by James Jones
He was not, the old man said, looking for something to run, he was a businessman; and a businessman’s business was making money and when he saw something that looked like it would make money he would be smart to put some money into it if it was wanted. And he had personally congratulated Frank on his astuteness in working up the deal. He was all for them; and he felt younger men should get into more things and developments like this.
This was not like dealing with people in Parkman, apparently, where nobody trusted anybody else. Like, say, dealing with Old Judge Deacon. This was the real big time, and Clark because of his father-in-law was moving up into it, too. Maybe he would get to be US senator yet, by God. Sometimes Frank almost felt like he might be playing out of his league. And yet he trusted them completely to do what they said they’d do. And he knew they trusted him. It was a strange way to run a business.
The man whose organization was to handle the buying up of the land for them was a cold, fat Greek, with just a trace of a city accent, probably from Chicago—originally. He was, in fact, what Frank had always seen in his mind when he thought the words: Chicago gangster. And yet this man, however cold, was obviously not a gangster, not and associate with men like Clark’s father-in-law. He was what you might call a sort of a “transformed gentleman.” And he was such a gentleman that he made all Frank’s fingers turn into thumbs. He was as equally at home in Clark’s father-in-law’s huge dining room as he was in his own spacious office. He was charging them a great deal for his services, and despite his price he had bluntly told them that he did not expect a 100 percent success. It was very rare to ever be able to buy up anything like this entirely. Some people were invariably just not inclined to sell; and if you offered them more money than whatever it was worth, they got suspicious and became even less inclined, and frightened off others with their suspicions. This they must avoid. Still he would do the best for them he could, and would get what he did get as cheaply as he could. It was amazing to Frank how many of these people’s business deals were conducted solely on trust. An ordinary business by an ordinary businessman would never get completed if the participants had to depend on trust as much as these big-time operators did.
Even now, the big Greek’s men might be infiltrating into town, already dickering. Frank himself did not know, and wouldn’t know. And neither would Clark. That had been decided early. It was, as Clark had said, better if they knew nothing at all about it. Then, they couldn’t possibly damage anything. It was like something out of a mystery story.
It certainly wasn’t like Parkman, that was for damn sure. The only trouble either Frank or Clark had really had at all was in keeping Judge Deacon from getting wise that something was taking place. Both of them had always gone to the judge’s Cray County Bank or Building & Loan to get their money, and this time they couldn’t do that. Neither did they dare to go to Tony Wernz IV’s Second National, or his Real Estate Loan. In the end, Clark had arranged to have them both taken care of in Springfield for whatever loans they wanted, through the bank of which his father-in-law was a director; and apparently, they had succeeded, according to all indications anyway, because nobody had the slightest idea anything was going on.
It was all a gamble. For him and Clark both—more for him because he had mortgaged everything he owned. Everything except a few partnership deals like the taxi service and the Dodge agency which he was holding because he did not want people to know he was borrowing. He still didn’t have enough capital to build his shopping center yet. But he still had hopes of getting Clark’s father-in-law to put some money in that, too. But if not, he would get it someplace else, from Fred Benson in Indianapolis, or from someplace. But he’d get it.
Hot damn! he thought suddenly, Hot damn! and a kind of intense excitement rolled through him, which nevertheless the rest of him knew he was going to have to keep down under strict control. This was a long-range deal, and it was going to take a while. The state itself was not going to start its actual buying until the end of the summer, Clark had told him with that small smile. Everything was working perfectly. It would be the biggest single service anyone had done for the town of Parkman in its history.
He had, on their evenings together, talked to Edith about the whole deal. (He couldn’t talk to Agnes; or she would be sure to find out he had mortgaged the house, and the business, which was after all, her father’s business, which she had signed over to him.) So Edith was the only one he could talk to. Edith had agreed with him that he could trust them. “After all, they already have enough money, Clark and his father-in-law,” she said. “That’s the difference. They don’t have to cheat anybody to get it.”
There was one thing he didn’t have to trust them on, anyway. He had, right after the February trip to Springfield—and as Clark had suggested he do, before—gone out and seen Old Lloyd Monds and bought from him the small five-acre feeding farm which when the road went through would be the two west corners of the Bypass-Route 1 junction. The whole thing had been ridiculously easy. All he had had to do was to use Old Lloyd’s country-acquisitiveness against him. He attempted to buy one of Old Lloyd’s other five feeder farms, on the pretext that he was going to use it for feeding up his own beef that he was putting in on his farm north of town. Then he just sat back and let Old Lloyd put one over on him by selling him instead the one that would eventually be broken in two by the new bypass, which Old Lloyd knew about, but which he himself, of course, did not.
It was amazing to him, that with all the interest and talk going the rounds about the new bypass, nobody had yet thought to look into it as a possible moneymaking venture.
Well, probably a lot of them had thought about it; and had just decided it was a wild dream and had not done anything about it. He had almost not done anything about it himself.
