The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (10 page)

At five minutes to twelve he phoned again, this time from the lobby of Grosvernor's building. Oh, she was very sorry but the other girl had just told her that Mr. Grosvenor had stepped out to lunch. Would he care to phone after lunch? He would? Fine, then.

Flute! He stepped out of the phone booth and was immediately jostled and pushed into a corner by the

flow of people hurrying from the elevators. Everybody was in such a hurry here! Everybody shoving and pushing you aside! Canadians had no manners! Raw, cold country with its greedy, pushy people, grabbing what didn't belong to them, shoving you aside! Land of opportunity, my eye!

Now stop that, he told himself. Don't blame the whole country for one twister of a cartoonist. Stop it. So he stopped it. He went over to the newsstand in the lobby and bought a package of cigarettes. No sense behaving like a lunatic because of one little word in a woman's dream. Ah, why didn't he go back to the house and forget all this nonsense of waiting for Grosvenor. For it was all nonsense. In the noon rush of people, it seemed incredible. He had imagined the whole thing.

Someone caught at his sleeve. "Ginger. Hello there."

"Oh, hello, Gerry," he said guiltily.

"What are you doing in this part of the forest?"

"Well — ah — I just dropped by to have a word with you. I mean about that proofreading job. I took it, you know."

People were passing, bumping against them as they stood, stuck driftwood, in the current towards the revolving doors.

"Look, we can't talk here," Grosvenor said. "Let me give you a lift uptown."

Coffey followed Grosvenor's tall thin back into the merry-go-round of the doors. A cold wind met them as they stepped out into the cavern of the street, and as Coffey paused to put up his overcoat collar, Grosvernor jumped boyishly out into the traffic, snapping his fingers for a cab. A cab careened out of the traffic lane and drew up, inches away from Grosvenor's body. But, flute! He was unharmed.

"Comd 1 on, Ginger, hop in. Okay, driver, go on up Beaver Hall Hill. Ill let you know where, later."

They settled in the back seat, side by side. "Well, Ginger," Grovenor said. "Lucky day, eh?"

"What?"

"Veronica's new job, of course. Didn't she tell you?"

Coffey's ruddy face stared straight ahead. "No," he said.

"Well, she was hired this morning at Modelli. It's a chi-chi sort of hatshop. The pay is forty a week and a sales bonus, which should bring it up to fifty-five most weeks. Not bad for a start, eh?"

"Not bad," Coffey said. Five dollars a week more than me, that's not bad.

"Well now, and what about you?" Grosvenor said. "So you took the proofreading job, did you?"

In the side panel of the cab, enshrined under a tiny light, was a police permit photograph of the driver. Marcel Parent: 58452. Coffey looked at this photograph, then at the back of the driver's head. God, it was mortifying trying to talk in private while Marcel Parent: 58452 listened in on every syllable.

"I gather Vera knows the truth about the job," Grosvenor said. "Too bad. I wonder is there anything I could do, I mean about getting you promoted?"

Coffey shook his head. What did he care about jobs now? What did it matter?

"I might phone old Mac and try to find out how long he intends to keep you in that sweatshop?"

"No," Coffey said. "Don t bother."

"Look, there's no sense in your staying on there if it's a dead end," Grosvenor said. "After all, don't forget, that's the lowest job in the newspaper business. You can do better than that."

Thank you, Marcel Parent, for looking into your driving

mirror to see what sort of specimen would accept the lowest job in the newspaper business.

"So what else is new?" Grosvenor asked.

You tell me, Coffey thought. But he said: "Nothing. Are you having lunch with anyone?"

For the first time, he saw a flicker of uneasiness in Grosvenor's eyes. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am," Grosvenor said. "It's a business lunch. I'd like to have you join us, but it would bore you stiff."

"No, I didn't mean that," Coffey said. "I was just wondering where — where you could drop me off."

"Anywhere you say, Ginger."

"Well, just drop me anywhere that suits you. Where are you going?"

"The Pavilion," Grosvenor said. "So Til drop you on the corner of Ste. Catherine and Drummond, okay?"

"Fair enough."

When the taxi stopped at the corner of Drummond Street, Grosvenor refused Coffey's share of the fare. "I'm loaded," he said. "Lots of expense account money these days. Be seeing you."

