Little Men, Big World Read online

  The hell with it! All a mirage. Not a flicker of anything —guilty knowledge or even resentment—when he mentioned Arky’s name. All the captain was worrying about, apparently, was his policy of letting the bookies run. And Captain Dysen knew the big town in and out.

  3

  YOUNG Downy had been given a few days off. He was not yet twenty-five, he had money in his pocket and a new car, so he was in a big hurry to hit the road north for Half Moon Beach, which was full of vacationing shop girls and secretaries at this time of year: dancing on the pier to a good orchestra with the moon overhead and little motorboats coming and going across the dark, still water of the bay … wonderful! No city smoke, no soot, no stench of printer’s ink, no crime!

  All the same, eager as he was, he stopped at the Greet Memorial Hospital on his way out of town to see Reisman.

  He found him sitting up in bed, smoking a cigarette, reading the Sporting News, and listening to the rebroadcast of an important Eastern baseball game. There was a sickly smell of flowers in the room, but no flowers. Reisman looked awful.

  “Hello, Ben,” said Downy, hesitating a little. He disliked and feared hospitals, illness, middle age. He wanted things to be smooth and happy as in the travel and automobile advertisements: one big smiling family in a big smiling world, no problems.

  “Thank Christ you didn’t bring flowers,” said Reisman. “This morning I woke up and the joint was full of flowers. They’d given me something to make me sleep. I didn’t hear all the moving around. I began to yell. The nurse came running. She’s a Swedish kid with nice knockers but no brains. I been kidding her and she thinks I’m crazy. I yell at her: ‘Get these goddamn petunias out of here. I ain’t dead yet.’ She went for the doctor. She always goes for the doctor. He goes for her, too … but that’s another story.”

  Downy was somewhat overwhelmed by this torrent of words coming from one who looked so tired and spent. He began to stammer.

  “I didn’t even think to bring anything, Ben. I’m sorry. But…”

  “Transfer came through, eh?” Reisman demanded, breaking in.

  “Yes. Thanks to you. And I think I’m going to be assigned to sports. I hope so. They gave me a few days off. I’m on my way to Half Moon Beach.”

  “Lucky guy,” said Reisman. “Don’t suppose the place has changed much. I haven’t been there in fifteen years. They used to call it the Riding Academy.”

  Downy blushed and laughed faintly.

  “Don’t look guilty about it,” said Reisman. “It’s natural.” There was a pause. A plump blonde nurse wandered in and wandered out again; then she put her head in the door and looked at young Downy.

  “I didn’t know you had a visitor, Mr. Reisberg,” she said. “Everything all right?”

  “Does it look like everything’s all right, you schnook? I’m sick in bed, ain’t I?”

  “Oh, you!” she cried, giggling, then she looked at Downy again and went out.

  “You see how our lives hang by a thread?” Reisman demanded. “That’s my nurse.”

  Downy cleared his throat uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. Finally he spoke. “I was talking to Red Seaver. He told me they weren’t going to operate. Is that right?”

  “Yeah,” said Reisman. “As a matter of fact I seem to be in better shape, according to all the tests, than I was five years ago. The ulcer, I mean. Otherwise, I’m all run down. Need a rest. Low blood-pressure. Mild anemia. Getting on for fifty, in other words. Also I’m in for observation. Whatever that means. Looks like a cinch I’m here for a couple weeks more.”

  “Fine, just so you’re all right. How about the column?”

  “I write it. I’d write it if I were dying. Elsa, the nurse, will be my inspiration. She don’t know nuttin about nuttin, like a lot of my readers. She’ll be a big help—the right slant.” Downy hemmed and hawed before he spoke again. “That big story—nothing happened on it, is that right?”

  Reisman laughed ironically. “I’ll tell you about that. When I was a police reporter I used to have a kind of—what’ll I say —intuition? I don’t know. Anyway, I made my best beats riding silly hunches. It used to hit me like a pain or something. This time it was a pain. And here I am.”

  “Sorry to hear it. About the story, I mean.” Downy shifted from one foot to the other. He was excessively nervous and ill-at-ease in these surroundings. He wanted to get out into the sunshine and shake off the cloying smell of flowers and disinfectants and illness.

