No Pockets in a Shroud

by Horace McCoy

  The faint nostalgia he had felt a moment ago was gone now, and he stood there, hoping it would return, hoping it would come back in a devastating fashion, a terrific flood of homesickness that would bury his stomach and heart and roll out his ears and make him wish he were back working here. He had always heard Once a Reporter, Always a Reporter, and a lot of other traditional saws about The Smell of Ink in Your Nostrils and The Quiver of Excitement When News is Breaking, etc.; but he knew now this was a lot of nonsense. He was disappointed to discover this. It was one of the first things he had ever learned, but now he knew that was a lot of crap, too. Several reporters were looking at him, and a couple of the old men in the copy slot, but none of them spoke or even indicated his presence by so much as a nod of the head or a wave of the hand.

  Dolan turned out of the office and went down the steps to the conference room, knowing in his heart that he was going over a bridge he never again would cross... and walking towards the library he was thinking

  glad

  sad

  glad

  sad

  glad

  sad glad sad glad sad glad sad glad sad glad sad glad sad glad sad gladsadgladsadgladsadgladsadgladsadgladsadgladsad

  without truly finding out which he was.

  He opened the conference-room door and went inside.

  The six men sitting around the table stopped talking and looked up. Dolan knew them all: Thomas, at the head of the table; Mastenbaum, publisher of the Index, the big morning paper; Havetry, publisher of the Courier, Riddle, secretary-treasurer of the Star, the smallest afternoon paper; Sandrich, his managing editor; and Barriger, city editor of the Times-Gazette.

  'Come in, Dolan,' Thomas said, getting up, indicating a leather chair beside him at the head of the table. 'We're glad you're here. You know these gentlemen, don't you—?'

  'Yes. How do you do?' Dolan said, nodding.

  'Sit down. What's the matter with your head?'

  'Oh—an accident—'

  'Too bad. Sit down,' Thomas said again. 'Shall I tell Dolan why we're here?' he asked the assembly.

  A couple of the men grunted.

  'Dolan,' Thomas said, 'this is rather an unusual procedure, this meeting. All the newspapers are represented here for a common cause. I may as well inform you now that we are determined to fight for our rights. By that I mean we are not going to have our circulations jeopardized. We have asked you to come here to make you a proposition—'

  Dolan said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

  'We have agreed to give you twenty-five hundred dollars each—a total often thousand dollars—and arrange to get you a job with any newspaper you suggest, in any metropolitan city, provided that city is at least one thousand miles from Colton, if you will give up this magazine and sign an agreement never to start another one here.'

  'Why are you making me this offer?' Dolan asked.

  'We'll be frank with you. There are a great many subjects you can handle in your magazine which the newspaper cannot, because of innumerable ramifications, touch or even hint at. Those subjects make good reading, because they are destructive—and you have a concrete example in the suicide of Doctor Harry Carlisle—'

  'Was it suicide?'

  'Of course it was!'

  'I didn't know. I had to figure it out from reading the newspapers. None of them said it was suicide. They said he was found dead with a pistol beside him.'

  'Don't quibble, Dolan. This is not a debate on how or what the newspapers shall say or the style in which they say it. The fact remains that the Cosmopolite is responsible for Carlisle's death, and this is bound to impress a certain class of people, morons probably, with the fearlessness of the magazine.'

  'Gentlemen,' Dolan said smiling, speaking to the entire group, 'do you realize this is an admission of defeat? Don't you know you're admitting that any paper or periodical which even gets around the edges of the truth in this town is bound to succeed?'

  'That is all beside the point,' Thomas said. 'We have made you a very generous offer. Of course, if you want to be recalcitrant, there are other ways to handle the situation—'

  'I suppose by that remark you mean unless I take this money and go to New York, I'll get what Whittelsey got. He started a tabloid here and lasted about three months—and then he was strong-armed into leaving. Is that what you mean?'

  'Oh, don't be stupid about it,' Thomas said irritably. 'Ten thousand dollars and a job anywhere you want. That will pay all your bills and leave you plenty besides—'

  'I've got plenty,' Dolan said. 'As a matter of fact, I took an ad in the Courier this afternoon along those lines—'

  'Then you refuse?'