"Be seeing you," Coffey echoed. He watched the cab move away. Seeing you, yes; and, seeing you, aren't you one of the drippiest drinks of water I've ever laid eyes on? Expense account or not, artist or not, what could she see in you, you self-satisfied sausage?

Still, Veronica had phoned Grosvenor this morning. Not him. And wasn't Grosvenor just the boy who would invite a person to lunch to celebrate anything under the sun? He was indeed.

Ah, nonsense.

But he turned around, hurried down Drummond Street and went into the Pavilion. At the entrance to the dining room, he hesitated, wanting to turn back. A headwaiter came from behind a stand-up desk, tapping a sheaf of

menus against his stiff shirt-front. "Have you a reservation, sir?"

"No. I'm just looking for a friend of mine."

"What name, sir?"

"A Mr. Grosvenor."

"Oh yes, sir. This way please."

The headwaiter sailed out among the tables like a ship's figurehead, turning to make sure that Coffey followed. Halfway across the room, he stopped and pointed. "Over here, sir. This way."

"Never mind. I — I see he's busy."

Busy he was. In a corner, at a tiny table behind a pillar, the pair of them deep in chat over Martinis. Out of the dining room Coffey fled, running down the steps into the street, a boy escaping a pair of bullies. But wasn't it them who should have run from him? He stopped on the street corner, out of breath. Why had he ever gone in there? And why had he bolted? He should have faced them, but how could he start a row in front of a roomful of people? To fight or not to fight. To run or stand. What did it matter? He crossed the street and stood in line for a bus. Every hour of last night had moved as slowly as a sun crossing the midsummer sky. And yet he had managed to get up this morning with a reasonable amount of doubt. But now . . .

Now, it made sense. Even her anger when he told her he had spent the ticket money. She had been prepared to go home to Ireland with him, that was the worst of all. She had been willing to stick with him.

He stopped off on the way back and bought some boloney for sandwiches. He bought two pears for Paulie. Poor Paulie. No wonder Veronica didn't care if the child ate properly. No wonder she let Paulie run around with ink spots on her school tunic. Why shouldn't she, when her

mind wasn't on her family at all? All, a lot of things made sense now.

When he entered the outer hall of their apartment, little Michel was sitting on the staircase, waiting for him. "Hey, M'sieur. See what I got?"

"Yes, just a minute, Michel." He unlocked the door of his apartment and put the grocery bag inside. A toy made a noise behind him. It was a small robot, battery-operated: its cubed legs moved with a slow grinding of cogs, its eyes lit red and there were little antennae coming out of its head. As Coflfey watched, the toy fell. The legs had not gained purchase on the slippery linoleum.

"It's too slidey here," the child complained.

"Oh. Well — bring him in, why don't you? There's a carpet in the hall."

They went into Coffey's place. The boy placed the toy on the worn carpet runner. "Watch now, M'sieur. I press this button/'

Coffey squatted to watch. Robot cogs ground, robot eyes glowed. The manikin, stiff-legged, rocked slowly forward. "By the holy," Coffey said. "That's a grand toy. Where'd you get it?"

"My Mama give it to me."

"See this little door in his back?" Coffey said. "That's where the battery is."

"Don't touch him. He's my toy!"

"Sorry," Coffey said. "Here you are/'

But the child handed the toy back at once. "Montrez — montrez?"

"Now hold on, old son," Coffey said. "You know I don't parley-voo. Wish I did, though. . . . There you are. See that little thing in there? That's what makes him work."

"What?"

"Well, it keeps him alive. It's his juice."

"Why does juice make him walk?"

"Well, if you have no juice — Look here, Michel, why don't you go on upstairs now? I feel tired."

"But there's nobody upstairs," Michel said.

"Where's your Mama?"

"Mama's out. Grand'mere is sleeping. Please, M'sieur. Play with me?"

Coffey sighed. "All right," he said. "Let's take it in the kitchen."

They went into the kitchen. Coffey unloosened his tie and sat down. For fifteen minutes Michel played with the robot while he, with a pretended show of interest, answered the childish questions. He looked at Michel's ragged little head bent over the toy. Was it because he had never given her a son that she had done this to him? Was that far-fetched? But oh! What reason could be stranger than the strangeness of the fact.

"He's broke, M'sieur. He's broke, he don't work."

"Wait a sec. Let's see." Coffey took the robot, opened the back and fiddled with the wires. Probably a bad connection. He straightened the contacts.

