Little Men, Big World Read online

  He found him in a stinking gymnasium, smoking a big black cigar and grimacing in disgust at the antics of a couple of sad-looking palookas who were belting each other around with the big gloves.

  Bat was pathetically glad to see Reisman. They went into his little office and sat smoking. Riggio was pushing fifty and liked to talk about the past, when things were really “hot,” as he put it. They talked about the past for quite a while. Occasionally the phone rang and Bat grunted into it: “Okay. Don’t bodder me.” He grew more mellow and relaxed as the time passed and finally Reisman observed out of nowhere:

  “I hear George Cline’s coming back in.”

  His defenses down, Bat laughed and grunted: “Nobody’s coming in. De Ark’s too tough.”

  Before Reisman could say another word, Riggio came to himself with a start. He reddened, and a look of fear showed for a moment on his beat-up, subhuman face.

  He got to his feet. “I didn’t say nuttin, Reisman. You woimed it outta me.”

  “Relax. Relax. It’s only a rumor. None of my business anyway. Just trying to make conversation.”

  “You’re a liar, Reisman. Here I am doing great, getting hot; now you come messing me up wid your sweet talking, you louse.” He said this sadly, his chin trembling.

  “Off the record. Off the record. What do you think?” said Reisman. “Anyway, the hell with it. I’m a columnist. I don’t print police news.”

  “You’d print de crucifixion wid all de nails in it, you louse. You fink I don’t know? I didn’t say nuttin. You go home now, Reisman.”

  Reisman went back down the dirty stairs, walking on air. De Ark! What the hell did the old pug mean? Riggio was no cream-puff and had always managed to look after himself in a racket as tough as they came. But he’d showed fear—real fear.

  “April is the cruelest month, breeding …” Reisman mused, as he walked slowly across the littered pavement toward his car. It was still raining, and a damp wind blew up the street, pasting a tom sheet of newspaper against his leg. He kicked and kicked, but couldn’t get rid of it. Unlocking his car, he went on: “… breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain …”

  He drove off down Wharf Street. Ahead of him he could see the ugly vistas of Paxton Square, blurred and misty in the spring rain. The tall clock-tower was little more than a dark penciling on the grey sky.

  “De Ark,” he said aloud, trying it over and over. Could he have misunderstood Riggio’s grunted jargon? If so, it was too bad. The next time, Riggio would run from him.

  Halfway through a page on his typewriter, Reisman suddenly remembered his one-time friend, Harry Radabaugh. They’d got into a thing over an item that had somehow managed to get itself printed in the Journal, a very hot item, and Harry had blamed Reisman. Harry was a tough boy and took a poke at Reisman, but big Red Seaver had clipped Harry from behind, knocking him down, saying at the same time: “Hitting a reporter, eh? That’s arson!”

  Nobody argued with Red, especially after he’d had a few drinks; not even Harry Radabaugh, who had a bad record on the force for using his gun and billy too freely. In fact, Herman Frick, the Chief of Police, had finally kicked him out of the Police Department, during the big clean-up last summer when Commissioner Stark demanded action so loudly that even the lethargic Frick was forced to do something, anything to make a showing. Harry was one of the many who had got the gate. He was now a special investigator for the district attorney’s office, and he got around and the hoods liked him because he never fingered anybody big, only the small ones, principally the out-of-towners who drifted in, looking for pickings.

  “Too bad we are not on visiting terms any longer,” mused Reisman. “Too bad I am always making social blunders and gaucheries and alienating people.”

  Nevertheless, after a moment’s thought, he picked up the phone and called Harry. Things had changed now perhaps. Reisman was no longer a loose-footed reporter—nothing, in short. He was a columnist. Which was like being a god to some people. They’d lick your boots just to see their names in a widely read column. Did I say boots?

  Yes, things had changed. Harry was very friendly on the phone. It was Ben, old boy!

  “I’m just sitting here getting drunk,” said Harry. “Got that ulcer tamed yet? A fellow gave me a case of Johnny Walker Black Label this afternoon and I’m working on it. I want to drink it up before some of my bum friends find out about it. But you’re special—even if I did strike you in anger once.” Harry laughed hollowly. “I was younger then.”

