Catch As Catch Can

by Joseph Heller

  “Usually it’s wrong to come at all.”

  “All right,” she said, smiling. “Let’s say good-bye.”

  “It isn’t necessary. Get your coat.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to anger Mr. Cooper.”

  “Mr. Cooper will be grateful. I’ll meet you at the door.”

  When he returned with his own coat she was already waiting, looking most attractive in a fur jacket and a tiny hat that peeked up over her eye. He commented on the hat, and they were both laughing as they entered the elevator. He remembered the man in the trench coat and, as they passed through the lobby to the street, he asked about him. She reminded him quickly of his promise, and when he agreed, she asked how much money she would make from her book.

  “That all depends,” he informed her. “Cooper is very confident. And with the book-club sales you should do very well.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed with delight. “I know I must sound terribly selfish, but it’s just that I’ve never had anything and now I’ll have it all.”

  She had been in New York only three days. Cooper was her host, and he had been entertaining her regally, providing her with a luxurious apartment and extending her a sizable advance on future royalties. All her dreams had suddenly come true, and the rare pleasure was still entrancing.

  The grey day was fading into twilight, but the noon freshness remained, and they decided to walk. When they were stopped by traffic, Duke drew out a cigarette. He turned to light it and, as he cupped the match in his hands, he saw the man in the trench coat standing near the side of a building in the middle of the block. He was standing motionless, even as they were, watching them. The light changed and they continued.

  “Is everything all right now?” he asked when they had crossed, watching her closely.

  “Everything is wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Everything is just wonderful.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  As they neared the next corner, he turned again. The man was walking behind them, maintaining the same even pace, keeping the distance between them unchanged. He took the girl’s arm as they crossed the next street.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Wrong?” Her fade wrinkled in a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean trouble. Are you in any trouble?”

  “No. Of course not. Why?”

  “How about that man in the trench coat?”

  “You promised not to ask.”

  “But if you’re in any trouble,” he said, “I want to help.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “All right,” he said. They walked on in silence for a few moments. He looked at her and saw she was waiting for an explanation. “He’s following us.”

  “Who?”

  “That man. Don’t turn,” he warned quickly. “Not until you know what you want to do.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “There’s a cab on the corner,” he said. “It’s empty. We can get in if you want to elude him.”

  “No,” she answered slowly. “I don’t want to elude him.”

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll just keep walking.”

  Curiosity overcame her finally and she turned to look. Immediately her fingers closed on his arm. “He saw me,” she said with alarm. “He saw me and he’s coming.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Her pace quickened. “Keep walking. Walk fast.”

  When they came to the next corner he turned her down the side street. Then he heard the footsteps rushing up from behind, and in one abrupt moment they were torn apart and the man stepped between them, his back turning to Duke as he faced the girl.

  “I have to talk to you,” he said.

  “Go away,” the girl said. Her face filled with fear as she stepped back from him. “Please go away.”

  “Not until I talk to you. Tell him to go.”

  Duke measured him carefully, feeling the anger bubble inside. The man reached out for the girl’s arm. Duke caught his wrist and stepped before him.

  “She said she didn’t want to talk to you,” he said quietly.

  “Go away,” the man ordered in a trenchant voice. “It’s none of your business. Why don’t you go away?”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you and neither do I,” Duke said. “So beat it.”

  The man swung quickly before he could get his hands up and hit him on the side of his face. Duke swung wildly at his head and missed. His foot slipped and he fell to his knees. He waited there until the raging fury cleared and he could focus his eyes on the man, who was backing away, his hands raised girlishly before him as though he were trying to fend off the tide of avengeance.

  “Don’t get angry!” he was shouting. “For God sakes, don’t get angry! I don’t want to fight!”

  Duke’s face was numb with pain, and he remembered the girl from Greenwich who was standing somewhere outside the frame of his vision, and he rose slowly, his anger pointed into sharp, clear channels of revenge. He moved forward with grim, methodical determination, his hands coming up before him in a fighter’s position and shifting craftily with his shoulders as he advanced on the man with a wary, plotting hatred. He feinted with his left and brought his right into the body. His hand tangled in the loose folds of the trench coat, harmlessly, and he swung at the man’s head and felt his fist smash against solid bone, and he swung again and again.

  He felt himself grow strong and stronger and his opponent grow weak, and when his vision cleared he saw the man’s face before him, marked with blood and raw bruises, and lolling helplessly with the blows as he stood unresisting, and then Duke saw he was crying. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was sobbing aloud, and he seemed unaware of Duke’s hands pounding his face.

  Duke dropped his hands quickly, horrified by the picture, the clean exultancy that had come with that one clear moment vanishing and he realized once again that nothing is so disappointing as victory.

  There was a lot of confusion, a lot of people, and then there was a large, angry policeman and an indignant woman shrieking at him that she had seen the whole thing. Duke stepped between them.

