“No white,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, waving his finger like some old-fashioned schoolmarm scolding a first grader. “No, not a speck of white showing. No blue. No red. Not one of the team colors. And that’s got to make Bob Regent ask some questions. Like for instance, where’s the loyalty? Where’s the devotion? Where’s the old spirit?”
“We’re supposed to dress some special way?” said Clio.
“Unity through obedience,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, holding a hand over his heart. “That’s the Hawks motto.”
The boys looked blank.
“ ‘twould appear,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, “a little explainabob would help. Think back to the days of Houston, lads, back to the afternoon when you inked the old parchment.”
The boys thought, or at least looked like they were thinking.
“What Bob Regent refers to is the third sentence of Section 1, Part 2, Paragraph E, which says and proclaims and avows as follows: ‘The undersigned’—that’s you—’agrees to observe in every particular the Club Regulations in conduct, attitude, personal habits and dress.’ Remember?”
The boys nodded.
“Okabob, switch the scene to Tucson. You’re in the Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen Room of the Windjammer El Dorado Deluxe Silver Moonbeam Motel. It is 6:10 P.M. Rocky Mountain time and you are sitting at the corner table drinking Pepsi Cola, and Mr. Thatcher Grayson, the manager, is handing you each a copy of the Club Regulations.”
“You were there?” asked Willie, his eyes opening very wide.
“Nevermindabob,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, dismissing the question with a wave of his cane. “Think of the Club Regulations—that little red, white and blue book.”
The boys thought of the Club Regulations, which were stuffed somewhere in the bottom of one or the other’s suitcase.
“What do I see before me?” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, closing his eyes and holding his hands over them.
Neither boy knew.
“I see Club Regulation number 98. I see it in great big red, white and blue letters that are 1,000 feet tall. And what words do those letters form?”
The boys admitted they didn’t know.
“These words: Each player will dress both on and off the field in a manner befitting a member of the New York Hawks organization. Team colors should be worn as often as possible, and it is mandatory that at least two of the colors be worn on all occasions.”
Clio looked at Willie and Willie looked at Clio.
“Mister—that is—Bob—sir?” said Willie.
“Speak, Williebob.”
“We got those rule books all right but Mr. Grayson told us to concentrate on the hours and the diet and things like that.”
“But did he tell you not to obey the other rules?” cried Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, thrusting out his cane like a sword.
“Why no, sir.”
“Bob!”
“Bob.”
“Well, then, what do we have here but disobedience? Do you have a better word for it, something more accurate? Can anyone think of a synonym?” Robert ‘Bob’ Regent here went to the window, raised it and shouted to the whole city of New Orleans, “What can Bob Regent call it but disobedience?”
There was a honking of horns but nothing more.
Now he turned back to the boys.
“And disobedience must be punished. Yesabob and bob-solutely! So therefore and wherefore!” and with these words, Robert ‘Bob’ Regent stepped backward and dramatically flung open the door.
As Willie and Clio shrank back a little, not knowing what to expect, four tailors entered the room in absolute silence pushing carts of the most beautiful clothes they had ever seen: finished suits of blue silk, dinner jackets of scarlet hues, ties of vermilion with elegant rich blue hawks embroidered in the center, dozens of shirts striped in red and blue, blue-black shoes of luxurious leather, a silver box of clips and clasps and cuff links, some sparkling with strange stones of alternating blue and red brilliance.
Robert ‘Bob’ Regent snapped his fingers and began to hum a tuneless little melody.
The tailors went to work—or dressers really, for the clothes were already tailored to the exact measurements of each boy.
The dressers worked quickly. In ten minutes, Clio and Willie were uniformed in matching outfits of formal midnight blue tuxedos, wine red bow ties, stiff white shirts with French cuffs into which had been inserted huge ruby cuff links, with a tiny hawk mounted in diamonds.
“Now, Bobaloboboso!” cried Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. “You look like Hawks. And so to dinner.”
The boys, mystified and also frightened, marched out to the corridor, which already echoed the chant of Robert ‘Bob’ Regent as he led the way to the elevator.
“Bobarooney, Bobaroy, Bobaglory and Amen!”
Chapter six
Down they went, down the swift elevator of the Royal Orleans Hotel, and into the soft, sweet night of the French Quarter.
A horse and carriage waited at the curb.
“The place, Gide!” sang Robert ‘Bob’ Regent.
“The place, Bob,” the aged black driver replied.
So through curious, old and narrow streets with strange little shops on either side and balconies of intricate grille and narrow passages opening now and then on private pools of moonlight—through streets aflow with tourists streaming, tourists dreaming, tourists turning under green and blue and fire red signs, turning and returning from smoky caves where trumpets wailed and saxophones moaned, went the clattering carriage.
And as it clicked and clopped through old, through curious streets, Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, resting between the boys, his arms thrown back across their shoulders, sang a funny little song.
Bob Regent’s wine’s for sale, my friends;
Come drink and fun and make amends.
The wine’s a lovely, lulling brew.
The fire is lovely, too.
When song and sapphire startle night,
And casements gleam with candlelight,
Who cares of hour, day or year?
