by John O'Hara
“Oh, you,” she said.
“Yes-s-s, I think we better just give Curly a cigar. By the way, I’m going to take Teddy out and get him laid tonight. I—”
“Lute! Stop talking like that. How do you know one of them didn’t come downstairs without you hearing them? They’ll be finding things out soon enough. Remember what Betty said last summer.”
“That’s nothing. How old is Teddy? Six—”
“Six and a half,” she said.
“Well, when I was Teddy’s age I had four girls knocked up.”
“Now stop, Lute. You stop talking that way. You don’t have any idea how they pick things up, a word here and there. And children are smarter than you give them credit for. You don’t have to go anywhere today, do you?”
“Nope. Why?” He lit a Camel, taking it out of the package in the lower right pocket of his vest.
“Well, no reason. Last Christmas remember you had to drive to Reading.”
“That was last Christmas. Damn few Caddies being given for Christmas presents this year. I remember that trip. That was a sport job. A LaSalle, it was, not a Caddy. That Polish undertaker up the mountain, Paul Davinis. He wanted it delivered Christmas and he didn’t want his kid to see it so we asked to keep it in Reading. And then when we did deliver it the kid knew he was going to get it all along. His mother told him beforehand. He smashed it up New Year’s Eve.”
“You never told me that,” said Irma.
“You never asked me, as the snake charmer said to her husband. By the way, did Mrs. Lynch say she’d mind the kids tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, then I better phone Willard and tell him we’ll go along. I’ll get that Studebaker sedan. We can get six in it comfortably. It’s a seven-passenger job, but we can sit three in the front and three in the back and we won’t have to use the extra seats. How many are going?”
“I think twelve. Ten or twelve. It depends. If Emily’s father and mother come down from Shamokin she and Harvey won’t be able to come along, but it won’t make any difference. They were going in Walter’s car, so if they don’t go, that makes two less in that car.”
“I better call the garage and make sure about the Studebaker.” He went to the telephone. “Hello, this is Lute Fliegler. Merry Christmas. Listen, that Studebaker sedan, the black one. The one we took on a trade-in from Doc Lurie. Yeah. Doc Lurie’s old car. Well, listen. Don’t let anybody take it out, see? I asked the boss if I could use it tonight and he said okay, see? So I just wanted to make sure none of you thieves took it out. If you want to go any place you can use my Rolls. Seriously, Joe, you want to do me a favor, you can put the chains on the Studie. Okay? Swell.” He hung up, and addressed Irma. “Well, that’s settled.”
“You can call Willard later,” she said. “I told him we’d call if we couldn’t go, so he’ll take it for granted we’re going.”
“What about liquor?” said Lute.
“Well, it’s Willard’s party. I should think he’d supply the liquor.”
“Oh, yeah? Do you know how much liquor costs at the Stage Coach? Seventy-five cents a drink, baby, and they won’t sell it to everybody. I don’t think Willard intends to supply the liquor, not at six bits a shot. I think I better make some gin and take a quart along, just in case. It wouldn’t be right to expect Willard to buy all the liquor and everything else for a party of twelve people.”
“Maybe there’ll only be ten.”
“All right. What if there is only ten? They have a cover charge of a dollar and a half or two dollars, and there goes twenty bucks already, not including ginger ale and White Rock, and sandwiches! You know what they charge for a plain ordinary chicken sandwich at the Stage Coach? A buck. If Willard gets away under forty bucks he’s lucky, without buying a single drink. No, I better make some gin. Or on second thought, there’s that quart of rye the boss gave me. I was going to save it, but we might as well use it tonight.”
“Oh, the gin’s good enough. You make good gin. Everybody says so.”
“I know I do, but gin’s gin. I think I’ll turn square for once in my life and take the rye. Maybe the others will bring their own, so we won’t have to get rid of the whole quart.”
“I don’t want you to drink much if you’re going to drive,” said Irma.
“Don’t worry. Not over those roads. I know. I’ll put the quart into pint bottles and keep one pint in my overcoat pocket when we get to the Stage Coach. Then the others will think I only have a pint and they’ll go easy. But I imagine everybody will bring their own, if they have any sense.”