  “It’s nothing, Officer,” he said. “Couldn’t you forget it?”

  “No,” was the brusque retort. “I couldn’t. What’s it all about?”

  “It’s a personal matter, that’s all. And it’s over.”

  “There’s nothing personal about a fight on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Please, Officer.” It was Arlene, detaching herself from the confusion and looking most appealing as she smiled at him and explained that it was all a misunderstanding.

  The policeman relented finally and set about dispersing the crowd while Duke collected himself, straightening his clothes and smoothing his hair. When he looked up, the man in the trench coat had slipped through the ring of bystanders and was turning the corner. After a period of discomfort that seemed interminable they were able to resume their walking.

  “Are you all right?” Arlene asked, when they had passed beyond the curious stares and were again walking alone.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m all right.”

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “No, I’m not hurt. I’m banged up a little, but it’s all right.”

  “That’s good.” She took his arm admiringly. “You were marvelous,” she said. “You really were.”

  “That’s very nice. Now I’d like to know what it’s all about.”

  “All right. I suppose you have a right to know.”

  “I think so. First, I’d like to know how you got tangled up with a character like that in three days.”

  “It isn’t three days,” she explained. “I know him from home. He lives in Greenwich.”

  “Go on.”

  “And he’s not the kind of person you probably think he is. He’s a respectable shoe salesman.”

  “Don’t tell me he followed you here to collect a bill.”

  �
�Don’t be silly,” she said, pressing his arm as she laughed. “He’s my husband.”

  Duke stopped with amazement and looked at her.

  “He wants me to go back to him,” she continued. “To live in Greenwich. Can you imagine that?”

  She said it so simply that Duke didn’t realize immediately. It hit him suddenly with a sickening jolt, and he whirled upon her with surprise. All the pieces fell together in a horrible pattern, and in the center he could see the man’s pale face reeling with the punches as the tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Duke turned from her with anger and disgust and walked to a cab that was parked near the corner. She followed after him, clutching at his arm with surprise.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have another appointment,” he said. He shook his arm free and entered the cab. “I suddenly remember that I have another appointment.”

  “But what about me?” she asked in bewilderment.

  “Go back to the party,” Duke said, closing the door. “Go back to the party and drink some more martinis.”

  A MAN NAMED FLUTE*

  Two policemen, one of them a sergeant, entered the stationery store and tramped heavily to the back where Dave Murdock ran his business. Murdock was a bookmaker. He had arrived shortly before, and he and the two men he employed were still busily tabulating the previous day’s results. When the two men entered, Murdock looked up at them with surprise, his dark eyes taking them in without welcome. An angry scowl appeared on his heavy face. “What do you want?” he said.

  The policemen hung back several steps before him. “I’ve got bad news for you, Dave,” the sergeant said regretfully. “We have to close you up for a while.”

  Murdock studied him a moment and then leaned back. He bit the tip from a fresh cigar and spat it out with savage annoyance. “Don’t bother me,” he said. “I’m busy.”

  “I’m not fooling, Dave,” the sergeant said. “You have about four hours.”

  Murdock moved forward over the desk, his big shoulders bunching up menacingly, and glared at him with frank belligerence. “What the hell’s the idea?” he demanded.

  “We have to clean up for a while, Dave. You know that.”

  “I know that,” Murdock said. “But why me?”

  “It’s not just you, Dave. We’re closing every shop in the district. I’ll make it an easy complaint and you get someone to take the pinch for you. All right?”

  Murdock stopped arguing when he saw there was nothing he could do. He collected what papers he thought he would need and went out, leaving his two assistants to make the necessary arrangements, among them the usual task of locating someone to be arrested in Murdock’s place. He spent the rest of the afternoon visiting as many of his customers as he was able to, giving the favored ones his home number and taking what business he could get on the way. In the late afternoon he called Nat Baker and got a ride home.

  Nat was also a bookmaker, and when they were in the neighborhood, they stopped at a small luncheonette where the counterman took bets for him. They had coffee, and Murdock decided to wait in the car when Nat and his man huddled in a corner of the room. It was already dark when he stood up and walked to the door. When he stepped outside, he was greeted with a thick, rich, weedy smell. A group of boys stood clustered together in the darkened doorway of a hardware store, all smoking with a strangely surreptitious guilt. Murdock sniffed curiously at the air, recognizing the odor with surprise. The furtive manner of the group immediately confirmed his suspicion. They were smoking marijuana. Murdock remained where he was, glancing at the doorway secretly until Nat came out. Nat caught the smell as he came briskly through the door. He looked briefly over Murdock’s shoulder as he started toward the car.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  “Probably,” Murdock said, with a nod. “Reefers, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Nat said. “It’s getting to be quite the thing around here.”

