Little Men, Big World Page 5

  “We been delivering for a long time. They got no kicks coming. I talked it all over with the Mover on the phone. Some of the boys have got to hold still for a conviction now and then, especially downtown. It gets headlines and the Commissioner’ll begin to think gambling’s being cleaned up.”

  “If Stark was out of there, maybe in a better job, things would be rosy. If the Mover was smart, he’d get him promoted, or run him for office…”

  Arky showed a wilder flash. “If the Mover was what?” he shouted. “Why, you two-bit, dame-chasing, pretty-boy hoodlum—if it wasn’t for the Mover…”

  Leon was quailing. “All right, Arky. All right. I didn’t mean it that way. But couldn’t it be done?”

  “If it could be done, it would be done. You just don’t understand the Commissioner. He don’t want nothing—not a thing. And how can a guy be handled when he’s like that? He’s just a conscientious old coot. One of them reformers you get once in a while. Damn seldom, however.”

  Leon ran his fingers through his thick curly hair and sighed; then he got up, lit a cigarette, and began to pace the floor, pretending to ignore Arky. He’d dealt with some bad boys in his day, but this lint-head was the only one who had ever actually given him goose-pimples. Why didn’t he go back to Arkansas? Wouldn’t listen to reason. Wouldn’t let you try to contact the Mover. Dared you to in fact. Things were coming to a pretty pass when a hayneck like this…! He turned.

  Arky was moving toward the door.

  “Ark,” he called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Suppose I told you it could be done. Suppose I told you I maybe had a guy could do it.”

  “It’s all up to the Mover. Give me the facts.”

  “No use. The guy won’t make a play unless he can talk to the Big Man himself.”

  “Who is this trying to cut in? Not George Cline. Not that again. All I say is, don’t go behind my back.”

  “How can I if I don’t know who the Mover is?”

  There was a brief pause, then Arky spoke in a deadly voice. “But you do, Leon.”

  Leon stared at Arky, shaken. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’ve tipped it half a dozen times in the last year or so.”

  “Tipped it?”

  “Yeah, in your conversation. You know all right. So be careful, Leon. If anything should accidentally happen to him…”

  Leon hurried over to Arky, his face pale. “What are you trying to say? You insinuating that I’d…?”

  “I’m not insinuating. I’m just saying—don’t."

  “You getting crazy, Ark.”

  “Look, Leon, I’ve known about you for a long time. You’ve given plenty guys the double-shuffle. And you might do it again—but it’ll be the last time.”

  Leon, showing a flash of something Arky didn’t quite comprehend, grabbed his arm. “You better wake up,” he shouted. “We’re all on our way out unless something’s done. So something’s got to be done. The Mover’s got to talk to somebody. I’ll arrange it. It’s for his good as well as ours. Why are you so pig-headed? The Mover’s not God, is he? He’s a man, and living soft while we worry.”

  Arky shook Leon off, then grew calm. “If the guy’s got real angles, I’ll talk to him, then we’ll see. But don’t go behind my back or maybe the Mover will throw you out in the street … like he did George Cline when George got too big.” Leon stood lost in thought for a long time, then he sighed and said: “You sure make it tough, Arky. All right. I’ll see if this guy will talk to you, and he’s not George Cline. That’s all nightclub gossip.”

  “Just keep the Mover out of it. Too bad you know who he is. It puts you in a spot.”

  “You’re saying I know. That don’t prove it.”

  Arky merely looked at Leon, then went out. Leon closed the door after him, hurried to his private phone, and dialed a number, but after a long try, nobody answered. Leon slammed down the receiver, jumped up, and began to pace the floor.

  Oh, well. Things had been nice for a long time. You couldn’t have peace forever.

  They drove in silence along the upper reaches of the River Road, passing the tall gateways of huge estates; many lighted windows glimmered faintly in among the trees, and music drifted out to them from some of the big houses.

  “Saturday night,’’ said Zand. “The rich tie ’em on, too, eh, Arky? I’ll bet Pier Street’s roaring by now.”

  Arky made no comment. He was worried and anxious to get to the private phone at the cottage where he could talk in peace. After a moment, he said sharply: “Step on it a little, will you, Zand? Or give me the wheel.”

