So Little Time

by John P. Marquand

  “I’m not talking about the war,” Jeffrey said.

  “I did not say you were, Jeffrey,” Jesse answered. “I’m merely asking you not to.”

  Everything that Madge had said was true, but still he liked Jesse Fineman, perhaps out of habit. The place where they were sitting, downstairs at the Rockwell, was but terrible. The play that Jesse had bought and was going to try in Boston was but terrible, and so was the music that kept echoing all around them. And yet, Jesse was the one who understood that gift of Jeffrey’s long before he himself knew of it. Jesse had seen that Jeffrey knew how to take a play apart and put it together again, that he had a sense of dramatic construction. It was curious, since Jesse himself was completely lacking in that sense.

  “Jeffrey,” Jesse said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—What do you hear from Alf?”

  “I had a letter from him the other day,” Jeffrey said. “Alf’s in San Bernardino—San Bernardino, California.”

  “You should be ruthless with him,” Jesse said. “Is he after money?”

  Jeffrey did not answer.

  “Has he got a job?” Jesse asked.

  “Alf gets tired of them,” Jeffrey said. “You know Alf.”

  “That’s why I say you should be ruthless with him,” Jesse said.

  The music was flowing all around them. Now that Alf’s name was mentioned, Jeffrey realized that he would not have been there now if it had not been for Alf. Jeffrey remembered the suit that Alf had worn, belted in the back, a plum-colored suit with a yellow foulard tie.

  “He sold me my first car,” Jesse said. “That was 1919—November 1919.”

  Jeffrey was listening to the music, a tune from “The Red Mill,” so old that it was hardly decent to resurrect it. It had been old even before Jeffrey was grown up.… “In old New York, in old New York, the peach crop’s always fine.”

  “I remember the date exactly,” Jesse said again, and Jeffrey remembered too.

  It was the month after Jeffrey had come to New York and had taken a job in the City Room, down on Newspaper Row. “In old New York, in old New York, the peach crop’s always fine.” Alf always took a song, no matter what it was, and worked the thing to death. It was early November 1919, just after Jeffrey had learned that he had received ten thousand dollars from his grandfather’s estate. The estate had been divided between himself and Ethel, and Alf had been left out. “In old New York, in old New York, the peach crop’s always fine.”

  “I wish to God,” Jeffrey said, “they’d turn that music off.”

  “It’s interesting,” he heard Jesse say, “the effect. Now Jeffrey, in the first act, with the curtain. It’s a thought—perhaps there should be music offstage.”

  “In old New York, in old New York, the peach crop’s always fine.” It was exactly what Alf had been singing that day when he called on Jeffrey at the City Room of the old sheet.

  24

  Well, Hardly That

  The City Editor at that time was Lew Brown, for whom Jeffrey had always retained a great respect and liking. The boys in the City Room and the boys at Police Headquarters called Lew Brown a fish-eyed, stuck-up bastard, and they always said they weren’t going to stay there sweating their hearts out for any son-of-a-bitch who talked like a college professor, but they were afraid of Lew Brown. There wasn’t any loafing, and there wasn’t any sitting around chewing the fat in Lew Brown’s City Room. As far as anyone could tell, he never seemed to get around anywhere, but he knew the city inside out. Lew Brown was a Harvard man, which was something of a handicap, and he wore a Phi Beta Kappa key on his watchchain. He had been through Law School and he always said that law was a great foundation for newspaper work. When he finally got fired—they were hiring them and firing them very quickly in those days—he ran the Washington Bureau for another paper, and ended up, in the uncertain days of the Roosevelt administration when everybody sought avidly for news behind the news, as a syndicated columnist with an income of fifty thousand a year. He was a very able man.

  He hired Jeffrey because Jeffrey was a Harvard man himself and back from the war with previous newspaper experience. He first sent Jeffrey to help Art Swasey on the waterfront and two weeks later he pulled Jeffrey back to the office to work on rewrite, which was not a bad idea, because Jeffrey wrote clean copy fast.

  Jeffrey was doing rewrite at half-past six that evening when one of the copy boys told him that a guy was outside in the waiting room asking for him. Jeffrey could remember the yellow sheet of paper in his machine and the sounds of the other typewriters and the ringing of the telephones in the booths. The night shift was just beginning to come in and his job was very nearly over.

  “He’s a big guy,” the copy boy said. “He says he’s your brother.”

  The news surprised Jeffrey very much, for no one back at home had known where Alf was, when Jeffrey had been there last. Jeffrey had not seen Alf for so long that his ideas of what Alf was like had lost their definition. Although he was busy at the moment, he got up right away and walked to the uncomfortable cubicle that was known as “the waiting room.” The waiting room was just off the elevators lighted by a single globe on the ceiling and without much ventilation. It was furnished as uncomfortably as possible, presumably to discourage anyone’s waiting there. It was presided over by a sour unhappy girl with whom Alf was chatting when Jeffrey came in.

  “Listen, loveliness,” he heard Alf saying, “this is a hell of a dump for you and me to be in, loveliness.”

  The sour girl did not look so sour as Alf was speaking.

