Catch As Catch Can

by Joseph Heller

  The two boys left, and Carl stood up and began dressing. When his shirt was buttoned, he rolled up his sleeves and walked out. The long room downstairs was empty. Huck sat on a corner of one of the tables in the back, talking to Nat, who was hunched up furtively on a bench against the wall.

  “I’m going to call,” Carl said.

  “Thanks, Carl,” Nat said. “And talk to London for me.”

  Carl nodded and started for the door. “Don’t sit on the tables,” he said to Huck as he walked by.

  When he was outside, Carl stopped briefly to look up at the sky. For some reason he didn’t know, he wanted it to rain. Next door to the poolroom was a small luncheonette. Carl nodded to the counterman as he walked back to the telephone. He closed the door of the booth carefully, looked out to the front of the store for a moment and then stared at the phone. After awhile he left the booth.

  Two young boys were using the first table when Carl returned to the poolroom. He eyed them closely as he walked to the back where Huck and Nat were waiting.

  “I called the syndicate,” he said. “They never got the bet.”

  “How about London?” Nat asked. “Did you talk to him?”

  “I couldn’t get him,” Carl said. He stared down into the boy’s eyes.

  “He’s on his way over here, I guess,” he said slowly. “He’ll bring some friends.”

  Nat didn’t speak and in the silence the noise of the ticker bringing in a rehash of the previous day’s results grew very loud. Carl turned and looked down at the boys playing on the first table. He asked Huck, “School kids?”

  “I don’t know,” Huck said.

  “Better get them out,” Carl said. “The law might be around.”

  Huck walked slowly toward the front. Carl watched him move away, waiting until he was out of earshot before turning back to Nat.

  “You’d better beat it, Nat,” he said.

  Nat shook his head. “No. I don’t want to run away.”

  “They can get pretty rough,” Carl said.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Nat said. “I’ll try to explain.”

  “They won’t listen,” Carl said.

  Nat looked down at the floor without answering. He made no move to go. Carl studied him for a moment. “My brother has a farm in Jersey,” he said. “You could go there. He’ll treat you right.”

  Nat didn’t move.

  “Nat,” Carl said, his voice growing sharp. “You’d better go. I’ve seen them work. They could kill you easy. I’ve seen them do it.”

  Nat’s face grew white and he shifted nervously.

  “They worked someone over right outside,” Carl said. “They beat him bloody. I’ve seen them do it, Nat.”

  Nat looked up at him quickly. For a moment, Carl thought he might decide to go. Then Nat shook his head vehemently. “All right, Nat,” Carl said unhappily. He squeezed Nat’s shoulder and then went up to his room. When he got there, he removed his shirt and shoes and lay down on the bed.

  A long time passed before he heard footsteps rushing up the stairs, and Huck burst into the room. “They’re outside,” he said. “They just drove up.”

  Carl didn’t move. “Where’s Nat?” he asked slowly.

  “He’s downstairs.” Huck looked at Carl. “Aren’t you going down?”

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “But they’ll beat him up.”

  “Sit down, Huck,” Carl said.

  Huck sat down. He watched Carl steadily.

  “Just relax,” Carl said. “Smoke a cigarette and relax.”

  There was a long, intense silence. Then they heard a door close downstairs. There was the barely audible sound of footsteps. They stopped, and for several minutes all that could be heard was the faint chatter of the ticker in the poolroom. Then, suddenly, there was a cry that broke off abruptly, followed immediately by a loud scramble of footsteps that slowed gradually and disappeared. The silence that followed was complete. Even the ticker was dead.

  Huck was sweating profusely. Streams of perspiration flowed freely down his face, and the neck of his shirt was soaked with a dark, spreading stain. “I can’t hear anything,” he said to Carl in a hoarse whisper.

  “I can,” Carl said. “I can hear you sweating.”

  Huck ran his hand over his forehead and looked at the hand with surprise. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face and neck thoroughly. When he was through, he held the handkerchief between his hands in a crumpled ball.

  Minutes passed. The door downstairs opened and closed. Huck rose quickly and moved to the side of the window. A car door slammed, and seconds later an automobile started up and drove off. Huck turned from the window. “They’re gone,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “All right,” Carl said. He sat up and reached for his shirt. “We’ll go down now.”

  Huck moved across the room slowly, scarcely breathing, and started downstairs. Carl stood up and walked to the door. He stopped there and listened to Huck’s footsteps going down cautiously. Then he closed the door and turned the latch. He bent down to the floor, reached under the rug, and withdrew a small white envelope.

  He had found it buried in his pocket the night before. Somehow it had got separated from the other bets that Nat had given him, and when he had discovered it, it was already too late. He had been thinking about it all night and all morning, trying to figure out if there was anything that could be done and realizing all the time that there wasn’t. Twelve hundred dollars was due, and someone had to pay for the mistake. It was best the way it had happened, he kept telling himself, because he was a soft, middle-aged man, and Nat was young and in good health. He felt sad about it, because Nat was a good, honest kid, and Carl liked him a lot.

