Margie, leaning toward the mirror, paused and hurled her will like a javelin. Her chin rose; the ropes dropped back; her eyes shone; the skin snuggled close to her skull; her shoulders squared. She stood up and waltzed in a deft circle on the deep-piled red carpet. Her feet were bare, with gleaming pinkened toenails. She must rush, she must hurry, before it was too late.
She flung open her closet and laid hands on the sweet, provocative dress she had been saving for the Fourth of July weekend, the shoes with pencil heels, the stockings more sheer than no stockings at all. There was no languor in her now. She dressed as quickly and efficiently as a butcher whets his knife and she checked against a full-length mirror the way that same butcher tests his blade against his thumb. Speed but no rush, speed for the man who will not wait, and then—the casual slowness of the informed, the smart, the chic, the confident, the lady with pretty legs and immaculate white gloves. No man she passed failed to look after her. Miller Brothers’ truckdriver whistled as he lumbered by with lumber and two high-school boys leveled slitted Valentino eyes at her and painfully swallowed the saliva that flooded their half-open mouths.
“How about that?” said one.
And, “Yeah!” the other replied.
“How’d you like—”
“Yeah!”
A lady does not wander—not in New Baytown. She must be going someplace, have some business, however small and meaningless. As she walked in dotted steps along the High Street, she bowed and spoke to passers-by and reviewed them automatically.
Mr. Hall—he was living on credit, had been for some time.
Stoney—a tough, male man, but what woman could live on a cop’s salary or pension? Besides, he was her friend.
Harold Beck with real estate and plenty of it, but Harold was queer as a duck. He himself was probably the only person in the world who didn’t know it.
MacDowell—“So nice to see you, sir. How’s Milly?” Impossible—Scottish, tight, tied to his wife—an invalid, the kind who lives forever. He was a secret. No one knew what he was worth.
Dew-eyed Donald Randolph—wonderful on the next bar stool, a barroom gentleman whose manners penetrated deep into his drunkenness, but useless unless you wanted to keep house on a bar stool.
Harold Luce—it was said that he was related to the publisher of
Time
magazine but who said it, himself? A flinty man who had a reputation for wisdom based on his lack of the power of speech.
Ed Wantoner—a liar, a cheat, and a thief. Supposed to be loaded and his wife was dying, but Ed trusted no one. He didn’t even trust his dog not to run away. Kept it tied up and howling.
Paul Strait—a power in the Republican party. His wife was named Butterfly—not a nickname. Butterfly Strait, christened Butterfly, and that’s the truth. Paul did well if New York State had a Republican governor. He owned the city dump, where it cost a quarter to dump a load of garbage. It was told that when the rats got so bad and big as to be dangerous, Paul sold tickets for the privilege of shooting them, rented flashlights and rifles— stocked .22-caliber cartridges to shoot them with. He looked so like a president that many people called him Ike. But Danny Taylor while quietly drunk had referred to him as the Noblest Paul of them Aul, and that stuck. Noble Paul became his name when he wasn’t present.
Marullo—he’s sicker than he was. He’s gray sick. Marullo’s eyes were those of a man shot in the stomach with a .45. He had walked past the doorway of his own store without going in. Margie entered the store, bouncing her neat buttocks.
Ethan was talking to a stranger, a youngish dark-haired man, Ivy League pants and hat with a narrow brim. Fortyish, hard, tough, and devoted to whatever he was doing. He leaned over the counter and seemed about to inspect Ethan’s tonsils.
Margie said, “Hi! You’re busy. I’ll come back later.”
There are endless idle but legitimate things a strolling woman can do in a bank. Margie crossed the alley mouth and went into the marble and brushed-steel temple.
Joey Morphy lighted up the whole barred square of his teller’s window when he saw her. What a smile, what a character, what a good playmate, and what a lousy prospect as a husband. Margie properly appraised him as a born bachelor who would die fighting to remain one. No double grave for Joey.
She said, “Please, sir, do you have any fresh unsalted money?”
“Excuse me, ma’am, I’ll see. I’m almost positive I saw some somewhere. How much of it would you like to have?”
“About six ounces, m’sieur.” She took a folding book from her white kid bag and wrote a check for twenty dollars.
