Rules of '48

by Jack Cady

  There were lots of one-chair shops, and a few three-chair, but the average shop sported two chairs and two barbers. Thus, was it inevitable, that after a haircut and a brush-down by one barber, the other barber would say to the customer: "Drop by in a day or two and I'll straighten that out."

  Customers came in shifts. Businessmen arrived during afternoons, lounging, talking politics. Store workers stopped in during lunch hour. Kids came in after school. The interesting day, though, was Saturday. The shop filled with all kinds of men and an occasional kid. Men sat, waiting their turns whilst spreading one crock after the other. Kids, who knew they should be seen and not heard, listened.

  "Dago up the street a-way. Died'a too much spaghetti."

  "Russian. I heard she was Russian."

  "Couldn't be. You hear all kinds of crap."

  Barbers served as neighborhood newspapers. Barbers prodded conversation, knowing if you kept your shop interesting, you kept your customers.

  "It was murder," one barber would say.

  "F.B.I. Those boys keep a sharp lookout." This from the second barber.

  "Russian. I'm sure she was Russian."

  "Hebe. Yid. Kike. Russian. Roosevelt let 'em in, and this goddamn Truman's worse."

  "Stirring up the black folk. Stirring up the niggers."

  "Good ones and bad ones. There's good niggers. Don't deny it."

  "The problem ain't niggers. It's white communist nigger-lovers. Good niggers know their place."

  "Their place ain't been dug yet."

  "If it was murder," the first barber said, "cops don't seem to be working up a sweat."

  "They've been told to back off. A Russian yid. You got to believe the F.B.I. took care of it. You can say what you want about the bastard, but Hitler was right about the Jews."

  School would start soon. It would almost be a relief. When the haircut was done he could go back to work. Work would not be interesting, but would be a whole lot less confusing.

  Wednesday Night, August 6th

  Auction

  In 1948 demand for new goods caused businesses to break old, old, old tradition. Furniture stores began staying open on Sunday, and, may God help all sinners, so did bowling alleys. The Louisville Ministerial Association reacted to Godless prosperity.

  Preachers went into a tiz. They demanded closing of all nonessential business. Drugstores might stay open for prescriptions only. Buses might run. Police and firemen could work.

  The Ministerial Association split. One preacherly faction held that God would understand the need for 'essentials'. The opposing, or hellfire faction, saw pharmacists and cops as doomed; but that faction was willing to sacrifice the souls of the few in behalf of the many.

  Businessmen reacted. They spoke of hiring lawyers. Then a sharp guy proposed a deal. Business would close on Sundays if the Ministerial Association would forego Wednesday evening services; because, such services were in restraint of trade.

  A nasty dust-up followed. When the dust settled, stores opened on Sunday, while preachers made holy noises come Wednesday evening; both kinds of business healthy, like always.

  Thus, on that next Wednesday evening there was joy and song at the Methodist church on Jackson St., and the excitement of an auction would come to pass on Bardstown Road. Lucky attended the latter, natch.

  He drove past the church and thought how colored folk really enjoyed religion, while white folk, except for Jews, took it like medicine. Jews were still thinking things through.

  His Cad drifted past brick tenements where men and women sat on stoops, and where kids played. On the corner a group of men stood talking. Jukebox music danced through the open door of Sapphire Top Spot. Folks looked like moving shadows; dance, sweat, more dance with beer, more sweat.

  White guy sweat smelled different from colored guy sweat. Egalitarian stinks, because none could say which smelled worse. What one could say was that the neighborhood had its own smell, partly sweat, partly decay; but smelling pretty good, actually. Of course, he was used to it.

  The windows of his Cad were open. Back in '41, when the car was built, air conditioning could be had; but the air-conditioner filled the whole trunk. Someday soon, some smart guy would engineer something that fit under the hood.

  When he hung a right on Bardstown Road a moment of melancholy hit. At Charlie Weaver's closed auction house, declining sunlight made the place look like a tired and ratty tomb. It had once stood in blazing white with conservative trim. Now it was as faded as a ghost. Charlie had gone downhill the past few years. Over to Lucky's left, at Cave Hill, Charlie worked at turning to dust; but probably did it with dignity, and maybe a touch of reserved humor.

