The Investigations of Avram Davidson (18 page)

“This is merely the Chamber of the Grand Council,” said Don Alexander. “The actual headquarters, which we are required by our charter to maintain, is in back of a candy store on Mulberry Street. The dead weight of tradition, huh? Well, pretty soon that time will come of which the political philosophers have predicted, when the State shall wither away. ‘No more Tradition's chains will bind us,' yeah? After you.” Don Alexander took his seat at the head of the table and gestured the visitor to begin.

The latter gazed at the assembled Masters of the Mafia, who gazed back, unwinking, unblinking, but not—he was quite sure—unthinking.

After a moment he began, “
Signori
—” and paused; then, “
Fratelli
—”

—and was interrupted by Grand Master Borjia.

“Excuse me, Hare Tosci, or Monsoon Tosci, or however you say in your country, but evidently you have fallen victim to the false delusion that the Mafia is a strictly Eyetalian organization, which I have no hesitation in saying it is an erroneous concept and a misinformation disseminated by the conscript press, see? I would like it clearly understood that you should get it through your head we of the sorely misconstrued and much maligned Mafia do not discriminate in any way, shape, or form, against race, creed, color, national or'gin, or, uh, what the hell is the other thing which we don't discriminate against in any way, shape, or form, somebody?”

“Previous kahn-dition of soivitood,” said a stocky Grand Councilor, wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, two cauliflower ears, and an eyepatch.

“Yeah. Thanks very much, Don Lefty McGonigle.”

“Nat a-tall,” said Don Lefty, with a slight blush, as he bent his slightly broken nose toward the orchid in his buttonhole—one of three flown up for him daily from Bahía. “‘Rank is but d'guinea stamp, an' a man's a man for all dat,'” he added. “A quotation from d'poet Boyns; no offensive ettnic connotations intended.”

“Exactly,” said the Grand Master, a slight scowl vanishing from his distinguished features. “Our Grand Council is a veritable microcosm of American opportunity, as witness, besides myself, Don Lefty McGonigle, Don Shazzam X—formerly Rastus Washington—Don Gesú-María Gomez, Don Leverret Lowell Cabot, Don Swede Swanson, Don Tex Thompson, Don Morris Caplan, and Don Wong Hua-Fu, which he's the Temporary Member of the Permanent Representation of the Honorable Ten Tongs—in a word, a confraternity of American business and professional men devoted to the study of the Confucian classics, the Buddhist Scriptures, and the art of horticulture as it might be exemplified by the peaceful cultivation of the
ah-peen
poppy.”

He paused and drew breath. “The Mafia,” he continued, “despite the innumerous slanders and aspersions cast upon it by scoffers, cynics, and the ever-present envious, is no more than a group of humble citizens of the world, determined to provide, besides certain commercial services, a forum wherein or whereby to arbitrate those differences which the lack of communication—alas, all too prevalent in our society—might otherwise terminate untowardly; as to its supposed origins in romantic Sicily, who, indeed, can say? What's on your mind, Tosci?” he concluded abruptly.

Mr. (or Herr, or Monsieur, or whatever way they say in his country) Tosci blinked. Then he smiled a small noncommittal smile, appropriate to the citizen of a neutral nation.

“As you are aware, my country is landlocked,” he began. “Despite, or perhaps because of this situation, the question of providing a merchant marine of our own arises from time to time. It has arisen lately. My company, the
Societé Anonyme de la Banque de la Commerce et de l'Industrie et pour les Droites des Oeuvriers et des Paysans,
known popularly and for convenience as
Paybanque,
is currently interested in the possibilities of such a project.

“It is those ‘certain commercial services' of the Mafia, of which you spoke, that we propose to engage. Our merchant marine headquarters in the New World would naturally be located in the New York City port area. Although at the present time the North River, or such New Jersey areas as Hoboken or Bayonne are most heavily favored by shipping, it was not always so. It is our opinion that excellent possibilities exist along the East River side of Manhattan, particularly the lower East River.

“It is our desire therefore that you provide us with a land, sea, and air survey, largely but not exclusively photographic in nature, engaging for the duration of the survey more or less centrally located quarters on the waterfront area in this locale. Something in the neighborhood of the Williamsburg Bridge would be ideal. Our representatives would participate with you, though the home office, so to speak, would remain aboard my yacht.

