Little Men, Big World Read online

  Finally Reisman said: “I’ve got to see Downy and get back. Where will I find him, Joe?”

  “Down at the Corners. Remember the old pool hall? That’s it. Bookie joint in back. Cigar store in front. Pool tables in between. And get a load of the character in there.”

  “What character?”

  “The Syrian that manages the joint. They call him Zand. He’s a killer.” Joe and the other boys laughed.

  Reisman eyed them steadily. “How do you mean?”

  “Sharpest dresser in town. Poiple shoits! He’ll moidah ya —ya bum!”

  Reisman felt cold, then hot, but tried to keep his face controlled. “I thought you said it was Arthur’s joint, or something like that.”

  “Arky,” said Joe wearily. “He owns it. Nice fellow. Country boy, but pretty much wised up now and citified. Must have an ‘in’ some place. Even the coppers from the station house bet with him. A solid guy!”

  “But a small-timer, eh?”

  “Oh, sure. Definitely. Small book—nothing. Why?” asked Joe suddenly.

  “No reason,” said Reisman as if slightly irritated with Joe and his suspicious nature. “Except—Downy. He’s a kind of protégé of mine and I don’t want to see him in any trouble. He shouldn’t be hitting the books on his salary.”

  “He’s free, white, and twenty-one. But the books won’t get him. If anything gets him, it’ll be some of these young bums around here—these teen-age chicks. They whistle at him. Literally. I’m not kidding. If he could only sing he’d be the Vic Damone of Pier 7.”

  “Girls whistling at boys, my, my!” said Reisman as he went out.

  “Whistling’s nothing in this neck of the woods,” said somebody in the background. “I could maybe write a book, with pictures yet!”

  There was nobody in the cigar store, only a tired-looking blonde woman at the counter, but back beyond through an arch Reisman could see a crowded poolroom with all the tables going and a flock of young hoodlums sitting in high chairs looking on. Long horizontal strands of tobacco smoke moved lazily under the hooded lights.

  The blonde woman looked him over apathetically. “You’re a new one, eh?” she said.

  “This used to be my beat in the old days, dear,” said Reisman, stepping up to buy a cigar. “But that was long before your time.”

  “Get right, chum. Get right,” said the woman. “I don’t go for that magoo.”

  “You look young to me.”

  “With all that fuzz running loose in the streets? Mister, you need glasses.”

  Reisman took out his shell-rimmed reading glasses and put them on. “You look even younger with these.”

  “All right. ‘E’ for effort. Here’s an extra cigar on the house. It’s our buggy-whip special; one puff you see stars.”

  “Two puffs?”

  “You drop dead.”

  Reisman burst out laughing and leaned on the counter. The world was a pretty good place after all when a poor knocked-out broad like this could give you a belly. What the hell kind of life could she possibly have? Whatever it was it wasn’t funny.

  Someone brushed Reisman lightly. He turned and looked at the top of somebody’s head. As Reisman himself was far from tall, this was somewhat startling. A little dark-faced, hawk-featured man was staring up at him with sharp black eyes. His jet-black hair was carefully oiled and curled in three symmetrical waves; heavy dark eyebrows went straight across his face. He had on a purple silk shirt, and a white knit tie, and white suspenders, very wide and decorated with gold facing, held up his chartreuse slacks. On his feet were purple and white sport shoes. He looked like an Easter egg.

  “You must be Zand,” said Reisman.

  “Yeah. Heard of me?”

  “The boys at the station were telling me what a wonderful dresser you were.”

  Zand grinned. “They kid a lot, but they’re envious, see? Look at the shoes. Ever see purple and white shoes before? Course not. I have ’em made. Everything tailored.”

  “Except his kisser,” said the blonde woman.

  Zand rocked with laughter. “Lola—she kills me. That’s my girlfriend, mister. Was she giving you some of that gab?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ain’t she a killer? Thousand laughs an hour. That’s Lola.”

  “What can you do in a joint like this and with people like this, but laugh! Especially a girl like me brought up in one of the best families of the South. South Chicago.” Zand held on to the counter to laugh, then he turned to Reisman. “You new at the station, buster?”