  Zand glanced at him sideways. “I’m doing fifty-five, Ark. These curves are bad.”

  “Pull over,” said Ark,

  Zand did not like to think about the rest of the drive: the memory of it was a nightmare. The wind screamed in the wind-wings, the tired jalopy swayed from side to side, and the tires shrieked on the curves. Glaring headlights came out of nowhere and disappeared at once. A couple of cars honked at them in fear.

  When Arky finally drew up in the dooryard of a fashionable cottage on the upper river, Zand felt cold and clammy all over.

  “You better go back to picking cotton,” he said.

  Arky jumped out without a word and in a moment disappeared into the shrubbery in front of the dark cottage. Zand heard a door close softly; then he saw a dim light in the windows. He sighed and lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

  A little man in his late fifties with a bald head, a tired smile and shell-rimmed glasses had let Arky in and they were now walking down a dark hallway toward a brightly lit study at the far end. The little man was known to hundreds of phone contacts merely as the Paymaster. The paying off was generally done by special messenger and not over half a dozen men in the city had any idea that the Paymaster was anything more than he was supposed to be: a retired lawyer who’d cashed in his holdings and his retirement insurance and was now spending his declining years in a nice cottage on the upper river. He seemed to have a vague connection with several big law firms downtown, especially Dighton and Black, who handled considerable underworld business, particularly the business of the “king pin,” Leon Sollas and associates. But this was perfectly legitimate.

  His name was Gordon King. He was a bachelor, had one servant, an old colored man, and spent his spare time collecting ultra-modern paintings, which covered the walls of his cottage and never failed to startle Arky when his glance happened to fall on one of them. Nightmares, cockeyed stuff. The guys that painted them must have been on the weed. And although he liked King very much, he never felt exactly right about him since he’d noticed the pictures. How could a normal guy live, day after day, with stuff like that staring him in the face?

  As they entered the study Arky handed King the envelope and explained about the shortage.

  King shrugged wearily. “Well, in that case, we spread the shortage around.”

  “You’ll get complaints.”

  “I’m used to them.”

  “Plenty complaints?”

  King nodded. “Never fails. And besides, the hungriest ones are always thinking up other people who have to be taken care of. ‘Little fellows,’ you know.” King snorted with contempt.

  “I want to use the private line,” said Arky. King nodded, tossed the manila envelope into an open safe, and went out, closing the door after him.

  Arky smiled to himself as he dialed the number. King knew the Mover better than he did himself: they were close friends, in fact: but the Paymaster was cautious, smart, wary; not like dark-faced Leon, who wasn’t satisfied with his chartreuse convertible, his Club Imperial, and his harem, not to mention the awed respect of hoosier hoodlum-lovers, and cafe-society columnists—no, he wanted to be the Big One in fact as well as fancy—he wanted to know everything, pull the strings, tangle them up even if there was no other way for him to feel big. Leon was a wrong one. The Mover knew it all right. The Mover knew everything.
But he always worked slowly and cautiously, like the Paymaster.

  Arky got no answer. The Mover’s private phone rang no place but in his study. All the same, it was pay day, the Mover knew the time and that Arky might call. Arky began to sweat. Could something have happened to him?

  Arky kept trying and finally heaved a long sigh of relief when he heard a premonitory click. Finally the Mover came on. His voice always gave Arky a feeling of pleasure, of warmth; as soon as he heard it he knew that his worries and fears were baseless, and that things were going to be all right. It was deep, sure, genial.

  “Ark? Something wrong?”

  Taking a deep breath, Arky explained at great length. The Mover did not interrupt. It was almost as if the phone were dead. Finally Arky concluded and, taking out his handkerchief, mopped his forehead.