  Around Lucky the world was changing, and maybe not for the better. A stench of politics covered newspapers and radio. Congress postured. Political poltroons named Thomas and Nixon grandstanded. A man could hardly help knowing that, once more, Jews were gonna get the short end of the stick.

  "Which," he told the Cad, "is business as usual."

  And, it wasn't only cat fights among political-parsnips in Congress. Worse even, the European continent still overflowed with dying refugees. Governments were doing next to nothing. Even American Zionists had been willing to dump the cause of refugees in behalf of establishing the State of Israel.

  To the thoughtful man, the world seemed increasingly surreal. To the thoughtful Jew, it seemed even more so. During the war Jews knew of the German death camps, but, hundreds of thousands of Americans, including Jews were being killed in combat. Reality and surreality assailed the mind, and sometimes a man could not tell which was which.

  And now there was this business of refugees. More people dying. More people starving. He knew it was real, but it seemed unreal. He knew he should weep, but somehow could not. And, because he could not, he felt like weeping . . . figure that one out, Lucky, my man.

  * * *

  The new guy's auction started at 7. At 7:15 when Lucky arrived the main crowd was already in place, but he did not enter the auction house right away. It would be hotter'n fresh biscuits in there.

  Lucky stood watching occasional traffic on the street. Just down the block the Shell station's lube bays stood empty. A kid manned the pumps. The station would stay open until midnight, and that was new. Stations traditionally closed at nine.

  The White Castle stood like a commercial gem in the gloaming, white and gleam-y, nickle-burgers by the sack. Lucky looked toward the house where the dead lady, Mrs. Mildred Samuels, had lived.

  Her house was not large. A screened-in sun porch held a couple of tired-looking but comfortable chairs, over-stuffed. The house looked like a small creature in mourning for a dead mate. No lights showed. Shades drawn. It stood as a patch of darkness among the glowing lights of business. A man felt sad just looking at it; felt a sense of dread, felt even a sense of fear. Maybe the man he had seen, the limping man who greeted the funeral home guy, had moved on.

  He turned to enter the spiffy front room of the auction. This sale was a display of post-war commerce.

  Charlie Weaver's notion of commerce had been so different. Lucky told himself he could handle either version, but was gonna miss commerce-according-to-Charlie.

  In the brightly lighted room sharp nose-bite of cigarettes mixed with rich and fulsome scent of cigars. People smoked everywhere: in movies, groceries, banks and cemeteries. Kentucky was a tobacco state.

  Chatter mixed with the smoke. Wednesday-night auctions served the same as church socials. Men, and a few women (mostly antique dealers) who kept shop during the day, met to gab. They shook hands as if they had not met in months, exclaimed, then inquired about business.

  "Business is good."

  Nobody, except a fool, would say that business was bad. Because, everybody except a fool knows that no one likes to deal with losers. It was possible to say: "Business is slow this week." But never bad. And business, even when slow, must be said to be 'picking up'.

  Large fans on tall stands, and under bright flourescenc
e, churned air into the smoke. The inside-air and the smoke exchanged with outside air, swirled; both inside and outside hotter'n the hinges of hell.

  People wore minimum clothes. Men were in short-sleeve shirts, no undershirt. Women wore summer blouses, and were much relaxed. Corsets had disappeared during the war.

  A few of the women were more interesting than most. They did not cluster and chat with their peers. They talked face-to-face with the men, because small-business caused leveling of sexual and social mountains. These girls were as tough as the boys.

  The rest of the women were society-types, present because this was an estate sale, and: "Of course we were close with dear Edna. And, isn't it sad to see her things paraded before 'these people'."

  "Lucky," a man said. "Long time." This was a scrawny guy who ran a junk shop on Market St. Known for a bad mouth. Cheap as a carnival prize. Name of Fudd. In Lucky's mind, the guy was not a credit to the Jews.

  "Missed you at Weaver's funeral." Lucky looked over the heads of the crowd. He spotted one colored face. Lester stood beside a discount guy, exchanging b.s.

  Fudd followed Lucky's glance. "Weaver's nigger," he said. "Wade could do better. Nobody cares for schwartzer sass."