  Standing by the door, he opened the envelope and looked at the money inside. It contained a hundred dollars, and Carl stared at it for a moment, deliberating. Then he walked slowly into the bathroom and tore it up, money and all. He watched the pieces carefully as they fell into the bowl, but when he came back into the other room he felt no better. He unlatched the door and went downstairs.

  WORLD FULL OF GREAT CITIES*

  The boy left his last telegram with the receptionist in the lawyer’s office and walked down Beekman Place to the apartment house. He rode the elevator to the sixth floor, found the door he wanted, rang the bell, and waited. After a few seconds, the door opened, and a blonde woman looked out at him. She opened the door wide when she saw him, and she remained motionless in the doorway, studying him coldly from head to foot. She was a beautiful woman and the boy felt his face color as he lowered his eyes and waited for her to speak.

  “Where’d you park your bicycle?” she asked finally.

  “We don’t have bicycles,” the boy said. “I had to walk.”

  “Is that why you got here so fast?”

  “I came as soon as I could,” the boy said. “I had to make four stops before I came here.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic. You came sooner than we expected. Can you wait a few minutes? My husband is busy.”

  “I can wait,” the boy said.

  “Come inside then.” The woman stepped back and he followed her into the apartment. As he moved inside, he noted immediately how expensively decorated the room was, and he detected faintly, as if it were far away, a sharp sweet scent that lingered in the air. He stared about him with wondrous respect at the large room and at the rich furnishings that met his gaze wherever he looked. There were several photographs about the room and behind her, he noticed a cigarette burning in a silver ash tray.

  “How do you like it?” the woman asked caustically.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said. “I was just looking around.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You can look around all you want. It’s a privilege we extend to the proletariat.”

  She walked across the room, picked up the cigarette, and crushed it out. She turned slowly and looked at him.

  “I bet it’s just like your own home.”

&
nbsp; The boy remained silent. He stood in the center of the room, feeling warm and uncomfortable, and moved his cap slowly in his hands.

  “Isn’t it?” the woman persisted.

  “No,” the boy answered softly.

  “Why isn’t it? I suppose your home is nicer.”

  The boy didn’t speak.

  “Is it?”

  “My home isn’t as nice as this,” the boy said.

  The woman turned from him and picked a cigarette from an ivory box. On the table, there were some glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and a bottle of soda. She lighted her cigarette and turned, exhaling smoke through the side of her mouth.

  “It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s very beautiful.”

  “I suppose you think anybody can be happy living here.” When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” The boy looked down at the floor.

  “Don’t rationalize. You know damn well they can. Don’t you realize the power of money?”

  The boy looked up and met her eyes. “Why are you picking on me?” he asked. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

  The woman raised her hand and rubbed it across her cheek, leaving a pallid mark that disappeared instantly, and she pursed her lips together in a nervous expression of regret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pick on you. I’m upset. I have to talk to you until my husband comes and I don’t know what to say.”

  The boy smiled, realizing she was under some strain. She was very beautiful and he was sorry for her.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Sidney.”

  A man called from another room, “Who is it?”

  “It’s the messenger,” the woman answered.

  “How does he look?”

  The woman looked at the boy. He stood without moving, turning his cap slowly in his hands and wondering what they wanted him for.

  “He’s pretty,” the woman said. “But he’s very young.”

  There was the sound of footsteps on tile, and a thin, middle-aged man entered the room, wearing a deep blue dressing gown with a towel around his neck and holding an razor in his hands. He nodded coldly to the boy as he studied him. The woman sat down in a corner of the sofa. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs up behind her.

  The man frowned. “He looks effeminate.”

  “That would be just my luck,” the woman said bitterly.

  “I’ll send him back.” The man stepped toward the boy and smiled. “Look, go back to the office and tell them to send an older boy. We have a special errand and we need an older boy. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded and turned to go.

  “Let him stay,” the woman said. “I think it will be better with him.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  The woman nodded.

  “All right.” He turned to the boy. “I’ll be with you in a few

  minutes. Sit down and wait. Give him a drink, Skelly,” he said to the woman and left the room.

  “Sit down, Sidney.” The boy walked across the room and sat down in a chair facing her. “And don’t look so uncomfortable. No one is going to hurt you.”

  He placed his cap on a table near the chair and looked about the room curiously, disturbed because the woman was watching him. There was a photograph of a good-looking boy in a football uniform, and he wondered if he was her son. She looked too young to be his mother. The sweet smell in the room was growing fainter, and he sniffed for it unconsciously.

  “What’s the matter?” the woman asked.

  “Nothing,” the boy said.

  “Don’t be afraid of me. What were you smelling?”

  “There’s something sweet in the air,” the boy said. “Like perfume.”

  “Incense. I was burning it before you came in. Do you want a drink?”

