Rules of '48

by Jack Cady

  Then the cops and detective went knocking next door. They stood on the sun porch and pounded and yelled and whistled. When the door was not answered they broke in. They found no one. The cops left. The detective poked around inside, then shrugged and pulled the door shut.

  "It's the damndest thing," the detective told Wade. "Those newspapers are all dated Friday the 13th. Could be coincidence."

  "Any help I can give . . . ." Wade, like any man with half a brain, was wary of Louisville cops.

  "I'd be beholden," the detective said, "if you have your boy board up that door. I'll get back to this in a day." He went back to the garage. Lester, with tools and boards, went next door.

  Although lots of people left, other people showed up. As news passed around the neighborhood the auction house filled with onlookers who buzzed and exclaimed.

  "Murder. Around here?"

  "Suicide?"

  "Is this stuff still for sale? Look at this pitcher, Madge."

  "Kid, where do I dump this White Castle bag?"

  His father ran the curiosity-seekers away, then locked the front door. His father seemed glad for a chance to be gruff. "I could have more fun in a holy-rollin' church," he said to Lucky. "That big warehouse sale will take time. I need this sale checked. I need my people someplace else."

  His father was shaken, and his father couldn't pretend as good as his sister. "Albanians," his father said, "or some damn thing. Italians. What would make a man do that?"

  "Albania's not a bad guess," Lucky told him. "My guess would be Poland. If he was Polish he saw more than his share."

  Outside there, on Bardstown Road, the kid watched as traffic pulled up to the intersection. Three years ago, before the war ended, there had been horses pulling brightly painted delivery wagons. Now the horses were gone. There were lots more cars.

  The pavement bubbled. It was easy to see waves of heat rising above the street and off the colorful hoods of cars. These days there were more red cars, purple ones, even yellow. Before the war there had not been so many colors. The new cars were snazzy. These days they all carried hydraulic brakes and turn signals.

  Before Lucky left he paused beside Wade's kid. "Seems like a bad run of luck." His voice sounded kind. "Two dead people in under two weeks." He waited for the kid to say something, and the kid couldn't.

  "Take care of your mom," Lucky said. "It's what men do. Take care of your sister." When he left, the kid yearned to go with him.

  The dead man, and the fuss he caused, and all the people swirling around, had taken time. When Lucky left at about noon a storm started work. Storms never happened before mid-afternoon, or hardly ever. This storm, though, was the main bull in a big pasture. Worse, it was like a great beast of the apocalypse galloping and growling from the river.

  "Missed it by three hours," Lester told the kid. "I figured it midafternoon."

  The storm announced itself with artillery cracks well before the wind arrived. Ear-busting thunder, sky going black as the back closet in Hades; and as wind rose and bent plate glass windows inward, threatening to shatter, everybody paused, looked at each other, pretended work. This was more than a normal storm. This one spat ozone, broke trees and shoved cars into ditches.

  When the rain arrived the colorful cars disappeared. The street disappeared. Thunder did not roll, it exploded. The building trembled. Small pockets of dust shook loose from around overhead light fixtures. China rattled in china closets, as water rose above the curbs. Water ran on sidewalks. Water flowed beneath the front door. Out there in the street nothing moved, because nothing dared move. Traffic sat parked beneath a waterfall.

  Faces. Still. Paused. Waiting. Nigh breathless. These faces were alive, though, not like the dead man.

  Wade's kid, who had experience of storms, knew this one was extra-awful. It was like stuff that happened in sermons. Like the wrath of Jehovah. Like punishment for hidden sin.

  All of the floors were swept. There was nothing to do except, maybe, try to reassure his sister; but his sister would just give him a hard time.

  Then he figured it out. He'd better get a mop. Then he figured something more. This storm was sent so's to wash that garage clean. Rain would come through the holes where had shone the little spotlights. The dead man would be, maybe, washed away.

  The Dead Man

  David Samuelwicz, as it would turn out, entered World War II as a member of the Polish Air Force; a force not caught on the ground (as is generally believed) by the Nazis. It was a substantial and well-trained force. Although its fighter planes were slower than German bombers, it brought considerable grief to the Luftwaffe.