  "He knows the trade. I helped him to the job."

  "You should see what walks through the front door of my place," Fudd told Lucky. "You can't teach 'em nothin'. Born stupid." He scratched his rear end, rubbed his nose, reflected. "Wade's gonna regret it."

  "We're about to get going." Lucky watched Lester break off, head toward Wade and his clerk. The three walked to the front of the house, Lester carrying a short stool. People turned, watched, gathered to hear opening remarks; the same as epistles in church. Lester placed the stool. Wade ascended. Blew a sharp note on his referee's whistle, and the crowd quieted.

  A charmer, this Wade, a spellbinder. Smile broad as the ever-flowing river, and movements as liquid. Open-neck shirt displaying virility of chest hair, and hands not exactly reaching, but touching forward; as though ready to pet any head in the crowd.

  "Estate of Edna Jane Masterson," Wade announced. "Let's get rolling."

  "Gone to glory," Lester muttered, but loud enough for those nearby to hear. Lester grinned, looked at Wade, and Wade picked up.

  "Beginning with our regrets and respect to the Masterson family and friends," Wade said. "Now let's get rolling."

  No two auctioneers sound alike. It's not just the chant. It's tonal. The chant, or rap, depends on agility of tongue. The tones must hold emotion. In Wade's case it went something like: fifty-fifty-fify-fity-fifty w'illa biddahalf four-bits, and now sixtyseventyfi, make it a hundred, ninety there, and five. Fiveabucka bucka, nine-five now a century, one hundred, do it. Looka there the poor thing is bawlin', cause he's worth, yep, one tenand fif-a-teena . . . .

  Auctions start with small stuff. The smart auctioneer blows off bargains quick. If an item's worth ten, he dumps it for five, even when others are bidding. He'll do that three or four times, and best bargains at a sale are most often the first items. Low prices excite the crowd. Even experienced bidders can sometimes get caught in the early rush of prices, and ten minutes later find themselves paying too much.

  Not much would happen for Lucky until the sale moved to the back room. This front room held too much good stuff, and smart men know their stores. Thus: never put a big diamond in with small diamonds, and never put a Brooks Brothers in with fifteen-buck suits. Keep the stock consistent. A few really good pieces make the rest of your inventory look like garbage.

  If Lucky had been a sociologist (and in a manner of speaking he was) he would have studied the crowd, and its behavior, with analytic eye.

  Serious buyers crowded near the auctioneer, so that within the larger crowd a small tableaux formed. The auctioneer stood above his grip and his clerk. The clerk was a rotund lady, flowery dress, plus rouge, lipstick and face powder. When Lester picked up an item for sale, he whispered the lot number to her. Then Lester turned to watch the crowd behind Wade.

  Lucky smiled because Lester was really swinging. After a week of trying to get along with Wade, and putting up with Wade's bluster, it looked like Lester had something to prove. On top of that, after quiet years with Charlie Weaver, Lester found himself in the middle of an occasion and was blamed well rising to it. When a bid came in, Lester yelled, "yeah, we got it, eighty-five," and Wade went for ninety. Lester clapped his hands and made motions like Mr. Fred Waring encouraging his orchestra. The auctioneer's voice and the grip's voice sailed together, mixing, ride-out, loud and quick as uptown jazz.

  When the item sold, the rotund lady wrote down price and name of buyer. Beside her a guy hovered, a guy who Lucky had known for years. Name of Daniels. He was lean as a drink of water and he much admired fat ladies; was himself a ladies' man. Daniels traded, swapped, and made a super living. Legend had it that he went to town riding shank's mare with a pocket knife to trade. He came home that evening driving a Lincoln, with a hundred bucks in his pocket, and the pocket knife. Since at least the days of the Phoenicians that story had been told in one form or other about traders. Lucky figured that in Daniels' case, it was actually, probably, true.

  And next to Lester, so close they exchanged sweat, was an antique dealer name of Gloria; a tough little red-haired cookie who rented old garages throughout the entire city, even unto the west end, even southwest unto Churchill Downs. She stuffed them with stained glass windows which were otherwise headed for the dump, carnival glass that nobody wanted, vaseline glass, which was junk, and Victorian clothes closets that were firewood; cheap cast-offs that cost her almost nothing. Lucky knew that time would prove her wise. When the stuff became popular, she would have cornered the market.