  First, the Mover laughed; then he said: “Arky, I’ve told you a hundred times you take that fool too seriously. Of course he knows who I am. That doesn’t matter. Leon is not dangerous. He might cheat you. In fact, he’s cheated everybody he’s ever been connected with…”

  Arky paled and broke in. “You mean about that shortage? Why, I’ll…”

  “Wait! Wait! I don’t mean the shortage. That has a perfectly legitimate explanation, as you know. I mean Leon is a cheap chiseler and a coward. He is not physically dangerous—not unless he’s cornered and thinks he is in for it. Then he might be. Any man might be. Understand? No, Arky. We’ve had this trouble before. Somebody is always trying to move in. Naturally. This is one of the biggest gambling cities in the country. The take is bound to be big. So the wolves gather on the outskirts. We’ll keep them there.”

  “You bet we will, sir,” said Arky.

  “Any talk about controlling Stark is ridiculous. As for getting him a better job in the city, what job? As mayor he’d be worse. As director of public safety he’d turn the city upside down, and you can’t elect a congressman every day! Quite a fellow—Stark!” The Mover chuckled at the other end of the line. “Arky, you know, you can’t help admiring a man like that. I don’t suppose you ever heard of Don Quixote…”

  “No, sir. I didn’t.”

  “Well, never mind. And as for removing him ... hopeless. They love him at City Hall now. They can point to him with pride. Very funny.” The Mover chuckled again. “Very, very funny. However, Arky, talk to this friend of Leon’s. Play it straight. I want to know all about him. Understand? It might be a Big City bunch trying to move in. It’s been done in other places. And it never works out. The locals end by taking a financial beating, the real money goes out of town, and pretty soon the shooting starts. Now we don’t want any shooting, do we, Arky?”

  “I ain’t so sure,” said Arky.

  “Come, come now,” said the Mover. “Shooting is for idiots, Arky. Haven’t I taught you anything in all this time?”

  “You sure have, sir.”

  “Well, profit by it. And here is a thought: there is one hope of getting the Commissioner out. On the whole he’s had enough of the Bench. But the State Supreme Court’s another matter. Such an appointment would be hard for any man to resist, even me.” The Mover laughed.

  “That’s where you ought to be, sir; and not where you are.” Arky bit his tongue and turned pale.

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line, then the Mover spoke in a different voice. “I’m going to ignore your insolence, Orval. Just this time. But I don’t want to hear any more of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Arky, sweating. “It just slipped out. I mean, you could handle it, sir. Nothing you couldn’t handle.”

  “... And never mind the flattery. You’re not talking to Leon now. Anything else on your mind?”

  “No sir. I’ll have Leon make a date for me to talk to this character. Then I’ll call you.”

  “Check with the Paymaster and he’ll set up the time for your call. I’ll be right by the phone. I’m a little curious about this. Good night, Orval.” The Mover hung up.

  Arky kicked himself under the chair. When the Mover was really annoyed with him he always called him Orval. “Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut?” groaned Arky. “What the hell business is it of mine whether he’s on the Supreme Bench or where he is? He knows what he’s doing.” He lit a cigarette and sat thinking about the past. He’d been the Mover’s chauffeur for five years in the early thirties.

  In a moment, the door opened and King came back. He glanced at Arky, noted his long face, wondered, but made no comment. Arky looked up at him, then something beyond the little man caught Arky’s eye. It was a new picture on the wall: a horror, like something you’d see after going to bed on a full stomach. He winced slightly. King followed his glance.

  “I see you noticed my new picture. Just came yesterday.” He studied Arky ironically.

  Arky stood up and stretched. “Yeah,” he said. “Some picture. What’s it supposed to be?”

  “It’s an abstraction.”

  Arky nodded as if he understood what King was talking about, then he said: “Well, so long. See you next week.”

  “Good night, Arky.”

  5

  ALL EVENING long Arky had not given Anna a thought; he’d forgotten that he’d been worried about her earlier in the day and that Lola had promised a surprise of some kind. Business had driven every other consideration from his mind.

  But as he undressed for bed in his big old ramshackle apartment over the pool hall, suddenly he remembered. But the place was quiet; Anna was sleeping heavily in her bedroom—he had opened her door on his way in and listened for a moment to her heavy breathing—it was just no right time for explanations, arguments, or surprises. Tomorrow was soon enough.

