“Half-past one.”
“Should we have a bite to eat or go right up there?”
“I’m not hungry. I got up late.”
“Me too. Let’s go then; only listen, we don’t know a thing about Cosantino.”
“Not a thing.”
“Sometimes I kinda wish I hadn’t got that guy,” Harry said.
“Lord, Harry, you’re not getting the woolies, are you?”
“That’s crazy, Jimmie you know I’m not.”
“Sure, old boy, I know you’re not.”
“Only it’s just a feeling.”
“I don’t think about it.”
“It’s a feeling coming out of a lot of things. I didn’t have anything against Cosantino, you know.”
“I know, it was just tough luck for him. But they got Joe, didn’t they?”
“That’s right.”
“And they didn’t send flowers, did they?”
“That’s right. Oh hell, I’ve just a rotten feeling. I guess it’s got nothing to do with Cosantino. Let’s go.”
They went out of the store and got into the car. Sam drove. Harry sat between Eddie and Jimmie, and they did not talk for a few minutes. The car turned north and then east. O’Reilly’s hotel was over the river. Jimmie explained to Sam and Eddie that they were to go into the hotel and sit around looking wise and Sam shook his head without talking, for there were many things he understood instinctively. Looking at the back of Sam’s neck Harry counted the dark creases and wished he had phoned Vera before leaving the store. He leaned back in the car, restless, and not listening to Jimmie. At two o’clock she would likely be sewing in the front room, or talking to Mrs. Farrel. He should have phoned her before he left the store but there wasn’t much to say. It would be hard to talk. The car, going more rapidly, left the business section, heading out east in light traffic.
They crossed the river, very muddy and sluggish. The willow trees on the banks were green and over beyond the trees across the park the hills were green. Dark clouds were over houses on the other side of the park. It would rain shortly. They passed the jail and the corner at the Public Library and turned down to the hotel.
The hotel was on a corner, a brick building, respectable, woodwork well-painted, three stories high, and on the opposite corner a store for the sale of malt and home-brew, owned by O’Reilly, and formerly a house in which a nigger had killed a white woman five years ago. No one would rent the house and O’Reilly got it cheaply. The store was painted light brown, the window filled with brightly coloured signs.
They parked the car a hundred paces away from the hotel and walked back. The palms of Harry’s hands got moist, then very hot and dry, and inside him was a nervous eagerness to be actually inside the hotel talking to men. The heavy feeling of depression left him. Walking along the street and thinking of talking about Cosantino he felt almost sure he had never known him.
“They’re not going to bother me about Cosantino,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“They’re not going to bother me about the wop, I tellya.”
“That’s the stuff.”
“We’re being good to these guys to even come here.”
“Sure, here we are, anyway.”
5
O’Reilly, Asche and Weinreb were sitting smoking in the small hotel rotunda. O’Reilly had on a derby hat. Asche, hatless, his high forehead shining, was lightly tapping the back of his hand with smooth fingers. Weinreb, well-dressed, sullen-looking, cleaned his nails with a small file. The three men did not get up. Harry and Jimmie walked over to them and Sam and Eddie sat down near the door. O’Reilly said: “Hello boys, glad to see you.”
“Hello,” Asche said. Weinreb went on cleaning his nails.
“Well, here we are,” Jimmie said.
“We see you.”
“How do we look?” Jimmie grinned.
O’Reilly got up, thrusting his hands into his pockets, glancing casually at Sam and Eddie. Eddie was scratching his head. Sam had his eyes closed.
“Let’s go upstairs,” O’Reilly said.
They went up one flight of stairs and into a bedroom. In the room there were only three chairs, so O’Reilly sat on the bed, facing the window. Harry sat opposite Asche and Weinreb. Jimmie stood near the window.
“Nice party you boys gave last night,” O’Reilly said.
“Sure,” Harry said. “Listen, O’Reilly, why the get-together? Let’s get down to brass tacks, eh?”
“Who got Cosantino?” Weinreb said suddenly.
Harry looked at him. Weinreb was leaning forward, his low forehead wrinkled. They stared at each other and Weinreb, sucking his lips, kept on staring.