Bob Regent’s wine is here.
The world’s the toast, my carefree friends,
So smash the glass and burn both ends!
Come drink the lovely, lulling brew.
The fire is lovely, too.
Willie knew that Regent wines, made in New York and California, were the most famous wines in the United States, but not until that moment did it occur to him that this might be that Regent. He thought of the green sign that had been his boyhood motto.
As Regent sang the song a second time, a strange sensation took hold of Willie, not fear exactly, but a sort of confusion.
From the other side of the cab, he heard Clio’s voice.
“You make that song up?”
“Not I, Cliobob, the agency.”
“The agency?”
“The advertising agency. For our wines—and other products. And they’ve just signed the best new group in the country to record it, The Parousias. We’re using it in all our advertising this summer.”
“I—I think I’ve heard it before,” said Willie.
Regent turned lightly to Willie. “Quite possibly, my boy. After all, there’s no such thing as a completely new song.”
The carriage turned down a narrow lane, pulling up at a fortresslike mansion of many gables and spires, a huge affair that glowed with pale rose lights.
“The place!” shouted Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. “The finest restaurant in the world. Wait for us, Gide.”
“Yes, Bob,” came the voice of the driver.
Inside—darkness, deep, cavernlike, relieved only by tiny cups of light arranged upon the tables like votive lights.
Above those flickering lights dim expressionless faces hung like pink masks in the motionless air.
As they went to their table, the faces turned and low cries of “Bob, Bob, Bob,” floated up on every side.
Robert ‘Bob’ Regent bowed and waved his cane, like a m
agician performing.
A slow music came murmuring through the darkness, throbbing indistinctly. It was an intricate pattern of rhythm that made Willie uncomfortable.
A turbaned Oriental seated them at a remote table.
“What’ll it be, boys?” said Mr. Robert ‘Bob’ Regent.
The boys didn’t know.
“I’ll order for all of us then,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent and he rattled off a string of crisp commands in French, Spanish, Portuguese and Lutu, the tongue of the Orithi tribe in Taramynia.
Two men in glittering scarlet tuxedos wrote everything down as a pair of beautiful black waitresses, their eyes made huge and compelling with swirls of silver paint, poured wine.
“Go ahead,” Robert ‘Bob’ Regent laughed. “It’s our finest brand.”
“The training rules—,” Willie began.
“I make the rules,” Mr. Robert ‘Bob’ Regent said. “Never forget that.”
There was ice in his voice, and again Willie felt uneasy and fearful.
But Regent only smiled and sang his song and made the strange, careful mannered talk that seemed an elaborate joke. The supper commenced.
Never had the boys seen food like it, even on TV—snails and oyster and lobster and caviar and tender beef and fowl and fruit. It was a feast out of a fable. And as the music throbbed and murmured and a second glass of wine was set before them, they felt a lightheaded joy, a wonderful sense of carefreeness, as if in the presence of Robert ‘Bob’ Regent nothing could go wrong.
They both became talkative.
They found themselves laughing over nothing.
When one of the waitresses tried to remove a dish, Willie took her hand and kissed it.
It was then, in the middle of their revelry, that Robert ‘Bob’ Regent said something that chilled Willie with the casual enormity of the thought behind it.
“Do you want her?” he said.
At first Willie did not know what he meant. Then in his slow way he came to understand—the girl could be ordered, like something from the menu.
“I didn’t mean—,” Willie stammered. Then he stood up.
He took the girl’s hand and looked at her. Under the paint, the false eyelashes, the satin blue something or other she was wearing, he saw only a poor black girl, who probably lived in some tenement not very different from the one he had left in Houston.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” the girl said.
“Sorry for what?” Clio said a little drunkenly. “What’s the hassle?”
Robert ‘Bob’ Regent laughed at this, his laughter making the pink masks at the other tables revolve slowly toward him.
“I wanna dance,” said Clio getting up and taking the girl by the hand.
The girl looked at Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. Willie saw a signal pass between them.
“Okay Bob?” said Clio.
“Certainly, Cliobob. Live it up. Enjoy! It’s later than you think,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. “But take this with you.”
He handed Clio a small box.
“What is it?”
“A gift. Open it later.”
“Okay,” Clio mumbled. “Come on, Dolly, we’re gonna tippy-toe.”
Clio and the girl disappeared into the darkness where the music played. Willie stared after them.
“Sit down, Willie,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. Then with a little trace of regret in his voice, he said, “You don’t want more wine, I suppose?”
“No.”
They sat in silence for several moments with only the maddening music for company.
When he spoke again, Regent’s tone had changed completely.
“I’ve wrecked it, haven’t I? The whole silly thing has gone wrong. You’re—displeased.”
Willie was looking at the guttering candle set before him. For no reason at all he wondered what Mrs. Sarto was doing at this hour.
“All I wanted to do was make you happy, to show you a good time,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. “But of course I had to overdo. Sometimes I think I’m the most stupid man in the world!”
Robert ‘Bob’ Regent pounded the table, but with more disappointment and sadness than anger.
