Young Mr. Keefe

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  They walked inside and swung themselves up on two high stools. A counterman in shirt-sleeves and a greasy white apron came out from what was evidently the kitchen. “Hi, Mike,” the man said good-naturedly.

  “Hi, Al.”

  “What’ll it be, Mike? The usual?”

  “Yeah—two hamburgers, Al. And a bottle of cream soda.” He turned to Jimmy, his wide face in a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got this thing about cream soda. What’ll you have?”

  “I’ll have two hamburgers, too,” Jimmy said. “And coffee.”

  “How’s business, Al?” Mike asked.

  The counterman shrugged. “Tell you after the Fourth,” he said. “Usually get a good crowd down here around the Fourth.” He walked back into the kitchen.

  Jimmy smiled. “I guess you come here often,” he said.

  “Yeah—quite a bit. Saturdays and Sundays. After fishing.”

  “You must like to fish.”

  The counterman arrived and placed Jimmy’s steaming cup of coffee in front of him, then disappeared. Mike slid the sugar bowl towards him.

  “Thanks,” Jimmy said.

  “Yes, I like to fish. New Englander in me I guess,” Mike said. “There’re three things I like to do: fish, ski—and you’ll never guess what the third one is.”

  “What?”

  “Play bridge. I’m nuts about bridge—a real bug on it.” He turned to Jimmy. “Do you play bridge?”

  “I’ve played some,” Jimmy said. “But not for quite a while.”

  “I don’t play for money, though,” Mike said. “Just for the fun of it.”

  Presently the hamburgers arrived. The two of them sat forward, elbows on the counter, and began to eat. Jimmy realized that he had, indeed, been hungry. For no reason, he remembered Claire’s scrambled-egg sandwiches last night; for a moment, his heart sank leadenly. Then he turned his mind back to the present. “Best hamburgers I ever ate,” he said.

  “Al does all right,” Mike said.

  They finished in silence, wiping their fingers.

  “How do you like San Francisco?” Jimmy asked.

  “I like it fine,” Mike said. “I don’t know whether I’d want to settle here, though. It’s too early to say. Do you get down often?”

  “Now and then,” Jimmy said. “It’s nice to get out of the valley this time of year.”

  “Look,” Mike said suddenly, his sunburned face brightening, “what are you doing this afternoon?”

  “I’ve got to get back,” Jimmy said.

  “I was thinking—if you like to play bridge, we could go back to my place. I can get us a third and fourth—guys from work that like to play.”

  “Well, thanks anyway,” Jimmy said. “But I’d really better get back.”

  “Well, look,” Mike said, “let’s do it some time, okay? Come on down some time and I’ll get a bunch together. How about it?”

  “Sure, that might be fun,” Jimmy said.

  “I don’t lead much of a social life,” Mike said. “Can’t afford it—I’m usually free. Say, how about next Saturday?”

  “Saturday?” Jimmy weighed it. “Well,” he said slowly, “sure. Sure—that would be fine. I’d like to.”

  “Great!” Mike said. He smiled a big, open smile. “You don’t meet a fellow Easterner every day of the week, you know,” he said. He reached in the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a stubby pencil. He scribbled an address and phone number on a paper napkin. “Here’s where I live—down by the gasworks.” He handed the paper to Jimmy. “Call me next Saturday when you get to town.” Jimmy looked at the paper, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. Suddenly he sat back on his stool and laughed broadly. He continued to laugh, shaking his head back and forth, rocking his whole body on the stool. “Christ!” he said. “Oh, Christ!”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I don’t know,” Jimmy said, still laughing. “Christ, I don’t know. It just seems funny, that’s all. I just thought—Mike Gorman, Jim Keefe, a couple of Irishmen. I don’t know why it’s funny—meeting each other on the beach, I guess—”

  Mike Gorman began to laugh, too. “Yeah,” he said, “I see what you mean.” He leaned forward, his hands wrapped around the soda bottle. They both laughed, their shoulders shaking.

  “I don’t know why it’s so damn’ funny,” Jimmy said. “It just is.”

