Authors: Benjamin Appel
He sighed, sensing himself as a shadow compared to the bulk and solidity of her family. The Carreaus never changed. All Isabelle wanted was to live as her ancestors had lived, to meet at the family celebrations and parties in New Orleans, in New Iberville, in all the French sugar towns of Louisiana, rooted, and never to be shaken by new ideas. A child would pull her further away from him; a child would inherit the family stories of the colonial Carreaus, the incense and confessional of the Carreau Church.
Dressed, he tiptoed out of the hotel room into the corridor. In his tension, the corridor seemed a hundred miles long, Isabelle at one end, Hayden at the other. He took the elevator down to the street. Ahead of him, beyond the intersection of Clark Street and Columbia Heights, he saw the sky-high towers of Wall Street Manhattan, battlements of stone, perpendicular and magic-windowed like a fantastic city of some fantastic future.
He walked down Columbia Heights between the brownstones and mechanically as if he had just arrived here, landed from some boat in the Harbor, he stared at each corner street sign, Pineapple Street; Orange Street; streets named after the warm fruits that had once come in ships bottoms to the piers below. At each street corner, the towers were framed between the brownstones, the Manhattan city, the powerhouse city. He neared the brownstone where he had an apartment under another name, unlocked the white painted inner door. Inside, there was a mirror above a walnut table. He climbed the stairs, inserted a second key into the lock. He entered, shut the door, and Hayden was in the living room.
“Surprised?” Hayden said from the Morris chair. In his dark brown suit, white shirt, he was dressed for the towers across the river, for the forty-third floor of the organization’s offices.
“Some. I usually get here first. I didn’t know you had a key, too.”
“I have.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Hayden.”
“Congratulations?”
“That Buckles girl development.”
“That’s all very well,” Hayden said. “Aden is capable enough.” His voice was unenthusiastic, his eyes cold. It dawned on Bill that Hayden was worried. Hayden worried? Hayden? Bill’s heart pounded.
“Is it about Miller?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
“I thought — ”
“Miller, I presume, has been disposed of? Did you know that Buckles is Miller’s girl?”
So that was it, Bill decided. “No,” he said.
“Sit down,” Hayden exclaimed irritably. “Don’t stand there hovering like a doorman. Miller has been disposed of, hasn’t he?”
Bill bit on his lips angrily.
“I asked you a question?” Hayden said.
“I suppose so. That nigger — ”
“Spare me your usual invective this morning. However, it doesn’t matter very much whether Miller has been disposed of as yet or not.”
“None of the papers I read said Buckles was his girl.”
“That, too, is unimportant.”
Bill stared, frightened. For Christ sake, what did matter then? His eyes lowered to Hayden’s crossed legs and lifted once more to the frowning face. “May I ask why?” he hazarded a question.
“Governor Heney will answer you tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight. He has notified me that you are to be present. I am to be present. Everyone in the organization who has had anything to do with the Harlem venture will be present.” Hayden clasped his hands together.
“But I don’t understand. The Governor’ll be pleased. The press — ”
“The Governor hasn’t flown north two days ahead of schedule to congratulate us.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Last night.”
“Then he didn’t see the press?”
“We knew what the headlines would be last night. The girl was in our hands early in the afternoon.”
“I don’t get it. We can start a riot almost any minute — ”
“Ten o’clock tonight at the Hotel Pennston. Suite 23. I can inform you that the Governor is here as the representative of the national organization. He supersedes my authority.”
“About Big Boy — Should I see him?”
“Use your own judgment.”
“But you’re my superior — ”
“Use your own judgment.”
“I prefer not to.”
“What? Use your own judgment or don’t. As you choose.” And Hayden grinned at him as if enjoying a private joke.
One half hour later, Bill was drinking a rye highball in a bar on Montague Street. He was the only customer. The bartender was reading a tabloid. “Have you a phone here?” Bill asked.
The bartender’s small eyes lifted from the tabloid. “In the back.” He was a middle-aged man, immaculate in a fresh white jacket and apron, his lips tight and shrewd, a face that stated as exactly as a whiskey label what the contents were. This bartender was only sure of what he had seen himself; this bartender was uncertain of what he heard or read.
“What’s the news?” Bill said.
“War. It’s still on.”
“What are they all dying for?”