“It’s funny, but a lot of people seem to think you fellows know something about Cosantino,” O’Reilly said. “It’s funny, I mean, people have that notion.”
“It sure is funny.”
“To hell with this,” Asche said. “Listen, Trotter, you know all about Cosantino. Who did it, see? That’s what I want to know.”
“Search me,” Harry shrugged his shoulders.
“Cut it out,” Asche said.
“Lay off that stuff,” Harry said, wanting to paste Asche. Such a nice Jewish boy. Such nice hair. Such a nice face.
“Keep your shirts on, boys,” O’Reilly said. “All it means,” he said, turning to Harry, “is we don’t feel safe. Good lord, put yourself in my place. I got a wife and kids. I got a father too, and what would happen to them if I got bounced off like Cosantino was? See what I mean? I don’t want to have a slab in the morgue. We all should be friends. I hate this sort of thing. I don’t want to have anything to do with bloodshed. There’s enough booze in the world for all of us, ain’t there, and we should be peaceable. But the point is, someone got Cosantino, see what I mean, and we should know, take him for a car-ride maybe, ’cause it ain’t safe for us to have a man like that floatin’ around, see? I got a wife.”
“Sure I see, but for Christ sakes, what’s it to me?” Harry said. “I want to go on living as well as you guys do, don’t I?”
“It don’t mean anything to me,” Jimmie said. “Only when I hear you talking that way I want to go to sleep.”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” Weinreb said quickly.
“Lay down,” Harry said. “Listen, O’Reilly, I’m getting tired of this. Who do these two kikes think they are? Are they looking for trouble? If they are they’ll get it.”
Asche jumped up, his hand swinging to his hip. Weinreb held on to him. “Take it easy, Sime,” he said. “Keep your pants on. You don’t need to take nothing from these birds. You know what’s d’matter wid ’em.”
“He called me a kike, the bastard.”
“All right, didn’t he call me a kike too, eh? Didn’t he, huh?”
“We don’t need to sit here and take it. Dese guys, dey need d’blocks put to ’em.” Asche’s words blurred into each other. Talking quietly, he had no accent, but when excited, could not talk carefully.
O’Reilly, smiling, sat on the bed. “Let it pass. Let it pass. You boys have done rather well, Trotter. Got a good thing, I imagine.”
Harry watched Asche but listened to O’Reilly, who was getting to the point. O’Reilly didn’t give a damn for Cosantino.
“Come on, O’Reilly,” he said. “What’s on your mind? You don’t give a hoot in hell for Cosantino. There’s something else worrying you. Out with it. We’re not going to sit around singing hymns for Cosantino. We’ll move along if you’ve got nothing better to say, eh, Jimmie?”
“I’m fed up listening to these guys. That’s all I got to say,” Jimmie said.
O’Reilly stopped smiling. He tossed his cigar-butt at a spittoon. He tilted his derby back further on his head. “You’re shipping too much stuff outside the city,” he said.
“Who said so?”
“I’m telling ya. I’m peaceable enough, ain’t I? I’ve got a wife and kids and I don’t want trouble, but you’re shipping too much stuff outside the
city, and let it sink in.”
“What do you want to do about it?” Jimmie said. “Now we’re feeling practical, what do you want to do about it?”
“You boys have done well, why not lay off the out-of-town stuff? There’s enough in it for all of us, just lay off the out-of-town stuff.”
“We ought to be able to agree,” Harry smiled.
“Sure.”
“Now, what about Cosantino?” Asche said, linking hands around his knee and tilting back in the chair.
“I’m asking you for the last time to shut up, lay off that racket,” Harry said.
Asche smiled at him. He turned to Weinreb and smiled, “Nice innocent boy, ain’t he, hmmm?” Weinreb stared at Harry. He rubbed his hand across his mouth, looked at the palm, then glanced again at Harry. O’Reilly leaned forward. “I got this to say. You and me may fix up the out-of-town stuff, Trotter, but I’m with these guys about Cosantino.”
“All right, ain’t I with you, too?”
