Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly (42 page)

“It’s not Dorothy. You know who it is?”

“… Yes.”

“Then who is it?”

“You.”

“That’s right.”

He stood away from her, lit a cigarette, while she broke down and cried, great tears squirting out of her eyes and streaming down her face. “That’s right, it’s me. And from now on suppose you don’t forget it.”

“I’ve heard of men like you.”

“What do you mean, men like me?”

“Men that pretend to love a girl, and then make her go out and—love other men for the money they bring back, and—”

“Are you loving Jansen?”

“Almost.”

“That word is important.”

“I don’t see that it is.”

“It is to me.”

“Ben, why do you treat me like this?”

“Didn’t you hear me? If you want to go, you can.”

“I don’t want to. I can’t.”

“Now we got that straight at last.”

He sat at the other end of the sofa, squashed his cigarette, looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes, said, “Now we can talk about love.” She had doubled over into a tiny knot, her face on her knees, and there ensued an interval in which she sobbed, and twisted her handkerchief, and seemed to go through some sort of inner struggle. Then she threw herself on him, held her mouth against his, twisted his hair with her fingers, and gave way to tremulous, half-sobbing little laughs.

C H A P T E R

8

Lefty, dropping in at Ben’s apartment, looked exactly as he had looked the day of the Castleton robbery; the elegant surroundings, indeed, only accentuated his ill-fitting suit, his bandylegged walk, his air of bucolic simplicity. He came in with a friendly hello, marched vacantly around for a few moments, then stood at the window, taking in the view from the high tower of the hotel. The whole city was visible, and in the distance the lake looked blue under the haze of approaching autumn. Something caught his ear. He looked, and a smile spread over his face. “Did you hear it, Ben? There’s nothing like it, I swear there isn’t—that sound of a shoe on a football. I knew it, soon as I heard it, and sure enough, there they are down there, kicking it around. Don’t you love it?”

“Not noticeably.”

Surprised, Lefty turned around. Ben seemed dejected. He sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, and stared at his feet. They were turned inwards, with a juvenile, ineffectual, pigeon-toed effect that enhanced the suggestion of smallness that hung over everything that he did. Lefty blinked, then laughed. “Oh—I forgot.”

“You expect me to love football you’ll be disappointed.”

“How long did you play, Ben?”

“I played grammar school, my last two years, then four years high school. I played three years college, then two more years college, under a phony name, until a place up the line found out who I was and I had to quit. Then I played two years pro. I played so many games I can’t remember them all, and them that I can remember, I generally don’t if I can help it.”

“Thirteen years, altogether.”

“Something like that.”

“What position did you play?”

“I started in the line, because I was big. When I was sixteen I weighed one seventy. I played guard and tackle, and my last year high school I played center. Then my growth caught up and I began to get fast and they moved me out to end. Then they found out I could pass and for a season I played quarter, but I was no good at it.”

“Why not?”

“Dumb on plays.”

“Where next?”

“Two steps rear. Somewhere along the line I’d learned to kick, and I did all right at fullback. Then I began to show class at broken-field running, and they shifted me to half. That was what I was really good at, staying with an interference and holding my feet in a field. I was good for a couple of yards even after I was tackled—just stagger yardage, but it helped. Sometimes you could score with it. At that stuff I was O.K.”

“Every position there was, hey?”

“Oh, and coach, I forgot. My last year at pro.”

“And still you don’t like it?”

“You ever play, Lefty?”

“Little bit in high school.”

“I never saw a player that liked it. Maybe he tells the girls he likes it but he wouldn’t try to tell another player and get away with it. There’s nothing about it to like. First you got to train. You can’t take punishment and smoke, booze, or do any of those things. Then it hurts. All of it hurts, from blocking an end to blocking a punt. Boy, is that one for the books, taking
a football right in the puss and then grabbing it to score. And there’s no soft spots, like in baseball where you play half the game on the bench. It’s all right, I guess. You get some cheers and you get some dough. But the cheers, they’re in the stand and the dough’s in the dressing room. What goes on out there on the field is just nothing to write home about. I hear those kids down there, kicking it around, sure I hear them. But I’m not getting up to look. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Say, that’s a laugh.”

“What’s a laugh?”

“You, dumb on plays. You can call ’em now, hey?”

“They said I was dumb, and I let it go at that, but that wasn’t really my trouble. When a guy was all in, when he was out on his feet and had no more to give, I hated to hit him with the whip. I kept trying to do it myself. Well, there’s spots in a game where a quarterback run’s not smart, that’s all. I got the same trouble now. I call ’em, because I got to. But I don’t like it any, and I’m always wishing I could do it myself. What’s on your mind?”

“Cantrell.”

“And what about him?”

“He wants to see you.”

“I’m right here and I’m not made of glass.”

“Ben, can I say something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Why can’t you be like you used to be, a guy that was reasonable and that somebody could get along with? What are you trying to pull off, anyhow? A bum imitation of Solly Caspar? It’s not you, Ben. For instance, there’s no reason why you can’t drop over to see Cantrell. And you ought to. Chief of Police is no office boy’s job. And he’s dangerous. He can do things to you.”

“You really want to know?”