  Murdock entered the car slowly, glancing at the boys with an interest mingled with regret. Nat began moving the car out. Murdock turned a last commiserating glance on the group, and his eyes came to a sudden stop. His son Dick was among them, smoking, standing far back in the recess of the dark doorway where the shadows were heaviest, but unmistakably his son, Dick, sixteen years old. Murdock gasped with surprise. He reached out and held Nat’s arm in a strong grip.

  “Nat, who sells it to them?”

  “Why?” Nat asked, slightly puzzled. He looked at the group for a moment and then seemed to understand. “I can find out,” he said. “Do you want me to find out?”

  “Yeah,” Murdock said, grimly. “Go find out.”

  Nat left the car and returned to the luncheonette. Murdock sat motionless, smoldering, feeling his anger boil as he glanced at his boy from time to time. He had a murderous temper and he fought to keep it subdued, because Dick was a good boy and he knew that everything could be settled by a serious talk. As he watched, the boy raised his hand to his face and inhaled deeply. Murdock watched the glowing spark brighten and turned away. He didn’t look there again until Nat had returned and pulled the car out.

  “They get it from a fellow called Flute,” Nat said. “You can find him in the poolroom.”

  Murdock nodded his thanks and remained silent. When Nat dropped him off, he stood before the house for several minutes, trying to calm himself before he went inside. Claire was surprised to see him so early.

  “They closed the place up again,” he explained, answering her question. He studied her intently for several moments, trying to guess what she was thinking. She stood before him in silence, watching him with a sad expression. “What’s troubling you, Claire?” he asked, feeling a bit guilty.

  “Nothing’s troubling me,” she answered slowly. “I just wish you’d get into a respectable business.”

  “It’s only for a few days,” Murdock said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “That isn’t what I mean,” Claire said.

  Murdock well knew what she did mean. He had been a book-maker for almost sixteen years, and in all that time Claire had never stopped disapproving. With an almost puritanical obstinacy, she still refused to regard his income as an honest living.

  “Look, Claire,” he said, with a slight trace of annoyance.

  “Stop blaming all the gambling in the world on me. The city is crawling with bookmakers, and if I didn’t take the bets I handle, someone else would. Can’t you see that?”

  “I can see it,” Claire said. “But I just wish it wasn’t you.” She regarded him regretfully for another moment and then turned to the stove.

  Murdock left the kitchen and went to the bedroom, where he removed his clothes until he was bare to the waist. He was a big man in his early forties, and his large, heavy frame still had a definite expression of solid, masculine strength. In the bathroom he washed slowly and combed his hair. He put on a fresh shirt, leaving the collar unbuttoned, and returned to the kitchen, where Claire was peering into a simmering pot.

  “Where’s Dick?” he asked casually.

  “He went out.”

  “Where?”

  Claire turned from the stove to look at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”

  “How is he doing in school this term?” Murdock asked.

  “The new term just began. He always does well in school. What’s the matter?”

  “When does he do his homework?”

  “You know when he does his homework. After school and at night. Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong,” Murdock said. “I just don’t like the idea of my kid running all over the streets and getting into trouble.”

  Claire moved toward him with alarm. “What kind of trouble? What’s he done?”

  Murdock smiled and patted her arm with clumsy assurance. “There’s nothing wrong,” he said. “I guess the police put me in a bad mood.” He smiled again and stood up. “I have some work to do,” he said, a
nd walked out without waiting to see if she believed him.

  2

  In the bedroom he sat down and waited. Dick was a good boy, he told himself, and everything would be all right. There had always been a cheerful friendship between them. He knew that Dick gambled occasionally and shot pool frequently, that an imbecile woman had willingly taken his virginity, and that he probably smoked cigarettes regularly even though he had promised to hold off for another year. They had discussed all that with comfortable honesty, and Murdock had always prided himself on the open relationship. This new deed incensed him, because of its evil suggestions and because it had been done secretly, and as he sat waiting he was filled with a fierce resentment.

  He heard the boy come in and waited until he settled himself in the living room. Then he rose and went in to him. Dick was sitting in a chair near the window, holding a magazine he had just opened. He was a well-built boy with clear, probing eyes in a handsome face that looked a year or two older than his actual age. Claire came from the kitchen and stood in the doorway, looking on in nervous anticipation.

  “Hello, Dad,” Dick said, when Murdock entered.

  Murdock had decided to let it ride until after dinner, but when the boy spoke, all resolve gave way to an overwhelming indignation. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

  The boy looked at him with surprise. “I was outside,” he said. “Why?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Murdock said. “You answer them.”

  “I was only gone a couple of hours,” Dick said. “Ask Mom.”

  “I don’t have to ask anybody,” Murdock said. “I’m sending you away to school.”

  Dick stared at him with amazement. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I said I’m sending you away to school. What’s the matter? Can’t you hear?”

  “What are you talking about?” Claire said.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Murdock answered.

  “It doesn’t sound like it,” Claire said.

  “What kind of school?” Dick asked.

  “Military school.”

  “Military school! Gee, Pop, what’s got into you anyway?”