Big Man, A Fast Man

by Appel, Benjamin

  Next thing I knew the fat blonde was asking me for a match. To make the big guy with her jealous. The tried-and-true technique. The guy was drunk, mumbling all the time he wanted to go somewhere quiet so he could talk. It was too noisy for him. Well, in all of two seconds we were friends. First, we were three friends. Then we were four. This other blonde, she was young. With a hard mean mouth on her. Coralene was her name. The fat blonde was Sandy. And what with all the introductions, the big guy introduced himself. Claimed his name was John Smith. “My name’s Smith too,” I said, “and isn’t that a coincidence?”

  I don’t think we need so many details about this adventure, Billy. I wish you would tell me more about yourself and Edy Kincell and her father’s reactions to his resignation.

  These details I have a reason. I’m not talking loose because I’m drinking your whiskey. I have a reason. Did you ever go down into the hole? I mean the big hole where you see yourself just as you are? It’s a pit, this life. That’s what I did that night with li’l Coralene. No more expression on her face than on a piece of stone. She gave me the creeps. I need a drink when I think of her. Here’s mud in your eye. I told her to scram but she wouldn’t. I was dressed too good. Clothes make the man and make the wallet. That’s what a dame once told me when I was a helluva lot younger. Before the war. She was a bird cage operator in Chicago, a smart dame. She used to read novels in her free time. She worked at this King’s Palace joint in Chicago where the bums flocked at midnight. The cuckoo hour when two drinks sold for the price of one. She wanted to know what I did to defraud the public. She guessed I was a salesman. An ambulance chaser, a stock salesman, a whole lot of things. See, I was making close to a hundred a week working for Harry. Big money in those days. I asked her if she was a college girl. But her college was the same as mine. Hard Knocks. I took her out and when I told her I was a labor organizer, that dame knew the whole labor history of the town. The Haymarket bombing. The Pullman strike. Clear down to the Memorial Day Massacre at Federal Steel. That’s one company I’ll never forget. Federal Steel in Youngstown where I was with Annabelle. Hah, I see you perked up. You’re curious about her? She’s the one dame I ever really loved. The hell with it. Where was I? Yeh, this bird cage operator. She was a lulu. Do you know what Chicago means in Indian? She knew. Means garlic. She knew who the big statue was over the Loop. Ceres, the goddess of grain. This bird cage operator was a scholar on the side, God, isn’t it funny? How even the whores are different when you’re young. When you’re young, Maggie.

  Billy, since we’re on the subject. The pattern of women in your life is a consistent one. The women you were interested in, whom you might have married were all smart women. Barbara and Olga in McKeesport. Edy Kincell, your wife. I would guess that Annabelle was also a smart, intelligent woman.

  Yeh, Freud?

  Your mother was a smart woman, Billy.

  Well, Freud, this Coralene was smart, too. Money smart. We ended up at a table. The four of us. She was Ceres, the goddess of money. A statue. Her flesh was warm but she was just a statue, breathing all right but dead. Blind. If she had an eye it was that mean little mouth of hers. I asked her what happened when she got laid. She said to behave yourself. I asked her how did you get under her skin? She said to behave yourself. The other blonde relaxed. We were spending money like water, me and John Smith. But nothing relaxed li’l Coralene except the sight of that green paper money. Then, we all left and the big guy and Sandy said good night and I went off with li’l Coralene to one of those hotels. Those riding academies. It was up on the second floor. To reach it you went through a passageway like a subway tunnel, and up on the second floor there was an old man reading a paper. Wore canvas suspenders, he did, like a farmer but had a face like a rat. We signed the register, Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, and went down a corridor. The God damn doors so close together it was like a cell ward. Li’l Coralene unlocked one of those doors and we went inside. Right away she wiggled out of her dress, hung it up in the closet. I had to sit down, all that whiskey, it got me. I felt like I was made of solid lead. She pulled the cover from the bed, stretched out. A knock-’em-dead smile on that mean mouth of hers. “Smitty, how about some ittsy-bittsy loving?” That’s what she said. Babytalk. Christ, it made my hair stand on end.

  There she was, naked on that bed babytalking. I don’t know what I expected? Maybe I expected she was a fake or something under her dress. An Eighth Avenue whore. And here she was babytalking. I yelled at her to talk like the bitch she was. She cursed me and I had to laugh. For I’d gotten under her skin at last. Hurt her pride in herself as a piece of goods. Here she kept a sharp eye on what she sold. Kept it locked up while the sucker bought the drinks, but once she uncovered it she expected action, what passed for love with her. Else why the babytalk?