  “Yeah,” said Reisman, “and I’m looking for a couple of friends of mine.”

  “They’re in the back, waiting for the fifth to come through from Washington Park. You a betting man?”

  “Now and then.”

  “We pay track odds. Only joint in this area. And no arguments, and no credits—unless the boss okays it. All cash.”

  “I thought you were the boss.”

  “Well, I am. I manage it, anyway. But I don’t own it—only a piece.”

  “He works here,” said Lola, showing irritation. “And so do I. And the hours are long, and my feet hurt.”

  They were interrupted by a loud argument in the pool hall. Two hulking young hoodlums were quarreling violently about some point in the game. They both had pool cues in their hands and looked as if they might use them. Reisman felt a sudden stab of apprehension. This was a rough neighborhood and a rough joint. A guy could get killed around here.

  “Excuse me, mister,” said Zand.

  Reisman moved cautiously to the archway to see what would happen. Would the big, rough-looking hoodlums take this little man apart? Would there be a free-for-all with pool balls flying through the air and a call for the riot squad? But no. As soon as the hoodlums saw Zand coming they stopped arguing at once and when he went up to them they began backing away, one of them looking a little greenish.

  “Didn’t I warn you, Turkey?” said Zand mildly.

  “Yeah,” whined Turkey. “But he started it.”

  “Get out and don’t come back,” said Zand. “If you do, I’ll open you up to see what you’re made of.”

  “Aw, God, Zand…” begged Turkey, his tough face wrinkled up as if he were going to cry. “I don’t want no trouble with you. I won’t do it no more. Honest to God … tell him, fellows. I won’t do it no more.”

  There were subdued and ambiguous murmurs, all eyes on Zand.

  “All right,” said the little Syrian, finally. “But next time I don’t talk, see? I just start working on you.”

  The game was resumed, but there was a nervous quietude over the place now. Zand walked back to Reisman, smiling slightly.

  “They don’t mean no harm, them boys,” he said. “But you got to be rough with ’em. It’s all they understand.” He seemed completely unruffled. Must weigh a quick one hundred and ten pounds, thought Reisman: hardly bigger than the average jockey. “You want to go back and see your friends now?” asked the little man.

  “Yeah,” said Reisman.

  He followed Zand across the silent pool hall and out through a little door into a barnlike, ramshackle room with green tin shades over the lights and a line of blackboards along one wall. The place was packed with men sitting on folding-chairs. The air was blue and foggy with tobacco smoke. A loudspeaker was blaring the fifth at Washington Park.

  Reisman saw Downy standing back against the wall his face flushed, snapping his fingers excitedly, trying to urge his horse home. Finally the race was over. Downy sagged dejectedly. Reisman slipped up to him unnoticed.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you you shouldn’t?” he asked severely.

  Downy started, stared, then grinned sheepishly. “Well, I’ve got to do something down in this God-awful place,” he said. “Any chance on that transfer, Ben?”

  “Yeah, I think so. But meanwhile go easy on this stuff. It’s stupid, keeping a bookie on your salary.”

  “I’m through for the day.”

  “Let’s
sit down then.”

  Downy found a couple of chairs and they sat in a comer away from the others where they could talk.

  “Ben,” said Downy, “the fellows keep asking me—are you looking for something down here?”

  “You mean you think it’s any of their business? What did you learn in the College of Journalism at State, anyway?”

  “I don’t mean that. The hell with them. But they make me curious, that’s all.”

  “Didn’t I mention the rumors?”

  “Oh, them. New ones every day. Cline’s moving in. He’s not moving in. Leon’s moving out. Leon’s not moving out. You know. I mean, are you really on a story? It must be an awful big one. Your time’s kind of expensive now.”

  “Flatterer!”

  “If you are, I’ll be glad to help.”

  Reisman absent-mindedly puffed on his cigar for a few moments, then, holding it away from him, he studied it curiously. “I haven’t dropped dead yet, but I’m close.” Downy gave a start. “What’s that?”

  Reisman threw the cigar away in disgust. “Nothing. Nothing.”

