The boss was a gent about thirty-six, and single. And in love with Ann.
“Don’t ask personal questions,” she said.
“I won’t if you won’t. Is it because the folks wouldn’t like you to marry a non-Armenian?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “That’s old-fashioned.”
“Not in this house,” I said. “Nor in Sabazian’s, nor a dozen others I could name you.”
She regarded me steadily, the fingers of her right hand drumming quietly on the arm of the chair. “Is that what you’re thinking of doing?”
I shook my head. “Not at the moment. But the time might come.”
Mom came in from the kitchen, then, and she had the check in her hand. She took it over to show it to Ann. She said, “For furniture, he tells me.”
Ann stared at it, and at me. “Lee, what happened?”
I smiled at her. I smirked. “Don’t ask personal questions.”
My mother said, “He says if we don’t promise to spend it, Saturday, he’s going to burn it.”
“Lee, is it good?” Ann’s voice was excited.
“Natch.”
“Isn’t he foolish?” Ma said. “He’s crazy.”
“I think he’s wonderful,” Ann said, and came over to give me a kiss.
A few minutes before, she’d been dog tired, all beat out. But now a shopping trip loomed and she was a new girl. Women …
It got to be six-thirty; Papa wasn’t home, and I phoned the store. There was no answer.
“He’s probably on the way,” Ann said. “We may as well put the food on the table.”
At six-forty-five, he still wasn’t home, and we started to eat. He came in a little after seven, his eyes dead, his face heavy.
He sat down at the head of the table and looked directly at me. “Now it’s Sam you’ve got in trouble, again, eh?”
A quick resentment moved through me. “Sam? I don’t get it.”
“I suppose it’s not connected, these deals you’re working on, and that Turk and these — crooks who have been bothering Sarkis.”
“Not that I know of. What kind of crooks? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Papa.”
He shook his head. “When you were kids, together, it was always Levon that was the leader. It was always Levon who broke the windows, who got Sam to help him steal from the dime store, who got the idea to start the Kaprelian gang. Always you’re leading Sam. And now these gun men, these thugs of Mr. Dykstra’s — ”
“Easy, Papa,” I said. “Sam worked with Ducasse long before this Miss Lynne ever came into the store. And it was Sam’s idea going up to see Ducasse.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“But I do,” I said, and my voice was high.
“Levon — ,” Mama said, and “Lee — ,” Ann said and my father’s face was stone.
His voice was a harsh monotone. “Don’t raise your voice to me. Not while you are under my roof. Not ever.”
I stood up. “I’m getting out from under this roof.” I stumbled over the chair, getting out, and then I was in the hall, and Mom came after me.
“Lee, please — don’t — ”
I shook free of her hand and went out. Out the front door, and into the miserable night, without even a topcoat. My car was in back, and I didn’t go back for it. I just walked, burning.
A sock in the teeth from Miss Lynne and a punch below the belt from my father was a little too much for one day. I walked down to Eastern Avenue, and here was a bar, on the triangle, a cut-rate joint catering to the cut-rate trade, Mulligan’s.
I went in and bought one of the three-quarter-ounce shots they sell for fifteen cents. With any mix you want. I wanted none.
Had that, and three others. And then I went to the phone in the corner. No booth, and enough conversation in the rat-trap to make me raise my voice.
Sarkis answered, and I asked for Sam.
“Who is it, please?”
“Lee,” I said, and he said, “Just a second, Lee.”
Sam’s “Hello,” and I said, “I’m down at Mulligan’s. Get down here, will you?”
“Trouble, Lee?” he asked.
“I’m not in trouble. But I hear you are, and Papa blames it all onto me. I want to get the dope, if it’s not too much.”
“Come on over. I’ll call your dad. What the hell you doing down at Mulligan’s?”
“Waiting for you. I don’t want to come up there. I don’t think your dad would like to hear all the things you’ve probably got to tell me. I’ll wait here.”
