RENDEZVOUS IN BLACK (19 page)

The man in the basement entrance now jumped up, as if on cue, and reached Morrissey at a run. He bent over him solicitously.

"What happened? What'd he do to you?"

Morrissey lay there helpless, hugging his stomach and gagging. He was still conscious, but unable to pick himself up yet.

"Stop him--took my wallet--" he panted.

The man ran on in pursuit. He turned the corner. There was no one any longer in sight. He ran down that way for a block, and then turned the next corner and ran up the adjoining side street beyond there. He dove suddenly into a basement entryway, highly similar to the one he had just quitted, as if he knew ahead of time there would be someone in it. There was.

"Okay, give me back the wallet," he breathed heavily.

"Here. Don't forget the rest of what's coming to me."

"Here's your second ten." The man took it out of his own pocket, not the thefted wallet. "Now, on your way. Make yourself scarce." He gave him a push to get rid of him.

He waited until he was alone in the doorway. Then he jerked at his own necktie, pulling it awry. He scoured his palms against the brick wall, getting them good and grimy, then he transferred the dust in streaks to his own face and the shoulders of his coat.

He was punching and swatting at his hat when he came back in sight of Morrissey a few moments later, as if it had been knocked off and he'd had to pick it up from the ground.

Morrissey had managed to stagger erect now against the wall, and was standing there with both hands against it to support himself, and with his head held low between them, looking down at the ground.

"Did you lose him?" he said weakly.

"I latched onto him around the corner, but I couldn't hold him. I tried to tackle him, but he got away. But I made him drop the wallet. Here it is." He dusted off his shoulders ostentatiously, and felt tenderly of his jaw, as if to see whether any teeth had been damaged.

"I was sick all over the place just now," the boy said ruefully. "Thanks for helping me, anyway." He took the wallet, leafed through its contents.

"Did he get anything?"

"No, it's all here. I only had seven dollars in it, anyway."

"Feeling better now?" the man asked solicitously.

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm still a little wobbly inside. Gee, I sure appreciate your giving me a hand like that--"

"Anybody'd do as much," the man said disclaimingly. "I couldn't just stand still and watch, could I? Glad I happened along when I did."

"There's never a cop around when you need one," Morrissey said.

"No, there's never a cop around when you need one," the man agreed. "Sure you're feeling okay? You still look a little white around the gills. Want to go to a drugstore and have them look at you?"

"No, it'll be all right."

"How about a drink, then? That'll straighten you out. I could use one myself." He looked vaguely up and down the street as if in search of some bar they could adjoin to.

"Swell," the boy said heartily. "That's more like it. There's a nice place down the line I know of." He held out his hand in new-found friendship. "My name's Bill Morrissey."

The man took it, shook it. "Mine's Jack Munson."

Munson came in and went up to the bar. He ordered a Martini, just to pay his rent. There wasn't anything Chinese about the place except the waiters. The band played "Jersey Bounce" and the operator's name was Goldberg.

Munson turned around and faced the room, this time; he kept his back to the bar. He kept looking steadily over at the booth where Morrissey was sitting, until finally their eyes met, as they were bound to sooner or later.

Morrissey quickly took a second look to make sure, then raised his arm in greeting.

Munson raised his in answer.

Morrissey beckoned him over, both with a nod of his head and a sweep of his hand.

Munson picked up his drink and sauntered casually down that way. Then as the booth came into frontal perspective, a girl was revealed, sitting facing Morrissey. A girl who made every other girl in the place look plain. She wore her dark hair long; she wore a clasp of brilliants in it. Her eyes were gray, or if they were blue . . .

"Hello, Jack," Morrissey greeted him warmly. "What're you doing here, all by your lonesome?"

The girl looked at him. With polite interest, no more. Such as was due the friend of an escort. She didn't smile. But she didn't frown.

"Hello, Bill," he answered. They'd been calling one another by their given names ever since their third stag meeting, approximately.

"Miss Drew, this is Jack Munson; good friend of mine."

They chatted for a few moments.

Then, "Aren't you with anybody, Jack? Come on, sit down," Morrissey invited. "There's room enough on the bench."

"Thanks, but I don't want to intrude." He looked at the girl for her permission.

"Do," she said mildly.

He sat down.

Again the clock at the Carlton.

The two of them were waiting now, together, side by side, running-mates on an evening date.

"What do I owe you for my share of the tickets?" Morrissey asked. "Better let me fix it up with you before I forget."

"You mean while you still have that much on you," Munson ribbed him.

They both laughed.

"Here They are."

She'd brought another girl with her. That had been the arrangement.

Less lovely, less radiant, but then anyone would have been. Still pretty enough in her own right.

The introductions were made. They paired off. Morrissey with Madeline Drew, Munson with Miss Philips.

They took a taxi to the theatre.

They came out, formed a momentary little island in the eddying current of the audience streaming past them on the sidewalk.

"Shall we go to the Bamboo Grove again?" Madeline suggested.

"Sure, that's our old standby," Morrisey answered, more particularly to her than to the other two.

Munson danced with Miss Philips first.

Then the next time the music played they changed partners. He danced with Madeline, and Morrissey with the other girl.

"How do you like Harriet?" she asked him.

He looked at her, at her, herself, and only smiled.

That was all that was said while they danced.

She hummed the tune a little, lightly under her breath. Not very surely, almost self-consciously.

Then the dance was over.

He danced with Miss Philips, first. Then the next time the music played, they changed partners. He danced with Madeline.