"Will he work now?"

"Let's see. Put him on the floor, Michel."

"For the love of Mike, why didn't you close the front door?" Veronica's voice shouted down the corridor. "You'll freeze the place."

Man and child exchanged glances, strangely united in apprehension. Coffey stood up as she came into the kitchen. "Did you have lunch?" he said.

"You know damn well I had lunch. Why did you run off like that?"

"M'sieur, he still won't work."

"Go home, Michel," Veronica said.

"Now, just a moment, dear/' Coffey said. '"Michel's been keeping me company, haven't you, Michel?"

"I want to talk to you, Ginger. Gerry's outside."

"Look, Michel, push the button like this. See? Now, I'll bet you he'll even walk upstairs with you. Try? All right? Off you go, lad."

Michel rubbed the tears from his fat little cheeks. He took the robot, which was now moving and grinding perfectly. "Oh, thanks, M'sieur" he said. "Thanks, thanks."

And ran off down the hall, the robot in his hand. Slowly, Coffey stood up. Oh, to be a boy . . . tears one moment, all wiped away the next. A world of toys. Nothing so terrible a kindness would not change it. Oh, to be a boy. . . .

Too old for toys, he turned to face her; waited for what new bead she would string on her rosary of lies.

"Gerry's here," she repeated. "I didn't want him to come, but he insisted. He wants to talk to you alone. And, Ginger?"

"What?"

"Ginger, I don't want you to fight with Gerry. It won't do any good, do you hear?"

He turned away without answering and went down the hall.

He opened the front door, and there was Grosvenor.

"May I come in a moment?" Grosvenor asked and came in, walking as though he entered a house where someone was ill. Together, with Coffey leading the way, they went back along the railroad corridor passageway to the living room. Coffey opened the door and, out of habit, stood back to let his visitor pass. As he did, he saw Veronica sitting in the kitchen, shoulders bent as though anticipating a blow. Irrationally, he wanted to go to her and tell her everything would be all right. But how could he tell her, he who did not know how wrong things were? And

why shoilld he, he thought, in sudden anger. This was not his fault.

He went in after Grosvenor and carefully shut the door. He looked at Grosvenor as though seeing him for the first time. Grosvenor was nine years younger than he; taller too. Yet Coffey knew he could win. One good clout and Grosvenor would burst like a paper bag. He waited as Grosvenor took off his overcoat and laid it on a chair. Then Grosvenor produced cigarettes, and a lighter initialed G.G. He offered both. Coffey shook his head. They stood back, fighters after the traditional handshake.

"I saw you go out of the restaurant/' Grosvenor said. "I called after you, but you didn't hear me. So I thought, under the circumstances, I'd better come up here and explain. I'm not the sort of man who hides behind a woman's skirts, Ginger."

Only go up them, Coffey thought.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Ginger. I've been in love with Veronica ever since I met her. At first, I thought there was no hope for me. Now I realize there is. I'm going to fight for her, Ginger."

Grosvenor waited but Coffey did not speak. "I'm sorry this has happened, Ginger. Believe me, no matter what, I think of you as a friend."

"Do you, now?" Coffey said. "Trying to stuff another man's wife, is that your idea of being a friend?"

"Now, wait, Ginger. I know you're angry and you have every right to make ugly remarks about me. But not about Veronica. Veronica's a wonderful girl and she's been terribly loyal to you."

"She's my wife," Coffey said. "I don't need you to tell me what she's like."

"You don't?" Grosvenor said. "I'm not sure about that. If you knew her, you wouldn't have spent your ticket money home. And I'd have lost her."

"You haven't got her yet. Nor will you."

"Maybe not, Ginger. But she wants to leave you. You know that/*

"Will you shut your gob!" Coffey shouted. "This is a private matter between me and Veronica —"

"Now wait. I'm nearly finished, Ginger. I've told Veronica that any time she's ready, I'll take care of her. I've promised to give her all the things she needs: love and consideration. And security."

"You louser," Coffey said. "What the hell do you know about love? All you want is to get up some woman's skirts, you skinny bastard you."

"I knew you'd say that," Grosvenor said. "But let me set you straight on one thing. This is love, not lust. What Veronica and I feel for each other is precious. I know that sounds corny, Ginger, but it happens to be the truth. We're in love, and we intend to stay in love until we die."