  The names she called me. She knew ‘em all. But the one that hurt was old bum. Hell, I don’t mind bum. But old bum. I calmed her down by handing her a ten spot for a bottle of whiskey. She put on a robe and went out. When she got back we went to work on that bottle but I couldn’t knock myself out. That whiskey was like so much water. All I could think of was Edy. Poor Edy alone in the hotel, that whole miserable night. I even got to talking about Edy with that naked whore. With li’l Coralene who’d heard God knows how many men yacking about their wives and everything else, and not giving a good damn. Only caring about the names printed on that green paper. Mr. Five Spot. Mr. Tenner. Mr. Twenty, now there’s a real important name but not half as important as Mr. C-Note. Naming names, who the hell cares. What did she care that I was yacking about Edy who’d always been straight with me? Funny thing, when I saw she wasn’t really listening like she was that God damn Ceres statue, I got to talking what was in my head. For the kicks. I told her Art had to resign. I told her about Harry Holmgren in Cleveland. How I’d go out there and talk to him about Art resigning, and get his support. And fly to L.A. and get Roy’s support. And Leo Shafer’s support. I told her I’d put so much pressure on Art, he’d have to step down for the good of the union. Named names. That’s what I did. And all she said was, “Smitty, ain’t you drunk enough?” I had to laugh. I had to tell her my real name, Billy Lloyd. And all she said was, “Let’s get laid, Smitty.” All she said was, “Ittsy-bittsy good li’l whammy.” Hah hah, ain’t that rich, ain’t that something? She heard nothing. A statue with tits and blue eyes. Blind, dead, down in the pit. And me with her.

  Whiskey’s tricky stuff. You can get drunk on one shot sometimes. That night nothing helped. That God damn room in that riding academy. Yacking about Art and Edy and Jim. She didn’t hear me. She heard nothing but I heard everything. I heard my whole life. I heard their voices. I heard them. She heard nothing. “Let’s get laid, Smitty,” was all she knew. I yelled I wasn’t Smitty, I was Billy Lloyd. I must’ve been half-nuts or something for I held up my hands and yelled, “I’m Billy Lloyd, look at those hands. The hands of a guy who worked his whole life.” She put one of my hands on her breasts. “Hands, Smitty. Let’s play hands.” I pulled my hand away from her dumb breast. And all those voices, I heard them. Filling that whole room so God damn loud. Edy crying like a baby. And Jim talking like he’d talked on the beach on that island, how the world was sitting on the edge of the grave. And Shafer saying there’s nothing like a heart-to-heart talk. All those voices talking. That statue, that Coralene, she heard nothing. Only, “Smitty, let’s stop drinking.” Only, “Smitty, let’s get laid for a change.” Babytalking she was, ittsy-bittsy. Nothing real in her, a statue. Then something happened. That whiskey did a flip. Reverse English. And who was the guy for Art’s job? Me, nobody else. Me, a guy with his feet on the ground. Not that God damn Christ on a cross. Wanting to put wings on the working stiffs like a flock of angels which they’re not and never will be. I felt not good but okay. Let her babytalk, let her ittsy-bittsy. Why she babytalked was no secret. A bitch gets drunk and forgets she’s a bitch. Thinks she’s the same kid who gave it away for free. Hah, hah, that’s the tricks of the devil for you. S
oon as I laid her, soon as that hot poker went out of me. That’s another trick. Don’t kid yourself. Just a trick, not black or white, saint or sinner. What the hell am I talking about? Oh, yeh, soon as I laid her I knew I’d been tricked. Knew it right away when she said, “Smitty, ittsy-bittsy.” I knew it then. Knew I was nothing but some bastard by name of Smitty. Some guy with no name, no face, no heart of my own. Because even though Art was a bastard, Edy was his daughter and my own wife.

  It all came clear to me, and I’ll tell you something else. I married the boss’s daughter and knew what the hell I was doing. I knew it down in New Orleans when Edy brought me the bad news from her old man. I played myself up big in that southern campaign. The big hero invading the South. Baltimore, Atlanta, Birmingham, here I come. And the funny God damn thing, I was something big in that southern campaign. Hell, when I got up at my first meeting in Baltimore and said, “You whites keep thinking white. You colored keep thinking colored but when it comes to your job you better start thinking together …” I was something. And I was something in Birmingham where the Ku Kluxers beat me up. So I beat ‘em up, the bastards, with my hired goons. But just the same when you take a mouthful of hard knuckles for the sake of a bunch of guys you don’t know from a hole in the ground, you’re something. Like a soldier in combat. I never was in combat but if I’d been, I would’ve been ready to die. Not because I was a dumb hero but because I was fighting with guys I knew. That’s how it was with me down South. I was fighting not so much for union recognition but for something. Call it what you want. A new deal. Call it give the colored guy a break. That Birmingham town with its steel mills. It was like McKeesport. Only bigger. It made me think of the old days when I was just a kid. It was South but it was steel. That Red Mountain’s nothing but a hill of iron ore so they stuck this statue of Vulcan on top of it.