  Reisman observed him ironically for a moment, then he said: “Why don’t you sit down? Stay to dinner? If I get lonesome, I’ll have them put a bed in here for you.” Downy couldn’t suppress a quick look of dismay, then he grinned sheepishly. “I guess I’m kind of fidgety. I’m sorry, Ben. But…”

  “Go on,” said Reisman. “Beat it. Thanks for coming.” Downy smiled with relief. “I’ll give you a ring when I get back, and if there is anything I can do…”

  “Remember me in your prayers.”

  After Downy had gone, Reisman lay for a long time looking at the ceiling. Making a conscious effort, he began to fight off feelings of hopelessness and despair. A big story might have helped. Now what?

  4

  NIGHT seemed to drift into the 17th Ward from Paxton Square to the north. Lights came on along the river and were reflected upside-down in wavering zig-zags. Tugs moved toward their home moorings, whistles moaning for the landing. The garish neon lights of the Front sprang on and a purplish glow showed above the brick tenements. Juke boxes began to play in bars and the denizens of the 17th began to come out from their caves and prowl the dim-lit streets. The first police siren of the evening wailed down by the river. Trouble already?

  Arky listened to the siren absent-mindedly. To him it was a mere pin-prick of sound, having no significance. Slowly smoking a cigar, he sat in the deserted and littered bookie room, wondering about Anna. Something was bothering her. What? As a rule she was calm and placid and amenable, a big blonde woman who smiled, dismissed trouble with a shrug, and took things as they came. A damned good-looking big broad, when you came to that, maybe a little too plump for the average taste. “But not for mine,” said Arky with distinct satisfaction. “She’s got it where it belongs.”

  Yeah, something was bothering her and Arky did not like it. He trusted Anna maybe more than a man should trust a woman: she knew a lot, perhaps too much, and it was quite a load to carry.

  When he first met her, ten years back, Anna used to smoke cigars. It merely seemed funny at the time—a big handsome blonde with a cigar in her mouth—then it began to irritate him; finally it annoyed, and even revolted him, to such an extent that he got into a row with her about it. Why not chew, too? So Anna quit smoking cigars. Except once in a while … when she was nervous or upset.

  Tonight, when he’d gone home to change his clothes, the place had reeked of cigar smoke, and Anna had all the windows open in spite of the damp wind blowing in off the river.

  “That boyfriend of yours,” he’d said, “he really smokes El Cabbago. Better put him on cigarettes.”

  Anna had said nothing. She’d laid out his clothes, as she always did, helped him knot his tie and set his tie-clasp, and held his coat for him.

  “Okay,” she’d said finally. “I was smoking a cigar.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  After a long pause, she seemed about to tell him something, then she spoke hastily. “No. Maybe the meemees. I don’t know.”

  Anna was always talking about them getting married, or at least thinking about it. Arky didn’t get the idea at all. It didn’t figure. If he got married it wouldn’t be to a broad named Anna Hunchuk-—or to a broad who had been around the way she had. Where’s the percentage? But maybe that was what it was, bothering her again. The thing was bound to come up from time to time. Women always had to have something to complain about. Anna had picked marriage as a good subject! But if that was the case why hadn’t she come out with it? She wasn’t tongue-tied—far from it.

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nbsp; Arky sat smoking and listening to the distant wail of the police siren. These were touchy times with things the way they were. It wasn’t that he could ever think of Anna as wishing him ill. But mistakes could be made. Pressure could be brought a hundred ways. Words could slip out and then be regretted. Anna liked to talk, just for the sake of talking. She had a friendly, expansive nature.

  The door opened behind him, but he didn’t turn. He knew it was Zand.

  “It’s getting around eight,” said the little Syrian.

  Arky got up, took off his coat, walked to a desk, unlocked it, then got out a shoulder holster with a heavy automatic in it, and strapped it on. Zand helped him back into his coat.

  “Did Lola talk to Anna today?” asked Arky.

  “I don’t know,” said Zand. “She’s always running up to see Anna when she gets a minute. Gab, gab. Yackety, yack. Dames!”