  Reisman grimaced to himself. He could just see some magnanimous fellow giving Harry a case of Johnny Walker! Harry had muscled it in some way—a great little muscle artist, not above blackmail, or so Reisman had heard.

  “I’m a bourbon man, myself,” said Reisman. “And I ain’t tamed the ulcer. It’s practically tamed me. But I might drop over. Things are dull. Got any ideas—I mean for my column?”

  “Do I get my name mentioned, yuk, yuk?” cried Harry, sounding like some jerk trying to be the life of the party.

  “Could be,” said Reisman. “It would be easier if I was running a Love Life column, though. Like that broad you’re now sleeping with. Your love life used to be pretty extensive, if my memory does not fail me and it seldom does—except when Sarah asks me to bring something home for supper.”

  “I just drink now, and think about it. Saves me a lot of trouble. You coming over?”

  “Yeah. Be right there.”

  Reisman tiptoed out of his workroom. The house was quiet, the kids and Sarah asleep. Maybe he could slip out once—just once—without questions or yammering. He put on his hat and raincoat and did not take time to find his rubbers and his umbrella though it was pouring outside. “Il pleut doucement sur la ville,” said Reisman as he opened the door inch by inch. “Ah, Verlaine! What a stinking bum you were!”

  “Ben!” cried Sarah. “Where are you going in that rain?” The bedroom door was open about a foot. She was glaring at him. She looked kind of cute in that pale-blue crêpe de Chine nightgown. Of course, the light was bad!

  “I knew we ought to have bought a two-storey house. Then you’d be upstairs.”

  “Shut up. Don’t try to be funny. I’d still hear you.”

  “Who’s being funny?”

  “Where you going? You come back here. You’re a columnist now. You don’t have to go running around at all hours of the night.”

  “I just got a hot lead on a good story. Relax, Sarah. I’ll come back to your arms safe and sound.”

  “And what good would that do me?”

  “Please, Madam Reisman.”

  Sarah began to laugh. Reisman went back and kissed her. “At least,” he said, “you got a pretty good idea I ain’t going out looking for nooky.”

  “Such vulgar talk. Maybe you should put it in your column and not use it around the house.”

  “That’s what Mush Head keeps telling me at the office. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Bring me some ice cream.”

  “You’ll be asleep.”

  “I’ll wake up any time for ice cream.”

  “How about the kids?”

  “Bring plenty. Couple of quarts, anyway. They’re up listening now.” She raised her voice. “Aren’t you, kids?”

  She was answered by faint giggles. Reisman flinched slightly. “So you see,” said Sarah, “you better stop that vulgar talk.”

  Harry’s apartment was on a slope just off Italian Hill. Reisman had lived in the vicinity for years, in fact, he’d just moved to the suburbs recently: Lakeside Village, the place to raise your family; all the most modem conveniences, lawns, shrubbery, even a lake where you can take the family boating and drown Junior some Sunday morning when he wakes you up at six a.m. Reisman had missed the noises of the city at first. But now he never gave them a thought. One place was like another. Changing places meant nothing at all, though some people thought it did. No matter where you went you always took the sa
me old burden with you—yourself: the same fears and worries and responsibilities. You could not run out from under them, shake them off, or pass them to a friend. Even the lake, with real water, and boats and little piers, helped but slightly.

  Harry’s eyes were bloodshot. He was a big, tough-looking fellow with curly dark hair. He had a hard chin and big shoulders but there was something wrong with his mouth—something flabby and unformed, something babyish.

  He didn’t exactly fawn on Reisman, but he came close. Reisman begged off on the drinking, though he felt that he needed a drink, and they both sat down and talked about things in general. Both were very much interested in baseball and they raked the local team over the coals and plaintively wondered when the team was going to get a decent manager and some ball players.

  “What humpty-dumpties!” said Harry, shaking his head. “This big hitter they got—I saw him bust one up against the fence in the far right comer and only get a single. He runs like he’s got a man on his back.”