  Billy, you wanted to say something about Edith Kincell in New Orleans.

  Count on you to remind me. Aw, let’s have a drink. Poor Edy. She came down there, wearing a white dress, with her father’s hatchet hidden in it. And me taking it right between the eyes. Art Kincell’s orders. Pull out. Pull out with all of Jim’s organizers or else. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I’d put too much blood and sweat into that campaign. “The hell with your father!” I hollered, “this is a dirty sell-out and I quit and if you got anything in you, you’ll quit too.” Yep, no hero could’ve sounded off more holy than me. Hell, my wings was scraping the clouds. I only let up when she began to cry. That dropped me down to earth all right. With a bang. I began to cry myself. Because I knew I wasn’t quitting Art. Not me. So I cried and I had a right to cry. A whining no-good bastard without the guts when it came to the clinch. And that girl was sorry for me. I was a hero to her. And I needed her in that sell-out town of New Orleans. Before I knew it she was in my arms, both of us crying and she trying to calm me. Oh, God, that poor little kid. That’s all she was in New Orleans, and I needed her. Sure, I needed her. But behind that sad loving face of mine, something that was greedy, was yelling to beat the band. Yelling this was Art’s own daughter in my own arms. Yelling at the turn of luck that’d given her to me when I was down on the bottom. Art Kincell’s pride and joy.

  That big fool. That big fat fool. He would’ve been alive today if he’d gone through with it and resigned. He said he’d resign. Aw, why should I blame him? Edy was right. The union was his life and there we were ganging up on him. Harry and Roy and me. Even Shafer. Even his own daughter.

  Resign, resign, resign. He must’ve felt like Christ Himself with all of us turned Judas. He said he’d resign and all the time he was figuring he’d pull a fast one. All he did was put himself in a blind alley. Gives me the presidency on a silver platter. Give, give, give. There’s a great word. What he gave me was a lifetime of living with his daughter. She backed me at the trial but God Almighty, do you know what it is to live with a woman poisoned like that? It’s in her mind I pulled some kind of a fast deal.

  Did you?

  You bastard, what the hell do you mean by that?

  Don’t get angry, Billy. You’ve got to admit Art Kincell’s suicide note implicated you in the murder of Jim Tooker.

  What’d you expect? For him to leave me his gold watch? Sure, he blamed me. Had to blame somebody. Here he thought he’d gotten away with it but he hadn’t. When his gangster pals who had set up the job began blackmailing him, he knew he was sunk. He should’ve given ‘em what they wanted. The whole God damn union. So it leaked. Somebody tipped off Washington. Your guess is as good as mine.

  His note said, and I remember the words exactly: “I would not have been in this spot if some other man than Billy Lloyd was my adviser.”

  What else could he say? Want him to blame himself? I’m almost sorry for that poor bastard. Like I said at the trial. He wanted to save something of his reputation. When you’re a big man you want to look good when the time comes to kick off. You want to look good in the history books. If he’d followed my advice he would’ve been alive today and so would Jim. But he didn’t. He couldn’t let go of the union. It was his life.

  Okay, there you have it. The whole story, straight. It makes you think. All this talking here, day after day. What’s the answer? Where did I go wrong? Not that I went wrong. What’s the answer? Christ, what’s the answer? You do this or do that, one thing or another and you’re on the road for keeps. My conscience is clear. My conscience is clear on Edy, too. She loved me and I loved her. So she happened to be Art’s daughter. I was straight with her. Maybe if we’d had a couple of kids. Poor Edy. Nothing’s more terrible for a woman than getting old and no kids to lean on. The years go, the years go. I had my job. I was busy. I had my work. Traveling up and down. Peace, labor peace. I sold it like any other line of packaged goods. Art Kincell’s personal rep. That was me. The son-in-law. Big Billy, Billy with the big smile. A favor for a favor. A man with his job’s got all he wants. But a woman like Edy. She dyed her hair when the gray began to show. Poor Edy. She wanted children and didn’t have none. Blamed herself. She began to go in for expensive jewelry like all these dried-up women who got no kids. Aw, I’ll tell you the truth. I shouldn’t have married her. I should’ve married Annabelle down there in Youngstown, Ohio, when I was still a young guy. That’s twenty-five years ago. A long time to remember a dame. Who remembers? Not me. Only when I get a few drinks in me. What’s the answer?