Joey laughed. He liked Margie. Once in a while, not too often, he took her out to dinner and laid her. But he also liked her company and her sense of play.
Joey said, “Mrs. Young-Hunt, that reminds me of a friend I had who was in Mexico with Pancho Villa. Remember him?”
“Never knew him.”
“No jazz. It’s a story the guy told me. He said when Pancho was in the north, he worked the mint printing twenty-peso notes. Made so many his men stopped counting them. They weren’t so hot at counting anyway. Got to weighing them on a balance scale.”
Margie said, “Joey, you can’t resist autobiography.”
“Hell, no, Mrs. Young-Hunt. I’d have been about five years old. It’s a story. Seems a fine stacked dame, Injun but stacked, came in and said, ‘My general, you have executed my husband and left me a poor widow with five children, and is that any way to run a popular revolution?’
“Pancho went over her assets the way I’m doing now.”
“You got no mortgage, Joey.”
“I know. It’s a story. Pancho said to an aide-de-camp, ‘Weigh out five kilos of money for her.’
“Well, that’s quite a bundle. They tied it together with a piece of wire and the woman went out, dangling the bale of kale. Then a lieutenant stepped out and saluted and he said, ‘My general (they say it
mi gral
—like
hral
), we did not shoot her husband. He was drunk. We put him in the jail around the corner.’
“Pancho had never taken his eyes off the dame walking away with the bundle. He said, ‘Go out and shoot him. We cannot disappoint that poor widow.’ ”
“Joey, you’re impossible.”
“It’s a true story. I believe it.” He turned her check around. “Do you want this in twenties, fifties, or hundreds?”
“Give it to me in two-bitses.”
They enjoyed each other.
Mr. Baker looked out of his frosted-glass office.
Now there was a bet. Baker had made a grammatically correct but obscure pass at her once. Mr. Baker was Mr. Money. Sure he had a wife, but Margie knew the Bakers of this world. They could always raise a moral reason for doing what they wanted to do anyway. She was glad she had turned him down. It left him still in the book.
She gathered the four five-dollar bills Joey had given her and moved toward the gray banker, but at that moment the man she had seen talking to Ethan came in quietly, passed in front of her, presented a card, and was taken into Mr. Baker’s office and the door closed.
“Well, kiss my foot,” she said to Joey.
“Prettiest foot in Wessex County,” Joey said. “Want to go out tonight? Dance, eat, all that?”
“Can’t,” she said. “Who is that?”
“Never saw him before. Looks like a bank-examiner type. It’s times like this I’m glad I’m honest and even gladder I can add and subtract.”
“You know, Joey, you’re going to make some faithful woman a hell of a fine fugitive.”
“That is my prayerful hope, ma’am.”
“See you.”
She went out, crossed the alley, and entered Marullo’s grocery again.
“Hi, Eth.”
“Hello, Margie.”
“Who was the handsome stranger?”
“Don’t you carry your crystal ball?”
“Secret agent?”
“Worse than that. Margie, is everybody afraid of cops? Even if I haven’t done anything I’m scared of cops.”
“Was that curly-haired piece of the true cross a dick?”
“Not exactly. Said he was a federal man.”
“What you been up to, Ethan?”
“Up to? Me? Why ‘up to’?”
“What did he want?”
“I only know what he asked but I don’t know what he wanted.”
“What did he ask?”
“How long do I know my boss? Who else knows him? When did he come to New Baytown?”
“What did you tell him?”
“When I joined up to fight the foe, I didn’t know him. When I came back he was here. When I went broke, he took over the store and gave me a job.”
“What do you suppose it’s about?”
“God knows.”
Margie had been trying to look past his eyes. She thought, He’s pretending to be a simpleton. I wonder what the guy really wanted!
He said it so quietly it frightened her. “You don’t believe me. You know, Margie, no one ever believes the truth.”
“The whole truth? When you carve a chicken, Eth, it’s all chicken, but some is dark meat and some white.”
“I guess so. Frankly, I’m worried, Margie. I need this job. If anything happened to Alfio I’d be pounding the street.”
“Aren’t you forgetting you’re going to be rich?”
“Kind of hard to remember when I’m not.”
