by Hank Janson
But he sure could play. Most of the folks there were theatre folks. They weren’t sensitive lilies. They weren’t the type who would swoon in ecstasy at the sheer beauty of counterpoints. They were tough, hard-living, experienced folk, with brittle faces and hides like steel.
They weren’t listening entranced for any other reason than that the music had really got them. And the reason it had got them was that the pianist was something special in the way of pianists.
I looked around. I nudged Dane again. ‘Where’s Burden?’ I asked.
He nodded towards Stella. ‘There,’ he said.
‘Burden,’ I whispered. ‘Not Stella.’
‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Right there.’
I didn’t believe it at first. That tough-looking guy couldn’t be Burden the lady-killer. But when I looked a second time it began to grow upon me. Sure, he was tough. He was as ugly as an ape. But there’s a savage strength about ugliness that appeals to some women. And there was something about Burden’s eyes, too. There was something about his eyes when he looked up into Stella’s face that counted. If you were a dame and looked into eyes like that you could forget his ugliness, sense only his rugged, primitive savageness. And ever since there were caves, dames have fallen for cavemen.
His appearance, too, fitted in with what I had heard about him. He was reckoned to be a tough guy. It was said that when Hugh Burden arrived in a nightclub, the manager rang up his insurance company, doubled his premium and sent for the doctor.
Burden was said to be the toughest guy south of Lake Michigan. He’d had more fights in nightclubs, listed more charges for assault than any other guy in theatre business. He had a pile of chips on his shoulder as high as the Woolworth building, and a gentle draught of criticism would send them tumbling.
He had a volcanic temper. He’d launch into action, batter and bash with his bare hands until his rage subsided.
And I was watching the guy right now. He was a successful playwright. He charmed women so they swooned at his feet, then he’d walk on them. He’d fight anybody on the strength of a causal remark. And right now he was playing Debussy with such exquisite tenderness and sensitivity everyone was listening with baited breath. Sure, he was some guy, this Burden. Some guy!
But not the type I like!
‘So that’s the guy,’ I breathed.
‘That’s him,’ said Dane bitterly.
‘Could do with having his face lifted,’ I said.
‘Use a crack like that and he’ll push your teeth down your throat,’ warned Dane.
‘If I didn’t bite his hand off at the wrist first,’ I retorted.
The lingering, soulful notes twined into a cascade of uniting treble and bass. The final chords rung out, throbbed on the air, softly sighed into silence.
There was a kinda satisfied sigh of relaxation and then everybody applauded. Burden was still looking into Stella’s eyes, his fingers still resting on the keys. She lifted her glass, sipped it, and then held it to his lips. When he drank he still didn’t take his eyes from hers.
Dane drew a deep, angry breath.
There was talking now, animated conversation and the clink of glasses. Sandwiches and fruit were being passed around.
Maybe Burden felt Dane’s eyes probing him. He looked up towards the doorway. He caught sight of Dane, and a sneer of malicious contempt was in his black eyes when he called out loudly: ‘Hiya, Dane! Come right over.’
It was a tough spot for Dane. He was there for the Chronicle. He had to take it or quit his job. He was man enough to take it, and I admired him for it.
He took me by the arm and steered me across to the piano. He looked at Burden steadily, and said: ‘Nice party, Hugh.’
‘That’s right,’ said Burden. ‘Nice party.’ There was a kinda mocking twist to his lips. His eyes slipped sideways to me. ‘I don’t think –’ he began.
‘Hank Janson,’ said Dane, ‘You’ve heard of him. I guessed you wouldn’t object –’
‘Sure not,’ said Burden heartily. He reached out a hand, gripped mine. It was a hand that was strong, like steel. And in his eyes there was that same mocking contempt that he had for everyone. ‘We must have a talk sometime,’ he said. ‘May I could use some of your newspaper experience to give a factual background to one of my plays.’
‘It could be mutual,’ I drawled. ‘Maybe I could use some of your factual experience as a background for some of my news.’