In front of the Parkman, Frank stopped and looked up at the brass-hinged swinging doors. Well, now he was going to have to take care of Dave. He still did not feel he had done wrong in the way he had handled the car. The boy was just going to have to learn that there were other people in the world besides himself. The main thing now was to get him back on the job. Then they’d see. If he settled down and worked hard and assumed his responsibilities like a grown-up adult was supposed to, there could be an important place for him in all this that was just getting started, and he could still turn out to be Frank’s son. But he’d have to earn it.
Tossing the butt of the Churchill in the gutter, he walked inside, nodding to the fat one-eyed clerk behind the desk, and went upstairs.
Chapter 42
AT THE DOOR of the suite, they shook hands. There was open disapproval on Frank’s face; and in spite of the enormity of hatred he felt about his car, there was a sort of puppyish eagerness to please on Dave’s. Both of them smiled, too, each in his own fashion, Frank with a cold reserve and Dave eagerly. It was like one of those meetings of two amateur chess players who know each other well and are about to play again; the amenities are all there, the smiles, the handclasps, the gestures of friendliness, and back of each, this same driving, fierce, predatory soul-hunger toward the mayhem of the other that can actually make the hands sweat, and nerves in the armpits twiddle, as both sit down to play a friendly game.
“I see you’re back in the money again,” Frank said.
“Not much, really,” Dave smiled. “We made a little.”
“Where were you?”
“Miami Beach.”
“Miami Beach, Florida?”
Dave nodded. “It’s a pretty nice town.”
“You’ve put on an awful lot of weight in four months.”
“I’ve been livin pretty good,” Dave said, and gestured with his glass. “Would you like a drink?”
“No. It’s too early in the morning for me to be drinkin. And it’s too early for you, too.”
“Well, you make up for it at night, y’see,” Dave smiled. “I don’t drink much at night. Sit down.”
Frank sat down in one of the chairs and let his hands fall togethe
r in his lap. “Now, what did you want to see me about?”
“See you about? Well, the taxi service. I thought you wanted to see me,” Dave said.
“I did. For four months now. What about the taxi service?”
“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I’m not going to work there anymore.”
“Oh, you’re not!” Frank said. “And why not?”
“Because I’ve had a better job offered me. One with better pay and better hours, both.”
“With who? Doin what?”
Dave grinned at him. “With ’Bama,” he said. “Gambling.”
“I see,” Frank said. Then he looked down at his hands still lying in his lap. “I suppose you know what that’ll do to me,” he said without looking up.
“If you mean it will ruin you I don’t believe it.”
“No. I don’t spose it could actually ruin me. It certainly won’t do me any good. And it will be embarrassing.” He looked back up, at Dave.
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” Dave said. “I don’t like to cause you trouble. But it’s just too good a thing to let go.”
“’Bama Dillert has a bad reputation in this town,” Frank said.
“So I’ve heard,” Dave said. “But you know something?” He grinned and took a deep breath. “Bad reputation or not, I trust him—and like him—more than I do the respectable people in this town. And that includes you,” he said sharply. “If he was going to cheat you, at least he wouldn’t do it in the name of God, or Business, or Social Responsibilities.”
Frank stared straight back at Dave, his face impassive.
“And while we’re on the subject of trust,” Dave said. “I’d just like to mention that I think that was one of the lousiest, pettiest, dirtiest tricks I’ve ever heard of, what you did to my car.”
“Nothing happened to your car that would not have happened where you yourself left it,” Frank said.
“I know,” Dave said. “That’s quite true.”
“You left no instructions to me of any kind about what to do with it.”
“I know. That’s true, also.”
“The city police told me about it. If I hadn’t taken it, they would have hauled it off.”
“True, also.”
“Nor did you leave me any forwarding address where I could reach you about it.”
“True, also.”
“I fail to see that I did anything out of the way. I think I did you a favor.”
“Me, too,” Dave grinned, “and I would just like to add that if I had intended to go back to work for you in that damn taxi service, I wouldn’t now.”
Frank nodded. “Thank you. On the subject of trust, I could mention a few things myself,” he said. “However, I don’t intend to do so.”
“Well, that’s damned magnanimous of you,” Dave said. “You son of a bitch.”
Without ceasing to look at him, Frank blinked. It was not really a flinch. “You don’t intend to come back to work at the stand, then,” he said. Then he looked back down at his hands, and Dave could not help but feel ashamed. “Then I expect you’ll be wantin to buy me out altogether?” he said without looking up.
“Well, I—” Dave began, taken aback. “Well, no. I mean not especially. I don’t want to take your taxi service away from you. I—” He stopped.
“You mean you’d rather sell your share out to me?” Frank said still not looking up.
“Well, I— Say, look here; I thought there was some kind of a clause in that contract that was supposed to take care of all that?”
“You mean that ‘Give or Take’ clause?” Frank said, still without looking up. He was obviously hurt; not angry, just hurt. “You mean you’re wantin to invoke the clause?”
“Well, I— No,” Dave said. “No, I didn’t mean that. But I thought that was what that clause was for, I mean, in case anybody wanted to break up the partnership.”
Frank still would not look up at him. “No, that’s just a legal device, in case the partners can’t agree any other way,” he said . “As far as I’m concerned, there’s no disagreement. I’m willin to do anything you want that’s fair. Do you want to buy? or sell your share?”