“I imagine,” she said. “I’m going upstairs now and make the beds. I’ll see if the pants of your Tux need pressing.”
“Oh, God. That’s right. Do I have to wear that?”
“Now, now, don’t try and bluff me. You look nice in it and you know it. You like to wear it and don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Oh, I don’t mind wearing it,” he said. “I was just thinking about you. You’ll be so jealous when all the other girls see me in my Tux and start trying to take me outside. I just didn’t want to spoil your evening, that’s all.”
“Applesauce,” said Irma.
“Why don’t you say what you mean? You don’t mean applesauce.”
“Never mind, now, Mister Dirty Mouth.” She left.
What a girl, he thought, and resumed reading his paper; Hoover was receiving the newsboys for Christmas….
III
It was about two o’clock, U. S. Naval Observatory Hourly By Western Union time, when Al Grecco appeared in the doorway of the Apollo Restaurant. The Apollo was a hotel and restaurant. There had been a hotel on the site of the Apollo for close to a century, but the Pennsylvania Dutch family who had the restaurant before George Poppas took it over had not kept the hotel part open. Then when George Poppas, who actually was wearing those white Greek kilts when he arrived in Gibbsville, began to make money on the restaurant, someone mentioned that the building had been a hotel for nearly a hundred years, and George spent a lot of money on making the place a hotel again. The rooms were small and had a fireproof look about them, with steel beds and other furniture. The hotel was clean, the rooms were small and cheap, and the Apollo got a big play from salesmen who had their swindle sheets to think of. The John Gibb Hotel, Gibbsville’s big inn, was expensive.
Al Grecco was one of the few permanent guests of the Apollo. He had a room there, for which he paid nothing. Ed Charney had some kind of arrangement with George Poppas, in which no money changed hands. Ed wanted Al to be at the Apollo to receive messages and so on. Whenever there were strangers from other mobs in town on business, or friends who just happened to be passing through Gibbsville, they always looked up Ed Charney at the Apollo. And if Ed was not there, he wanted someone to be on hand, and that someone usually was Al Grecco.
Al had his hat on but was carrying his dark blue overcoat. There was not a customer in the place. Smitty, who was a taxi driver and two-bit pimp, was sitting at the marble counter, drinking a cup of coffee, but Smitty was always at the counter drinking coffee. George Poppas was standing behind the cigar counter. He looked as though he were sitting down, but Al knew better. George leaned with his fat hands folded, supporting himself on the cigar counter, and appearing to be in great pain. George always appeared to be in great pain, as though he had eaten, an hour ago, all the things that can give you indigestion. Al once had seen him in a crap game make fifteen straight passes and win over twelve thousand dollars, but he still appeared to be in great pain.
Loving Cup was behind the counter, and seemed to be the only waiter in the place. Loving Cup was about twenty, perhaps less; slight, with a bad complexion and a terrible breath. The boys were always kidding Loving Cup about his ears, from which he got his name. They were at least a third as long as his whole head, and stuck out. Also, the boys often had kidded Loving Cup about his lonely sex life, until one night for a gag they took him to the Dew Drop and paid for his entertainment. But when he
came downstairs Mimi said to them: “Well, you wise guys, this kid got more than any of you. Howdia like that? He’s the only man in the crowd.” And Loving Cup listened delightedly, his eyes bright and gleaming and wicked and small. From that night on the boys made no cracks about Loving Cup and his lonely sex life. They still referred to him as Loving Cup, and called him Bertha, but they had some respect for him.
Al did not speak to George Poppas. They had a mutual contempt for each other; George for Al, because Al was a minor member of the mob; and Al for George because George did not belong to the mob at all. They never spoke, except in crap games, when they confined their remarks to “You’re faded” and the other language of the game. Al placed his coat on a hanger and removed his hat, using both hands in taking off the hat so as not to disturb his hair.
He took the Philadelphia Public Ledger, which was lying on the counter in front of George. He sat down at the mob’s table, which was in the very front of the restaurant, in a corner just back of the front window, where various crustaceans were squirming about in a pool. Al looked at the front page and saw that that Hoover was going to entertain some newsboys for Christmas. He turned over to the sport pages.
“Hyuh,” said a voice. It was Loving Cup.