“Jesus, yeah,” Jimmie said. “Wasn’t it only the night before last I said to Harry — ‘Now Cosantino’s bumped off, any one of us is apt to go?’”
“Bunk,” Asche said.
“Is that so, Mr. Asche? Maybe you know something about Cosantino, eh?”
Asche didn’t get sore. He grinned. “All sorts of noise in dese guys, huh. Listen, wasn’t Cosantino watching dese guys day and night? Wasn’t I a pal of his? Don’t I know what I am saying? Were dey razzing Cosantino from d’start? I was Cosantino’s friend.”
Weinreb said in a practical monotone, “Hand over d’guy that got Cosantino.”
“That’s right,” O’Reilly said. “We’ve got to do it. Hand over the man that got Cosantino.”
“I can’t, I tellya.”
“You got to.”
“For the love of Mike, I tellya I can’t.”
“Hand d’guy over.”
“Are you dumb, you saps. I tellya I can’t. I don’t know. Honest to God, I don’t know. I hardly knew Cosantino. Didn’t have a thing against him. Best guy in the world, for all I know.”
“Just tell us who did it and we’ll take him for a ride. He ought to get his, just to square things up.”
“Come on, Trotter,” Asche said.
“There’s no use talking to these guys,” Jimmie said wearily. “We might as well be at home reading the paper. We’re not getting anywhere.” He got up, walking the length of the room. Harry watched him. Jimmie was pale but absolutely indifferent. He walked over to the window and stood there looking out. They all looked at Jimmie’s back.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” O’Reilly was sullen.
“Listen, O’Reilly, what the hell can I do about it? Use your head.”
“Don’t tell me to use my head.”
“I don’t care what the hell you use but talk common sense.”
“How do you like this then? Tell us the guy that got Cosantino or there’ll be a hell of a lot of trouble and God knows where it’ll end.”
Harry listened, his eyes half-closed, waiting for him to go on talking about his wife and child, but O’Reilly stopped suddenly. Harry opened his eyes and O’Reilly was observing him, very pale eyes, his face fat and round. Asche and Weinreb were looking at O’Reilly. It was up to him. They sat back expectantly to let him do the talking. Asche put his thumbs in the armpits of his vest.
“What’s it going to be?” O’Reilly said quietly.
Jimmie turned from the window. “You guys make me smile,” he said. “You’d think you were all in Sunday school. The lesson for today is ‘Who Killed Cosantino?’”
“Smart fellow, heh?” Asche said.
“Great help to his mother,” Weinreb said.
“Cut the kidding.” Harry got up. “I tellya again and again I don’t know and I can’t help you. That’s final. How can I do it? How do I know? Do you think I have to sit here listening to those guys?” he said to O’Reilly. “They’re back numbers, I tellya. They’re just hanging on. They’re scared if they don’t hang on someone’ll run away with their pants. They don’t belong, see. What does a guy like you want with them?”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” O’Reilly said.
“It’s got everything to do with it.”
“For once you’re not lying, O’Reilly,” Jimmie said. “All this bull’s got nothing to do with it, as far as you’re concerned.”
“Back numbers, huh? Get that, Sime?”
“Back numbers, sure, and he’s sittin’ so pretty.”
“I’m getting tired of it.” O’Reilly took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“I was fed up fifteen minutes ago,” Harry said.
“What’s it going to be then?”
“Anything you like.”
“I hate to think of you going ahead and looking at it in that way, Trotter. There are some things we got to do, you know.”
“Sure, I know.”
“Work with us then, hand over the egg that got Cosantino. Let’s all stick together.”
“Oh hell,” Harry said. “There’s no use talking, you guys don’t understand English, and you’re simply a sad pair,” he said to Weinreb and Asche.
“Sad pair, huh?” Weinreb pounded the table. “Get that, eh. I guess I can go where you never could, you bum. I guess I got friends. I have. I have. I got clubs, too. I got everything you guys ain’t got.”
“Oh, dry up,” Jimmie said.
“Then we’re through, Trotter,” O’Reilly said.
“All right, we’re through. I’m sorry but we’re through.”
“Think it over.”
“There’s no use thinking it over.”