  He shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. You’re too young to drink.”

  “I drink,” the boy said.

  “Whiskey?”

  “Sometimes,” he lied. “I like beer, though.”

  “I have some in the kitchen. Do you want a bottle?”

  “No, thanks. We’re not allowed to drink when we’re working.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “We’re not allowed to smoke either.”

  “You go ahead and smoke,” the woman said. “I’ll keep your secret. Do they pay you well?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “How much do you make a week?”

  “I don’t make so much,” the boy explained. “I only work after school. The ones that work all week make a lot.”

  “You’re going to make a lot today,” the woman said, sitting up as she crushed her cigarette out. She poured some whiskey into a glass and added some soda. She stared soberly into the glass for a few seconds as she swirled it around in quick circles. Then she raised the glass and emptied it. The boy watched her face. She swallowed without expression.

  “Sidney,” she said, setting the glass down. “You’re a very pretty boy. I’ll bet the girls in school go wild over you.”

  The boy turned away, flushing with embarrassment.

  “Do you go with girls?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll bet you have a lot of them.”

  “I have a few,” the boy answered. He felt good because she thought so.

  “Do you get much?”

  The boy thought he had misunderstood her and turned to her questioningly.

  “You know what I mean. Are you still virginal?”

  The boy’s face burned with shame and he stared down at a patch of rug between the legs of a round table that stood before the large window.

  “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “All right, don’t. If you are, it’s your own fault. The girls in school are wild about you.”

  “No, they aren’t,” the boy said, smiling shyly.

  “Yes, they are. You look around and you’ll see. You’re a very pretty boy, Sidney. I’d like to see you on a cold day. I bet your lips and cheeks turn crimson when it’s cold.”

  Sidney smiled with guilt. He had already noticed how red his lips and cheeks became on a cold day and how fair and clean-looking he was compared to other boys his age. He had been kept close to home while his father was alive, and it was only recently that he had been allowed the freedom of observation. The world

  about him was beginning to unfold slowly in a vast and puzzling panorama, delighting him with each new revelation. He pointed to the picture of the boy in the football uniform.

  “Is that your son?” he asked.

  “No,” the woman said. “It’s Mr. Ingall’s son.” When he looked puzzled, she explained, “I’m his second wife.”

  “Oh.”

  “He used to stay here six months during the year, but now he’s away at college. He hasn’t been here for almost six years.”

  She reached forward and took another cigarette, tapping it nervously against the back of her hand. She picked up the lighter and turned to him, hesitating, and her face became really soft for the first time.

  “You’re a nice boy, Sidney,” she said slowly. “The girls are crazy about you. I was your age once and I know. Get as many as you can before it’s too late. That’s what they’re here for. Take them while you can and you’ll never regret it.” She stopped speaking when she saw how uncomfortable he looked. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  “Are you always afraid to talk to girls?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “Then what is it? Don’t you ever discuss such things with them?”

  “It isn’t that. We talk dirty.”

  “Then what is it? I’m a girl.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it because I’m older than you, or because I’m so nice looking?”

  “That’s pr
obably what it is.”

  “Don’t be vague. Which is it? Age or appearance.”

  “Both, I guess.”

  She lighted her cigarette and leaned back. “Do you think I’m nice looking?”

  He nodded, blushing.

  “Beautiful?”

  He nodded again. He looked towards the foyer, wondering when the man would return.

  “What do you like about me?”

  “Everything, I guess. You’re a beautiful girl.”

  “There must be something special you like. Is it my face, or my breasts, or the way you imagine my thighs are shaped?”

  The boy felt himself perspiring and looked at a table in the corner, staring at it with intense interest to relieve the shame and embarrassment that rose within him. He noticed an object on the table with a small rubber tube and a glass water container attached and he wondered what it was.

  “Well? Which is it?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” he said.

  “All right,” the woman said. “I won’t talk like that. How would you like to go to bed with me?”

  He turned to her with surprise, angry now and afraid. Her husband was in the next room and he suspected some trick. “I have to go,” he said, and stood up. “I have to get back to the office.”

  “All right, Sidney,” she said, with a shrug. “Sit down. I won’t bother you.” He sat down slowly, watching her with suspicious concern. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Don’t I appeal to you?”

  “Not that way,” the boy answered, in a low voice.

  “Why not? If you saw me walking on the street I’d appeal to you. Wouldn’t I?”

  He turned away. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever spoken to, and he knew that if he ever did see her walking on the street, he would stop and stare after her until she disappeared from sight.

  “I guess I just don’t interest you,” the woman said wearily. “What interests you on that table?”

  “That thing,” he said, pointing. “What is it? A pipe?”

  She put her shoes on and walked to the table, motioning for him to follow. He walked after her and stood beside her, trying not to stare at the curves of her body as he looked at the object.

  “It’s a pipe,” she said, picking it up and showing it to him.