  Driving back across the Bay Bridge, in the slow, crowded week-end traffic lane, Jimmy still shook with small bursts of laughter. The afternoon was cool, balmy. In the rear-view mirror, the white crystalline city reflected clearly. Jimmy caught a glimpse of his own face. “I look like hell, but I feel great,” he said. Ahead of him, in the afternoon sunlight, the white dots of houses caught the sun as they marched, tier on tier, up the Berkeley hills. It was a vision of gardens and green, sprinkled with jewel-like houses of white stucco and glass; he was swept with the sensation that he must hold his eyes on it, keep watching it, or else, in a moment, it would all disappear.

  13

  On the wide terrace beside the pool at the Bel Air Hotel, the sun filters through broad, drooping palmetto fronds on to the tops of umbrellas, on white-jacketed waiters, and flashes in the blue water. At the tables under the umbrellas, even though it is a Sunday, business is being conducted. A well-known producer sits with a well-known movie star whose hair is wrapped in a white silk scarf; the two of them sip tall pale-green drinks—grasshoppers. At another table, an actor, in swimming trunks and a boldly monogrammed terry robe, munches a sandwich as he reads a script that his agent has just handed him. A crimson-haired girl with a white sealyham on a leash stares boredly, through dark glasses, at her escort, a nobody like herself, who wears a crimson jacket to match her hair. Three television writers from New York spread out story boards in front of them, pass them back and forth; the story boards are commercials for a well-known tooth paste. A woman, older, in brilliant orange slacks, considered at the moment to be the wisest woman in Hollywood, tells the fortune of a budding starlet; she sorts the tarot cards in front of her. “I see happiness for you within a three, baby,” she says, and the starlet looks at her with deep, grateful eyes. The white sealyham barks as a little boy—a little boy nobody knows—runs by. The air smells of alyssum, for there is an entire lawn planted with alyssum beyond the pool. All the sounds are glass-like; glasses chink at the tables. Even the conversation sounds like glass.

  In this milieu, even Mr. Harry Masterson, president of Monarch Mills, a short, stout man in a vivid sport shirt, had no real confidence. He strutted importantly, nevertheless, as though he belonged there, reminding himself that he, too, had a house with a pool, though the house was not in Bel Air; it was in Scarsdale. He followed the head waiter across the terrace to a table beneath an umbrella and ordered a Scotch-and-soda in a commanding voice. He looked around, recognizing several celebrities instantly, and stared at them while pretending to stare through them. He crossed his feet, looked at his watch, and began an impatient tapping on the table-top with his fingertips; presently he saw a slim, curly-haired young man standing at the edge of the terrace, looking from table to table. The young man was dressed so differently from the others—in a dark grey worsted suit with a white shirt and striped tie—that Mr. Masterson knew instantly that this was Stuart Gates, Junius Denison’s, son-in-law. He waved. The young man saw him, smiled and came towards him. Mr. Masterson rose. “Stuart? I’m Harry Masterson. Sit down, Stuart.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Masterson.”

  “I’ve ordered myself a drink, Stuart. Would you care for one?”

  “Why sure, thanks. Scotch-and-soda.”

  “Just what I’m having. Waiter! Hey, waiter! Another Scotch-and-soda here.”

  “It certainly is a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Masterson. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Have you? Well, not all bad I hope. Ha ha. Well, Ju Denison’s an old buddy of mine. We were in the Navy together.”

  “So I understand.”

&nb
sp; “A great fellow. A prince among men, Stuart. You’re a lucky fellow to have a man like Ju for a father-in-law.”

  Following this exchange, there was a moment of silence. Blazer looked around. He’d certainly worn the wrong thing for a poolside conference, he decided. He felt hot and uncomfortable; even in the umbrella’s shade, the day was hot. He looked back at Mr. Masterson. Mr. Masterson was frowning intently, waiting for his drink. Presently the drinks came. “Well, here’s to you, son,” Mr. Masterson said, lifting his glass.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Masterson sipped his drink. “Quite a few cuties here, eh?” He winked.

  “Yes, sir, there certainly are.”

  “Notice that redhead over there? Now, who’s she? I wonder. Ever seen her before?”

  Blazer followed his glance. “No, I don’t think I have,” he said.

