Appointment in Samarra (4 page)

I love you. You know that.

It s too easy. The things you called me on the way home whore and bitch and a lot worse they weren t anything compared with the public humiliation. She accepted his handkerchief. I ve got to change, she said. Do you think Mother and Dad know about it?

No, I doubt it. Your father d be over here if he knew. Oh, how should I know? She walked out and then came back. My present is at the bottom of the pile, she said. That made him feel worse. Under all the other packages was something she had bought days, maybe weeks, before, when things were not so bad as they now appeared to be. When she bought that she was concentrating on him and what he would like; rejecting this idea and that idea, and deciding on one thing because it was something he wanted or something he would want. Caroline was one person who really did put a lot of thought into a gift; she knew when to choose the obvious thing. One time she had given him handkerchiefs for Christmas; no one else had given him handkerchiefs, and they were what he wanted. And whatever was in that package, she had bought with him alone in mind. He could not guess from the size of the box what was inside it. He opened it. It was two gifts: a pigskin stud box, big enough to hold two sets of studs, with plenty of room inside for assorted collar buttons, collar pins, tie clasps and Caroline had put in a dozen or so front and back collar buttons. The other gift was of pigskin, too; a handkerchief case that collapsed like an accordion. Both things had J. McH. E. stamped in small gilt letters on the top cover, and that in itself showed thought. She knew, and no one else in the world knew, that he liked things stamped J. McH. E., and not just J. E., or J. M. E. Maybe she even knew why he liked it that way; he wasn t sure himself. He stood at the table, looking down at the handkerchief case and stud box, and was afraid. Upstairs was a girl who was a person. That he loved her seemed unimportant compared to what she was. He only loved her, which really made him a lot less than a friend or an acquaintance. Other people saw her and talked to her when she was herself, her great, important self. It was wrong, this idea that you know someone better because you have shared a bed and a bathroom with her. He knew, and not another human being knew, that she cried I or high in moments of great ecstasy. He knew, he alone knew her when she let herself go, when she herself was not sure whether she was wildly gay or wildly sad, but one and the other. But that did not mean that he knew her. Far from it. It only meant that he was closer to her when he was close, but (and this was the first time the thought had come to him) maybe farther away than anyone else when he was not close. It certainly looked that way now. Oh, I m a son of a bitch, he said. II In the middle of the front page of the Gibbsville Sun, the morning paper, there was a two-column box, decorated with Santa Claus and holly doo-dads, and in the center of the box was a long poem. Well, Mervyn Schwartz finally got it.

What? said Irma. Shot in a whorehouse last night, said her husband. What! exclaimed Irma. What are you talking about?

Here it is, said her husband. Right here on the front page. Mervyn Schwartz, thirty-five, of Gibbsville, was shot and killed at the Dew Drop

Let me see, said Irma. She took the paper out of her husband s hands. Where? ... Oh, you, she said, and threw the paper back at him. He was laughing at her with a high, soft giggle. Think you re funny, she said. You oughtn t to say things like that where the children might hear you.

He continued to laugh and picked up the paper and began to read Mervyn Schwartz s Christmas poem. Mervyn Schwartz formerly had contributed his holiday poems (Christmas, Washington s Birthday, Easter, Memorial Day, July 4, Armistice Day) to the Standard, the afternoon paper; but the Standard had not run his Armistice Day poem on the front page, so now be was in the Sun. Lute Fliegler read the first verse aloud, very sing-song and effeminate. What time do you want dinner? said Irma. Whenever it s ready, said Lute. Well, you only had breakfast an hour ago. You don t want dinner too early. I thought around two o clock.

Okay by me, he said. I m not very hungry.

You oughtn t to be, she said. The breakfast you ate. I was thinking I d make the beds now and Mrs. Lynch could put the turkey on so we could eat around two or ha past.

Okay by me.

The kids won t be very hungry. Even Curly was stuffing himself with candy a while ago till I hid the box.

Let him eat it, said her husband. Christmas comes but once a year.

Thank heaven. All right. I ll give them the candy, on one condition. That is, if you take care of them when they have stomach ache in the middle of the night.

I ll be only too glad. Go ahead, give them all the candy they want, and give Teddy and Betty a couple highballs. He frowned and rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness. I don t know about Curly, though. He s a little young, but I guess it d be all right. Or else maybe he ll take a cigar.