  “Tell Lola I want to see her.”

  Zand stared. “Look, Ark. We ought to be going.”

  “He can wait,” said Arky, disdainfully.

  “Anna never tells Lola nothing, Ark, if that’s what’s worrying you. Lola minds her own business. Don’t know anything. Don’t want to know anything. Smart.”

  “Well, Anna’s got something in her craw.”

  Zand looked at Arky for a moment, then he went back to get Lola, who seemed a little pale and nervous under the hard lights of the bookie room when she entered from the pool hall. Zand stayed outside. Lola glanced over her shoulder as if she wanted his support, then she came up slowly to Arky who was sitting on the edge of the desk swinging his foot.

  “Did you talk to Anna today, Lola?” Arky asked quietly.

  “Yes, I did. Why?”

  “What’s biting her?”

  Lola hesitated before she spoke. “Something biting her?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Lola hesitated again. She seemed to be struggling with some obscure emotion, then suddenly she burst out into hysterical giggles. Arky’s lips tightened.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Kill me and I won’t tell you, Arky. But you got a surprise coming.” Lola turned away to laugh, and finally stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth.

  Arky watched her for a moment, then he said: “Something funny, eh? Real funny. Nothing serious. Is that right, Lola?”

  “That’s right. I’ll give you my oath, my affidavit, cross my heart. Nothing serious.”

  “Okay,” said Arky, getting down from the desk.

  He wasn’t worried any longer. It was probably just some silly woman-business of one kind or another. No, he wasn’t worried, but he was curious. It must be something pretty funny to break up a tired broad like Lola. He’d go into it with Anna first thing when he got back.

  Lola went out, still trying to suppress her giggles. When she opened the door Zand, who was just beyond, stared at her with marked surprise and curiosity. What was so funny? But Arky did not enlighten him. He’d have to pump Lola later that night.

  They went out of the back door, locking it after them, and got into a nondescript, well-aged Ford. Zand drove down the alley to Wharf Street, and turned on Pier Avenue toward the Front, the lights of which were blazing against the night. It was early yet, except for the theatre crowds, and the traffic was not the irritating snarl it would become later.

  “There’s a show I want to see,” said Zand.

  Arky said nothing.

  “Don’t you like shows, Arky?” Zand persisted.

  “Not much.”

  “What do you do for excitement? I never see you do nothing.”

  “I got a private life.”

  Zand leaned over the steering-wheel to laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, but did not go into the matter further. Sometimes Arky was inclined to be touchy.

  Zand turned off the Front near Erie Street and drove up a wide, well-lighted alley. Above them flared the huge and famous gold neon sign which lighted pilgrims the way to the Club Imperial, the biggest, gaudiest, and most expensive clip-joint on the Front. It was a quarter past eight and the rear parking-lot was empty. Zand drove into a stall marked Private—Club Imperial, which was only a few feet from a huge padded door.

  Arky got out. Zand stayed in the car. A colored parking-boy in gold jumpers with an embroidered crest on each pocket came in from the alley, stared at the car for a moment, then disappeared.

  Leon’s chartreuse-colored Cadillac convertible was parked in stall 1, which was marked Owner—Stay Out—Yes, You!

  Arky smiled slightly. “That Leon fellow-—he sure likes to be conspicuous. Even you don’t wear them sunrise suits when you go out.”

  Zand was wearing a dark-blue turtle-necked sweater and an old pair of blue slacks.

  “Yeah-—but I feel naked,” said Zand.

  Arky chuckled, absorbed in the convertible. “Goose-turd green, practically,” he mused. “At least that’s what they’d call it down home. I’d sure like to drive up to the farm in that.”

  Zand leaned forward to laugh. “It’d be great for hauling manure. Boy, I’d love to see you on a farm once, Arky, in your pin-stripe grey suit.”

  “Ought to see me pick cotton. I could beat any brother I got—and the old man, too!” He grunted and seemed to come to himself. “Got plenty gas?”

  “Yeah,” said Zand. “Just filled her.”