  'Yes—but I'm not sorry I came. You may not think so, but this is a major triumph for me—'

  'All right,' Thomas said. 'Get all you can out of it, because it'll probably be your last—'

  'Maybe,' Mastenbaum said, from across the table, 'we might raise the ante a little—'

  'Never mind, Mister Mastenbaum,' Thomas said. 'I know him better than you do. It's hopeless—'

  They stared at him, and Dolan finally realized they had nothing else to say to him, that they had assembled only in an effort to impress him with a solid front of awesome importance.

  'Good-bye, gentlemen,' he said, getting up, going out.

  He walked to the end of the corridor and waited for the elevator.

  A man came charging down the steps behind the latticed elevator cage. It was Bassett, one of the copy readers. He tore around the corner and ran down the corridor. Half-way to the conference room he met Thomas and the other executives and had an animated and brief conversation. Thomas and Barriger started running out, going up the stairs two at a time. Bassett jumped in the elevator with Dolan, going down. He was very excited.

  'What's the matter?' Dolan asked.

  'I got to tell the circulation department to round up some hustlers. We're going extra—'

  'On what?'

  'Big Weston Park murder. Roy Menefee just killed his wife and another guy—'

  The elevator stopped at the ground floor. Bassett swung out and rushed through a door into the business office.

  '—What's the matter with your head, Mister Mike?' asked Edward, the ancient Negro elevator operator.

  He got no answer. He shook his head, puzzled, watching Dolan walk on through the big doors into the street...

  * * * * *

  There were only two things in the paper that Dolan looked at that afternoon.

  One was the page-one story in hand-set headlines:

  WESTON PARK SCION SLAYS DEBUTANTE WIFE AND MAN

  ROY MENEFEE KILLS COUGHLIN MENEFEE AND EMIL VIDEO, LITTLE THEATRE ELECTRICIAN,

  IN DOWNTOWN ROOMING-HOUSE

  He did not read the story.

  The other thing he looked at was the personal advertisement he had bought and which was on the lower half of page ten. It was set in enormous type, in a wide box:

  TO MY CREDITORS: LARGE AND SMALL

  I have lately come into a considerable sum of money. It is my desire to pay off all my obligations, regardless of how long they have been outstanding. Therefore, if I owe you any money at all, for merchandise or for personal loans, come to 812 Sixth Avenue tomorrow afternoon at 3 o'clock and you will be paid in full.

  MICHAEL DOLAN

  (former sports editor, Times-Gazette),

  Now Publisher and Editor, the Cosmopolite,

  The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth.

  Dolan had been badgered by creditors for so many years that he had dreamed of the day when he would be able to run this ad. It had been an obsession with him.

  But now the kick was gone.

  * * * * *

  He left early that afternoon and drove to the beach. He was gone for hours, but he had no recollection of anything definite he had done or seen. He couldn't remember whether or not he had had dinner. When he got home, Bishop and Myra were waiting for him.

  'We've been waiting ho
urs,' Myra said.

  'I'm sorry. I went for a ride.'

  'Apparently it doesn't do any good to tell you that you shouldn't be doing things like that,' Bishop said. 'So I guess I'll save my breath. However, we would like to know what Thomas wanted—'

  Dolan told them. Bishop was not surprised.

  'That's a tribute,' he said. 'It's without precedent.'

  'It's a swell situation for a story,' Myra said.

  'We haven't hurt their circulation any yet,' Dolan said, 'but I do believe they realize we are a definite threat.'

  'No,' Bishop said, shaking his head, 'it's not their circulation they're afraid of—it's their prestige. That's what's eating them. They don't want their readers to know they're being cheated—'

  'Maybe you're right... That was a hell of a thing Menefee pulled, wasn't it?'

  'Yeah—'

  'I wonder why he shot April? He knew she was that way. He told me so this morning—'

  'Did you see him this morning?' Myra asked.

  'He came here looking for her. With a gun. He thought she'd spent the night here.'