“Well, now, wait a minute,” Dave protested. “I never said anything about doing either yet, did I?”
“You mean you want to just leave it like it is?” Frank said, still not looking up.
“I didn’t say anything,” Dave said. “You said all that. All I said was I didn’t like what you did to my car. That, and that I don’t mean to work in the damned place anymore. That was all. Hell, Frank, I wouldn’t do what you did to my car to my worst enemy’s car.”
Frank looked back up at him now, his eyes unreadable. “Well, now, just what do you want to do?” he said. “I’m willin to do anything you think is fair.” That was all he would say. “I don’t want to talk about your car,” he said. “You know how I feel about it; and about your responsibilities.”
“Damn, if you just understood me a little,” Dave said. “I’m not a businessman. I never have been. I— I—” He stopped, looking hopeless and chagrined. “Well, I suppose if I was going to choose, I’d rather sell my share than anything else.”
“All right,” Frank said. “How much?”
“Well, would six thousand be all right?”
“You think that’s a fair price?”
“Well—yeah. Don’t you?”
“I’m not the one that’s namin it,” Frank said coldly.
“I don’t want to cheat you or anything.”
“All right,” Frank said. “If you think that’s fair, it’s all right with me. You want me to send you a check for it?”
“Oh, nuts! I’m gonna get myself another drink,” Dave said, and got up and went to the table where the liquor bottles were. Frank merely watched him, his face unreadable. Dave poured a strong one. “Look!” he said. “I don’t give a damn what we do with it. I figured six thousand was a fair price because the damned concern is making money. All I’m tryin to do is protect my money. Now if you don’t think that’s fair, just say so.”
“I’m willin to pay what you’re askin,” Frank said. “Now do you want me to send you a check today?”
“Look!” Dave said, turning to face him. “What do you think I ought to do?”
Frank shook his head. “I’m not givin any more advice to you.”
“Oh, go to hell!” Dave said, and strode back to his own chair with his drink. “Look, I’m willing to do anything that’s fair. I’ll sell to you, or buy your share, or let it ride just like it is. I’ve got the money to buy your share, if you want to sell it,” he said, and remembered to drag out his packed wallet and show it. “So you just name it.”
“I’m not namin anything,” Frank said. “All this is your idea.”
“Look. I apologize for calling you a son of a bitch,” Dave said. “I was mad.”
Frank said nothing.
“Well, I won’t go back to work there. That’s out!”
“All right,” Frank said. “I gathered that. Now what else do you want to do?”
“Well, I don’t know what to do!” Dave said.
Frank looked across at him, totally unreadable. “All right. Then I suggest you just let it ride until you do know what you want to do.”
“Will that be all right with you?”
“Anything’ll be all right with me. This is not my party.”
“All right; then that’s what we’ll do.”
Frank got up from his chair.
“Wait! Just one more thing,” Dave said. “I want my share of the profits sent to me. Every month. If any money goes back into the business, we can take that up separate. Okay?”
“All right,” Frank said. “You won’t mind if I put some of my own money back into it, will you?”
“Oh, quit acting hurt! I’ve apologized to you for calling you a son of a bitch. What more do you want?”
Frank again said nothing, as though he were deaf, or else no words had been spoken. H
e walked to the door.
“All right. Act like a damned kid.”
“I will say just one thing,” he said as he took hold of the knob. “I think you ought to go up and see your mother.”
“Who?” Dave said, “oh, Mother. Yeah, I spose I ought to,” he said.
“You’ve been back home over six months now,” Frank said.
“Two of those months right here in town. Your mother asks me about you every time I see her. I know your mother would like to see you.”
“What’s all this ‘your mother,’ ‘your mother’?” Dave snarled. “She’s your mother, too.”
“I know she’s my mother,” Frank said. “But, do you?”
“All right, I’ll go up and see her. I’ll even take her a goddamned present. How do you like that?”
“I don’t like it or dislike it,” Frank said. “Your mother might like it.”
“All right, I’ll go see her.”
“Goodby,” Frank said coldly, and went out and shut the door.
After he was gone, Dave carried his glass to the corner window and watched him march back up the hill, a fresh cigar in his jaw, his back as stiff as a ramrod in that way he always walked, hat brim snapped down low over his ball-like Hirsh head, coat skirts blowing around his barrellike Hirsh body. He really believed, all those damn sanctimonious things he spouted. The truth was, he was a fool. And yet he was smart as hell in business and things like that. But it was all rule-of-thumb knowledge. He really knew no more about life than he did about flying a jet airplane. He was a walking mass of other humans’ ill-considered, un-thought-out opinions, which he had accepted. And he believed he was right. Dave watched him sadly, hating him still, and wishing now he’d punched him. He was already regretting that he had not accepted the six thousand. But he knew he wouldn’t do anything about it now, unless he was just forced to. As far as he was concerned, it could stay the way it was forever. Well, he would have to tell Old ’Bama what had happened. He took another drink from his glass that was not so much a drink as an expression of bitter feeling.