  When Poland fell the airmen moved to Romania and thence to England. Half of them were scheduled to go to France, but that plan fell apart because France folded through betrayal, and the Nazi onslaught. Most of the Polish airmen were formed in Polish squadrons. David Samuelwicz, however, ended up with the 601 English squadron which hosted a few Poles.

  At first the Poles were a problem for the English, because the English thought even less of Poles than of Russians. In short order, though, the English were given second thoughts. It became legendary that Poles could be allowed only five gallons of gas for training exercise. If given a full tank of gas, they disappeared in the direction of Germany and kept shooting until they were destroyed. They were known to hoard small amounts of gasoline until they had enough to fill one plane. Then, there went another pilot and plane, shooting up Germany.

  Poles constituted the third largest combat air force engaged on the allied side. In the 601 they were first equipped with P-39s, interceptors known as the Bell Airacobra; and known to English and American flyers as, "I don't know what the hell it is, but it sure ain't (bloody well not) an airplane."

  The thing had the engine behind the pilot's seat with the propeller reduction gear attached through a long shaft that ran between the pilot's legs. Its main armament was a 37 mm cannon that, when it went off, almost stopped the plane in midair. It also carried two machine guns in the nose and four in the wings. On paper, at least, it could hit 400 mph, or nearly. It was fast enough, well armed enough, and except for use as ground support at low altitude, was as handy as a boxcar.

  David Samuelwicz fought in the Battle of Britain, and miraculously survived (anyone who survived the Battle of Britain survived by miracle). In 1943, while on an intercept, he tangled with the best German plane of the war, a fighter-bomber called the Junkers 88. By then he was flying a Spitfire that was agile but lightly shielded. The plane disintegrated around him and he crashed on the east coast of England, terribly burned. Pieces of his torn plane ripped him apart.

  He limped from a British hospital in 1944. When war ended he returned to Poland, searching for his younger brother.

  These facts surfaced over a period of many years. In August of 1948, though, no one had an inkling of who David Samuelwicz was, or what he had accomplished.

  Saturday eve, August 9th

  Lester

  On Saturday evening the dead man remained dead, the auction house closed, and Lester headed home to Jackson St. A week of hard work lay behind him. His week's pay rested in his pocket. He knew, and could tell the world, that a certain amount of crap came with any job, but some work was not-so-bad. When he thought about it, and he did think about it for 10-12 seconds, it had been better'n a fish-fry to see the boss shook up. The boss was a bullshit man, not-never a fighter.

  The bus wasn't half full as it headed downtown, and mostly it carried colored cleaning ladies with wrinkled faces. Going-home time. A couple old white women sat on the bus. Poor as mudcats. Cleaning ladies, also.

  A fine-looking, goldy-skin woman, young and sassy, watched Lester watching her. She shrugged. Lester shone dark as any citizen could. To this woman, Lester was not that much to see. She lived in a world of peroxide and skin whitener. Along with her sass was fatigue. Her painted nails were chipped and stubby. She had a little web of dust in her straightened hair, maybe from cleaning attics. She yawned open-mo
uth, and the yawn was sincere.

  The bus pulled to a stop before Charlie Weaver's auction. The empty windows needed a wash. In the depths of the auction a couple of chairs still sat, a third tipped over. The floor lay cluttered with paper and small trash. Lester looked it over, felt a little something. Mrs. Weaver, or the Weaver family, had not wasted any time closing shop. Then Lester felt a breeze wash the back of his neck, like a whisper from Charlie, plus a little indignation.

  He watched another cleaning lady board the bus. Name of Hattie. Lived on Jackson St. Older than daddy Moses and brother Aaron combined. Stooped. Gimpy from where a once-broken hip healed wrong. Crippled brown-skin lady. She carried a full pillowcase. The bus pulled away from the abandoned auction and Hattie sat beside him.

  Lester had spent a good piece of his life in that auction, and he looked backward toward the auction as the bus pulled away. He could almost hear Charlie's voice chatting most amiable with an auction crowd. Charlie had been okay. Before the war Lester was just a young guy doing dogwork, but paying attention while Charlie taught him the business. Even back then Lester knew himself fashioned for big things.