Oh, you, she said. Yes-s-s, I think we better just give Curly a cigar. By the way, I m going to take Teddy out and get him laid tonight. I

Lute! Stop talking like that. How do you know one of them didn t come downstairs without you hearing them? They ll be finding things out soon enough. Remember what Betty said last summer.

That s nothing. How old is Teddy? Six

Six and a half, she said. Well, when I was Teddy s age I had four girls knocked up. Now stop, Lute. You stop talking that way. You don t have any idea how they pick things up, a word here and there. And children are smarter than you give them credit for. You don t have to go anywhere today, do you?

Nope. Why? He lit a Camel, taking it out of the package in the lower right pocket of his vest. Well, no reason. Last Christmas remember you had to drive to Reading.

That was last Christmas. Damn few Caddies being given for Christmas presents this year. I remember that trip. That was a sport job. A LaSalle, it was, not a Caddy. That Polish undertaker up the mountain, Paul Davinis. He wanted it delivered Christmas and he didn t want his kid to see it so we asked to keep it in Reading. And then when we did deliver it the kid knew he was going to get it all along. His mother told him beforehand. He smashed it up New Year s Eve.

You never told me that, said Irma. You never asked me, as the snake charmer said to her husband. By the way, did Mrs. Lynch say she d mind the kids tonight?

Uh-huh.

Well, then I better phone Willard and tell him we ll go along. I ll get that Studebaker sedan. We can get six in it comfortably. It s a seven-passenger job, but we can sit three in the front and three in the back and we won t have to use the extra seats. How many are going?

I think twelve. Ten or twelve. It depends. If Emily s father and mother come down from Shamokin she and Harvey won t be able to come along, but it won t make any difference. They were going in Walter s car, so if they don t go, that makes two less in that car.

I better call the garage and make sure about the Studebaker. He went to the telephone. Hello, this is Lute Fliegler. Merry Christmas. Listen, that Studebaker sedan, the black one. The one we took on a trade-in from Doc Lurie. Yeah. Doc Lurie s old car. Well, listen. Don t let anybody take it out, see? I asked the boss if I could use it tonight and he said okay, see? So I just wanted to make sure none of you thieves took it out. If you want to go any place you can use my Rolls. Seriously, Joe, you want to do me a favor, you can put the chains on the Studie. Okay? Swell. He hung up, and addressed Irma. Well, that s settled.

You can call Willard later, she said. I told him we d call if we couldn t go, so he ll take it for granted we re going.

What about liquor? said Lute. Well, it s Willard s party. I should think he d supply the liquor.

Oh, yeah? Do you know how much liquor costs at the Stage Coach? Seventy-five cents a drink, baby, and they won t sell it to everybody. I don t think Willard intends to supply the liquor, not at six bits a shot. I think I better make some gin and take a quart along, just in case. It wouldn t be right to expect Willard to buy all the liquor and everything else for a party of twelve people.

Maybe there ll only be ten.

All right. What if there is only ten? They have a cover charge of a dollar and a half or two dollars, and there goes twenty bucks already, not including ginger ale and White Rock, and sandwiches! You know what they charge for a plain ordinary chicken sandwich at the Stage Coach? A buck. If Willard gets away under forty bucks he s lucky, without buying a single drink. No, I better make some gin. Or on second thought, there s that quart of rye the boss gave me. I was going to save it, but we might as well use it tonight.

Oh, the gin s good enough. You make good gin. Everybody says so.

I know I do, but gin s gin. I think I ll turn square for once in my life and take the rye. Maybe the others will bring their own, so we won t have to get rid of the whole quart.

I don t want you to drink much if you re going to drive, said Irma. Don t worry. Not over those roads. I know. I ll put the quart into pint bottles and keep one pint in my overcoat pocket when we get to the Stage Coach. Then the others will think I only have a pint and they ll go easy. But I imagine everybody will bring their own, if they have any sense.

I imagine, she said. I m going upstairs now and make the beds. I ll see if the pants of your Tux need pressing.

Oh, God. That s right. Do I have to wear that?

Now, now, don t try and bluff me. You look nice in it and you know it. You like to wear it and don t pretend you don t.

