Little Men, Big World Read online

  “I don’t know,” said Arky. “Some of the things I’ve seen in this world, I’m not so sure there ain’t one, or something like it.”

  “You believe in God then, too, eh, Arky?”

  “Sure,” said Arky. “Don’t everybody?”

  “Well, slow down then, will you?” cried Zand. “Let’s don’t meet Him tonight.”

  When Arky got up to his apartment, Anna had just finished feeding the baby and, wearing a Chinese kimono, was sitting at the dining-room table drinking a bottle of beer.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do with her,” she said before he could speak.

  Arky grimaced as he sat down at the table. “The animal again? What now?”

  “If she don’t hear from Chuck pretty soon ... well, we’re going to find her down there on that pavement some morning.”

  “Well, I’m not her father. She’s just got to work it out. Other people have troubles, too, don’t they?”

  “You got any?” asked Anna.

  “No. At the moment, I haven’t. But I’ve had plenty in my time.”

  “Not since I’ve known you.”

  “That’s a fact. I been eating pretty high on the hog for a long time.”

  Anna made a face. “Such talk! Didn’t you ever go to school?”

  “What’s the matter with my talk? That’s just an expression.. Means living good.”

  “Well, say so. Sometimes you turn my stomach with them hick remarks. Want some beer?”

  “No,” said Arky sulkily. “Hick remarks! At least they’re in English.”

  Anna glanced at Arky, then burst out laughing. “I’m only kidding—like you kid me.” She leaned over and kissed him. “Let me get you a bottle of beer. I had Zand send up a couple of cases this afternoon. It’s the only thing I can get Milli interested in. She won’t eat. So I remembered beer’s a food. At least she won’t starve herself to death.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s fat as a pig now.”

  “She’s lost ten pounds already.”

  “She can stand it. She’s got a keister like the rear end of a Pier Avenue Bus.”

  “Just because you’ve got no rear at all…”

  “I’m sitting down, ain’t I?”

  Laughing, Anna went to the kitchen and got him a bottle of beer. When she came back, he looked up at her quickly, remembering something.

  “How’s the kid? How’s Orv?” he asked.

  Anna suppressed a smile. She poured his beer for him, then kissed him again.

  “Orv’s fine,” she said. “Sleeping like a little lamb.”

  “Good beer,” said Arky, smacking his lips. “Nice and cold. Hits the spot.”

  7

  REISMAN heard the news just as he was leaving the hospital. He was at the desk, arguing about his bill and trying to get some of the more ambiguous items explained to him, when Sarah hurried over, followed by his three daughters, and told him excitedly that he was being paged, and that the Journal was trying to get in touch with him.

  “All right, so I’m late with my column,” said Reisman impatiently; then he turned to the girl at the desk. “What happens when you operate on a guy and then he don’t pay his bill? Do you put it back?”

  “Put what back?” asked the girl in bewilderment, wondering if Mr. Reisman was in the right kind of hospital.

  “What you took out?”

  “Ben, for God’s sake,” said Sarah, grabbing his arm. “Pay the girl, pay the girl; and stop this ... this…”

  “Daddy,” shrieked Ruth, who was fourteen, “it’s the Journal! They’re paging you!”

  They all seemed very much impressed with the fact that Reisman was being paged by the employer he’d worked for for over twenty years. Females were funny, from nine-year-old Selma, to Mama herself! Why all the excitement?

  They finally managed to drag Reisman to a phone in the foyer and Sarah took over paying the bill, apologizing to the girl for her husband’s attitude.

  “You see, miss,” she said, “he writes that ‘Day In, Day Out’ column for the Journal, and he thinks everybody knows it and he thinks he has to be funny all the time or people will think somebody else writes his stuff. I have plenty of trouble with him at home.”

  “I can just imagine,” said the girl, looking at Sarah with deep sympathy, infuriating her; in a moment Sarah began to argue about some of the items.

  It was Downy on the phone, and he was so eager to impart information that he could hardly talk.

  “Did you hear it over the radio, Ben? I just thought maybe you might be too busy to listen or something so I—”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” said Ben. “For two hours I’ve been trying to get out of this joint, with no luck. I’m going to ask the governor for a pardon.”

