's definitely something to worry about. It's what every living thing is constantly facing up against, the problem - of staying alive. Except with you it's a matter of an inch here, an inch there, one wrong move, like with those German acrobats you saw not long ago in a picture magazine, they were walking a tightrope stretched between two peaks in the Alps, and under them was some six thousand feet of nothing. Well, what the hell, it might just as well have been six hundred feet. Or sixty feet. You fall sixty feet, you'll wind up in a casket just the same. And when they close the lid, it doesn't make any difference how you passed out, whether it was falling off the rope or down a flight of stairs or pneumonia or typhoid or going to sleep with the gas on. There now, that's getting us away from this Chancy business. You think so? You mean, you hope so. I'll tell you something, though. It would be much easier if you didn't give a hang whether you lived to be ninety or thirty-five. Fact is, you do give a hang. So maybe the only move to make is get up from this chair and stroll out the door and keep strolling. Sure, that would be a smart move. Extremely brilliant, just like jumping into a vat of boiling hot oil, with some rookie policemen reaching in to pull you out and take you in and get their promotion. So the slogan for today is: Stay put, leave well enough alone. Just keep it in mind that you're sitting in a chair that's not electric but if you walk out you're headed for a piece of furniture that's strictly from high voltage. You might as well have another cup of coffee and another cigarette and more pleasant chatting with Frieda. That's some rear end she has there. Like a Cadillac. If she weighed some fifty pounds less you might be inclined to play around a little, just to kill time. But all that weight, that's not your speed.

"More coffee?" Frieda asked.

He nodded, and she gave him another cup. The batter was in the pan and the pan was in the oven, so now for a while she could sit down and rest. She took a chair at the table facing him, helped herself to one of his cigarettes, picked up his book of matches and lit it. He had his head lowered to get at the coffee in the cup, but in the instant before he sipped it, he ventured a glance at her face, aiming at her eyes, seeing what was in her eyes and knowing in that same instant that she was having trouble.

He knew there was something she wanted to tell him. It was something she wasn't allowed to tell him and she was very anxious to say it and so there she was with her problem. Well, whatever it was, it wouldn't come out of her unless he pulled it out. And the only way to pull it out was slow and easy, very careful.

The coffee cup was half empty before he spoke. He set the cup in the saucer and said, "I've been thinking what you said about Charley."

"Yeah," sort of sadly, regretfully. "I shouldn't of told you that."

"I'm glad you did."

"Why?" She leaned forward just a little. "Why are you glad?"

He shrugged. "It lets me know the score. It always helps to know the score."

"You think you got the complete picture?"

He didn't reply. His face didn't show anything. He was telling himself this was the only way to handle it.

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, bit her lip as though trying to bite on the words to keep them from coming out. She said, "Let me tell you something--"

But then her lips were clamped tightly and she stared past him as though looking at a traffic light flashing red.

He spoke mildly, not too casually, just casual enough. "What is it? You want me for a boy friend? Is that what's bothering you?"

Her tone was matter-of-fact. "It happens I already got a boy friend."

"Mattone?"

"No," she said. "No, for Christ's sake. What made you think of Mattone?"

"He's very good looking."

"I wouldn't know. I've never gandered him that close. Only thing I'd wanna put on him is spit."

"What about Rizzio?"

She laughed dryly. "Rizzio's one for the books. I mean the kind of books you gotta buy in foreign countries, they're outlawed here."

"Well, like they always say, to each his own."

"Yeah, it's a good phrase." She said it as though there was something sour in her mouth. "Only trouble is, for some people it's more wishing than having. The one I got--"

And again she was biting her lip.

He said, "Is it Charley?"

She nodded.

"You don't really want him?"

"Sure I want him." She said it emphatically, sort of angrily. "I really go for him. And it's vice versa, he'd do anything for me. That is, anything he can do. But there's something the matter-with his machinery and he can't."

"Never?"

She spoke dully, in the resigned tone of someone burdened with a blind or crippled relative. "Sometimes he drinks himself into a condition where he don't know what he's doing and then, somehow..."

"Well, that's something."

"Yeah, it's marvelous. It happens maybe once every three months."

He frowned slightly. "Say, that's no joke."

"You're wrong there," she said. "It's a big joke. It's gotta be a laugh, and Charley and me, we laugh about it all the time. If I didn't laugh--" she almost choked on the words, "--I'd flip my lid sure as hell."

"Would he care if you--?"

"No, he wouldn't care. If he's told me once, he's told me a hundred times to go out when I need it. As if it's a highcolonic, or something like that. He really means it, he ain't pulling my leg or testing.my loyalty. He really wants me to have it, he says it's bad for my health to go without it too long."

Hart nodded seriously. "He's got something there."

She didn't say anything. She was staring at the table top.

"Well," Hart said, "it's no problem to get it on the outside. The streets are filled with men who'd be only too willing. You have the face, you have the body--"

"Sure, I know. I used to go for long walks and they'd give me the eye and then we'd get to talking. With a few of them I'd wind up having a drink somewhere. But that's as far as it would go. I'd always start thinking about Charley."

"Feeling guilty?"

She shook her head. "Nothing like that. Just comparing Charley with these four-star jerks, these absolute nothings. I swear, there wasn't one of them could budge me an inch. They had the looks, the clothes, the smooth approach, but underneath it was zero, no ignition."