“Got to smack them Hitler guys.”
“And let the Reds take over?”
“It’s a poker game. We’re sitting in. So’s Hitler. So’s the Japs. So’s the Reds. Hitler’s got all the chips. We got to take them chips away.”
“They find that girl up Harlem?”
“No.”
“Poor kid. It’s a crime.”
“Yep.”
“Those niggers’re getting out of hand.”
“Yep.”
“Every nigger wants a white girl.”
“That I don’t know.”
“It’s a crime even if she’s a Red.” He drained his glass. “Give me another one.”
Over his second highball, Bill wondered if he should visit Big Boy today? See him? Phone him?
Use your own judgment
. Hayden’s advice ticked in him with a beat as regular as a watch. Now let’s see, he puzzled. Hayden had said that it didn’t matter whether Miller was alive or dead; so why run up to Harlem: he had seen Big Boy too often as it was. But what had upset Hayden? Was anything wrong? Should he see Darton? Maybe the meeting tonight was going to be a trial? His trial! Maybe the organization had discovered who had sent in the anonymous letter to the Harlem Equality League? Bill took a deep drink. That’s what he got for moving out of line! It was Darton’s fault! Had the girl been kidnapped because of his letter? No! But what could be wrong? Should he see Big Boy?
Use your own judgment
.
He ordered a third drink, a rye straight, rushed it to his lips, ordered a fourth, a fifth. He glared at his drinking double in the mirror and boozily admitted that he didn’t know what to do. He had no judgment to use. All his life was before him in this bar, a highway clearly seen, the rye whiskies like milestones, and the highway ended at ten o’clock tonight. Christ, he thought maudlin and terrified. Why hadn’t Hayden given him some instructions this morning? It had always been instructions, always the instructions from the assistant exec. and the exec. above the assistant exec. and the national organization above the regional leaders.
He poked his hat away from his forehead and raised his glass to the reflection in the mirror. He would show them all. He would use his own judgment, damn them! Who’d been a brain guy once before in this city of New York, Jew York, Jew Cork Ireland? Who’d been a main chancer back in the depression days? Out of real estate collecting into the racket, into Kerrigan’s mob on his own terms, a brain guy and he’d never kept all his bucks in one wallet. When Kerrigan’d tried to outfox him, he’d outfoxed Kerrigan and gone into strikebreaking with his own organization, a real brain guy. And he would’ve still been on his own but for that tough break, teargassed by those damn Reds right into the hospital. Those days were gone to hell, he brooded; gone with Dixie and Madge, whores à la whore, gone with his kid brother Joe, and no use slobbering over anybody, not Joe, not Isabelle, nobody. He raised his glass to the reflection in the mirror.
“Toasting the ladies, Mac?” the bartender said dryly.
“No. The leader.”
“What leader?”
“Any leader.
Skoal. Lechayem. Lechayem
. No use leaving out the kikes.
Lechayem
.”
“Lechayem,”
said the bartender.
“No more thinking out the angles for me,” he raved. “No more. That’s the leader’s job. Not mine. Let them have their big meeting tonight. Let them. They’ve sweated me since I’ve worked for them. Fifty bucks to start. A measly fifty. The hell with the angles. He can be dead or alive, who cares!”
“Who cares,” said the bartender.
“Not me. Not me. Fifty a week and I worked my head off. Seventy-five per. That’s top! Out in the field, a leg man, and all them lousy desk men hog the credit. Who does the work?” he bellowed. “Who takes the chances? But that louse of a desk man with his wads of dough’s top dog. Always, they get places the easy way. Screw them all, the millionaire son-of-a-bitch! Pick up their dough like a bum picks up a stogie. Use your own judgment. God damn them. I wasted my life. I didn’t get the breaks,” he whined.
Said the bartender. “How did you waste your life but don’t yell. My hearing’s good.”
“Paid me good money but I haven’t saved a dime.”
“You lost your job?”
“Who said I lost my job? Not me. I’m a brain guy. Too smart, me.”
“You lost something. Your girl?”
“I lost nothing.”
“I thought you lost your job. You gonna kill that bottle all by your lil self?”
“S’good bottle.”
“Yep, the best. But whyn’t you take a nice walk.”
“Give me a shot.”
“Later. Get some air, Mac.”
“Give me a shot.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll get the breaks some day.”