  The war had been an interruption. Lester cleaned latrines, then went to Germany where he drove truck with quartermaster corps. He lost his truck on the day he got closest to the front. That happened during the Bulge. Without a truck, and in the midst of confusion, he got hi-jacked.

  For two awful weeks he pulled graves detail. The sarge who ran the show told his crew they were lucky. Winter covered Germany. Corpses were stiff, with white and frosted eyes above black and frozen blood; but no stink or rot. A man dragged them out of craters or thin snow banks.

  Lester dragged while white men inventoried pockets, registered dog tags, and mostly only robbed the German corpses. Lots of rings taken. Lots of fingers cut off, because, after all, "the Kraut bastard wasn't going to need 'em any more."

  An awful detail. Before he escaped back to quartermaster, Lester put in two weeks that were longer than a fancy lady's dreams. When he cut out of that detail he figured the worst was over, but it wasn't. He was held in Europe long enough to see starving and dying children. He saw emaciated refugees. He praised the luck that allowed him to swing wide of death camps.

  Which meant that, back last Thursday when that white boy shot himself, Lester didn't want any part of it; not corpse or cops, nothin'. Then, when Wade asked if Lester wanted to "come see the dead man" it was like Wade was a big, loud, baby who was talking tough to a heavyweight. Still, there wasn't one damn thing a man could say. Wade was the boss. Let it pass. Like all the other crap-e-ola. Let it pass.

  "White folks," Hattie said, "talkin' there's a killing at the auction." Hattie didn't have enough of a body left, hardly, to even move, but nobody had eyes so bright as Hattie. Her eyes could smile or even grin, if her wrinkles could not.

  "Can't say," Lester told her. "Most like shot himself."

  "Can't help but wonder. How come?"

  "Folks say he was in misery." The bus pulled over and Lester watched, sort of wistful, as the goldy-skin girl got off. "His momma died and his brother disappeared. Police lookin' for the brother. All kind of talk."

  "Kill himself, he's gonna burn."

  There wasn't much Lester could say to that. Hellfire preacher business. That white boy had a right to kill himself, but not out of misery. If Hattie could hold on, so ought the white boy.

  The bus pulled up to Jackson St. "Little mother," Lester said, "lemmie help you with that burden." He picked up the pillow case. "Weighs something."

  "Missus got a new iron. That's her old one. She give me a old coat. I got a coat for winter." Hattie gimped down the aisle, one leg sort of twisty; walking crooked.

  On the sidewalk Hattie gimped and Lester carried. The two went slow. In three blocks they passed Lucky's place, with Lucky still behind the counter. Lucky waved. Lola the guinea hen looked happy-clucky. Thomas, the Plymouth Rock rooster looked spooked.

  "I got regular cleaning," Hattie said. "I got regular work."

  "To this point I got the same," Lester told her. "All next week we working a warehouse."

  "You gone dance tonight? You the best dancer."

  "I should not wonder."

  Saturday Night, August 9th

  Lester

  And now it was Saturday night. A man could get rid of a week's worth of shinola; cash in pocket, beer, a good cigar, not them weedy Roi Tans. Get dressed proper, then ease over to Sapphire Top Spot. Lester could drift like a big fish in a little puddle because he had steady pay and savings.

  All around town were other puddles. Lester, who was always tuned in to what was happening, could have told exactly what half of the city did, and where, and with what labels on the bottles.

  * * *

  Beer and tobacco held their own in workingman bars. Maybe beer was gentle suicide, tobacco quiet; but they were long-range suicide for men who busted their behinds all week, made the rent, fed the kids, and looked at nigh-empty pockets; men, who, the minute they thought they were getting ahead, looked down to see a kid's feet needing new shoes.

  Because a man, goddamn, had to have something; a place to hover, come Saturday night.

  All during the week Louisville's beer joints prepared. While traveling men sipped or belted bourbon at hotels: The Brown, The Clay, The Seelbach, beer trucks rolled along quiet back streets and stopped before neighborhood bars. The trucks carried Sterling, Falls City, or Fehrs. And, while traveling men at the hotels went on-the-cheap with colored porters, tipping at most a quarter, but usually only a dime, the truck drivers proved the souls of generosity: without regard to race, religious, political or sexual problems.