“Oh, hyuh, Loving Cup,” said Al.
“Two over? Bacon well done? Coffee?” said Loving Cup.
“No,” said Al. “Gimme the bill of fare.”
“What for?” said Loving Cup. “You can read the paper.”
“God damn it! Get me the bill of fare before I cut your heart out.”
“All right, all right,” said Loving Cup, running away. He came back with a menu and laid it beside Al’s right arm. “There.”
“What are you, a Jew or something? Didn’t they tell you it’s Christmas, or don’t they have Christmas where you come from? Say, where did you come from, anyway, sweetheart?”
“That’s my business,” said Loving Cup. “The turkey is all right. You want some of that? I thought you was having breakfast.”
“It’s Christmas, you lug,” said Al.
“Yeah, I know,” said Loving Cup. “What are you gonna have, or do I have to wait here all day while you spell out the words?”
“Crack wise, Bertha,” said Al. “I’ll have that a dollar and a half dinner.”
“What kind of soup you want?”
“I don’t want any soup,” said Al.
“It goes with the dinner, so you don’t have to pay extra. I’ll bring you the cream of tomato. I just seen the chef spit in it.” He jumped away as Al reached out for him. He went laughing to the kitchen.
Al read his paper. There was always some stumble bum from Fargo fighting in Indianapolis. Every time you picked up the paper and looked under Fight Results there was somebody from Fargo doing a waltz somewhere. Either they were all would-be fighters in that town, or else they just used the name of the town and didn’t come from there at all, like the Gibbsville Miners, the pro football team. Practically every man on the team was an All American, but they never heard of Gibbsville before they came there to play football. They all talked like Snake Eyes O’Neill, who came from Jersey City and was one of the mob. Snake Eyes never said r. Dollah. Fawd. Hoit. Boint. Thoid. Likka. Never said r. Al wondered where Fargo was. It was past Chicago. He knew that. They had one good boy from that town. Petrolle. Billy Petrolle, the Fargo Express. But the rest of them! God, what a gang of tankers they were. He wondered just what was the angle on there being so many fighters from Fargo. Maybe Ed would know. Ed could usually tell him when something puzzled him.
Ed had said he wouldn’t be down till around four o’clock. He had to spend Christmas with the wife and kid, God knows why. Al did not like to think of Annie Charney. The kid was swell; six years old and fat and healthy-looking. He wasn’t like Ed, but for the present more like Annie. She was fat and healthy-looking and blonde, like most Polacks. Ed didn’t care for her any more. Al knew that. Ed cared for Helene Holman, who was a torch singer like Libby Holman and sang at the Stage Coach. Ed really cared for Helene. He played around a little, but Al knew Helene was the only one he really cared for, and Helene really cared for him. With her it was slightly different, because nobody else would even look cockeyed at Helene as long as Ed cared for her, but even taking that into consideration Al knew Helene really cared for Ed. And she was good for him. You could tell when Ed and Helene were getting along. Ed was easier to get along with then. Tonight, or this after’, when Ed showed up at the Apollo, he probably would be in a bad humor. That was the way Annie affected him. Whereas if he had spent the day with Helene he would have been in a good humor. But Al knew that Ed wouldn’t think of spending Christmas with Helene. Ed was a family man, first and last, and that was the one day in the year he would spend with the kid, at home.
“Here,” said Loving Cup.
Al looked at the blue plate. “For a buck fifty I don’t call that much turkey,” he said.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Grecco? Is it too small?” said Loving Cup.
“Small? For Christ’s sakes. And wuddia say, how about giving me some white meat? If I’m gonna pay a buck fifty for turkey I wanna get some white meat, not this God damn dark meat.”
“Shall I take it back?”
“Sure, take it back,” said Al. “No, wait a minute. The hell with it, and the hell with you. You’ll take a couple hours.”
“That’s right, Mr. Grecco. It’s Christmas. You said so yourself just a minute ago.”
“Screw, bum,” said Al. Loving Cup pretended to pay no attention to him and dusted off the table cloth, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching Al, and when Al made a grab for his wrist Loving Cup leapt away. Then he snickered and went back to the counter.