“This portfolio,” he went on, placing it on the table and opening it, “contains a more detailed description of our proposal, as well as the eleven million dollars in United States Treasury Notes which your Northern European contact informed us would be your fee for considering the proposal. If you are agreeable to undertake the work, we can discuss further terms.”

He ceased to speak. After a moment the Grand Master said, “Okay. We will leave you know.” After Tosci had departed, Don Alexander asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“An Albanian Trotskyite posing as a Swiss Stalinist. If you ask me, I think he wants to blow up the Brooklyn Navy Yard,” Don Morris Caplan said.

“Of
course
he wants to blow up the Brooklyn Navy Yard,” Borjia snapped. “That was obvious right from the beginning—I can spot them Albanian deviationists a mile away. Now the point is: Do we
want
the Brooklyn Navy Yard blown up? It is to this question, my esteemed fellow colleagues, which we must now divert our attention.”

*   *   *

E
VENTS WENT THEIR
traditional way in the Goodeycoonce household. Granny had dressed herself up as though for a masquerade, the principal articles of costume consisting of a tasseled cap, a linen blouse with wide sleeves, a pair of even wider breeches, and wooden shoes; all these articles were very, very old. She next picked up a pipe of equally antique design, with a long cherrywood stem and a hand-painted porcelain bowl, and this she proceeded to charge with genuine Indian Leaf tobacco which she had shredded herself in her chopping bowl. The tobacco was purchased at regular intervals from the last of the Manahatta Indians—that is, he was one-eighth Last-of-the-Manahatta-Indians, on his mother's side—who operated the New Orleans Candle and Incense Shop on Lexington Avenue. (“
I
don't know what them crazy White folks want with that stuff,” he often said; “they could buy
grass
for the same price.”) Granny struck a kitchen match, held it flat across the top of the pipe bowl, and began to puff.

Neely seated himself and took up a spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen. A scowl, or rather a pout, settled on his usually good-natured countenance.

First Granny coughed. Then she gagged. Then she inhaled with a harsh, gasping breath. Then she turned white, then green, then a bright red which might have startled and even alarmed Neely, had he not seen it all happen so often before. Presently she removed the pipe. Her face had taken on an almost masculine appearance. She rolled up one hand into a somewhat loose fist, then the other, then she placed one in alignment with the other and lifted them to her eye and peered through her simulated telescope.

Neely, in a tone of voice obviously intended as mockery, or at least mimicry, said, “‘To arms, to arms! Blow der drums and beat der trumpet! De dumdam Engels ships ben gesailing up de River!'”

The eye which was not looking through the “telescope” now looked at him, and there was something cold and cruel in it. Neely's own eyes fell. After a moment he mumbled, “Sorry, Oude Piet. I mean Oom Piet. I mean,
darn
it, Heer—um—Governor—ah—Your Highness.”

The eye glared at him, then the “telescope” shifted. After a while a heavily accented and guttural voice, quite unlike his grandmother's usual tones, came from her throat and announced, in a businesslike drone, “Shloop by der vharf in Communipaw. Beaver pelts—”

Neely clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You're in the wrong century, darn it, now!” he cried. Again, the cold old eye glared at him. But he stood his ground. “Come on, now,” he said. “A promise is a promise. What would the
Com
pany say?”

The “telescope” shifted again. The drone recommenced. “Pier Dvendy-Zeven—Durkish Zigarettes—Zipahi brand—vhatchman gedding dronk—”

Neely's ballpoint scribbled rapidly. “
That's
the ticket!” he declared.

*   *   *

D
AISY
S
MITH FINISHED
the tuna-fish sandwich (no mayonnaise—a girl has to watch those calories every single
min
ute) and washed the dish. For dessert she had half a pear. Then the question could no longer be postponed—what was she going to
do
that evening? It had all seemed so simple, back in Piney Woods, New Jersey: she would take her own savings, all $80, plus the $500 or so, most of it in old-fashioned long bills, but including the $100 Liberty Bond, which had been found in the much-mended worsted stocking under Uncle Dynus's mattress after his funeral (the note found with it—thise is four
Dasi—
seemed to make traffic with the Surrogate's Court unnecessary), and come to New York. There she would find, in the order named, an apartment, a job, and Someone-To-Go-Out-With.