  I’m no saint. I’ve pulled fast ones. I used my own wife to get her own father to cut his throat. I’m big enough to see it from her angle. But one thing I never forgot was the rank and file. Hell, go and forget Shenandoah, McKeesport.

  What about Youngstown? I read about the famous strike you led there, Billy.

  That was the nineteen thirties for you. Strike, strike, strike. You don’t fool me mister. What you want to know about is Annabelle. The hell with you and what’s the diff. I can see it now so clear. I can see it now. That’s where I made it for myself. Made my bed, like my mother used to say. What was I? Twenty-five, twenty-six? Youngstown, Ohio. The whole world in front of me. Getting off the train with Tim Brannigan. All of us cocky, spitting in the wind. Why not? We’d come to Youngstown to knock off one of the giants. Federal Steel. Recognize the union? Not Federal. Holding the fort for God and country and to hell with the CIO and the New Deal. Strange how that town, one God damn town can be the town of your life. Your whole fate settled there but you never know it at the time.

  I saw her for the first time when all of us organizers met. She was the only woman in the room. The rear room behind Stanislaw’s Café. Our headquarters. A blond girl. One of those blond girls who look like they take a shower twice a day, every hair in its place. She had thick heavy hair and gray eyes. She could make the best midnight snacks there ever was. Her job was to organize the women’s auxiliary. I’d never seen her but I’d heard about her. A college grad, a red-hot Communist from New York. That’s what I’d heard, and I thought it might as well be me as the next guy. I’m giving it
to you straight. I got to talking big, showing off. I was a cocky kid. After all I was Tim Brannigan’s assistant. The number two man in Youngstown.

  When Tim got on the Federal situation, how it was going to be a last-ditch fight in Youngstown and every town Federal had a plant and how the cops’d be tough, that was my cue. “We’ll be tougher,” I said and lifted my hand above the table in that room for all of them to see. Pure ham, that hand. The fingers all separated and me saying, “You can break any one of ‘em but try and break it now.” Making a fist for all of ‘em to see. Solidarity forever. Pure ham. It wasn’t Tim Brannigan’s dish. To this day I remember the way he looked at me. He was a hard rock. Been a coal miner like so many of those first steel organizers. Me and my big fist. That kind of craperoo was okay for the home town boys. Fine for a dame. Annabelle, she was looking at me with a li’l smile. She’d heard about me, too. I’d made a name for myself. The big organizer. Billy Lloyd, the hero of the working class. That was me to Annabelle.

  That same week we went to my rooming house. The rooming-house lady kind of stared at us but I said she was my wife. Annabelle was jittery. She tried to look like a wife and looked like a scary girl. We went up to my room and she said she shouldn’t have come. She was right, too. That town was thick with newspaper men come to report the CIO versus Federal. Like a heavyweight fight, it was. The whole country watching. A situation like that, you got to be careful of the press, the headlines. And the juiciest headline of ‘em all is lovenest. You can imagine. Extra, extra. Read all about Billy Lloyd and his red sweetheart. I hated to think what Tim Brannigan’d say if he found out. That strike was going to be a rough one and here I was risking headlines about red lovenests. But I was young then and I was hot for her. She was different from the girls I’d known. A college girl, soft-spoken. She was class. A blonde with class and I was hot for her. Christ, let’s face it. I was used to getting my own way with the girls I took out. The girls that’d go to a room with you. I was rough with that girl. I didn’t know any better. Soon as we were alone I grabbed her. She started trembling but I had to go for her breasts right away. Romance, that was me. Like a running dog. Only wanting to get her on the bed, and her frightened at my speed. But hell, wasn’t I the great organizer, the hero of Johnstown and Duquesne? “Billy,” she whispered like a little girl and me hard as nails. “Isn’t this what you want, what we both want?” — “Billy,” she whispered. And me, “Don’t ask me if I love you. Of course I love you and time I organized you.” And her eyes, those gray eyes of hers not sharp any more but full of love for me. The hero of the working class. Giving her the same line I gave the waitresses and the whores.