Al usually had breakfast at this time, if he was up. He ate eggs and bacon for breakfast, had a small steak or something like that at seven in the evening, and then after midnight he usually ate what he called his big meal: a thick steak with boiled potatoes, piece of pie, and many cups of coffee. He was about five feet six with his high heels, and weighed about 130 pounds with his suit on. He had been with Ed Charney and eating regularly for four years, but he still did not gain much weight. Stayed about the same. His bones were small, and he was a thin little man in every part of him. He was born in Gibbsville, the son of Italian parents. His father worked on a navvy gang and supported six children, of whom Al was the third. Al’s name was not Al, and it was not Grecco. His real name was Anthony Joseph Murascho, or Tony Murascho, until he was eighteen. He had been kicked out of the parochial school for striking a nun when he was fourteen; carried newspapers, stole, was house-man in a poolroom, served a year in prison for burgling the poorbox in one of the Irish Catholic churches, and was arrested several other times: once when a false alarm was turned in (he had an honest alibi); once for attempted rape (the girl could not positively identify more than two of the six suspects); once for breaking the seals on a freight car (the railroad detectives listened to his father’s plea, and they had a good case against four other boys, so out of kindness to the old man they did not prosecute Tony); once for stabbing a colleague in a poolroom argument (no one, not even the victim, could swear Tony had done it; and anyway it was only a slight wound).
It was when he was eighteen, the same year of his life that he went to the county jail, that he got the name of Al Grecco. At that time he decided to be a prizefighter, and though he had a lingering touch of gonorrhea, he went into training and studied the sweet science under Packy McGovern, Gibbsville’s leading and only fight promoter. Packy told him he was a born fighter, had the real fighting heart, and that the clap was no worse than a bad cold. He made Tony lay off women, alcohol, and cigarettes, and do a lot of bag-punching. He showed Tony how to hold his elbows and how to keep his right foot in position so he could move his body backward without taking a backward step; that was footwork. He taught Tony how to scrape an opponent’s eyes with the palm of the glove, and also how to use his thumb, and also how to butt. He
of course instructed Tony never to enter a ring without first knocking a few dents into the aluminum-cup supporter which is supposed to be a protection against foul blows. You never know when you can claim foul and get away with it, and if the cup is not dented no club physician would dare allow the claim. Tony Murascho, who up to that time had been known only as a tough little guinny, was matched to fight a preliminary bout at McGovern’s Hall.
As it happened, Lydia Faunce Browne was assigned to write a feature story about that fight card. Lydia Faunce Browne was not a Gibbsville girl originally. She came from Columbus, Ohio, and had been in Gibbsville five years when her husband deserted her. He was younger than Mrs. Browne, who at the time of the desertion was forty-nine, and he left behind, besides Lydia, a large bill at the Lantenengo Country Club, another big bill at the Gibbsville Club, and several other bills. For a time Mrs. Browne eked out a living and paid a little on the bills by teaching auction bridge to the wives of the Jewish storekeepers, but she finally flattered Bob Hooker, editor of the Standard, into giving her a job on the staff of the Standard. She told him he was a real man for his editorial on his dead dog. She became the pest of the Standard office on her own hook, and was being built up big by Bob Hooker, who regarded himself as the William Allen White–Ed Howe–Joseph Pulitzer of Gibbsville. He began to regard Lydia as the local Sophie Irene Loeb, and paid her $35 a week, with three exceptions the highest journalistic salary in the town.
Lydia was always being sent down in the mines, much against the wishes of the miners, who think it is unlucky for a woman to enter a mine; or riding in locomotive cabs, or spending a night in prison, or interviewing visiting celebrities, such as George Luks (who later wanted to know where in the name of God they dug her up) and Rabbi Stephen S. Wise and Gifford Pinchot (five times). Lydia’s secret favorite adjective for herself was keen; and she went around looking keen during all her waking hours. She felt sorry for prostitutes on all occasions; she thought milk for babies ought to be pure; she thought Germany was not altogether responsible for the World War; she did not believe in Prohibition (“It does not prohibit,” she often said). She smoked cigarettes one right after the other, and did not care who knew it; and she never was more than five minutes out of the office before she was talking in newspaper argot, not all of it quite accurate. She had a hell of a time with the spelling of names.
