City Boy (33 page)

He started up the car and they went rocketing into the night. Herbie tried to continue the sniffling, but it was hard work. His fiction had conjured up the vivid picture of Lennie Krieger on a bed of pain, which was rather pleasant than otherwise. He soon left off, seeing that the fat man was convinced.

During the next hour and a half they learned that the driver was a Mr. Butcher, of Albany. That by profession he was a seller of dolls, wholesale. That the doll business was terrible. That he intended someday to get into a “line” which didn't require a weekly trip to New York. That his wife was a sour old crab, and thought all he did in New York was have gay times with girls, which was a lie. That there was a new doll in his “line,” the latest thing, which not only cried and closed its eyes but drank water and did astonishing things thereafter. That this doll, “Weepy Willie,” was at present the bread and butter of Mr. Butcher. The boys received this information in an unceasing narrative poured into their ears, punctuated by wheezes, gasps for breath, and occasional sputtering. They gleaned additional facts by observation, such as that Mr. Butcher liked to drive his Buick at seventy-five miles an hour, not slowing for curves; that he was very thirsty, for he kept swallowing drinks from the brown bottle; and that he was still sleepy, for now and then his head would slump on his chest, the automobile would careen, and Mr. Butcher would wake up and snatch the wheel just in time to keep his Buick from climbing a tree. The boys did not at all share Mr. Butcher's sleepiness—they had never, in fact, been more wide awake. After they rounded one sharp curve on two screaming wheels, Cliff suggested in pantomime to Herbie that they open the door and jump from the car. Herbie's whitish face turned a shade whiter, and he shook his head emphatically. His lack of color might have been due to the closeness of the air in the car. All the windows were shut, and a musty mixture of the aromas of old cigars, strong drink, and what can only be described as Mr. Butcher himself, saturated the atmosphere. Once or twice as they sped through the darkness Herbie had the feeling that he was in a nightmare, and that Mr. Butcher would melt away at the sound of a bugle. The next moment a near-collision shaking him to his innermost parts would convince him that it was all excessively real.

But it was not written that Herbie and Cliff should perish that night on the Bronx River Parkway. After a dozen narrow escapes from tragedy, Mr. Butcher and his chariot came whistling into the city streets at a speed that made the boys' hair stand on end. The fat man turned around casually to ask where Homer Avenue was, while his car raced between the “El” pillars of White Plains Road. “Look
out
!” yelled Cliff, and Mr. Butcher looked out, and swerved the car away from a pillar which was about to fold car and occupants to its bosom.

But after all these honors he kept his word, depositing the boys at Herbie's very doorstep. By this time he was mellow, and swore that if he had had a couple of sons like Cliff and Herbie instead of one sour-faced daughter, the image of her mother, his whole life might have been different. He bade the boys a loving farewell, pressed a “Weepy Willie” doll on them, and drove off to an unknown destiny. Perhaps he is motoring back and forth wildly between New York and Albany to this day. You will be passed by many a car on that highway that could easily have Mr. Butcher at the wheel. But alas, it is all too likely that his lucky charm ran out, and that he now sleeps under flowers.

Herbie looked at his watch and gasped, “Cliff, look!” and extended his arm. It was a quarter to two. Their benefactor had come nearly a hundred miles in an hour and a half. The wonder of gasoline, that gives wheezy fat men the swiftness of eagles!

“We're lucky we got here alive,” said Cliff, still breathing hard.

Herbie looked at the dark apartment house where his mother and father were sleeping. Set down suddenly at dead of night in his old haunts, he felt more than ever that he was in a dream. It was unbelievable that he could mount a flight of steps, ring a bell, and embrace his mother amid the old furniture. In his mind she and the apartment were still a hundred miles away. He shook his head to clear away these dizzying ideas, dropped “Weepy Willie” in the gutter, and said, “Let's go, Cliff. We got a good chance to make it now.”

The boys scampered through the electric-lit silent streets to the Place.

“Will there be anyone there?” said Cliff.