  Ritual beer. Souse-hounds and bar-flies in each neighborhood knew the beer routes and schedules. They were unerring on the time when afternoon services would begin at the local joint.

  The beer truck driver arrived. His truck was slab-sided, with beer cases tiered and open to the sun. The truck shone yellow and blue, or red and white, or black and red. The driver was always built like a linebacker. He would trundle in stacks of beer cases, trundle out stacks of empty bottles. Then the driver would return to the bar. He sat, drank a beer, and bought a round for the house because it was the breweries' idea of promotion. The driver bulled-around, telling modest lies as became a hero. Then, amid fond farewells he left, headed for the next joint. The drivers who lasted were guys who could hold their beer. The trucks that lasted were generally Chevrolets.

  By Saturday night extra beer lay iced. Joints along every commercial street punctured the night with neon and juke box. Electric fans churned, refrigeration grunted and wheezed, and where one lived on Saturday night dictated where and how one drank, if one drank.

  Out by Bowman Field, and Strathmore, well-off Jews 'wet the bottom of the glass' with wine. These were Jews of German background who settled through the American south in the early and mid 19th century. Most Jewish immigration in those days stayed in New York City, but some did not. Ambitious immigrants had toted eighty pound packs through the middlewest and south. They peddled, succeeded, opened stores, and sent for their relatives. Small communities of Jews were established in cities across the country.

  Lots of folks out there by Bowman and in Strathmore were still observant, observing Saturday. Even fallen Jewish angels, specifically Lucky, were sober. Lucky, and Mrs. Lucky (Rachel), sometimes dined out at locally famous Kaelin's; at the time a twelve minute drive.

  In the midst of downtown along Market St. and thereabout, dwelt Polish Jews who settled in the late 19th and early 20th century. Lots of them were playing catch-up ball, because, unlike the Samuelwiczes, they had come from the Polish peasantry. Hardly anybody liked them, and with some reason. German Jews were disgusted because the Poles didn't know how to act civilized. The Germans felt that Poles gave Jews a bad name. Thus, the Germans thought about Poles in the same way that Ashkenazic (Spanish Jews) had thought about German immigrants back in the 18th century. The junk dealer Fudd was a good ex
ample of second generation Polish peasantry. What he drank he brewed at home.

  Along Bardstown Road in the upper Highlands, well-off Catholics roosted in nice houses in the neighborhood of Saint Francis of Assisi church. There were two sorts of well-to-do Catholics; Germans and lace-curtain Irish. The Micks drank in lounges, usually too much. The Krauts generally drank at home.

  Along the Parkway, down toward Saint Joe's hospital, Germantown paraded small but tidy houses, swept sidewalks, gleaming windows, and beer joints filled with heavy Dutch song. These were working men, not wealthy, but with substance.

  In Butchertown, in the eastern part of the city toward the stockyards, blue collar guys belched, cussed, and hovered around the few women who had enough nerve to frequent neighborhood bars. These were white guys: English, German, French, an occasional Finn, plus mongrels. Couples sat at tables. Men fought. Lots of barfights.

  In the west end, out toward Fountaine Ferry Amusement Park, well-to-do colored ladies and colored gentlemen; doctors, lawyers, undertakers, postal workers, and teachers, entertained. Their houses were generally small, and neat and clean as Germantown. There was, at the time, no more conservative person in the world than the colored gentleman, the colored lady. They raised their kids with starchy morals. They drank a little, held poker parties, laughed and were pleased.

  On Jackson Street, part slum and part blue collar; with hot and cold running roaches, rented rooms and some two-room apartments (even an occasional building ratless), Saturday night moods could start joyful.

  By the time folks wandered toward Sapphire Top Spot, Lucky had closed shop. Iron grills were up and locked. Small merchandise had been removed from windows. The money-green Cad bore Lucky down the street to Broadway, hung a left, then disappeared, not to be seen before Monday morning.

  Folks strolled or paraded past the yellow store with black signs.