  They shook their heads over this for some time, then Reisman gradually led the conversation around to what was going on along the Front. “I saw Leon at the fights the other night,” he said. “Front row as usual. Where does he get those ankle-length polo coats he wears?”

  “Sam Brod, the tailor, makes ’em for him. Two-five-oh! Some coats,” said Harry. “They went out with the bustle, didn’t they?”

  “On him they look good. He was smiling from ear to ear.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why?”

  Harry tapped his chin and studied Reisman for some time. “Well,” he said at last, “he figures to smile a little at the fights. The Bat dug him up a pretty good boy. A middleweight. The kid might go someplace. And you know Leon. A frustrated fighter. He’d been trying to find a champ for fifteen years. I don’t say he has. But the Bat’s pretty high on the boy, and he’s no clunk when it comes to fighters. You know Riggio?

  “Oh, sure,” said Reisman.

  “Well, that’s why he’s always smiling at the Arena. Shouldn’t he smile?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Look, Ben. This ain’t column stuff. This is why guys leave town—by request.”

  “You’re an officer of the law, my boy.”

  Harry laughed sneeringly. “And you’re a guy who spreads things for money that shouldn’t be spread. Remember?”

  “That wasn’t me, Harry—as I tried to tell you.” There was a brief pause, then Reisman added: “But it might have been.”

  “Well, Christ—at least you’re honest, Ben. Look. Just write your column. Don’t play detective. What for?”

  “Curiosity. It’s nothing I can print. You know that. But there are rumors flying all over the place. Who’s Ark?” he asked suddenly.

  Harry dropped his cigarette on the carpet and, stooping over, took his time about picking it up, keeping his eyes lowered. Reisman felt pretty sure that he might as well go buy the ice cream and hit for home. Harry seemed to know who “Ark” was all right, but he wasn’t telling.

  Harry composed himself, threw the cigarette in the ash tray, and lit another one.

  “Ever hear of anybody called Ark?” Reisman persisted, just for the fun of it.

  After a moment, his face blank, Harry shook his head slowly. “Nope. Don’t believe I ever did. What kind of a name is that?”

  “As in Noah’s, I guess. Or maybe I heard wrong. Sometimes I think my hearing’s not so good—slipping.”

  “It used to be good enough, Christ knows,” said Harry. “The boys all called you rabbit-ears.”

  “Well,” said Reisman, “since you don’t seem to know as much as the guys kicking the rumors around I might as well go back to my little nest. It’s been so nice.”

  “What rumors?”

  “About George Cline.”

  Harry grimaced. “A dead one, that’s for sure, Ben. I been hearing it for five years.”

  At the door, Harry hemmed and hawed for a long time; finally he asked, flushing slightly: “Say, Ben, couldn’t you put a line in your column about the way I handled the Nansen Investigation? I did pretty good. But no publicity, and publicity helps at the office. The boss is a ham.”

  “Be nicer if I mentioned him, too, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh, sure. Sure,” said Harry, grudgingly.

  Reisman walked to his car in the pelting rain, talking to himself. He still felt excited. He was on the heels of something. But what? One thing for certain: he’d have to stop asking questions. No more questions. It would get around. Everybody would shun him.

  He was almost to Lakeside Village before he realized that he’d forgotten to buy the ice cream after all. Cursing quietly, he drove back through the rain toward the blurred lights of the big town. Everything closed in the Village by nine. Like living in No People, Oklahoma.

  2

  IT WAS June now. People were already hitting north to the Great Lakes for their vacations; the baseball team was back off the road for a long home stand; and a fairy-blue sky was arching over the city, making the hulking soot-streaked buildings uglier and more conspicuous than they were under the grey skies of winter. Pale sunshine showed in all the city canyons and the lawns were green in the city parks by the river. A stiff breeze whipped the flag on the tall new Post Office Building and swayed the slender pole.

  Reisman had reached a dead end. Nothing! Lost in thought, he drove through the heavy traffic of the financial district, turned over at the boulevard, cursing the pedestrians who ran from one traffic island to another like silly geese, and crossed to the western end of the city over the Pulaski Street Bridge.