  'You didn't say anything about that—'

  'I forgot it. Hell,' he exclaimed, turning to her, 'do I have to tell you everything that happens? I forgot it.'

  'All right, all right, you forgot it,' Myra said.

  '... Wasn't that a hell of a thing he did?' Dolan said again, to nobody. 'The guy had everything in the world—position, money, popularity—and one wild impulse and the whole thing is shattered. I guess old man Coughlin is sorry now he didn't let April marry me—'

  'You're just as well off,' Bishop said. 'That never would have worked out.'

  'Just the same, I'd have liked to have a crack at it—'

  'For God's sake, sit down and stop that pacing!' Myra said...

  There was a knock at the door.

  'Come in,' Dolan said.

  It was Elbert and Ernst.

  'Excuse us,' Elbert said. 'We didn't know you had company—'

  'Come in, come in,' Dolan said.

  'We were just wondering if you'd made up your mind what to do about the house,' Elbert said.

  'What house? This one? Do about what?'

  'We've got to move. Didn't Ulysses tell you?'

  'I haven't seen Ulysses,' Dolan said.

  'We saw him,' Myra said. 'He told us. I forgot to tell you. You're moving—'

  'Why?'

  'Mrs. Ratcliff's sold this property, and we've got to get out right away,' Elbert said. 'Tomorrow. They're going to put up an oil station.'

  'They want to start tearing the house down right away,' Ernst said.

  'They can start tonight if they want to,' Dolan said. 'I haven't got much stuff to move.'

  'Tommy and Ulysses and I went out this afternoon looking for a new place,' Elbert said. 'I think we've found one over on Sycamore Street —just about the same layout as this one. If you like it we can move your stuff for you. You won't have to fool with that—'

  'I don't care about seeing it,' Dolan said. 'If it's all right with the rest of you, it's all right with me.'

  'Swell. Then you are going to stay with us?'

  'Certainly, I'm going to stay with you.'

  'Swell. That's what we wanted to find out. We'll talk to you later—in the morning. There're still a few little details to be discussed—'

  'All right—'

  They nodded and went out, closing the door.

  '—Details,' Myra said shortly. 'You know what that means, don't you? It means dough for the rent. Why don't you get wise to yourself and kick these parasites out in the gutter where they belong?'

  'It's not a bad gutter, at that,' Dolan said, slightly annoyed by the bite in her tone. 'I came out of it—why are you so jealous of these fellows? They've got a hell of a lot of talent. Geniuses, maybe.'

  'Oh, for God's sake,' Myra said, curling her lips. 'They're four-flushers. They're not even good four-flushers. They're playing at being Bohemians. Don't you know that stuff's dated now?'

  'Will you lay off?' Bishop growled ... 'Mike, that Gage kid you put to soliciting looks like he might turn out pretty good. He hooked a couple of nice ads this afternoon.'

  'Good. Look, do you think I'll be involved in this thing? I mean, do you think I'll have to go to court?'

  'I don't know—'

  'Hell, that'd be awful—'

  There was another knock at the door.

  'Come in,' Dolan said.

  The door opened. It was Ulysses, but he did not come in. He motioned for Dolan to come outside. He went out into the living-room, closing the door behind him.

  'There's a man downstairs in a car wants to see you,' Ulysses said.

  'What man? Who is he?'

  'He said to tell you it was Bud and you'd know—'

  'Oh—sure. I'll go right down,' he said, starting away.

  He heard the door open behind him.

  'Mike!' Bishop called. 'Where're you going?'

  Dolan turned and went back to him.

  'I'm going downstairs to see Bud McGonagill a moment. Do you mind?'

  'How do you know it's McGonagill?'

  'Listen. For God's sake, will you stay here with Myra and let me alone for a minute?'

  He went downstairs. Bud McGonagill was sitting in a county car in the darkness.

  'I didn't want to come upstairs,' McGonagill said. 'From now on we've got to be careful. I found out where The Crusaders are meeting tonight—'

  'Tonight?'

  'Yeah, there's a party of some kind. You know where the old airport is? Up by the reservoir?'