“Sure thing. Why don’t you take a nice lil walk?”
“Mind your damn business.” He rested his head in the cup of his hand, leaning heavily on the bar. A boozy fantasy rose in his brain. He saw a trial, a secret trial. There were old men in black robes, the Supreme court. There were Army generals. And the President had come into the trial room as he, Bill, took the witness stand. He, Bill, was about to testify. “Mr. President,” he began. “I’m here not to save my own skin. I’m here because the organization is losing its principles! The organization isn’t fit to bring in a New America!” How well he spoke, how eloquently he held up to ridicule the organization’s mistakes. How defiantly he denounced the President and the herd ideas of democracy. Lofty and superior, he compelled the respect of the Army generals and the President himself. Yes, he was a master, above all their rules and laws. How scornfully he advised the President and the Supreme Court that if they wanted complete lists of the prominent men, the Senators, the Government officials, the publishers who were supporting the organization, all that was necessary was to third degree Hayden. Hayden was yellow, he explained; and a blackjacking would do the trick. How he thundered at the President that he, Bill Trent, hadn’t lost faith in the coming American fascism. Never, never! He had only lost faith in a fascism dominated by men like Hayden; for Hayden’s fascism was musty as Mussolini’s, rotten and traditional, relying too much on old rich men and the sons of old rich men. What was needed, he thundered, was a new fascism for a new world!!!
“Aren’t you going home, Mac?” the bartender said.
The fantasy whirled away at the bartender’s voice. The voice like the magician’s word in the fairy tale dissolved all the might-have-beens. He saw himself as he was. A drunk at a bar. A drunk afraid of what might happen at ten that night.
“Mac, you better go home. You’ll get another job or another girl. You’ll get the breaks.”
“Isabelle,” he muttered, needing her, needing somebody he could trust.
“Tell Isabelle you got prospects.”
“She’s my wife. She loves me.”
“That’s fine. You tell her you love her. Everything’ll be fine.”
“But — ”
“Tell her you got prospects.”
“Your rye must be watered. I don’t even feel drunk.”
The bartender shrugged. “I sell it. I don’t manufacture.”
“I’m married three years. We’ve been drifting.”
“A lot of people do it so why worry.”
“It’s wrong.”
“You take a nice walk, Mac — ”
“No more for me! I’m going to stop her! I’m the boss! She’s going to see things my way.” He felt better. There would be nothing to worry about at ten that night. He was sticking with the organization. The day was coming when the organization was taking over the country and he was going to be around when that happened. Wasn’t he in on the ground floor? Wouldn’t every op have a chance when the day came to get places and be a big-shot? Why, he wouldn’t take a hundred a week with a bank even if it was offered on a silver platter. Money wasn’t every damn thing! Being on the in was bigger than dough. So what if he was only an order-taker. The day was coming, the day, the big day. He would take orders now and give them when his turn came. And no more worrying, no more thinking. He felt better than he had in days, lighter, free-er as if he had torn something heavy out of himself. He had. He had castrated himself with his decision to tear out the fluid flow of brain.
“That nice walk?” the bartender reminded him.
“I’ll fix her! I’ll show her who the boss is!”
Banging his fist against the hotel door Bill yelled. “Open up! Open up, damn you!”
She flung the door open. He said. “I’m not drunk! Don’t give me no line I’m drunk.” She was tall in the doorway, wearing a red housecoat, dotted with white moons. She had just washed her hair. Her hair and lips and cheeks and eyes all seemed fresh. He thought of her body under the housecoat also washed and fresh and soap-scented. “I’m not drunk!” He pushed into the room, flopped onto the bed. “Come here,” he laughed. “I’ll give you the brat you want. It’s time. Now’s the time. You smell like the fields in the morning. Poetic husband you got.”
Isabelle shut the door. “Do you want the people next door to hear you, Bill?”
“What do I care about that Jew cloak-and-suiter.”
“You’re drunk.” She frowned. “I’ll ring for some black coffee.”
“And drink it yourself. I’m a patriot. No coffee for me.”
“Will you take a shower?”
“Old faithful, I don’t want a shower.”
“Why — ”
“Why did you get so drunk in the morning,” he hooted at her. “What’s so wrong with the morning, Carreau? How about that brat or want to wait for the stars so the saints won’t see us at it.”