The chip on his shoulder was as high as a barn. His eyes hardened. There were a dozen ways he could have taken my reply. Six of them could have been unpleasant.
This was Dane’s party. It wouldn’t be fair to start trouble right away. I grinned easily as though I intended the reply as a compliment. Burden’s eyes lingered upon me for a moment and then the chip shrank to reasonable proportions. He half-turned around towards Stella and jerked his head. ‘You know Stella?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I know Stella.’ I nodded at her curtly. ‘Having a good time?’
‘Marvellous,’ she drawled. She didn’t take her eyes off Burden once.
Burden’s black eyes were full of malicious contempt as he said to Dane, ‘Meet Stella, Dane –’ Then he broke off quickly. ‘Oh, yeah. I forgot. You two used to know each other.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dane. He spoke through his teeth, and his cheeks were flushed. He looked at Stella. ‘How are you, Stella?’
‘Fine,’ she said abstractedly. ‘Just fine.’ She still kept looking at Burden like he was all the world to her.
‘Well, what say you boys get some drinks?’ said Burden. He looked around, called to one of the coloured maids. ‘Hey, Brown Sugar. Over here.’
She brought over a tray of glasses filled with green-coloured liquid. We each took one – Stella, Burden, Dane and me.
‘You’ll like these,’ said Burden. ‘A special. I invented it myself. Call it the Atomic Bomb.’
I sipped mine. It was good. It had enough sizzle in it to drive a rocket-plane half-way to the moon.
The coloured maid was still waiting. Burden waved his hand at her airily. ‘Help yourself, Brownie.’
Her eyes widened.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘Have a drink. This is a party, everybody’s eating and drinking.’
She still didn’t believe he was serious. She shook her head, smiling.
‘What’s this?’ grinned Burden. ‘Insubordination?’ He took the tray from her hands, put it on the piano. He poured the green-coloured liquid from one glass into another so that the glass was filled to the brim. He turned to the maid, holding the glass carefully.
‘There,’ he said indulgently. ‘Take a slug at this. It’ll make you feel better.’
She didn’t want it. But she hadn’t the courage to refuse. She sipped it, shuddered, pulled a wry face and held the glass away from her as though afraid it would explode.
‘Go on,’ urged Burden. ‘Drink it.’
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but somehow there was a dominating tone in his voice. And the maid noticed it. She looked at him, steeled herself and then drank. And he stood over her, watching her, making sure she drank it to the last drop. By that time her eyes were filled with tears and she was wanting to hang out her tongue. She excused herself quickly, took the tray and bustled out of the room.
‘I don’t go for this colour bar,’ said Burden loudly. ‘I figure all guys are equal. Why shouldn’t she enjoy the party like the rest of us?’
It was a laugh hearing that crack about all guys being equal. If ever a guy figured he was better than anyone else, it was Hugh Burden. You could tell that even while he was speaking. And just how he figured he was making the coloured girl enjoy herself by scorching her insides with liquor she didn’t want, I just couldn’t figure.
‘A real Democrat,’ I murmured.
‘What’s that?’ he growled.
‘You’re a darling,’ said Stella at the same time. For the
last few moments he hadn’t been looking at her. She couldn’t bear that. She wanted to regain his interest. She came around, slipped her arm in his and stroked the thick black hairs on the back of his wrist.
‘You played wonderfully, darling,’ she said.
‘Not bad at all, eh?’ said Burden with satisfaction.
I caught Dane’s eye. He jerked his head imperceptibly and drifted off. I trailed along after him. We left Burden and Stella staring into each other’s eyes, saying sweet nothings.
‘Another ten seconds and I’d have socked him,’ said Dane.
‘Listen to the philosopher,’ I jeered. ‘What the hell are you worried about, anyway? You’re sore, sure. He’s taken your dame. But if she’s that easy for some other guy, what are you a-worrying about?’
He stood stock still, looked at me thoughtfully and moistened his lips. ‘I’d just as soon sock you,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Go ahead and sock me. That’ll keep it in the family. We won’t have the drama critic fired from the Chronicle for socking the famous playwright.’