“Ethan, I wonder if you remember back. It was in the spring right near Easter. I came in and you called me Daughter of Jerusalem.”
“That was Good Friday.”
“You do remember. Well, I found it. It’s Matthew, and it’s pretty wonderful and—scary.”
“Yes.”
“What got into you?”
“My Great-Aunt Deborah. She got me crucified once a year. It still goes on.”
“You’re kidding. You weren’t kidding then.”
“No, I wasn’t. And I’m not now.”
She said playfully, “You know, the fortune I read you
is
coming true.”
“I know it is.”
“Don’t you think you owe me something?”
“Sure.”
“When are you going to pay?”
“Would you care to step into the back room?”
“I don’t think you could do it.”
“You don’t?”
“No, Ethan, and you don’t either. You’ve never had a quick jump in the hay in your life.”
“I could learn, maybe.”
“You couldn’t fornicate if you wanted to.”
“I could try.”
“It would take love or hatred to arouse you, and either one would require a slow and stately procedure.”
“Maybe you’re right. How did you know?”
“I never know how I know.”
He slid the door of the cold cabinet open, took out a Coke, which instantly grew a jacket of frost, opened it, and handed the bottle to her while he opened a second.
“What is it you want of me?”
“I’ve never known a man like that. Perhaps I want to see what it’s like to be loved or hated that much.”
“You’re a witch! Why don’t you whistle up a wind?”
“I can’t whistle. I can raise a puny little storm in most men with my eyebrows. How do I go about lighting your fire?”
“Maybe you have.”
He studied her closely and did not try to conceal his inspection. “Built like a brick outhouse,” he said, “soft and smooth and strong and good.”
“How do you know? You’ve never felt me.”
“If I ever do, you’d better run like hell.”
“My love.”
“Come off it. There’s something wrong here. I’m conceited enough to know the caliber of my attractiveness. What do you want? You’re a fine broth of a dame but you’re also smart. What do you want?”
“I told your fortune and it’s coming true.”
“And you want to suck along?”
“Yes.”
“Now I can believe you.” He raised his eyes. “Mary of my heart,” he said, “look on your husband, your lover, your dear friend. Guard me against evil from within me and from harm without. I pray for your help, my Mary, for a man has a strange and wind-troubled need and the ache of the ages is on him to spread his seeds everywhere.
Ora pro me
.”
“You’re a fake, Ethan.”
“I know it. But can’t I be a humble fake?”
“I’m afraid of you now. I wasn’t before.”
“I can’t think why.”
She had that tarot look and he saw it.
“Marullo.”
“What about him?”
“I’m asking.”
“Be with you in a moment. Half a dozen eggs, square of butter, right. How are you for coffee?”
“Yes, a can of coffee. I like to have it on the shelf. How is that Whumpdum corned-beef hash?”
“I haven’t tried it. They say it’s very good. Be with you in a moment, Mr. Baker. Didn’t Mrs. Baker get some of that Whumpdum corned-beef hash?”
“I don’t know, Ethan. I eat what’s put before me. Mrs. Young-Hunt, you get prettier every day.”
“Kind sir.”
“It’s true. And—you dress so well.”
“I was thinking the same about you. Now you’re not pretty but you have a wonderful tailor.”
“I guess I have. He charges enough.”
“Remember the old boy who said, ‘Manners maketh man’? Well that’s changed now. Tailors make men in any image they want.”
“The trouble with a well-made suit, it lasts too long. This is ten years old.”
“I can’t believe it, Mr. Baker. How is Mrs. Baker?”
“Well enough to complain. Why don’t you call on her, Mrs. Young-Hunt? She gets lonely. There aren’t many people in this generation who can carry on a literate conversation. It was Wickham who said it. It’s the motto of Winchester College.”
She turned to Ethan. “You show me another American banker who knows that.”
Mr. Baker grew ruddy. “My wife subscribed to Great Books. She’s a great reader. Please call on her.”
“I’d love to. Put my things in a bag, Mr. Hawley. I’ll pick them up on my way home.”
“Right, ma’am.”
“That’s quite a remarkable young woman,” Mr. Baker said.
“She and Mary hit it off.”
“Ethan, did that government man come here?”