  “Then you didn’t hear...?”

  “What? What? What?" screamed Reisman.

  “Leon Sollas has disappeared. They found his car parked at the Transco Airport, but he didn’t take a plane from there.” Reisman was calm now, his sad, dark eyes showing deep interest. “How do they know that? Couldn’t he leave under an assumed name?”

  “No one answering his description—”

  “Oh, bunk! You can’t trust most people to pick their own mothers out at a show-up. Don’t give me that ‘answering his description’ stuff…”

  “Anyway, it’s red-hot. Just thought you’d like to know. Mush Head’s got all the bird dogs on it. Headline stuff. You know. The ten-thousand-dollar green convertible. I understand the Examiner’s getting ready to run Leon’s life story.”

  “That I want to see. Even the police don’t know where he came from or why.”

  “Just thought you’d like to know, Ben…”

  Reisman changed his tone, realizing that he was not being very gracious to Downy, who was only trying to do him a favor. “Thanks. Thanks, kid. Mighty nice of you.”

  “How you feeling, Ben?”

  “The Swede nurse was beginning to look good to me so I realized it was time to go home to Sarah. Blood pressure’s up twenty points. Guess I’ll see another Christmas. Say—any more on the Commissioner and that Supreme Bench deal?”

  “He won’t comment, Ben,” said Downy. “You know him. I was talking to Ed Lord. The Commissioner had Ed ejected from his office for asking questions out of turn. He’s a character.” Reisman chuckled to himself. Good old Commissioner Stark. Used to handling the average politicos, who would do a handstand on Blackhawk Boulevard at high noon to get their names in the papers, the boys from Newspaper Row hadn’t the faintest idea how to manage the Commissioner. Nothing seemed to work with him!

  “How are you coming with the sports page?” asked Reisman. Downy laughed uncomfortably. “Last night I covered a girls’ softball game. You know, the Newspaper League.”

  “Lucky fellow. Those kids are a lot cuter than the oafs at the ball park. Be patient, son. We’ve all been through stuff like that. You’re not going to be a Bill Corum overnight. Thanks again. ’Bye.”

  Reisman wandered back toward the desk, lost in thought. Here was the big story again; and like a schnook he’d backed away from it. “What’s the matter with me?” Reisman demanded of himself. “One bad lead and I blow it. I used to run down fifty bad ones. I must’ve been sick.” He worried about himself for a few seconds, then he began to think of ways and means. Column or no column, he wanted a piece of this one, even if it did turn out ultimately to be a mistake, a bust, or a hoax. Worth a try. If Leon was finally found with his toes turned up—what a story! Might set off a chain of explosions that would blow the city sky high.

  Was there any use to say anything to Mush Head? He’d merely look pained and begin to talk about all the money they were paying Reisman, and why didn’t he relax, write his column, a big feature now, and leave the slugging to the younger men. Did he think the Journal was short of talent? Did he think that he was the only grade-A sleuth on the Row? Et cetera. Still, it would be better to have his help.

  Reisman winced at the thought of
all the objections.

  Sarah woke him from his preoccupation.

  “Good thing we had that disability insurance,” she said out of the blue. “Or we wouldn’t be taking any vacations this year.”

  “I just had mine,” said Reisman. “You and the kids can pack for the Lakes any time. I got to stay here.”

  Sarah did not argue. The Journal had just called Ben. Probably something important. Business was business.

  It was about six o’clock when Reisman wandered into the bar of the Regent Hotel and ran his eyes indifferently over the crowd. The Regent was a big, antiquated place on the northern edge of the Front, and for fifty years its bar had been a hangout for newspapermen, touring actors, horsemen, gamblers of all descriptions, and gentlemanly upper-crust hoodlums. The atmosphere was quiet and friendly. A loudmouth was quickly eased out unless he happened to be one of the regulars; then he was moved into a private room. The walls, paneled in the original dark wood, were covered with autographed pictures of ball players and other sporting figures, even golfers. The place had a mellow, well-aged, permanent air (it had even survived Prohibition) and smelled of good draught beer.

  Reisman ordered black coffee and a corned-beef sandwich on Russian rye. The Regent bar had the best plain male food in town.