His eyes softened. He patted my shoulder. ‘Sorry, Hank,’ he said. ‘I guess I’m all mixed up.’
‘Forget it,’ I said.
There was a helluva lot of drinking going on. Spirits were flowing like water. Over in one corner, a fella was proving he could stand on his head. A gust of laughter came from another group of people, one of whom was giving a very good imitation of Neville Chamberlain. Somebody had switched on the radio and lots of folk were dancing.
A soulful-looking dame with closely cropped curly hair brushed against Dane as she tried to pass him with a glass in her hand.
‘Sorry,’ she said. She stopped. ‘Oh, it’s you, Dane,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you again.’
‘You’re looking swell,’ he said. ‘How are things going?’
The soulful eyes reflected worry. ‘Just about the same, Dane.’ She forced a smile.
Dane introduced me briefly. She was Dorothy Burden. She was the wife of Hugh Burden. That alone got me on her side immediately. Any dame married to that guy needed all the sympathy she could get.
‘Is Charlie here?’ asked Dane.
‘Come over and meet him,’ she said.
As we trailed along behind her, Dane whispered: ‘Charlie Skinner’s the guy she wants to marry.’
‘Ain’t one husband enough?’
‘She quit Burden three years ago,’ he said. ‘Two months of married life was enough. More than enough, I guess.’
‘Who’s Charlie Skinner?’
‘Nobody of importance,’ he said. ‘Real estate agent. Very little dough.’
‘That why they can’t get married?’
‘Burden’s the reason they can’t get married,’ he said. ‘Won’t let her divorce him. So there she is, dependent financially upon Burden, has to accept what little dough he gives her, and all the time she’s eating her heart out for Skinner.’
Skinner was sitting away in the corner by himself. He looked out of place and lonely. His eyes lighted up when he saw Dorothy and turned to dull suspicion when he saw we were with her.
‘You know Dane, don’t you?’ she said.
He nodded dourly. Then his eyes flicked to me.
‘Mr Janson is a friend of Dane’s,’ she said. ‘Just dropped in to get a bit of atmosphere, I guess.’
I shook hands with Charles. He was a tall, loose-limbed fella with a hank of black hair hanging carelessly across his forehead. He had a peculiar trick of talking with his mouth held wide open, hardly seeming to move his lips. He somehow gave the impression of being a schoolboy who’d grown up too rapidly, outgrown his strength and hadn’t acquired confidence in himself.
‘How’s business?’ I asked. Just something to say.
‘Bad,’ he said. His eyes wandered to Dorothy. It was as though he was frightened to say anything without first of all getting her unspoken consent.
‘Things always get bad about this time,’ I said conversationally. I felt I had to put this guy at his ease.
‘You know how it is,’ he said. ‘Folks decide to buy. Let you draw up a whole lot of papers and then they back out. All your time wasted.’
His eyes looked at Dorothy again, and she smiled softly. He smiled sheepishly. It was as though she had said, ‘Don’t worry, Charles. I love you. You don’t have to worry about anything.’
The strains of a waltz were filling the room, and conversation was balancing on a pin-point. I figured Charles was shy and wanted softening up. Dane could do that. I turned to Dorothy and said, ‘What say we kick this around?’
She slipped into my arms easily and she danced exceedingly well. After a coupla turns, she said: ‘You’re a friend of Dane’s?’
‘I’ve known him quite a time.’
She asked thoughtfully: ‘Do you think he’ll ever get a chance again?’
‘Another play?’
She nodded.
‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Throughout life everybody gets so many chances. If you miss out on them, you’ve lost them for good.’
‘Such a pity,’ she said. ‘Dane’s such a nice fella. If only Hugh –’ She broke off as though she’d been about to say something she shouldn’t have said.
‘If only your husband wasn’t so selfish, Dane would have had his chance,’ I finished for her.
She was silent for a moment, and then said: ‘You know about it, then?’