  “Loveliness,” Alf was saying, “put down that True Love Story Magazine. You don’t need it. I’m here now. ‘All I want is a little bit of love, just a little bit of love from you.’”

  You could see that she was a nice girl, and not used to being addressed in such a manner, but still she did not wholly mind it.

  For the first time in his life Jeffrey was able to look at Alf as though he were a stranger. He could see that Alf was noisy and that his clothes were in bad taste, and perhaps Alf experienced a similar feeling of unfamiliarity and was particularly boisterous because of it.

  “Hi, kid,” Alf said. “Well, by God, if it isn’t the kid.” He took Jeffrey by both shoulders and shook him. “This is my kid brother, loveliness. Mike and Ike, do we look alike?”

  Jeffrey wished that Alf would not make so much noise, and he hoped that they did not look alike, but still, something made him laugh. “Don’t mind him,” Alf said. “He’s slow, loveliness. Why didn’t you look me up, kid? This is a hell of a note, making me come here.”

  “How could I?” Jeffrey asked. “I didn’t know where you were.”

  Alf gave Jeffrey’s shoulders another shake.

  “It’s the same old kid,” Alf said. “God damn it, aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Yes,” Jeff said, “of course I’m glad.”

  “Well, act glad,” Alf said. “I didn’t put a tack in your pants, kid. Get your hat and let’s get out of here.”

  “I’m sorry, Alf,” Jeffrey said, “I’m busy, but I’ll be through in twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Alf shouted, “I park myself here for another twenty minutes? Listen kid, a man like me can’t wear his pants off on these chairs.”

  But Jeffrey knew that Alf would wait, and he was back in twenty minutes.

  “Alf,” he asked, “where do you want to go? There’s a little place to eat—”

  Alf took him by the arm and pushed him toward the elevator.

  “We don’t eat in any little place,” Alf said. “The car’s downstairs. I’ve got a date uptown,” and then in the elevator he began to sing, “In old New York, in old New York, the peach crop’s always fine.” The other people in the elevator stared at them, obviously thinking that Alf had been drinking.

  “What car?” Jeffrey asked.

  “My car,” Alf answered. “She’s a two-seater, and she’s a pretty little job.”

  “Get out!” Jeffrey said. “You d
on’t own a car!”

  “Well,” Alf answered, “it’s mine for tonight. We’re taking it to show a customer, and we’re going to buy him dinner. Come on, kid.”

  A new Buick runabout was standing on Park Row, close to the roaring traffic over Brooklyn Bridge. In the present it would have been an incongruous awkward sight, but back there it was so shining and beautiful that people slowed their steps to look.

  “It’s not a bad can,” Alf said. “Have you got a girl? You let me know and I’ll buzz you over sometime. It knocks them for a row, kid. There’s nothing like a car.”

  Madge and her family had moved to town by then and Jeffrey had been seeing too much of Madge, her family thought. Jeffrey had a brief sickening picture of Alf, with his purple coat that was belted in the back, taking him in that Buick to call on her, but in another way he was impressed by Alf.

  It was a warm night for November with a gentle west breeze that made the air and the streets clean and fresh. Alf said that he could get everything there was out of this can, and it was quite a can. Alf slouched behind the wheel and pulled his hat over his eyes. They made a U turn, and passed the old Post Office and turned uptown on Broadway. Lower Broadway was a sleepy place at that hour, but farther on there were more and more lights and more traffic and more pedestrians, but they did not bother Alf. Jeffrey wished he did not feel the way he did about Alf, secretive and anxious that Alf should not know too much about him, but there had been no need to be anxious. Alf did the talking, all about himself. Alf had been everywhere. Alf could land on his feet anywhere. He had been over with the Rainbow Division, and to hell with that. He had been a clerk in a store and he had hopped a train to Los Angeles. He had picked oranges in California and he had sold copies of Dr. Eliot’s Five Foot Shelf of Books, because he was a great salesman. Alf did not know why it was, but he could sell anything—books, cars, or anything—and it was easy, now that everyone had lots of money. They stopped for the traffic at Times Square, and then turned west.

  “Where are we going, Alf?” Jeffrey asked.

  He had been in New York for such a short time that the traffic and the electric signs around Times Square confused him, although he would not have admitted it. Alf stopped the car at the curb and a doorman in a bright blue coat ran toward them.

  “You’re a hell of a guy to work on a newspaper,” Alf said. “Don’t you know your way around? We’re going downstairs at the Rockwell. Give the nice man four bits, kid. Brother, watch the car.”

  It was strange having the past mingle with the present downstairs at the Rockwell. It was like the technique of a dramatic flash-back, fading lights, and twenty years earlier … and, in no time, there was the old Rockwell bar with its brass rail and the old beer steins and the dark oak tables and the grill in back where they did the steaks.

  “Hey, buddy,” Alf called to the headwaiter, “give us a table, bud.” And Jeffrey wished that Alf would not call the headwaiter “bud.” “We’ll have a drink, but we won’t order yet. If a gentleman asks for a Mr. Wilson, show him over here.”

  They sat opposite each other at a table in the corner.

  “What’s your snort, kid?” Alf asked.