  He nodded here and there to a few men whose faces were familiar to him; then, in a moment, he spotted Harry Radabaugh, who was talking to a couple of plain citizens at the end of the bar. As he ate his sandwich, Reisman kept glancing about him, but masking his interest by a bored look. Not a single hoodlum in sight. Not even a fringe-character. At least none that Reisman had ever seen before. Had the guys gone underground till the Leon business was cleared up?

  He ate leisurely, waiting for Harry to complete his conversation. Finally Harry nodded to the others, paid his score and started out, moving past Reisman without seeing him. “Harry!” called Ben.

  Radabaugh smiled, but it was more than a little forced. “Hi, Ben. Thought you were still in the hospital.”

  “I’m out on parole. Drink?”

  “Up to here. Got a date. See you.”

  “Wait a minute, Harry,” said Reisman. “I been behind walls. Thought you might bring me up to date.”

  “I don’t know a thing, Ben. Any more than you or anybody else does. All I know is, the boys were all mighty happy for a day or so and now they’re all sad.”

  Reisman glanced about him ironically. “How can you tell? Looks to me like they all followed Leon.”

  “It figures. It’s a nice time to stay home.”

  “What were they so happy about?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But I’d be happy if I was one of them.”

  “As if you’re not,” thought Reisman, but asked: “Why?”

  “With Commissioner Stark moving up to the State Capitol! Come now, Ben.”

  “Is he?”

  “You think he can resist it? A local judge? He’s human.” Something stabbed at Reisman and it wasn’t the ulcer. “Nice for the boys, eh?”

  “It looked like it. No, I don’t know,” said Harry. “All supposition on my part, of course. I don’t get the Leon business at all.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “See you, Ben. Can’t keep this doll waiting. It’s a first. Later she can wait.” Harry laughed and went out.

  “Hm,” said Reisman, as he finished his sandwich. A break for the boys, all right. But an accidental one. Had to be. Nobody was big enough to swing a thing like that. But why did this whatever-it-was keep stabbing at him? “No, no, Ben,” he admonished himself, “it’s a hangover from all that junk that was shot into you at the hospital.”

  All the same…

  Commissioner Stark’s secretary was not pleased to see Reisman. He was a huge harness-bull named Balch and his white-blond hair was cut in a butch.

  “Not tonight, Reisman,” he said. “You should have called. No chance tonight.”

  “I was just passing by. What’s so special about tonight?”

  “Don’t you read your own paper?”

  “Only my column.”

  “Well, Judge Greet’s giving a reception—kind of a party, a get-together, for Commissioner Stark. I guess the Judge figures the Commissioner won’t be with us much longer.”

  “How do you feel about that, Balch?”

  “He ought to be governor, I think,” said the harness-bull. “Or even president.”

  “Oh, he’s a bigger man that that,” said Reisman.

  Balch glared at him. “All right. Make jokes. Here I am trying to talk serious. You asked me a question, didn’t you? The hell with you, Reisman. Go home.”

  “Now, now,” said Reisman. “Don’t I mention your name every chance I get?”

  “Twice!” cried Balch.

  “That’s every chance I got. But Balch ... won’t things be easier here for all of you? The Commissioner ... he’s quite a driver, if you know what I mean.”

  Balch flushed angrily. “I know perfectly what you mean. At first we didn’t like it. Thought he was too rough and tough. Now we like it. It’s going to seem mighty funny without him ... if he goes, that is. And why wouldn’t he? A Supreme Court Justice is a pretty big man.”

  “Yeah, good salary, and no work.”

  “Go home, Reisman,” said Balch, really outraged and trying not to show it.

  Reisman lit a cigarette and considered. If he had any sense he would go home. The old City Building was like an oven and smelled of mustiness, dust and disinfectant. But he did not have any sense, he decided.

  “Couldn’t you just buzz him? Is he busy? Got somebody in there with him? He sent me flowers when I was in the hospital. I’d like to thank him.”

  “I know he did, and then you talk the way you do. You ought to be ashamed, Reisman.”

  The buzzer sounded and Balch grabbed up the intercom immediately. It was amazing to Reisman the way the Commissioner had these big cops jumping around for him.

