What's in It for Me?

by Jerome Weidman

“Alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She say anything to you?”

  “No, sir. But—”

  “But what?”

  “She didn’t say anything, Mr. Bogen. But she was carrying a small bag.”

  I grinned quickly.

  “She was, Charlie?”

  “Yes, sir. She was carrying a small bag. And she seemed in a hurry, too.”

  Good old Martha! She had a chest like a pouter pigeon, a brain like a Capone partner, a voice like a motorcycle exhaust, and she thought she was the Countess di Frasso. But when it came to a pinch, she was all there.

  “Listen, Charlie. You know what I think you are?”

  “What?”

  “The best damn switchboard operator in the whole world. Anything I ever said in the past to the contrary, you just forget. When I come back from Europe, you know what I’m gonna bring you?”

  “What?”

  “A new set of plugs.”

  What he said next sounded like “Whunnhh.” But I was moving too quickly to investigate or ask for a translation. It was twenty minutes to six. Trains for Philadelphia left on the hour. If Martha had walked out of the Montevideo a short while ago, carrying a bag, that meant she would be making the next six o’clock train. I was whistling cheerfully as I hurried over to the ticket window.

  “One way to Philadelphia.”

  “Coach or chair car?”

  I hesitated. Martha wouldn’t be traveling in a coach. That was sure. But she was carrying the dough. I was carrying seven bucks.

  “Coach.”

  With the ticket in my pocket I went parading through the waiting room, looking for her. Near the telegraph desk I saw a man that looked like Nissem and the whistle died on my lips. I had forgotten how much he might know about my movements and where he might be getting his information. I ducked behind a bench and looked out carefully. It wasn’t Nissem. But I had learned my lesson. I had eighteen minutes to train time. They didn’t have to be spent in sticking out my neck. I hurried into the toilet and went into one of the ten cent crappers. I sat there until four minutes to six. Then I got up, turned up my collar, pulled down my hat, and hurried out to the train. I got a seat in the smoker and kept my eyes to the window until we reached Newark. Then I got up and started going through the train. I did it systematically and carefully. Before I went into each car, I looked it over quickly through the glass door from the platform. Then I walked through fast, watching the seats as I went. But I didn’t find her. I did the whole thing twice, smoker, coaches, Pullmans, even the diner. But she wasn’t on the train.

  I went back to my seat in the smoker.

  First I worried about Martha. I had spoken to Charlie about five-thirty. He said she had left with her little bag some time before that. She might have left long enough before five to make the five o’clock train. She would be in Philadelphia an hour ahead of me. She would be waiting at the Ben Franklin.

  Then I worried about Nissem and Yazdabian. They could both drop dead. Once I got my hands on the money that Martha was bringing and we got out of the country, they could cry on each other’s shoulder. Yazdabian was too old to worry about; and, anyway, he had his beads. As for Nissem, he had plenty more money. He’d bled enough Seventh Avenue slobs dry with his hock shop and his service charges. It wouldn’t kill him if he lost a little blood himself for a change.

  The other thing I didn’t even want to think about.

  Suddenly I realized I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. But I couldn’t afford a meal in the diner. My shoes cost thirty dollars, my suit had set me back a hundred and sixty-five, my shirt was custom made, and my hat had a label in it that would have brought a whistle from anybody in the car who could read English. But I couldn’t afford a meal in the diner.

  I steered my mind away from Honeywell Avenue by concentrating on the little belches that my empty stomach kept sending up. Finally, the colored boy came through with his coffee can and his basket. I bought three sandwiches, a container of coffee, and a piece of apple pie. But in the middle of the second sandwich I was suddenly back on Honeywell Avenue and I wasn’t hungry any more. I knew one thing I was going to do before I left the country with that money.

  I was going to hire a couple of the biggest specialists afloat, I was going to fly them to New York from wherever the hell they were if they weren’t in New York, and I was going to see to it that she was—

  “Philadelphia! Thirtieth Street Station. Philadelphia! Broad Street next stop.”