  “What’s that?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Jesus,” Alf said, “can’t you speak English, kid? Waiter, the kid can’t speak English. Make it two side-cars, bud.”

  Jeffrey felt his face grow red.

  “Make mine a dry Martini,” he said, then he saw Alf stare at him, and he knew that Alf was sorry. The trouble was that their old relationship was gone, with nothing to take its place.

  “Kid,” Alf said, “you’re kind of different, but I always knew that you’d be quite a kid.” Then before Jeffrey could answer, he began humming again, “‘In old New York, in old New York, the peach crop’s always fine.’”

  “You’re in the money,” Alf said. “You’re pretty lucky, kid.”

  Of course Jeffrey knew that Alf was referring to their grandfather’s estate. He wanted to tell Alf that he thought it had not been fair, but Alf stopped him before he could start.

  “Forget it,” Alf said, “I suppose you’ve heard a lot about me, kid.”

  “What about you?” Jeffrey asked. Alf was looking at him, still smiling.

  “Old Nestleroade at the bank talked, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeffrey said.

  Alf’s expression changed, and he sighed.

  “Well,” he said, “forget it, kid,” and then the drinks came, and whatever it had been that Alf wanted him to forget, Alf seemed to have forgotten himself. He stood up and waved his napkin.

  “Hey, Jesse,” he called, “come and get it, Jesse.”

  You could almost create that effect right now with lights and that tune from “The Red Mill.” Jesse Fineman was walking toward them, downstairs at the Rockwell, and he looked much the same then as he did now. Perhaps his indigestion had always kept Jesse thin. Jesse had been wearing a blue double-breasted coat and a shirt with a blue-and-white-striped collar and even then he carried a cane.

  “Your car’s outside, Jesse,” Alf said. “Right off the floor this morning, and believe you me, you won’t regret it, Jesse, and this is my kid brother. Jeff, shake hands with Mr. Jesse Fineman. My brother’s in the newspaper game.”

  Jeffrey wished that Alf would not talk so loudly, but Mr. Fineman did not appear to mind.

  “I’m glad to meet you,” Jesse Fineman said. “I was in the newspaper business once myself.”

  “Hey, bud,” Alf called to the waiter. “Bring the minoo. Take a look at Mr. Fineman, kid. He’s somebody for you to eat with.”

  “Oh, come now,” Jesse Fineman said, “hardly that.”

  “You don’t know who you’re eating with,” Alf said. “Jesse Fineman’s in the theatrical game.”

  “Hardly that,” Jesse Fineman said, “only in a small way.”

  Back in those days, Jesse could not have helped selling himself if he had tried. Alf was selling the car all through dinner, and Jesse was selling himself. Jesse was saying that he needed the car if he had to pass the week end with stage personalities. When you were dealing with stage personalities, Jesse said, it was necessary to do things right. If the Old Man sent him around to see George Arliss, for instance—good old George, a truly great actor and a grand man—and sometime he must tell them what he said to George and what George said to him at a party that Margaret Anglin had given (dear Margaret)—why, it would make all the difference if he could take George out for a ride. And Julia and Ina, they liked to have you ride up in a car when you went to see them—he meant Julia Sanderson and Ina Claire, of course; he just unconsciously referred to them by their first names. When he talked to Ina about a new vehicle, it would help to take Ina for a spin. And Walter Hampden liked motoring, and someday Jesse would tell them something perfectly killing about Walt that happened backstage at the Little Theater. Some night they must all go to the Little Theater. All he had to do was to ask for the house seats.

  Later, Jeffrey knew that it was impossible for Jesse to have had more than a nodding acquaintance with any of these people, and that certainly Lee Shubert and Florenz Ziegfeld would not have known him if he had handed them their hats … but at the time, that monologue had the scintillating effect that Jesse intended.

  It must have been in the middle of the dinner that Jeffrey made up his mind to speak about what he was writing. He was eating lobster, and Jesse Fineman was eating a mutton chop, and Jesse had been telling just how he had been a newspaper man once himself. Jeffrey supposed that he must have felt toward Jesse as one feels toward anyone who has the power to do a favor, and he knew that his voice sounded strained.

  “I wonder if you would mind giving me a little advice, Mr. Fineman,” Jeffrey said. His words seemed to make Jesse Fineman watchful and Jeffrey reached for his glass and took a quick swallow of water. “That is, if it wouldn’t bother you. I have an idea for a play. I don’t know how I got it, but I’ve worked on it
in my spare time.”

  He stopped and tried to laugh. He could see Alf frowning at him because Alf was selling a car to Mr. Fineman and he did not want anything to interfere with it.

  “Everybody on a newspaper is always writing something, I guess,” Jeffrey said. “I guess you know that as well as I do. Well, I’ve written a sort of play.”

  Alf told him not to bother Mr. Fineman, and what was he doing, trying to write a play? But Jesse Fineman had been nice about it, not that he was in the least interested, but still, he was polite. Jesse drew a pigskin wallet from his pocket and produced a printed business card.

  “We’re rather crowded with scripts just now,” he said, “but if you call sometime, I shall be glad to look it over personally.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you,” Jeffrey said. “I hope it isn’t asking too much.”