‘Yeah,’ I said bitterly. ‘You sure picked yourself a fine husband.’
I was surprised at the venom in her voice. She just couldn’t hold herself back. ‘He’s a swine,’ she said. ‘He’s an absolute selfish swine!’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ I said gently. ‘He won’t give you a divorce.’
‘He likes to torture me.’
‘I can see the way it is between you and Charles,’ I said sympathetically.
‘He knows it, too,’ she said bitterly. ‘That’s the only reason he won’t divorce me. Because he wants to see me suffer.’
‘How did you get here, anyway?’ I asked. ‘Did he invite you?’
‘Invite me! It was practically a command.’
It sounded an interesting situation. But if she was gonna talk it would be because she wanted and not because I pressed her. I just said: ‘Yeah?’ And waited.
‘Money,’ she said briefly. ‘He’s playing with us like a cat with a mouse. He worked through an agent, bought up the debentures on Charlie’s business. He can ruin Charlie at any time. And that’s just the way he likes it. He’s got the whip-hand. He won’t smash us, and he won’t let us get away. He just dangles us on a string, leaving us in perpetual doubt.’
‘And you have to do what he says, or else?’
‘I have to be nice to him,’ she said. ‘I have to attend his parties. He drives me as near breaking point as he dares.’
‘You missed your chance, lady,’ I said. ‘You should have stayed married to that guy. Put cyanide in his coffee.’
‘Maybe sometime I’ll even do that,’ she said. And once again I was shocked by the intensity of hatred in her voice. For one moment I almost believed that she would do it.
‘Charlie’s a nice guy,’ I said. I tried to be cheerful, change from the sullen tone.
‘Yes.’ She sighed and seemed to soften all over. ‘Charlie’s a real nice guy. If only …’ She broke off.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘If only he’d divorce you.’
‘Or if someone would kill him,’ she added, with sharp, sudden anger.
I laughed that off too. ‘Sounds like you’re gonna give me a story for my paper.’
She laughed then. ‘Stick around, Hank,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ll get that story.’
We drifted back to the corner where Charlie and Dane were discussing the previous week’s ballgame with animated agitation. But as soon as Charles saw Dorothy his eyes lighted up and he kinda edged himself between me and her as though afraid
I might take her away.
The party was getting really steamed up now. There was a fat guy near me, as broad as he was tall and about six deep in chins. His flabby cheeks were sweating and he was chuckling deep down in his belly as he unzipped the back of a girl’s dress. The zip was a long one, reaching almost to the base of her spine, and she was wearing nothing beneath the dress. She was annoyed with the fat guy. She didn’t mind the dress being unzipped, but he kept picking grapes from a fruit-dish and crushing them beneath his podgy thumb against her back so that the juice made her skin glisten.
She was kneeling down with a group of other people throwing dice. The fat guy’s attentions so annoyed her that finally she appealed for help. Two or three of her friends worked on the fat guy, spread him on the floor and with a penknife cut off every button of his clothing. They made a thorough job of it. For the rest of the evening, the fat guy was wandering around with a doleful look on his fat face, clutching his trousers tightly to his paunch and trying to persuade somebody to find him a needle and cotton.
Burden was showing how democratic he was. He was dancing with one of the coloured maids. The same maid he had forced to drink his cocktail.
I don’t know whether it was Burden’s democratic attitude or the cocktail that reduced to zero the gulf in society, but she didn’t act like a maid anymore. She was dancing with a kinda dreamy look in her eyes, resting her head on his chest and with one hand gently caressing the back of his neck. Somewhere, she’d lost the maid’s cap.
Stella was sitting by the piano, watching Burden with broody eyes. I saw Dane work around behind her and whisper something in her ear. He might not have been there for all the notice she took. He kept talking, and after a while he asked her a question. He asked the question about three times before she replied. She gave a kinda bored sigh and said just one word. I didn’t have to be a lip-reader to know what it was. She’d said ‘No’ as emphatically and definitely as it’s possible to use the word.