  “Well, that’s Hollywood for you,” Mr. Masterson said. “That’s really Hollywood for you. Lots of beautiful girls. How’s your own bride, Stuart?”

  “Claire’s fine,” Blazer said.

  “Haven’t seen her since she was yea high.” Mr. Masterson lowered his palm towards the ground. “Yea high. Cute little yellow-haired kid.”

  Blazer smiled.

  “So,” Mr. Masterson said, “I understand you’re in the soft-goods business, Stuart.”

  “That’s right, sir. I’m with Norden-Clark. Sales.”

  “Norden-Clark, eh? That’s a good outfit. Competitor of ours, of course, in certain areas. But, like I always say, Stuart, competition is a healthy thing. A very healthy thing.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  Mr. Masterson sloshed his drink gently back and forth. His eyes narrowed as he looked across the table. “You know Bob Clark?” he asked.

  “No, not personally. No,” Blazer said. “I’m still in the lower echelon, you see.”

  “Well, Bob Clark’s a funny fellow,” he said. “A very funny fellow. I could tell you a few stories. Remind me to tell you of the time—” He broke off. “Well, that’s water over the bridge. I mean under.” He looked at Blazer suddenly. “How much do they pay you?” he asked.

  Blazer hesitated. “Forty-eight hundred,” he said.

  Mr. Masterson studied him intently, saying nothing. Blazer gulped his drink. “Forty-eight hundred,” Mr. Masterson repeated, finally. “Well. That’s not a hell of a lot, is it?”

  Blazer felt his face reddening. “I’ve only been with them seven months,” he said.

  “Young fellow like you ought to earn more than that,” he said. “I’ll tell you why I ask. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four,” Blazer answered.

  “No kids yet?”

  “No.” Blazer laughed nervously. “Not yet.”

  “And none—ah—on the way? Ha ha!”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you why I ask,” Mr. Masterson said. Then he retreated abruptly into silence, staring at his half-empty glass.

  Blazer was silent, too. Then, finally, he asked, “Why?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” Mr. Masterson said musingly. “You know why I’m out here?”

  “No.”

  “Well, our West Coast manager has been giving us a little trouble. He—well, to put it frankly, he doesn’t quite have it. He doesn’t quite have it on the ball. Sales are slipping. But the market is good. Something’s wrong.”

  “I see,” Blazer said.

  “Well, this is all by the by but anyway I came out here to take a look-see. We’ve got a trouble area here, no doubt about that. Something’s wrong.” He continued to stare at his glass.

  “Contact?” Blazer ventured.

  Mr. Masterson looked up quickly. “Contact!” he bellowed. “Contact! That’s it. You’ve put your finger on it!” He jabbed his finger at Blazer’s chest. “Contact! That’s where we’re falling down. Personality. My motto is personality makes contacts—contacts make sales.”

  “I sure agree with you on that,” Blazer said.

  Mr. Masterson looked at Blazer appraisingly. “I like you,” he said. “I like the cut of your jib.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Cut out this sir stuff. Call me Harry.”

  “All right, Harry.”

  “Now, look. Are you married to Norden-Clark?”

  “Well—”

  “No, don’t answer that. Foolish question. Skip it. Sorry I asked. What I meant to ask you was, do you—do you, Stuart Denison—”

  “Gates,” Blazer murmured.

  “Gates, sorry. Do you, Stuart Gates, think that you could manage a division here in L.A.—a division with fourteen salesmen working directly under you, reporting only to our general sales manager in New York? Do you?” He looked at Blazer closely, and repeated, “Do you?”

  “Well,” Blazer answered slowly, “frankly—I don’t know.”

  “Good!” Mr. Masterson yelled. Heads turned from several tables to glance at him. “Good. If you’d answered yes, I’d have laughed in your face.” He clapped Blazer on the shoulder. “Of course you don’t know! And—what’s more to the point—I don’t know either. But,” he added steadily, “I could find out, couldn’t I? Yes.” He nodded slowly, up and down. “I like you. Contact. I like what you said about contact. I like that very much.” He reached for his glass and swallowed the remainder of his drink. “Well, look,” he said, and he sing-songed, “I-tell-ya-what-I’m-gonna-do. We’ll forget we had this little talk. For the time being, see? It’s strictly entre nous, as the fellow says. But I’m going to bear it in mind.” Mr. Masterson looked at his watch. “I’ve got to meet a chap here in a few minutes,” he said. “But you just may be hearing from me. Okay?”