Oh, I don t mind wearing it, he said. I was just thinking about you. You ll be so jealous when all the other girls see me in my Tux and start trying to take me outside. I just didn t want to spoil your evening, that s all.

Applesauce, said Irma. Why don t you say what you mean? You don t mean applesauce.

Never mind, now, Mister Dirty Mouth. She left. What a girl, he thought, and resumed reading his paper; Hoover was receiving the newsboys for Christmas. & III It was about two o clock, U. S. Naval Observatory Hourly By Western Union time, when Al Grecco appeared in the doorway of the Apollo Restaurant. The Apollo was a hotel and restaurant. There had been a hotel on the site of the Apollo for close to a century, but the Pennsylvania Dutch family who had the restaurant before George Poppas took it over had not kept the hotel part open. Then when George Poppas, who actually was wearing those white Greek kilts when he arrived in Gibbsville, began to make money on the restaurant, someone mentioned that the building had been a hotel for nearly a hundred years, and George spent a lot of money on making the place a hotel again. The rooms were small and had a fireproof look about them, with steel beds and other furniture. The hotel was clean, the rooms were small and cheap, and the Apollo got a big play from salesmen who had their swindle sheets to think of. The John Gibb Hotel, Gibbsville s big inn, was expensive. Al Grecco was one of the few permanent guests of the Apollo. He had a room there, for which he paid nothing. Ed Charney had some kind of arrangement with George Poppas, in which no money changed hands. Ed wanted Al to be at the Apollo to receive messages and so on. Whenever there were strangers from other mobs in town on business, or friends who just happened to be passing through Gibbsville, they always looked up Ed Charney at the Apollo. And if Ed was not there, he wanted someone to be on hand, and that someone usually was Al Grecco. Al had his hat on but was carrying his dark blue overcoat. There was not a customer in the place. Smitty, who was a taxi driver and two-bit pimp, was sitting at the marble counter, drinking a cup of coffee, but Smitty was always at the counter drinking coffee. George Poppas was standing behind the cigar counter. He looked as though he were sitting down, but Al knew better. George leaned with his fat hands folded, supporting himself on the cigar counter, and appearing to be in great pain. George always appeared to be in great pain, as though he had eaten, an hour ago, all the things that can give you indigestion. Al once had seen him in a crap game make fifteen straight passes and win over twelve thousand dollars, but he still appeared to be in great pain. Loving Cup was behind the counter, and seemed to be the only waiter in the place. Loving Cup was about twenty, perhaps less; slight, with a bad complexion and a terrible breath. The boys were always kidding Loving Cup about his ears, from which he got his name. They were at least a third as long as his whole head, and stuck out. Also, the boys often had kidded Loving Cup about his lonely sex life, until one night for a gag they took him to the Dew Drop and paid for his entertainment. But when he came downstairs Mimi said to them: Well, you wise guys, this kid got more than any of you. Howdia like that? He s the only man in the crowd. And Loving Cup listened delightedly, his eyes bright and gleaming and wicked and small. From that night on the boys made no cracks about Loving Cup and his lonely sex life. They still referred to him as Loving Cup, and called him Bertha, but they had some respect for him. Al did not speak to George Poppas. They had a mutual contempt for each other; George for Al, because Al was a minor member of the mob; and Al for George because George did not belong to the mob at all. They never spoke, except in crap games, when they confined their remarks to You re faded and the other language of the game. Al placed his coat on a hanger and removed his hat, using both hands in taking off the hat so as not to disturb his hair. He took the Philadelphia Public Ledger, which was lying on the counter in front of George. He sat down at the mob s table, which was in the very front of the restaurant, in a corner just back of the front window, where various crustaceans were squirming about in a pool. Al looked at the front page and saw that that Hoover was going to entertain some newsboys for Christmas. He turned over to the sport pages. Hyuh, said a voice. It was Loving Cup. Oh, hyuh, Loving Cup, said Al. Two over? Bacon well done? Coffee? said Loving Cup. No, said Al. Gimme the bill of fare.

What for? said Loving Cup. You can read the paper.

God damn it! Get me the bill of fare before I cut your heart out.

All right, all right, said Loving Cup, running away. He came back with a menu and laid it beside Al s right arm. There.