“Are you drunk?” he asked. “Look, Lee, if you want to see me, you know where I live. I’m not in a mood for all this cute stuff.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be up.”
It was about eight blocks, and my car was only three blocks from here, but I walked over to Sam’s. With four short shots of Mulligan’s cut-rate in me. There was a raw dampness to the wind off the lake and a nausea nibbling me.
Sam opened the door as I came onto the porch. “Come on up to my room,” he said. “Where the hell’s your coat?”
“At the cleaners.” I followed him up the steps to the second floor, and down a short hall to his room. A big portrait of Berjouhi stared at me from the dresser.
He closed the door after we went in, and the light was on. He sat on the bed and I sat in a wicker armchair near the window. I told him what my dad had said, at the dinner table.
“He and my dad,” Sam said. “Two of a kind. So, that prayer rug maybe makes him think you and I are working together.”
“And what about the prayer rug,” I said. “What’s your version of that story?”
His broad face was wondering. “Why? Have you got a version, too?”
I gave him mine, including the Mann Act and statutory rape furbelows.
When I’d finished, he was shaking his head. “Carl Lieder, huh? You sure move in fast company.”
“He’s no faster than Ducasse was, and I’m working only indirectly with Carl.”
“But directly with that blonde, huh? I don’t blame you there.”
“You know her? You’ve seen her?”
“She had us pick up some rugs. I’ve seen her in my dreams, ever since.” His glance went to the top of the dresser. “But that’s where my heart is, up there. You and Berjouhi had a fight, huh?”
“She had a fight,” I said. “I listened. Don’t you want to talk about your trouble, Sam?”
‘Why?” His eyes considered me without interest.
“Maybe it’s mixed up in my business.”
“And maybe not. Henri and I sold a rug to Dykstra. Now he’s screaming. He wants his money back. I only got half of it, originally, half the profit, that is. And most of that’s gone. And this Ismet Bey is the cookie who told Dykstra he got robbed, I think.”
“Why should he do that?”
“He was a little annoyed with us, I guess. Thinks we got his damned prayer rug and won’t sell it back to him. The guy used to peddle rugs, before he learned how much dough there is in cults, out in that loony town.”
“Have you ever seen the prayer rug, Sam?”
He shook his head. “The old man thinks it’s something, though. Maksoud of Kashan, he’s trying to tell me. I don’t believe it.”
“Ducasse never owned it, then?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t what you’d call a confiding partner.”
I said, “You told me he did, once, when we went up to see him, that noon. Why did you change your story, now, Sam?”
He colored and his broad face was stiff. “Quit making noises like a cop, Lee. I’ve had enough, with that Waldorf in my hair, the last couple days.”
“And Dykstra out to get you,” I said. “You sure pick the wrong guys to ream, Sam.”
“He doesn’t scare me,” Sam said. “He made his. While you and I were toting rifles, Dykstra made his mint. I’ve got no sympathy for him, and he doesn’t scare me at all.” A pause. “How did the blonde sta
sh on to the prayer rug?”
“It’s Carl Lieder’s. He bought it in Los Angeles, when Bey took off, fleeing the cops, according to Claire.”
“Claire?”
“The blonde,” I said. “That’s her name-Claire Lynne.”
“First names we use? You’re in there?”
“None of your God damned business,” I said. I stood up. “I guess there’s nothing you really want to tell me, is there, Sam? We’re not exactly buddies, any more, are we?”
“When Berjouhi marries me, we’ll be buddies, maybe,” Sam said. “You’re too lucky with the women.”
“That’s eating you, is it? I thought there was something.”
“That’s eating me,” he said. “Bey knows you’ve got the rug, now, doesn’t he?”
“I guess he does. Don’t go out after dark, Sam. I hear this Dykstra works best, then.”
“I’m scared,” he said. “I’m trembling. Keep your nose clean.”
I nodded, studying him, trying to see the guy I used to know, the catcher on the baseball team and the center on the football team and the kid who’d cried when I went off to the service. I’d gone first.