  “Yes sir?” Balch snapped out, like a top sergeant talking to a colonel. “A bow-tie, sir? No, sir, I’m afraid that I ... maybe one of the girl secretaries…”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Reisman.

  “He’s getting dressed in there for the party. Can’t tie his bow tie…”

  “I can tie one.”

  “Mr. Reisman’s here, sir,” said Balch. “Says he can tie one…” A curt harsh laugh came through the wire, then a few harsh-sounding words. “All right, Reisman,” said Balch, hanging up. “Go ahead in.”

  Reisman opened the door. Commissioner Stark was standing in front of a minute wall-mirror with his lean face screwed up, trying to knot a black evening tie. He was wearing a rusty-looking old-fashioned Tuxedo and his hair was standing up angrily all over his narrow skull. Reisman closed the door quietly.

  “With a simple twist of the wrist, Commissioner,” he said, “I can solve your problems.”

  The Commissioner said nothing. He merely turned around, came over, and stood in front of Reisman, who knotted the tie deftly, patted it into place and said:

  “That’s what comes of going to so many banquets. I can tie one in my sleep. In fact, I have—in a drunken stupor.” The Commissioner went back to the mirror, glanced at the tie briefly, then he took out a small ivory pocket-comb and whipped it carelessly through his hair. “Thanks,” he said. “All my wife’s idea. I haven’t had a Tux on for ten or eleven years. You want something, Reisman?”

  “No. I was just passing by. Thought I’d drop in and thank you for the flowers.”

  “Don’t mention it. You’re all right now, I understand.”

  “I’m fine. Are you really moving up to the State Capitol, Commissioner? I haven’t seen any confirmation.”

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t made up my mind yet. But I suppose it is inevitable. My wife’s all for it, naturally. She was always against me coming in as commissioner, thinks I’m working myself to death. Says it is a thankless job. But thanks are not what I want.”

  “What do you want,
Commissioner?”

  “A clean city. That’s impossible, I know. Let’s put it this way: as clean a city as humanity allows. And I’m not trying to disparage humanity. Don’t misunderstand me. We’ve all got plenty of the Old Adam, and a man must admit it to himself frankly or he’s not fit to be a dog-catcher, let alone a high public official. A self-righteous man can be very dangerous in a high position. He’s a man with a warped mind, and will insist on the impossible. I only insist on the possible, but my idea of the possible does not seem to agree with anybody else’s. Wouldn’t you say so, Reisman?” The Commissioner laughed curtly.

  “It agrees more or less with mine.”

  “Yes, I know that,” said the Commissioner. “And you’ve been a big help to me. By the way, what about this Leon Sollas business? Do you think he was murdered?”

  “Could be. But I’m inclined to doubt it. The boys have their little squabbles. And sometimes it’s better politics, and safer, for them to disappear till the atmosphere clears.”

  “Know any reason why somebody should kill him, aside from the fact that he’s a rather sad specimen of the human race?”

  “Oh, he has his enemies, I suppose, considering the business he’s in, but the boys don’t seem to kill each other anymore, Commissioner. It’s a politer age; in the underworld, that is, though not with us apparently. Maybe we’ll gradually learn from them.”

  The Commissioner seemed to think this over for a moment, then a frown passed over his lean face, and he said: “Reisman, give me your honest opinion. Do you think I’ll be able to get by at Judge Greet’s in this suit? My wife insisted I have a new one made. But I wouldn’t hear of it. Too expensive.”

  “Oh, I think so,” said Reisman, hesitantly, rather appalled at the thought of the Commissioner appearing at such a disadvantage among the swells of Riverview. The Greet mansion was one of the showplaces of the city. Judge Greet had married a Byron, crème de la crème, and though he seemed like rather a nice man himself, Reisman, in the long course of his city career, had seen enough of the Byrons to hate them thoroughly. The Judge’s only son, Byron Greet, was a real Byron: a supercilious intellectual and social snob, now an English professor at City College. Once Reisman had spoken on journalism and kindred subjects at the college in front of a sophomore English class, and Byron Greet had heckled him —young son of a bitch!