  Arky nodded and disappeared through the padded door. Zand hesitated, then got out of the car and went over to examine Leon’s convertible. Had everything in the world on it and he’d heard it’d set the guy back eight G’s. That wasn’t exactly eating-money!

  Arky passed back through a long dark corridor filled with cooking odors from the big club kitchens just beyond, went through the employees’ door, and came out into another corridor, a very different one, with a thick sumptuous carpet on the floor, a crystal chandelier, glittering mirrors, and huge divans. It was deserted. A piano tinkled in the bar at the end of the corridor and Arky could hear a girl singing blues in a low, husky voice. Sounded nice. He had an impulse to go take a look at her: a sexy voice—but all put on more than likely, the old come-on, like everything else on the Front. It sounded nice, it wasn’t, and brother, it cost you—how it cost you!

  He turned away from the bar, opened the door of Leon’s office and went in. A tall, shapely cutie with cropped black hair was sitting on the desk in the ante-room reading a magazine. She glanced up at Arky with no expression in her eyes and jerked her thumb toward the inner office.

  “My little ball of fire,” said Arky.

  “You again?” she said in a flat toneless voice, resuming her reading.

  “What is it, babe—low blood-pressure?”

  “Hiccups,” said the girl.

  “All the time?”

  “No. Just when I see you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “My mother was raised on a farm. She told me all about you farmers.”

  “Don’t the suit help at all?”

  “It hinders.”

  Every time he came, it was the same thing. A very irritating girl. One of Leon’s many, masquerading as office help. Sure must cost him. She thought that Arky had money in the club and that his name was Johnson—not that she seemed to give a damn, one way or another. Most indifferent girl he’d ever seen in his life. With Leon she was the same, or seemed so. Maybe he kept her around for laughs, or maybe periods of rest. It was a scandal the way the dames threw themselves at Leon: old ones, young ones, any kind you could name. You’d think at least some of them would be leery of Leon, considering all the bad publicity he got, but it didn’t seem to work that way.

  Arky pushed open the door of the inner office and went in. Leon was pacing the floor behind his big carved desk. He looked at his watch, but made no comment. He was of medium height, but very husky, with broad, bulky-looking shoulders and a thick, powerful neck. He had curly black hair slightly streaked with grey and cut rather short, and an almost startlingly handsome face with regular features and large dark hea
vy-lidded eyes. His manner was smooth and pleasant as a rule, but tonight he seemed nervous. Arky noted the double-breasted pale-blue lounge coat with the silver buttons, the doeskin slacks, and the cream-colored suede shoes. A killer, Leon. Like Zand, only not so funny.

  “Sam make that suit for you, Arky?” asked Leon abruptly.

  “Yeah,” said Arky, sitting down opposite the desk. “Like it?”

  “It’s a little Riverview for me. But he’s a good tailor. Didn’t I tell you?”

  Arky grunted. Leon paced back and forth for a moment or so with his hands behind his back. Then he went to his desk, took out a long, thick, sealed manila envelope and tossed it to Arky, who caught it, slipped it into his pocket, and made a quick acknowledging gesture with his thumb and forefinger.

  “It’s a little short,” said Leon.

  “It varies,” said Arky mildly.

  “It’s ten thousand short.”

  “That’s a hell of a variation, my boy,” said Arky, the amiable expression leaving his face for a moment and his blue eyes showing a sudden cold flash.

  “I know, I know,” said Leon, hurriedly. “But there is over forty G’s there. Forty G’s a week is not exactly what you would call marbles. Forty times fifty-two will give you over two million. In one year, it’s not bad.”

  “And it ain’t good. Come on, come on, Leon. This money has to go to a lot of places. Do I have to tell you the facts of life over and over?”

  “Don’t get tough with me, Arky.”

  “Aw, for Christ’s sake, stop trying to be the boss. I work for somebody and you work for me. Now shut up that kind of talk.”

  Arky lost his tenseness after a moment, relaxed, and lit a cigarette. Leon sat down at his desk and took his handsome head in his hands.

  “We’re slipping, Arky,” he said. “And you know it as well as I do.”

  “Don’t start that again.”

  “Twenty convictions last month. You read the papers. How long do you think the boys are going to keep on paying when we can’t deliver?”