  Paxton Square looked old and tired and dirty in the pale sunshine. The 17th Ward looked even worse. It was a nighttime place, and seemed to shun the day. In the brick tenements and crazily leaning frame boarding houses many worn crooked shades were still down at three in the afternoon. Just beyond Wharf Street, and in violent contrast to it, the Front began—the Front with its big gambling-houses, expensive supper-clubs, theatres, and restaurants; its many taxi-stands, prowl-cars, and doormen in gold braid. But it was a nighttime place too, and, deserted now, it slept in the sun, waiting for darkness and the unfailing rush of chumps.

  Reisman parked in a side street, and went into Henry’s Bar. The boys from Pier 7 Station House hadn’t showed up yet, and the place was deserted except for a couple of young hoodlums standing at the bar, who eyed Reisman with suspicion and contempt, noting his baggy navy-blue serge suit, his white shirt and dark tie, his dark shoes and the old creased and sweated Borsalino he’d won on a bet from Chuck Morse—former sports editor of the Journal—God rest his soul: he would drink gin and drive seventy miles an hour. A light standard met him head-on one night: finis!

  The young hoodlums wore long coats, pegged pants, and drooping keychains. They were about eighteen. They looked out at the world coldly and arrogantly. A tough place, chum! But we’re tougher.

  One of them tossed a remark at Reisman, which he didn’t quite catch. But it sounded like: “…a frigging square!”

  But the hard-faced, sad-looking bartender said something to him sharply and the kid immediately turned his back on Reisman, who sat down and ordered a bourbon and water, but he made up his mind he wouldn’t drink it; he’d just let it stay in front of him till young Downy and the rest showed up. They’d be surprised to see him again so soon, surprised and slightly suspicious perhaps; but he didn’t care. He felt restless and at a loose end, and he had an irrational hunch that if he hung around the Pier 7 district he might find out something. What? He didn’t quite know.

  In a moment, Reisman drank his bourbon and water and ordered another one, groaning to himself. Last night he’d been forced to sleep with the heat-pad on his stomach. Sleep? Roll and toss! The afternoon before he’d read an article on cancer in a national magazine. Take steps now. If you get it early enough, you’ve got a chance. Symptoms? Everybody had such symptoms—one or two of them at least, which meant that a million people would be sca
red white and half a million would run, not walk, to the nearest doctor.

  Fear was a great persuader. You may not know it, brother, but you stink, and are probably a social pariah as a result. Dig down at once, brother—buy me, but only me—reject all substitutes. Visit your doctor every six months, also your dentist or suffer the consequences—lockjaw, tuberculosis and fits! Pay your taxes or rot in jail. What are you doing about old age, my friend? Have you thought about it? Do you want to spend the twilight of life in the workhouse? Now our new insurance policy… What about an Eternal Resting Place for yourself and family? Don’t hesitate! Buy one of our Choice Plots at once while the supply lasts. It’s later than you think.”

  Reisman began to sing: “Enjoy yourself! Enjoy yourself! It’s later than you think…”

  He picked up a tabloid from another table and turned to the sports page. In a few minutes the boys came in whooping, but Downy was not with them. Joe Pavlik stopped and stared at the sight of Reisman.

  “Hello, Ben. I wish I had an idea what you’re chasing.”

  “Just my tail, like a bored fox-terrier,” said Reisman. “Where’s Downy?”

  “He’s over at Arky’s joint.”

  Reisman knocked over his glass, spilling his drink all over the table.

  “You see what I mean?” he said. “Jumpy.”

  “Yeah,” said Joe, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Downy be here soon?”

  “Don’t know,” said Joe. “He and Bebe have taken to betting the beetles—two here, two there; they even had a four-horse parlay going for them yesterday. How stupid can you get? A man’s lucky if he can drag one in.”

  “Parlays are for hoosiers,” said somebody in the background.

  The hard-faced bartender mopped up Reisman’s table without comment. The others sat down and ordered.