I couldn’t see the lad in that man sitting on the bed, his eyes contemptuous on mine. Maybe he’d had a bad day, like I’d had. Maybe the real Sam would come through when the heat was off.
If the heat came off. And if Berjouhi married him. I was just a man he was projecting his frustrations on, at the moment.
I went out, without saying ‘good-by.’ I was going down the walk to the street when a car pulled up at the curb, a Ford Club.
Berjouhi came out of it, as I reached the walk. She looked at me and nodded, and went up the walk to Sam’s house, her chin high.
Nobody loves Lee Kaprelian. Everybody will now donate a small tear and a tiny kiss to the Lee Kaprelian Foundation, please? You’ll never miss it.
The night’s chill was getting to me. From behind, I heard the grind of a starter, and a motor starting. Sounded like a Ford motor.
I turned around and saw the headlights come to life on Berjouhi’s club coupe. I saw the light in the doorway of the Sabazian home and the shadow on the Sabazian walk. I couldn’t see who was standing in the doorway, but it was a wide, squat, Sam-size shadow.
The Ford swung in a U-turn and came my way. I turned around and started to walk, again.
The Ford stopped a few paces ahead of me, and the door on my side swung open. Berjouhi said, “Get in, Dope. You’ll catch cold.”
I got in, and closed the door. I said, “Sam will get me, for this. He’s got you staked out, Beautiful.”
“Sam — ” she said.
“Huh,” I said. “You go to his house, don’t you?”
She moved out in low, moved into second before answering. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he? He’s one of ours, isn’t he?” She shifted into high. “Hey, Glamour Pants, you weren’t jealous, were you?”
“No. What kind of trouble is Sam in that I don’t know about?”
“None that you don’t know about.” She turned onto Eastern Avenue. “What kind of trouble are you in that you come to see Sam? I’ll bet your fine hand is in this mess, somewhere.”
“That’s my father’s claim. That’s why I came to see Sam. We used to be friends, Sam and I. I thought we still were.”
Off Eastern, she turned, but not on my street.
“Where we going?” I asked.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home. Anyway, to get my clothes. I’m moving out.”
“Lee — !” The car swerved, as she stared at me.
“Watch the road,” I said. “Do you want to pile us up?”
Her eyes went back to the traffic. “Are you crazy? Why are you leaving home?”
“I’m fed up with being treated like a backward child of ten.”
“Oh, Lee, that’s just the way the old country people are. For heavens sakes, you should be used to it, by now.”
We were on Terrace, now, and to our left was a huge converted home set up on a high lawn, with brick steps leading from the street.
A small sign — Apartment for Rent.
“Stop,” I told Berjouhi.
She pulled the coupe over to the curb, and stared at me in the light from a street lamp. “Now what?”
“I’ll be right back,” I told her, and opened the door.
“Lee — that’s — that’s — ”
“It’s an apartment,” I said. “Or so called. It’s really only one big room and a kitchenette.”
Something else, she said, but I had closed the door now, and was heading for the brick steps. Why not? What handier place?
The landlady recognized me. She was a thin woman, tall and dignified, and she stared at me in the dim light of the front hall.
“You’re — the boy who — found him,” she said.
I nodded. “I like the room.” Then I lied. “I’ve always liked it. I’ve seen it before.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I — ”
“You won’t have any,” I said. “My father’s been in business in this town for years. We’re respectable people. And the room — the apartment, rather — might be hard to rent.”
She took a deep breath, studying me. “That it is. I don’t understand why you should — ”
“It’s handy to my work,” I told her. “And it’s a fine neighborhood. And I’m not superstitious.”
She shook her head. “All right. All right.”
When I climbed into the Ford, again, Berjouhi was smoking. She pressed the starter button, not looking at me. She swung off to the left on Bradford.
Not a word out of her all the short trip to my house.
She cut off the ignition, there, and asked, “Is Ann home?”
“She was when I left.”