She looked up at him presently.

"Why so quiet, Jack? You haven't said a word all evening. You're not as good company as last week, or the week before."

"And you should be good company," he said somewhat bitterly.

"Harriet thinks you don't like her. In the ladies' room at the theatre just now she told me she thought she oughtn't to come along with us any more. You should really be more attentive to her, Jack. She feels hurt."

"I haven't thought about her once the whole evening," he admitted.

She shrugged reproachfully. "But you're her escort. Then who--?" She stopped that before she'd said it.

He didn't answer. He looked her straight in the eyes, deep in the eyes.

They didn't say anything more, either one of them.

Then the dance was over.

Morrissey was waiting alone by the Canton clock this time. It was late. The crowd had thinned out. They were going to miss the show. He fidgetted; went to the entrance to look for her, came back disappointed; went to the entrance, came back agonized. He looked at the clock too much, he looked at his watch too much. That didn't help. They gained a minute, every minute, and that was all they could tell him, either one of them.

It was the death-watch of a date; that final stretch when it's about to expire into a full-fledged stand-up, give up the ghost. You can't keep it alive just by waiting there: it takes two to keep it alive. But you wait there anyway, trying to give it adrenalin.

He smoked too much, and he used up all his cigarettes; then he bought another pack, and he smoked them too much. And didn't half finish what he began.

A hundred thousand men before him had been through what he was going through now. But that didn't help; to him it was just like the first time. It was excruciatingly brand new.

Then suddenly--a whirl of leopard collar, of flaring green coat, spinning around in the wings of the door--and there she was.

She was forgiven, it was over; it was all right before she'd even reached him, even opened her mouth.

She came in alone. Well, naturally; this had been rigged as a single date. Miss Philips had dropped out, piqued. And that had made Jack de trop.

Her mien was sober. A little wan, you might even say. When she greeted him she smiled, but the smile soon died.

"Gee, I didn't think you were coming any more! What happened?"

She couldn't get up much vigor. "Oh, I don't know--" she said lackadaisically. And then: "I'm here." As if to say, What more do you want?

He didn't press her further. They had headaches sometimes, he'd heard vaguely; they weren't like men. They were more variable, they went up and down like barometers.

The curtain had already gone up when they found their seats.

"Like it?" he said between the acts.

She wasn't explosively enthusiastic. "It's sort of cute," she said tepidly.

When the show was over, "The Bamboo Grove again?" he suggested. "How about it?"

"No, no Bamboo Grove tonight," she said. "I'm not in the mood. I think I'd rather go straight home."

"But--"

She gave him a look, and he saw danger in it. He flagged a cab.

On the ride back she said two words. "Thanks," and then "Thanks." To a cigarette, and to his lighter.

When they got out, he took her over to the doorway. But when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head slightly--looking to see if she had her key--and her lips evaded him. You can't stretch in a kiss, or it loses all grace, all spontaneity; it has to descend where you directed it, or it's spoiled. His was spoiled.

He caught on at last, three hours late. "What is it, what have I done, Madeline?"

"You haven't done anything, Bill." She looked at him, almost as if she now realized for the first time that it was he who had been with her all along. She added, "And believe me, that's the truth."

"Then why is it--? You're acting different."

She had her key in, as though that was the main part of it to her. He put his hand over hers, the one with the key in it, and held it that way, to keep her a moment longer.

"People change," she said pensively.

Her hand squirmed, under his, trying to free itself so it could work the key.

"But Madeline, Madeline--you're breaking me up, you're doing things to me. Don't leave me out here like this-- Give me something to hang onto--"

She freed her hand, and turned the key, and got the door open. "What can I do?" she said pessimistically. "Say I love you?"

"Can't you?" he said, suddenly frightened pale.

She shook her head, very slowly, a very little. And that was her good night.

She closed the door, and went up the stairs disheartenedly.

She went to her own room first, and took off her things as though they weighed a thousand tons and dragged her whole frame down.

Then she looked at herself in the glass, and looked away again, as if she was ashamed of that girl.

She went out into the hall, and up front to her mother's room. The sitting room part of it, anyway, where her mother usually remained up reading after her father had gone to bed.

It was lighted and cheery and hen mother was up reading. Her mother looked thirty, and Madeline looked thirty-two. Or acted it, anyway.

"Hello," she said leadenly. "Back."

"How was the show?" her mother asked.

" Was there a show?" she answered dully.

Her mother gave her a quick knowing little look; then held her peace.

"Well, now that I've made a station announcement, I guess I'll go to bed."

She turned around and went out. She halted, turned, came in again. "Well, good night," she said lamely. "Good night, dear," her mother said readily. She turned around and went out. She halted, turned, came in again. "Yes, dear?" her mother said patiently. Madeline bit her lips, as though she knew they were about to waste their time. Then she relented, and let them have their say anyway.

"Nobody called, I suppose;--did anybody?"

"Yes, a young man did. He didn't leave any name. just asked 'Is Madeline there?' and before I could ask him who he was he'd hung up." Then she added, not very wittily, "Somebody you know, I guess."

"Yes," Madeline agreed. "Somebody I know, I guess."

Her hand made a little start toward the region of her heart, but didn't complete it. Suddenly, she wasn't old, she wasn't tired any more. She was a child on Christmas morning. Her eyes lit up as though a switch had been thrown behind them. "Oh yes," she said, "somebody I know! Somebody I know!"