  Beyond the tableaux the crowd broke into groups. Two couples were interesting. A middle age tall man and a teeney lady, both overdressed and immeasurably married, stood at the far end of the crowd. Lester worked that end, and Lucky moved closer to Lester, because whatever was about to happen ought to be fascinating.

  The couple near Lester no doubt perspired money, peed money, bled money; and if they blew their noses coins would surely fill their hankies. The teeney lady wore a white and unspotted dress, and a ruby necklace. She resembled a well-clothed bulldog with an ornamental collar. This couple busied themselves ignoring another couple who stood right beside the open door. Neither couple paid attention to Wade, who was up and rolling as Lester kicked a chorus behind him.

  The second couple was reversed; short and chubby guy, slender and gray-haired lady who, were she not Republican, resembled Eleanor Roosevelt.

  Lucky, and practically every other customer in the house, had seen it before. The only question was: how was Wade gonna handle this one?

  Because the two couples were obviously heirs of the dear departed, and they obviously hated each others' gizzards. They gathered on this festive night because somewhere in the rows of sparkly merchandise dwelt a family treasure. Dear Edna had forgotten to mention it in her will. It was an odds-on bet that at one time or other, dear Edna had carelessly promised the item to each couple. Lucky figured that the teeney lady and the chubby guy were cousins, or maybe brother/sister.

  Wade's problem was this: The two couples would start a bidding war. Matters would become dramatic. The price would rise far beyond the value of the item.

  On the surface, that seemed good. If a four hundred buck item went for eight hundred, the commission would double. But, that was only on the surface.

  Trouble wore two faces. In this kind of combat, and in the clubby atmosphere of Louisville business, it was easy for the auctioneer to make an enemy. Word got around among money-people. Lawyers, for instance, who handled estates.

  Second, and worse, a bidding war interrupted the flow of the auction. It substituted one kind of excitement for another, then left the auction flat. If compared to a church, it would be like somebody cutting a loud and smelly one in the middle of a sermon.

  Lucky saw that Wade had the situation wired, an
d Lester had also picked up. The nasty guy, Fudd, was all attention, because a guy could really 'move in' on a busted auction. Skinny Daniels, and tough Gloria, cuddled close to Wade. Whatever was gonna happen, was gonna.

  The fight erupted over, of all things, an early Victorian hall tree sporting cutesy drawers, an oval mirror, carved roses and a sidearm umbrella stand. The thing had been ugly as a can of spoiled bait a hundred years before. It had not improved with time. Value, at most, thirty bucks.

  "Ten," the chubby guy beside the doorway said before Wade could open his mouth.

  "And fifteen," the tall guy yelled. The teeney lady beside him looked toward the other couple, and if looks could kill that hearse from last week would have to make another trip.

  Wade remained silent. He kicked Daniels, just a little. The stool was not high enough for the crowd to see the kick. Daniels looked up, mildly surprised.

  "Sold to Daniels, twenty." Wade intoned. Like a blessing. This, while the teeney lady shrieked and the Eleanor Roosevelt lady gasped.

  Lucky chuckled. Daniels grinned. The clerk looked confused. Lester, in a fit of admiration that could not be gainsaid, stood rapt. Gloria looked pissed.

  "I am about to become a rich and happy man," Daniels whispered to the clerk. What are you doing afterward?" The clerk smiled and looked snuggly.

  "You can't do this," the tall gent said. "It's an open auction."

  "Second that," the chubby guy yelled.

  "I'd give my soul . . . ." the teeney lady moaned.

  "And we're about to see what her soul is worth," Daniels whispered to the clerk. "I'll be back."

  Wade smiled beneficent as a Shriner's charity. "Since it's my house," he said quietly, "I handle this my way. The buyer is a dealer. He'll meet you out front, and the five of you can hold your own auction."

  He turned to Lester, and Lester was on top of it. He held up a cranberry lamp, black hands against red.

  "Estate of Mrs. Edna Jane Masterson," Lester yelped.