“I haven’t seen her for weeks. I think I’ll come in.”
“You saw her at the dance,” I said. “But come in, anyway.”
No words from her. We went up the walk, up the steps, and I held the front door open for her. We went in, and the family were in the living room.
Berjouhi turned in there; I went up the steps to my room.
I had one grip half packed when my mother came in. “What is this, Levon?”
“Papa’s orders.” I didn’t look at her.
“You know that’s not true. That’s your excuse. Why are you going, Levon?”
I straightened up and looked at her. “Because I’m twenty-six years old. Because I’ve been places where people shoot at you and I shot back. I’m no child. And I’m getting sick of being treated like one.”
There were no tears in her eyes. Her face was composed. “You don’t want to tell the truth. You don’t want to say you’re leaving your people because of this American woman, and the money to be made with her.”
“Mama,” I said patiently, “I’m an American, and so are you. And so is this — girl. All my friends aren’t Armenian, you know. That’s what’s wrong with the AGBU Junior League — they think like the old country people. I don’t.”
“No,” she said quietly. “you don’t. And where will you wind up, Levon? In jail?”
“I don’t know why. Papa didn’t.”
“Levon — ” Her voice was a shocked whisper.
“Let’s face a fact, shall we?” I said bitterly. “His price on a rug is what he can get. And that’s my price. Only I’m a better salesman, maybe. It’s as simple as that, Ma.”
“Working with this — this — ”
“American,” I supplied. “Ma, let’s face another fact. If there are any Armenians who don’t like it here, they can go back. Uncle Joe, the Georgian butcher, has got our country now. He’ll be glad to take back all the Armenians he can get from this country. He made the offer, you’ll remember. And how many went? And what kind?”
“Some good ones,” she said.
“Some good ones? All right. They’ll find out Uncle Joe is no better than the Turks were.”
&
nbsp; “American papers,” she said. “All your life you read the American newspapers.”
“They’re not perfect, but I’ve read a lot worse, too, in my time. Ma, I’m an American. You and Papa can be anything you want, but as far as I’m concerned, Armenia is just a place where they weave rugs, for us to make the money on.”
“Your father and I,” she said, “have always been good citizens. We love this country.”
“And its people?” I asked her.
“Some of them.”
“Not enough of them,” I said. “Ma, I’ll keep in touch with you. I’m big, now. I want to — Oh, things will work out.”
She found a smile, somewhere. She put a plump arm around my waist. “All right, Handsome. Your father is hard to live with, I’ll admit. If I had my shape back, I might look around a little, too.”
She still didn’t cry. I didn’t cry until she left the room.
I only had one grip. But I had the old barracks bag, and that will hold any reasonable man’s earthly possessions. My name and ASN were still clearly stenciled on it. Lee Kaprelian 36295116.
I carried them down the back way, and out to the Chev, stowed the barracks bag in the deck, the grip in the front seat. Ann hadn’t come up to the room, and my father hadn’t. And yet they must have known what I was doing.
I didn’t go back to say good-by.
Chapter Six
WHAT did this act symbolize? Why, out of all the rooms in this town, should I pick the one Henri Ducasse had died in? Was it because I was the new Henri Ducasse? Or was it a childish compulsion born of the moment Berjouhi had driven me past? I’d told the landlady I wasn’t superstitious, but I felt a definite chill as I brought my clothes into my new home.
The Kermans no longer covered the floor; the Nordic nudes were gone from the walls. It was a big room, and furnished now in odds and ends. But comfortable, with a bank of windows on the Terrace Avenue side, from which I could see the lake.
The kitchenette was just big enough to turn around in. The bathroom had an old-fashioned tub, with claw feet. The sink was new, in here, as was the growler. The floor was tile and without a crack.
Bradford Beach right below, a half block, and then the steps down. Green Bus handy, yellow bus, car line. For when it really got tough, and I’d have to sell the Chev. Things would never get that tough, not if I went back to Claire.
Bloody Bokhara Page 8