  “Harry,” Blazer said, smiling, sure of his ground all at once, “I certainly appreciate all of this. I certainly do.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Mr. Masterson stood up. “Contact,” he said. He held out his hand. Blazer jumped to his feet. Mr. Masterson smiled at him; they shook hands.

  Harry Masterson watched the slim young man as he moved away, through the tables, towards the edge of the terrace. He liked him, yes. It might work, who could tell? And if not—well. Well, he thought, there could be worse things than bringing the son of a man like Junius Denison into the business, or rather the son-in-law. Who knew when he himself might like to ask a favour of Junius Denison? Didn’t one good turn always deserve another? He drummed his fingers on the table. In Mr. Harry Masterson’s world, one good turn did.

  14

  There is a secret area of a man’s mind from which he can view himself objectively. From this place, this platform, it is possible to see each motion and each action in a clear, chilly light. It is not always possible to reach this platform. That is, it must be reached voluntarily, and with some effort. But when a man does reach it, and can stand far off, observing himself, events seem orderly and sequential, in a way almost justifiable, if you figure that effect follows cause, and that every happening in life follows a pattern of action and counteraction. Jimmy tried to view the events of the past two days from this impersonal region as he lay, feet up, in his stocking feet, on the sofa in his apartment that Sunday evening. He was deliberately not fixing himself a drink, because he knew that drinking would cloud the process and blur the image. But, try as he might, he could not reach the plateau of candid objectivity that he wanted to reach. Some odd, interior jeering interrupted him and pulled him back. Back to the hot, close apartment, the tasteless furniture, the spot on the rug, his shoes on the floor, himself lying on the sofa. He was being pulled back to the knowledge that something terrible had happened, and was happening, and to the haunting fear that he was making it happen. He had crossed a barrier that he had sworn never to cross. He had defiled a sacred image. He had defiled Helen. But he had defiled an image that he treasured even more: the image of himself.

  And yet it was curious. Claire managed to break the Seventh Commandment and observe the breakage as casually as she might observe a broken fingernail. It
was an attitude that, to Jimmy, was hard to understand. Was he being too Puritanical? No, because it was he who had finally brought the episode to a finish. Not that Claire hadn’t wanted it to finish that way. She had wanted it, he had recognized that, all along. And how about himself? Had he wanted it, too? Ah, he thought, there was a question, there was indeed a question. Yes, he had wanted it, too. He thought about Claire.

  It was hard to imagine what went on in that mind of hers. He thought he understood her. A girl—young, beautiful, foolish—a girl who was easily bored with things. She was vain, wanted to be the centre of attention—she was all those things. But underneath, was there something else? Was there some deep unfathomable reservoir that waited, empty, waiting to be filled? Was he falling in love with her, falling in love with Blazer’s wife?

  It was curious, too, to think about Helen. Helen, in Rio Linda, with his child growing inside her, a child that she evidently never planned to let him see. A totally unfounded thought floated to the surface of his mind. He had had it before, even last night, afterwards. He rejected it, but it persisted. Could it be, he wondered, that this had all been a part of Claire’s plan? If it had been, it had certainly worked marvellously for her. For that had been what had set him off. Surely, he knew, he would not have gone to bed with her if she had not told him about Helen and the baby. He had been fairly drunk, yes. But even so—even so, if it hadn’t been for that, the final barrier wouldn’t have fallen. Was it possible that Claire had made the whole thing up? That she had not gone to see Helen at all, that she had no information and no knowledge, but simply told a quick, effective lie? It was part of the whole question mark that was Claire’s character that it was possible, quite possible. It would be the sort of thing she would do. Or rather it was the sort of thing she could easily be suspected of doing. Why, for example, would she go to Rio Linda? Why should she care whether he and Helen got back together or not? Yes, it was not only possible, it was quite probable. She had deceived him because in some uncanny way she knew ahead of time what his reaction would be. So that was that. So there was no baby coming.