“Sir—”
Robert ‘Bob’ Regent held up a hand. “Why deny what’s so obviously true? I pull these crazy stunts—like hiring those tailors tonight and going over to the hotel, the get-up, the routine. I always think it’s going to be a smash. And what happens? I wind up offending the very people I want to befriend.”
The handsome face turned in the candlelight—the face of an ad from a good men’s store, but an unhappy ad.
“Such a very young man—do you understand the loneliness of the rich man?”
“No,” said Willie.
Regent opened his hands as if to let something go.
“It’s like this, my boy. Rich people really don’t have friends. Instead they have people who—follow them around, paying attention. You know?”
“No.”
“Paying attention. That’s all. Yet—and yet for the rich man, that isn’t enough—unless he’s a brute. But he gets used to the following around and the paying attention and do you know, my boy, soon he forgets how a man makes friends altogether. Do you understand? The whole process goes out of his mind and he resorts to—well, to outlandish things like tonight. Once a man forgets how it all goes—friendship and love, normal, natural things—then… .”
Willie tried to think of something to say, but the music floated around them and he felt himself in a sort of mist.
Out of his pocket Robert ‘Bob’ Regent brought a thick packet of printed clippings. He called for a candelabrum.
“Look here,” he said sadly. “See what they write of me. That one, for instance.” He pointed to a clipping from The New York Sun.
Under a garish caricature of Robert ‘Bob’ Regent, the caption said, FRANTIC FREAKISHNESS OF FRIENDLY BOB.
Willie’s eyes fastened on a single paragraph.
Regent, whose properties include television and radio stations, wineries and publishing houses, theaters and nightclubs, plus the New York Hawks baseball team, throws parties that rival those of Jay Gatsby. But no one calls him friend.
“Who is Jay Gatsby?”
“A character in a book,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. “And God knows, they’re right. That’s the way I often feel—like a character in a book, someone they made up but didn’t make a friend for.”
These last words were said so mournfully, Willie felt the stir of a profound pity. His host seemed utterly broken, bereft and alone. Willie tried to think of something kind to say. Finally he said, “I—I’ll be your friend.”
The candelabrum had been removed, so he couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but Willie thought he saw Regent’s shoulders move. He wondered if the man might not actually be crying.
“Sir—”
Again that pathetic little wave of the hand.
Finally Regent lifted his face.
“My boy,” he said huskily, “those are the happiest words I’ve heard—in years.”
The music rose and fell from the darker room. Willie felt the fever of it, the insinuation of another world that he both knew and did not know.
Regent’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Take this.”
He handed Willie a small box.
“Open it.”
Willie opened it. There, gleaming in the light of the guttering candle, was the ruby ring of the New York Hawks.
“Put it on, my boy,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent.
Willie slipped the ring on the third finger of his left hand. Its dark red stone flared and flashed, throwing a ray of red across the silver hawk perched above it, diamonds for its eyes.
“It feels—”
“The sign of our alliance.”
“I didn’t think a ring could… .”
Regent’s voice went on in time with the odd drifting music, “… symbol … friendship
… indestructible… “
Willie turned the ring on his finger, trying to account for the feeling it gave to his hand, his arm, indeed his whole body. As he looked at that red stone, he felt the pull of a solemn, alien strength. There was a camp fire, torches, the sound of a primitive chant. Faces gleaming in firelight, bodies moving in a circle. Someone had a knife.
He stood up suddenly. He felt himself perspiring.
“I’ve got to get back,” he said. “We’ve got a game tomorrow. Where’s Clio?” It occurred to him that he was shouting.
“Clio’s all right, my boy. Let us talk awhile.”
“No, really, Mr. Regent—I mean, Bob. We have the training rules and—”
“Ah,” laughed Regent. “How refreshing to meet a man who relishes the rules.”
“What about Clio?”
“We’ll take the carriage back to the hotel, then send it back for him.”
On their way out, Willie looked for Clio on the dance floor where couples moved slowly, like mannequins set to music. Clio was gone.
“Don’t worry,” said Robert ‘Bob’ Regent. “Gide will find him and bring him back safely.”
In the night air Willie realized how drunk he was. He looked up at the stars swimming about the sky. Robert ‘Bob’ Regent spoke of friendship and honor and devotion and things Willie could not concentrate on.
At the hotel Regent took his hand.
“You cannot know how happy I am.”
“Good night—Bob.”
“Remember our motto: Unity through obedience.”
Then the carriage clattered off into the darkness.
In the lobby Willie met Mr. Grayson.
“I know I’ve broken the rules,” Willie said. “We were with the owner.”
“I know,” said Mr. Grayson. “Did he give you the ring?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Clio?”
“I don’t know. At some restaurant.”
“Go to bed, son. We go to Chicago after the game tomorrow to open the season.”
“Yes sir.”
“You got to pitch that opener.”
“Yes, Mr. Grayson.”
“So you need the rest,” Mr. Grayson said, fumbling his words a little. In truth, it appeared that it was he who needed the rest.
The Last Western Page 9