  He put on his pajamas, turned out his light, lit a cigarette, then went to the window and stood smoking and looking out at the city. Pier Street rose steeply from the tug landings at the river’s edge, and the Corners, where the pool hall stood, were about midway up the slope of Riker’s Hill. Arky had a good view, across acres of dismal rooftops and dirty stacks and chimneys, of the wide, dark pavement of the river with its many trembling reflections and all the tall buildings of the" downtown area beyond. The Pier 7 Bridge was a mere garland of yellow lights stretching to the far shore. It was after two a.m. Sirens wailed in the city. Far off to the southeast, Arky could see the glow of a big fire. A faint damp breeze touched his face lightly from time to time and stirred his short hair.

  He’d been in the city for a good many years now but it had never seemed like home to him, only a way-station ... but a way-station to what? No place? He just didn’t seem to belong anywhere, didn’t fit in. Too countrified for the city, and too citified for the country. The Mover had said that to him once, and the Mover was right, as he always was. Maybe nobody seemed to themselves to fit in. The hell with it, anyway!

  The moon began to rise over the downtown section across the river, looking a little pale above the glare of the city lights. Faint music drifted up from a dance hall on the west bank at the end of Pier Street: a stinking hole with six bouncers, but from the distance the music sounded nice.

  Somebody began to yell down below; then there was the sound of running feet, the shock of bodies—and a fight was on. Smoking quietly, Arky listened to the sounds of the struggle indifferently. Young hoodlums full of cheap whisky or maybe weed. There were always fights at night in the 17th. There were curses, blows, screams of rage. Somebody was knocked down and yelled for help. The sound of running feet again: then silence, and finally loud laughter and peering from a distance. “I’ll get you yet, you yellow bastard!” somebody shouted to a chorus of jeers, then there was nothing more except the footsteps of a single person passing under Arky’s window. Whoever it was, was dragging his feet. He’d probably been belted around a little.

  Arky yawned, tossed his cigarette out the window, and got into bed. He liked to sleep alone. This was another one of Anna’s beefs. She said it wasn’t natural: they were as good as married, weren’t they? She was gregarious, he a solitary.
It made trouble between them. But he’d be damned if he’d change the ways of a lifetime just to keep her quiet. You’d think she’d be used to it by now. But no; every once in a while it came up, like that marriage business. Arky lay wondering if Zand had any trouble with Lola that way. Probably not. Lola, in spite of her wisecracks, seemed too tired to argue or resist. She just took things as they came. But there was nothing tired about Anna. She was full of health, vinegar, and hell in general. Arky laughed quietly to himself.

  Strong as a horse, she was always moving the furniture around, never satisfied how it looked. The apartment was a showplace as it was—though you’d never think so from the outside. This gave Arky quite a kick. You’d come up those dark stairs from the pool hall, open the door, and there you’d be in a seven-room apartment that looked like a choice suite in a downtown hotel. All Anna’s doing; of course he’d furnished the money, plenty of it.

  Arky turned over, still thinking of Anna, and tried to go to sleep, but he felt nervous and a little jumpy, and after slapping his pillows around and turning over a couple of times he finally realized that he was going to have trouble tonight, as he often did. Rolling over on his back, he decided to put his sleep system to work. It didn’t consist of counting sheep, but it was something like that. He took the major-league baseball teams one by one and tried to remember the batting orders: it was tough to do, even for a dyed-in-the-wool fan like Arky; he always had the most trouble with the Browns, the White Sox, the Senators, and the Cincinnati Reds—and he saved them till last. The Browns last of all, especially this year when they had practically no holdovers. He had got as far as the White Sox, and things were growing very muddled in his mind, when a faint alien sound in the apartment that he couldn’t account for brought him straight up from his pillow.

  It was some kind of animal sound, a little like a cat mewing but different somehow ... very different. The sound stopped. Arky lay back and waited; the silence went on and on; and finally he began to wonder if, dozing, he hadn’t imagined it. In a few moments he closed his eyes and returned to the batting order of the White Sox: he had just reached the clean-up spot, Gus Zernial, when the mewing started again, followed by faint thin wailing, like some kind of ghost or spook. Arky’s hair stirred slightly and he felt a chill along his spine. Cursing, he sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and groped for his slippers.