  From the Broad Street Station I took a taxi to the Benjamin Franklin. I hurried into the lobby and looked around. I didn’t see Martha. I walked over to the desk and waited until one of the clerks was free. When he caught my eye he smiled graciously, the lips growing very thin and spreading out an inch on either side and the corners going up a half inch. He shoved a registry card in front of me and handed me a fountain pen. “Harold Boardman,” I wrote, “152 W. 42nd St., New York, N. Y.” He swung it around and started to make notations on a new ledger card. I leaned over and tapped his arm.

  “Yes, sir?” he said, looking up.

  “You mind seeing if there’s any messages for me?”

  The gracious smile slipped into place at once.

  “Certainly, sir. Just a moment, please.” He stepped across the small space to another section further down and I heard his voice. “Any mail or messages for Mr. Harold Boardman of New York? Boardman? B, o, a, r, d, m, a, n?” In a few moments he was back with a telegram. “That’s all there was, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  He dipped down again to finish his notations on the ledger card. I ripped the telegram open. It was addressed to Harold Boardman and was signed Martha. I took those two things in first. Then I started to read:

  THANKS FOR THE MONEY. I WAS WONDERING WHERE YOU WERE KEEPING IT. I DON’T LIKE PHILADELPHIA. I DON’T LIKE PEOPLE WHO TRY TO HOOK LEASHES TO ME. I DON’T LIKE PEOPLE WHO THINK THEY ARE SMARTER THAN I AM. I DON’T LIKE YOU. NO SENSE IN POSTPONING TRIP. FITS IN WITH MY PLANS PERFECTLY. KERMIT TERKEL SAYS I WILL ARRIVE ON COAST JUST IN TIME TO START WORK UNDER CONTRACT HE IS WRITING FOR ME. TEDDY SENDS HIS THANKS FOR THE CABIN. TEDDY’S SECOND NAME IS AST. TEDDY SAYS TO REMEMBER WHAT HE ONCE TOLD YOU ABOUT UMBRELLAS. I SAY YOU SHOULD REMEMBER WHAT I ONCE TOLD YOU ABOUT GUYS LIKE YOU AND SUICIDE. YOU DON’T HAVE TO TAKE ME LITERALLY, OF COURSE, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I’M WISHING. IN CASE YOU DON’T TAKE ME LITERALLY, LOOK ME UP IN HOLLYWOOD SOME DAY AND I’LL BUY YOU A HOT DOG. WOULDN’T TRY TO STOP US FROM SAILING IF I WERE YOU, AS A GENTLEMAN BY THE NAME OF LEONARD NISSEM IS SEEING US OFF. HE IS VERY BORING COMPANY, LIKE ALL YOUR FRIENDS ARE. HE KEEPS SAYING OVER AND OVER THAT YOU ARE GOING UP FOR A STRETCH. IF THIS MEANS THEY ARE GOING TO HANG YOU, I AM ALL FOR IT. THIS IS THE LONGEST TELEGRAM I EVER SENT BUT I’M HAVING THE TIME OF MY LIFE SENDING IT AND I WOULDN’T SHORTEN IT BY A SENTENCE EVEN IF IT COST A DOLLAR A WORD. I WOULD SEND IT COLLECT IF I THOUGHT YOU HAD ENOUGH MONEY ON YOU TO PAY FOR IT, BUT I WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU’D READ IT. I’VE BEEN SAVING IT UP FOR A LONG TIME. TEDDY IS PAYING FOR IT, ANYWAY, AND ASKS ME TO INCLUDE HIS REGARDS. TEDDY IS TAKING A VACATION FROM HIS BUSINESS AND IS CARRYING HIS CHECK BOOK AND FOUNTAIN PEN. TEDDY SAYS YOUR PRETTY LITTLE BLACK METAL BOX FROM UNDER YOUR SILK PAJAMAS IS ALL MINE. TEDDY SAYS HE DOESN’T WANT TO SEE ANYTHING YOU EVER TOUCHED. TEDDY IS BEING SILLY ABOUT THAT, I THINK, BUT I DON’T MIND. TEDDY SAYS NUTS TO YOU. I SAY SO TOO. NUTS TO YOU. MARTHA

  “Bad news, sir?”