“Just one engineer tendin' the machines,” replied Herbie between gasps. “They make ice all night. But he'll be down the other end from the office. Once we get past him he won't hear us.”

“Maybe we better jump him and tie him up.”

“If it's Irving we better not. Irving is twice as big as Uncle Sandy.”

Cliff got a vivid impression of an Irving twelve feet high, and abandoned the notion of binding and gagging him.

“Hey, what's this?” A block from the Place Herbie stopped short, and pointed at the building in dismay.

“Whatsamatter?”

“The office. It's lit up. Somebody's there!”

Cliff saw that the little high window of the office, facing the street, was a square of bright yellow.

“Maybe it's the engineer, Herbie.”

“Engineers ain't allowed in the office. Who could be there two o'clock in the morning?”

“Might as well find out,” said Cliff. He sprinted for the Place, followed by his laboring cousin. Standing beneath the office window, he placed both hands on the sill, jumped up, peered inside for a moment, and dropped back to the ground.

“Who is it?” panted Herbie as he came up.

“Mr. Krieger,” said Cliff, “an' that guy Powers. They're foolin' around with some big books.”

“We're skunked,” said Herbie. “How can we get to the safe with them there?”

“I dunno.” Cliff went to the wooden door beside the window and pressed his ear against it. “Hey, you can hear 'em.”

Herbie followed his example. The voices of the two men came through the partition, muffled but understandable. Powers sounded very angry.

“—all right. You should have had those figures in a file for me when I came to your house.”

“Not much longer. Soon go cup coffee. Not sure what figures Burlingame wanted. Could be this, could be that—”

“Any businessman knows what a potential buyer wants! Profit and loss statements, depreciation figures, inventories, book value—good grief, man, what would
you
want to know before buying an ice plant?”

“Not so fast buying. Burlingame say blue paper maybe good. I sit right there next to you when he say, and—”

“Never mind the blasted blue paper. Burlingame will give us a cash offer conditional on Bookbinder agreeing to sell. When Bookbinder hears the cash figure he'll sell, blue paper or no. It's going to be plenty high.”

“You not know Jake. Jake not sell no million years. Jake want better poor but own boss. Here, all inventory figures.”

“Good. How about profit and loss for the past ten years?”

“Take five more minutes—”

“Confound it, Krieger, this is ridiculous. Where's the file of annual statements? That's all I need.”

“Jake got. Accountant got, too. Not in office. Just books. Simple arrangement.”

“Why, man, haven't you enough interest in your own firm to keep a file of the annual statements in your home? Dragging me down here in the middle of the night—”

“Please. All very last minute. I say this way, peaceable. You telephone me suddenly want all kind figures. One—two—three. Got to have eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Who got all figures in head? Little by little we got all nearly now, just take a few—”

“I'm sorry. I'm tired and nervous. Is there a place around here where we can get coffee right now? Then we can come back and clean this up.”

“Why not?”

Herbie, straining his ear against the door though not comprehending the conversation, heard Mr. Krieger shout, “Irving! Me and Mr. Powers go cup coffee. Back ten minutes.” He heard a faint “O.K.” from the interior of the building. The doorknob started to turn, an inch from Herbie's nose. Like cats the boys darted around the corner of the building, and watched the men come out of the office, cross the avenue, and walk out of sight down a side street.

“What now?” whispered Cliff.

“We got ten minutes. You still game?”

“Come on.”

“Good. You boost me through.”

But as they emerged from the alley Herbie had another idea. “Wait a second,” he said, and cautiously tried the office door. It opened.

He and Cliff slipped inside and closed the door as softly as against velvet cushions. They could hear Irving walking around on the brine tank, and the hissing suction of the pipe taking impure water from the cores of the ice cakes. The safe, the object of their fantastic journey, stood squat and ugly before them.

“O.K., you keep watch,” whispered Herbie. “Here goes.”

Cliff shuttled between the door leading to the interior of the Place and the window on the street, while Herbie carefully turned the dial. On his first try the safe failed to open.