  He sat watching a broad-shouldered lout in a red shirt marking up odds on a blackboard. There was a buzz of conversation over the place, but on the whole it was pretty quiet, with no more hubbub or commotion than its equivalent downtown, a brokerage exchange.

  “Pretty good business here.”

  “Small betters,” said Downy. “Mostly two dollars, except when they get to winning—then they chunk it in a bit.”

  “The little Syrian owns the place?” asked Reisman innocently.

  “No. Fellow called Arky.”

  “Anybody we know?”

  Downy glanced at Reisman, tried to read his blank face. “A fellow nobody knows, I guess. Minds his own business. Nice fellow, I think. All the coppers seem to like him.”

  “They like the kick-in, no doubt. This place is only one jump from the station.”

  “Has to be a kick-in, of course. But you know those big coppers as well as I do. A kick-in doesn’t make them like you. They seem to like Arky.”

  “Tough kind of guy?”

  Downy glanced at Reisman again. What was it with the Master today? “Arky? Oh, no. Never raises his voice. Says hello to everybody. He’s in and out. Never lights. Lives next door, I think. Or upstairs. Some place around. Zand does all the bossing. If there’s any trouble, he handles it. Not that there is very much. Row in here though, the other day. Arky never said a word. Just sat there. Zand came in and stopped it.”

  “Mild kind of fellow, eh?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “In this neighborhood? Running a bookie joint full of thieves and hoodlums? A likely story, Downy; a likely story.”

  “Yeah,’’ said Downy thoughtfully. “I never looked at it that way before.”

  “Well, look at it that way. And another thing. No transfer. You stay here in the 17th.”

  Downy’s face clouded, then brightened. He even slapped Reisman lightly on the back. “Okay, Ben. Okay.”

  “And let this slip out,” said Reisman, “especially to Joe Pavlik. I’m running down a big story about narcotics.”

  Downy chuckled to himself. Narcotics were always dynamite. Joe’s ears would whirl. Downy felt a rising excitement. Something big was up. Something very big. And he was in on it. Suddenly he gave a slight start as a door opened in the back.

  “There’s Arky,” he said.

  Reisman turned his head slowly. At first he couldn’t pick out the man from the others near the door. Had he been expecting a country boy from the Ozarks in overalls and a checked shirt? Arky was over six feet tall and slender but strong-looking. Maybe about forty. He was wearing a loose but well-cut double-breasted suit of some fine grey material; a white linen shirt with long collar points and a loud but fashionable tie. He looked almost like the clothing ads you saw in the papers: he had the right build—lean, narrow-hipped, wide in the shoulders, and the suit accentuated it. The face did not seem to go with the suit or the build, however. In spite of the clean shave and the short, fashionable haircut, it was a country face, lean, a little bleak, homely. His hair was dark brown and getting a trifle thin at the temples, his eyes were small, blue, and of a triangular shape, and surrounded by squint-wrinkles like the eyes of a cowboy or an explorer. His mouth was wide, thin, and firm.

  He smiled and nodded as various men spoke to him, then he glanced over at Downy, moved toward him.

  Reisman was struck by a sudden thought. “Don’t name me,” he said to Downy quickly.

  Downy merely glanced at Reisman as a sign he’d heard, then he said: “Hello, Arky.”

  Arky paused and smiled, including Reisman with a quick pleasant look. “Hello, son. How the horses treating you?” He spoke with a faint Arkansas accent blurred by big city overtones : he’d apparently been away from home for a long time.

  “Not so good.”

  “They never do,” said Arky. “But guys never learn. You can beat a horse-race but you can’t beat horses.”

  “Knocking down your own game?” asked Reisman.

  “It’s a game you can’t knock down, mister. It’s like women and liquor.” He turned to Downy. “He’s a friend of yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Reporter?” asked Arky, smiling.

  “Yeah.”

  “They sure flock to the 17th. I’m getting right smart trade from ’em at the present time. Well, see you around,” Arky made an easy gesture. Reisman noticed the strong-looking, well-cared-for hands; the French cuffs, the garnet-and-gold cuff links; then Arky smiled and passed on.

  He paused at the far door to say a few words to a knot of men clustered there, then he went on into the pool hall.

  “You know something?” said Reisman.