  'I know. On the other side of the river bottoms—'

  'That's right. They're meeting there at midnight. Here,' he said, lifting a bundle wrapped in newspaper. 'Use this—'

  'What is it?'

  'The uniform. You couldn't get close to it without putting it on.'

  'Where'd you get a uniform? I thought you said you weren't a member?'

  'I'm not. Belongs to Sam Wren. I assigned him to take a couple of prisoners to the pen this afternoon. Then I used my pass key and got this out of his locker. Get it back to me first thing in the morning, and I'll have it back in there and he'll never know the difference.'

  'Thanks, Bud,' Dolan said, taking the bundle. 'Thanks a lot. I'll take care of it and see that you get it back in the morning.'

  'Never mind that. I'll drop by here and pick it up on my way down. I guess I can take a chance for that—'

  'Thanks, Bud. This is swell.'

  'Forget it,' McGonagill said, starting the motor. 'Just see that nothing happens to it. And, Mike—better take your gun along. I think you can get away with this—but better take it anyway—'

  'Thanks, Bud—'

  When McGonagill had driven off, Dolan went back upstairs with the bundle.

  'What's that?' Bishop asked.

  'A new suit,' Dolan said, starting to unwrap it.

  'When did McGonagill go in the tailoring business?' Myra asked.

  'Damn good thing for us that he did,' Dolan said, opening the bundle.

  He lifted up a black robe and a black helmet.

  'For God's sake!' Bishop said.

  'What is this?' Myra said.

  Dolan held up the robe. It was very long, and voluminous, big enough to cover two men. On the front of it was an old English C in white, with a red arrow through it. The helmet was simply a piece of black cloth sewed together with holes stitched in for the eyes, nose, and mouth. It had a smaller old English C on the forehead.

  'Know now?' Dolan said.

  'It's the Crusaders' uniform. What the hell are you going to do with it?'

  'Wear it. I'm going to their meeting tonight—'

  'Why, you goddam fool,' Myra said.

  'Look at this cheap material,' Dolan said, showing the robe. 'Don't you know somebody got rich selling these things?'

  '—So McGonagill did know something,' Bishop said.

  'He's on our side,' Dolan said. 'He's helping me—'
<
br />   'He's helping you get killed—'

  Bishop and Myra looked at each other. They knew instinctively what each was thinking: that there was no use trying to talk to him about going to the meeting, that he was a goddamed hard-headed Mick with a one-way mind, and that he was going to do this in spite of hell and high-water... and Dolan knew what they were thinking, too.

  'It's no use,' he said. 'May as well spare yourself the effort. I told you I was after these bastards, and I meant it. I'm going—'

  'Then all we can do,' Bishop said, 'is to hope that you get out of it alive—'

  'I guess it is,' Dolan said...

  * * * * *

  He did not get into much traffic until he was about a mile across the river bottoms, going up the old reservoir road. It was a narrow road and very bumpy, covered only with a layer of macadam. It was not used any more by motor traffic, once upon a time it had been the main artery north, but that was in the old days before the fine highways and fast cars. Now it was used only by a few farmers who lived far back in the hills. Farmers and Crusaders.

  Dolan drove along very carefully, hugging the right side of the road, leaving plenty of room on the left and plenty of room in front. He did not want to have an accident here. Even so small a thing as a crumpled fender might be disastrous. He did not want to talk to anybody or even see anybody. That was why he had the collar of his trench coat pulled up behind his hat, and his hat well down over his eyes. There was not one chance in a thousand that he would be recognized thus by somebody driving along, but he couldn't risk even that. Presently his progress became slower, and he could see the cars choking up far in front of him. It was like the traffic in the Arroyo Seco after a Rose Bowl game. He nursed his car along, trying to keep his mind on this so he would not have to think about what he was going to do when he got where he was going, wherever that was. He didn't even know that.

  But it was a difficult job to keep from thinking about this, because it was mysterious and dangerous. His heart was pumping very fast. He was having a little trouble breathing. He was excited. He was glad there were hundreds of cars behind him. He couldn't turn around and go back now even if he wanted to. I don't want to, he thought, but I am glad they are there, because if I did want to I couldn't.