“Must of done it wrong,” he muttered, and ran through the numbers of his birthday again; three spins to the right, two to the left, and one to the right. The safe did not yield. Herbie was distraught.

“Hey, Cliff, it don't work.”

“You sure you done the combination right?”

“Well, see, I dunno. All I know is the numbers. I tried three turns, two turns, an' one turn—hey, wait, I got it. I bet you have to start by turnin' the dial to the
left.
I been startin' to the right.”

“Make it fast, whatever you do.”

More frantic twisting. Then: “Cliff, it still don't open.”

“Holy smoke, Herbie, I thought you knew the combination.”

“Well, I do know the numbers, but jiminy, I dunno which goes how. I figured sure it would be three turns, two turns, an' one turn, like the locker in gym.”

“Herbie, them guys'll be back in a coupla minutes.”

“I'll try startin' with four turns.” Despairingly he whirled the dial, pressed the handle, and tugged at the door. It swung open so easily he fell to the floor.

“Attaboy, Herbie. Hurry!”

The cash box was behind the other tin box labeled “J.B.” Herbie pulled the latter off the shelf and laid it on the seat of the chair. He took out the cash box, placed it on the desk, and opened it. It was full of five, ten, and twenty dollar bills.

“Cliff, there's hundreds!”

“How much you gonna take?”

“Exactly what I gotta borrow. Fifty. Not a penny more,” said Herbert primly, and selected two twenties and a ten.

“Herbie! Herbie! Here come them two guys!” Cliff's whisper was strident. “I didn't see 'em comin' till just now. They're on top of us! We can't make it out the door!”

“Follow me, Cliff!”

Herbie plunged through a thick door opposite the street entrance with Cliff at his heels. The boys came into a long, high, terribly chilly room filled with gleaming blue piles of ice cakes. Huge bare electric bulbs were placed here and there in the ceiling. Beside the door, right over the boys' heads, hung the stiff frozen body of a calf head down, its tongue hanging out, its dead eyes staring at them.

“There's another door outta this icebox,” whispered Herbie. “Irving's down by it now. In a minute we'll be able to get out.”

“It's freezing in here.”

“Yeah, sure is. Gimme a boost, Cliff.”

He stepped on Cliff's clasped hands and looked warily into the office through a tiny pane of glass set high in the wall. He saw Krieger and Powers come into the office and register amazement at the sight of the open safe and cash box.

“Irving! Irving! Irving!” shouted Krieger. An immense bald man in ragged blue overalls, his face streaked with black grease, came pounding into the office.

“Look what happened while we gone!” Krieger exclaimed, pointing at the safe. “Didn't you see or hear anything?” (Mr. Krieger reversed the case of almost all other human beings. Under great stress he spoke more clearly than usual.)

“No, sir, Mr. Krieger,” said the giant, his eyes popping with surprise. “I been busy suckin' the cores on number eight. You know that makes a lotta noise. I didn't hear a thing.”

“I told you keep an eye on the office. Run quickly, call a policeman.”

“Yes, sir.” Irving lumbered out through the street door.

“Hey, Herbie, I'm gettin' tired holdin' you up,” said Cliff softly. His cousin's heel was digging painfully into his interlaced fingers. The damp cold of the storehouse was making his arms ache. “Can't we sneak out the other door now?”

“They'll be listenin' for every sound now. Wait a second,” whispered Herbie.

He heard Powers exclaim, “Look! They took Bookbinder's box!” The young man ran his hand along the empty shelf.

“Don't understand something. Why they don't take all the money?” said Krieger, counting the cash hurriedly. “Only got fifty, and leave behind—”

“What does that matter? Listen to me! Does Bookbinder have photostats of that blue paper?”

“No photostats. One paper always right here in safe, better so—”

“Then, by God,” said Powers, “the memorandum is gone, and Bookbinder is through.” He shook his head. “Tough luck for Bookbinder—I hate to see it happen this way—”