  Downy had been waiting for Reisman’s opinion. “No. What?” he demanded eagerly.

  “There’s a lot of sartorial consciousness for a joint like this. First, Zand. Now that Bob Burns character.”

  “Arky? Dresses swell, doesn’t he? But Zand—he’s a big yuk.”

  “Sartorial consciousness just the same.”

  “That mean something?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t know what.” Reisman turned to go. “Stick on the job for a little while, Downy. None of this may come to anything. Week or so won’t hurt.”

  “Okay. Any leads?”

  “I wish I had one.”

  Reisman wandered out, baffled. Arky had seemed like a nice friendly fellow all right. No doubt about it. And yet…

  “Yet me no yets,” said Reisman to himself.

  Was he following an imaginary lead through boredom? Possible. One time he’d read a story, a true story, about a scientist who had spent ten years doing research on nonexistent rays. Was he himself doing research on a non-existent Ark? Was it Park? Dark? Clark? Mark? Why hadn’t he thought about that before? Could Harry Radabaugh, nervous, have misunderstood him? Worse still, and more likely, could he himself have misunderstood the Bat? He was sure the old fighter had said “De Ark,” but he might have said “Dark.”

  He might have said “Constantinople,” for that matter. What a mush-mouth!

  Nothing made any kind of sense. Imagine George Cline afraid of a 17th Ward, small-time bookie. Imagine Riggio afraid of him, or even Harry Radabaugh.

  “Ben J.,” said Reisman to himself, “I think you were born with a loose screw and it is getting looser.”

  Nevertheless, he wandered down to the huge, battered old station house. It was as usual: sagging stairs, and stinking of mortality and cheap disinfectant. He was lucky enough to find Precinct Captain Carl Dysen in his office. The Captain, about fifty, was six foot three and weighed two hundred and sixty pounds. His iron-grey hair was cut short and stood up steeply from his round skull. His heavy face sagged like a bloodhound’s, dragging the lower lids of his eyes down. He was a very tough boy and for ten years had been known as the “tyrant of the 17th.”

  “Hello, Ben,” he said. “What is this, second childhoo
d? I heard you’d been hanging around.”

  “Looking for my lost youth.”

  “You guys never know when you’re well off. You’re a big man now. It don’t look good you hanging around this jungle.”

  “I’m living in Lakeside Village. Boats and everything. Closes tight at nine. The other day somebody stole a lawn-mower. Brother, what an uproar!”

  The captain laughed in his deep bass voice, and the paper knife on his desk vibrated slightly.

  “Yeah. I know. I live in Locust Grove.”

  “I been down to Arky’s watching the hoosiers toss their dollar bills around.”

  The captain’s face darkened. “I manage my ward my way, Reisman.”

  “Who’s complaining?”

  “You been running to Commissioner Stark. So I hear. Don’t run to him about my ward. Understand?”

  “Third degree? The hose? Bright lights? Go to hell, will you, Dysen?”

  The captain showed anger, then composed himself and chuckled. “All right. Run to him. We close ’em up. They open the next day. They’ve got a fix going and you know it.”

  “Don’t you ever read the papers? They’ve been sending the boys up.”

  “In the downtown area. Here and there,” said the captain, wearily. “Look, sharpshooter, the commissioner’s got one set of principles; I got another. My business is crime: armed robbery, rape, thievery, arson, murder. My job is to see that people are safe. Is gambling a crime? Are bookies criminals?”

  “According to the law, they…”

  “Stop being funny. Look. I got the biggest and the toughest ward in town. I also got the Front—most of it. So what do I do? Let the white-tie tramps do what they please on the Front and close up on the poor guys around here with two bucks?”

  “Captain, I didn’t know you were a social philosopher. But you’re having an argument all by yourself. I didn’t come down here to make you any trouble. You got my word for it.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  Reisman sighed and stood up. “Okay, I’ll stay away. I think you got something there.”

  He went out. An old turnkey who hadn’t seen Reisman for twenty years yelled at him, but Reisman, self-absorbed and not hearing, hurried on. He felt depressed, useless, and the late-afternoon pain was beginning to nag at his stomach.