“I do, indeed. We’re pals, aren’t we?”

“I got to make him come here.”

“Why?”

“Well, in the first place I tried being nice to Joe. I tried
being reasonable and doing business the way I like to do it. And what happened? He began telling me where to get off. He began measuring it up, what he’d take and what he wouldn’t take. And right there was when I remembered something I’d been trying to forget—something you said that day when we were fanning along waiting for the bank to be held up. You said: A big operator, he runs it or he don’t operate. And what I was trying to be was a big operator. It was just a piece of luck that gave me the chance, but there it was, if I wanted it. You think I was letting Cantrell stand in my way? You think I was caring about his feelings? I let him have it. I
got
to make him come here. If I don’t I got no team. Call him up now. Tell him to come over.”

“Look, you call him. I—”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said call him.”

Mr. Cantrell, who always looked as though he had just emerged from a barber shop, arrived in a surprisingly short time. He said that by a singular coincidence he was on his way to this very hotel, on another matter, when Lefty caught him. He asked how do you explain that? He said his wife was a great believer in thought transference, but that he himself didn’t pay much attention to it, except that when something like this happens it sure does look funny. He said Ben was gaining weight, the least little bit. He said: “What’s bothering you, Ben?”

“Heard you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah, there’s a couple of things.”

“Uncouple them, then.”

“Like, for instance, the bookies.”

“They giving trouble?”

“Well, have we got bookies, or not?”

“Well, they’re there, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but are they
supposed
to be there?”

“Go on, Joe. What’s the rest of it?”

“Well, look, this Jansen has tasted glory and he likes it, see? After I cleaned up pinball and he got all those editorials in the newspapers patting him on the back, why, he wants more, only
a lot. Well, there they are, those bookies, and there’s Jansen, coming in to my office every day, talking about them.”

“Does Jansen really buy it, what we did on pinball?”

“He’s fooled, right down the line.”

“He thinks pinball is cleaned up?”

“Listen, on stuff like that, Jansen’s not any too bright. You remember, even in the campaign he wasn’t getting anywhere till that girl got in it—this Lyons that he’s put in charge of the Social Service department. Maybe she could tell him about pinball, but she don’t seem to be doing it, for some reason. Maybe the police department could tell him, but I don’t regard that as advisable just now. Maybe the District Attorney could tell him, but his law firm is working for you, the last I heard of it. So nobody’s telling him. So he thinks he’s done a big job. Well, is he so dumb? Didn’t every paper in town eat it up, us grabbing those machines, and destroying them? Has any one of them taken the trouble to investigate these new machines, and find out who owns them, or how they work?”

“And Jansen’s hot after the bookies now?”

“I don’t talk about the neighborhood places. He don’t know so much about them. But these big dumps downtown, if he keeps on, I’ll have to close them down. Well, what about it? You’re supposed to know, and you’re not telling me.”

“You seen Delany?”

“… Haven’t
you
seen him?”

“I’ve been letting those bookies alone.”

“Ben, you don’t mean you haven’t
collected
off them?”

“What else you got?”

“The houses.”

“What houses?”

“The ones with red lights in front.”

“And what about them?”

“The same, only worse. In addition to Jansen, I got the men on the beat to worry about. I mean, they’ve begun taking it off those places direct, and that’s bad. It leaves everything wide open for a stink any time the grand jury happens to stumble on it. The way Caspar did, he collected that dough and made
the kick-back himself, so there was nobody that had anything on the cops direct. This way it’s just a mess with anything likely to pop. I don’t even dare bust a sergeant for fear he’ll crack it open.”

“What else?”

“Paroles.”

“And what about
them?”

“You know what about them. They bought their paroles, a whole slew of these mugs. They bought them off Caspar, and he made the kick-back, so the police would let them alone. Only a lot of them couldn’t pay it all at once and they still owe the dough on the deals that were made before they got sprung. Well, now Caspar has skipped. Have you collected any of that money?”

“No.”

“You going to?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I want to know now.”

They had been sitting, or at least Lefty and Mr. Cantrell had been sitting, near the low cocktail table that stood in front of Ben’s fireplace, Lefty in a big armchair, Mr. Cantrell on the sofa. Ben, a little restless, had walked aimlessly about, smoking into two or three ashtrays, listening to Mr. Cantrell intently, if without any evidence of enjoyment. At the rasp in Mr. Cantrell’s voice his head came slowly around and his big, lithe body stiffened. Mr. Cantrell met his gaze for a long second, then looked away. “… Or pretty soon, anyway.”

“I thought that’s what you meant.”

“Well, look, Ben, there’s no argument about it, we got a nice set-up if we can just hold our lead. But we can’t sit around and let things slide. I got to know where I’m at, the bookies have got to know, my men have got to know.
I got to know who’s running this
. If it’s you—O.K., you know how to run it, or ought to, by now. But if you’re not
going
to run it, why—”

“I’ll let you know.”

After Mr. Cantrell had gone, Ben resumed his restless walk, then went into the pantribar, poured two glasses of beer, came
out, set one in front of Lefty. His own he sipped standing up, blotting the foam from his lips with his handkerchief. “You heard what he said, Lefty?”

“Well, somebody’s got to collect that money.”