  “What?”

  I started and looked down at the clerk,

  “Bad news, sir?”

  “No—uh—I—I—just a—”

  “Sorry, sir.” Again the gracious smile. “I thought from your face that it was bad news.” He raised his head to look past me. “Front!” A bell hop came forward swiftly. “Your luggage, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Your lug—?”

  “Oh. Uh, I haven’t got any. I was just—”

  A different kind of smile. The lips
bunched up in a pout. The cheeks two high little peaks.

  “Sorry, sir. We’ll have to ask for payment in advance, then.”

  The bell hop looked at me. The clerk looked at me.

  “All right. I’ll—” I started to reach for my wallet and then I remembered. “Wuh, uh, I’ll tell you. Never mind. I’ve changed my—” I held up the telegram. “Bad news. I’ve gotta get back to New York right away.”

  I walked through the lobby and out into the street. There was a slight breeze. It rustled the telegram in my hands and made it crackle. I looked down at it stupidly.

  “Paper, mister?”

  I shook my head at the kid and glanced up. I was facing a huge clock on a steel post in front of a jewelry store. The minute hand gave a warning click and jumped forward to twenty-four minutes after eight. I looked around quickly. There was a drugstore on the corner. I ran down the block, entered the store, and went into a phone booth. I called the operator.

  “Long distance. I want to call New York.”

  “Person to person or station to station?”

  “Station to station.”

  “Number, please?”

  I gave her the Intervale number.

  “That’ll be—”

  “Just a moment. I’ll get some silver.”

  I hurried out to the soda fountain and broke one of my remaining three dollars into quarters. I saw the clerk watching me curiously as I went back into the phone booth.

  “Hello?” the girl said.

  “Hello. How much is that?”

  She told me and I dropped the money in the slot. Then the phone began to ring at the other end. It rang three times. In the middle of the fourth ring it was picked up.

  “Hello?”

  I recognized Ruthie’s voice.

  “Ruthie,” I said quickly, “this is Harry. How is—?”

  “Harry!” she cried. “Oh, Harry—!”

  Then she was sobbing against the mouthpiece. There was a piece of phlegm in her throat that roared loudly as she breathed. My stomach started to get hard and tight until I could taste the ham and the soggy bread of the sandwich I had eaten on the train.

  She sniffed quickly, drew the piece of phlegm into her mouth, and swallowed it.

  “Harry! She’s—she’s—!”

  The sobs made her voice sound wide and unreal. As though it were coming from the wrong end of a megaphone. Suddenly I hunched forward over the mouthpiece. I pressed the receiver against my ear until it hurt.

  “Ruthie!” I screamed. “Ruthie, what—?”

  “She’s—she’s—!”

  The sobs choked her off. Then there was a man’s voice on the phone.

  “Harry.” It was Murray’s voice. Very serious, very calm. “You’ve got to take this like a—”

  The hand holding the receiver dropped down to my side. From somewhere against my thigh his low steady sorry voice came buzzing up slowly; then, sharply, “Hello, hello, hello, hello—?”

  I replaced the receiver on the hook carefully and went out of the store. I started to walk quickly up Broad Street to the station. But after a half block I stopped. I couldn’t go back to New York. There was Nissem and Yazdabian and the cops. I turned and began to hurry back to the hotel. A half block further down I stopped again. I didn’t have enough money to sleep there. And she might have told Nissem that I was at the Ben Franklin.

  I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t stay here.

  I looked around quickly. I was back in front of the drug store again. Two young kids in cheap polo coats were standing outside the door, smoking cigarettes. They looked at me, then down at my feet, then they leaned their heads together and began to whisper. They were admiring my shoes.

  I crumpled the telegram into a ball and threw it into the gutter. How could a thing like this happen to me? That goddam little bitch! I should have known better than to trust her. I should have—I looked up and down the dark empty street. The kids were gone, too. I was all alone.

  What the hell does a guy do now?

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1938 by Jerome Weidman

  Cover design by Kelly Parr

  978-1-4804-1071-8

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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