“You know it means trouble, the end of the whole racket for you. I’d like to stop it if I could. I got nothing against you.”
“Sorry, O’Reilly.”
“You’ll be Goddamned sorry,” he shouted.
“Come on, Jimmie.”
“Listen, Trotter, you ain’t got a chance in a million, I tellya. We’ll sew you up tighter than a drum. You’re just a stubborn damn fool. You’re crazy, you’re off your nut, you’re loco.”
“Sure.”
“Tell it to Asche,” Jimmie said.
Asche and Weinreb stood up, not smiling, but quite satisfied. Then Asche grinned at Harry. His boyish face had a mean self-satisfied grin on it. Weinreb stood up, as if suddenly important. He looked stupidly serious.
O’Reilly left the room first. Jimmie followed, then Asche and Weinreb, then Harry. They went downstairs. Sam and Eddie were sitting together in the rotunda. Eddie, still looking sad, blinked his eyes at O’Reilly.
Harry turned. “Well,” he said. O’Reilly started to say something, then hesitated, turning away his head. Asche was still grinning. Weinreb was looking sullen. “Don’t mind us,” Asche said. “We’re just a pair of kikes, huh.”
Harry walked out the door. Jimmie, talking to Sam and Eddie, followed. They walked down the street to the car.
“Let’s go down to the store and talk this mess over,” Harry said.
“I’m feeling kinda low.”
“I know, but let’s talk it over.”
A few drops of rain were falling.
“It’s going to rain hard,” Jimmie said. “Get the top up on the car quick, Sam.”
They got the top up and the rain came down hard, the biggest shower in months. Harry, driving the car, couldn’t see twenty paces ahead. They passed streetcars that had stopped.
6
They went into the store, shaking raindrops from their hats, and when Eva Lawson looked steadily at Jimmie he shrugged his shoulders.
“Some rain.” He smiled at her.
“Just like a cloudburst,” she said.
“I jumped from the car and took about ten steps and look at me.”
“Your collar’s soaking wet.”
They followed Harry into the office.
“How’d it go?” Eva asked.
“Rotten.” Jimm
ie, sitting on the desk, tapped a pen.
“What’s the word?” Sam asked.
“Nothing yet.”
He turned round on the swivel chair, facing the window. The rain was stopping as suddenly as it had started. Eva went out of the office. Harry said: “I’m kinda hungry. Come on over to the corner and have some toast and coffee, Jimmie.” Sam and Eddie didn’t get up.
“Has it stopped yet?”
“Just a few drops falling.”
They walked on the wet pavement over to the corner. Water was rushing along the gutters and up over curb, swinging past gurgling drains that couldn’t take it in. People were coming out on the street after the rain, women walking timorously, doubtfully putting down umbrellas, coming from doorways and from under awnings, hurrying along the street.
In Bowles, men in white jackets stood idly behind the glass counter. The rain had kept out customers and given the boy a chance to clean white armchairs. The tiled floor was clean but there was a line of muddy boot marks to the counter. “Whole-wheat toast, well-browned, well-buttered,” Harry said. “Toast the same,” Jimmie yelled.
The bald-headed man with glasses had lots of time to sing, “Holeee-wheat toast have it well-browned and we-l-l-buttered twice.” The man in the kitchen yelled, “Holeee-wheat toast on the fire twice.” They waited, a hand shoved the toast along the slab from the kitchen. The man at the counter held up his forefinger. “Coffee,” Harry said. “Coffee,” Jimmie nodded.
They sat down in the armchairs. The coffee was very hot.
“Well, Harry.”
“Well, it looks damn bad, don’t it?”
“It looks damn bad but what can you do?”
“You can’t do nothing, just see what turns up.”
“We either got to go ahead, or get out quick. What’s it going to be, that’s the point.”
“I got a rotten feeling it ain’t going to be neither.”
“Oh rot.”
“I know, it’s just a feeling.”
“Hell Harry, we’ve made ’em say uncle before, haven’t we? We’ve made ’em touch wood, haven’t we?”
“I kinda wish I was home right now.”
“You’ve been on the way home a long time.”
Strange Fugitive Page 20