She had found the first two without much trouble, but the third, which she had thought would proceed from the second, did not materialize. Her employer, Mr. Katachatourian, was the nicest old man in the world, but, though a widower, he was
old;
somehow the importing of St. John's bread—his business—didn't seem to attract
young
men. And if, from time to time, with trepidation, he took a flyer on a consignment of sesame seeds, or pistachio nuts, it helped Daisy's prospects not at all. The jobbing of sesame seeds, or pistachio nuts, attracted exactly the same sort of gentlemen as did the jobbing of St. John's bread—either middle-aged and married, or elderly.

Once, to be sure, and once only, Daisy had made a social contact from her job. Mr. Imamoglu, one of the largest
ex
porters of St. John's bread on the eastern Aegean littoral, had come to New York on business, had dropped in to see his good customer, The Katachatourian Trading Company, and had immediately fallen in love with Daisy. With true Oriental opulence he took her out every night for a week. He took her to the opera, to the St. Regis, to the Horse Show at Madison Square Garden, to Jack Dempsey's restaurant, to a Near Eastern night club on Ninth Avenue, to Hamburger Heaven, to a performance of
Phèdre
in the original French, to the Bowery Follies, and to a triple-feature movie house on 42nd Street which specialized in technicolor Westerns, of which Mr. Imamoglu was inordinately fond.

Then he proposed marriage.

Well, the prospect of living in a strawberry-ice-cream-pink-villa in the fashionable suburb of Karşiyaka across the picturesque Bay from the romantic port of Izmir, where she would be waited on, hand and foot, by multitudes of servants,
did
appeal to Daisy. But although Mr. Imamoglu assured her that both polygamy and the harem were things of the past in Turkey, that, in fact, neither veil nor
yashmak
could be procured for love or money in all his country, still, you know,
after all.
And furthermore, Mr. Imamoglu was somewhat on in years; he must have been in his thirties.

And besides, she didn't love him.

So Daisy said No.

The departure of the semidisconsolate exporter left Daisy's evenings emptier than before. Go to church? Why, bless you, of course she went to church, every single Sunday, sometimes twice, and met a number of young men who played the organ or were in the choir or conducted a Sunday-school class. Most of them lived in the YMCA and were careful to explain to Daisy that it would be many, many years before they could even begin to
think
of marriage; and their ideas of a social evening were quite different from Mr. Imamoglu's; they would arrange to meet her somewhere after supper and then go to a free illustrated lecture on the Greenland missions; followed by a cup of coffee or a Coke, followed by a chaste farewell at the subway kiosk.

Sometimes a girl thought she might just as well be back in Piney Woods, New Jersey.

What, then, to do tonight? Wash her hair? Watch TV? Catch up on her letters? Mending? Solo visit to a movie? She decided to take a walk.

A few blocks from her apartment she saw a familiar trio leaning in familiar stances against a wall. They nudged one another as they saw Daisy coming, as they had the first time and as they did every time. By now she knew there would be no wolf whistles, no rude proposals.

“Good evening, miss.”

“G'evening, miss.”

“Evening, miss.”

“Good evening,” Daisy said, pausing. “Oh, look at your new hats!” she exclaimed. “White fedoras. My goodness. Aren't they nice!”

The three men beamed and smirked, and readjusted their brims. “All the big fellows wear white fedoras,” said the leader of the trio, whose name was Forrance.

“The big fellows?”

“Sure. Like on that, now, TV show,
The Unthinkables.
Al—Lucky—Baby Face—
you
know.”

As Forrance mentioned these people his two associates pursed lips and nodded soberly. One was quite small and suffered from nosebleeds. (“Must be a low pressure rarea comin' down from Canada,” he would mumble; “I c'n alwees tell: Omma reggella human brommeter.”) He was known, quite simply, as Blood.

His companion, as if in compensation, was obese in the extreme. (“A glanjalla condition,” was his explanation; he indignantly denied gluttony. Taxed with overeating, he pleaded a tapeworm. “It's not f'
me,
” was his indignant cry, over a third helping of breaded pork chops and French fries; “
it's f' the woim!
”) Not unexpectedly he was called Guts. Now and then he pretended that it was an acknowledgement of personal courage.